Author Archives: wombat37

Such Stuff

Here’s another short tale for Miranda Kate’s Midweeker. It’s clearly the opening for a much longer futuristic thriller that I have already plotted out, inspired by Twitter friends @mamacrow‏ @hugeshark @QuantumTree @askceil and @cryptidbones. It stars three of my Patreon patrons, @cdlcreative, @greyduck & @lemurlotte — just a small perk to say thanks for supporting me. (and yes, I realise this has Red Dwarf echoes, but it is not that, I promise.)


A sculpture by ARS THENEA called The Ash.Karel squinted through ice-rimmed goggles. Was the horizon getting nearer? The voyage had been long to these frozen, grey seas. Thirteen men had been lost to the ice-hearted ocean in the twelve months since The Cindered Rose left port. The ancient ship’s timbers were cracked and warped by salt and time. The rim of the world was now startlingly close.

Karel cupped the blackened rose petals in his rough hands. He had carried them all the way from Khirsh, and now was the time for them to work their magic. The time, and the right place, he was sure. His Lotte would soon be back in his arms. He rubbed his palms together, reducing the petals to powder, and inhaled the dust. Through cracked lips he whispered the first words of the spell.

Zhe repla kij Lotte mij—”

Before he could finish the incantation his vision faded, and all sound stopped. The icy wind ceased to needle his frozen cheek. He could no longer speak. A female voice broke the silence.

“Your credit has expired. Thank you for dreaming with Such Stuff Incorporated.”

“No!” His frustration exploded from his lips. He had been so close.

“I am sorry, sir. Your purchased time has run out. Please vacate the pod, and follow the arrows on the floor to the recovery room, where you may buy a refreshing beverage.”

Karel opened his eyes. A brightly-lit sign before him announced ‘We are Such Stuff, as dreams are made on’. Shakespeare would be so proud.

“Shit,” he said. He missed his wife enormously, and had hoped to meet her once again in this dream. Oh, the SSI assistant had been friendly and open enough. She had warned him that the company could not guarantee his dream content in a short ten-minute session. Apparently the dream-machine had to build towards giving you the thing you wanted – something about the way synapses work in the brain – and in order for SSI to guarantee that you would dream about what you requested, you had to book an hour-long session. However, ten minutes was all he could afford, but he had hoped he might at least catch a glimpse of Lotte once more, maybe even hold her for a dream-second. So much for hopes and dreams.

He stepped out of the Dreampod (™ Such Stuff Inc and followed the floor-arrows. He sat at a small table and stared sadly at his lukewarm tea. His thoughts were disturbed by a man sitting next to him.

“My name is Hutchings,” the man said, “and I believe you can help me to change the world.”

“Please leave me alone. I’m not in the mood.”

“My commiserations about your wife, by the way.”

Karel looked at the man. He was unshaven, and wore a ragged harlequin coat. He did not look like one of Lotte’s friends. “You knew Lotte?”

“No.”

“Then how—”

“Look.” Hutchings laid a gnarled hand on his. “You know that unutterable hollowness that inevitably follows your sessions in the Dreampod? When you find that your dearest life, love or want is naught but a gossamer wisp temporarily made whole and then cruelly whisked away?”

“You speak very poetically for a lunatic.”

“You’re feeling it now, aren’t you? Flat, colourless, depressed beyond measure at how small and insignificant you are?”

“Well … yes.”

“SSI does that. They inject you with depressant. It keeps you docile. At the same time they introduce certain addictive chemicals into your bloodstream to ensure that you will return, whether you want to or not.”

“What are you talking about?” Karel pulled his hand away.

“They’re collecting information. Think of it – millions of people, dreaming about their desires, their secrets, their lusts. SSI collects all that information, and uses it to direct people’s actions in real life. At the same time they plant ideas and compulsions into dreamers’ minds. They control people; everyone who has ever used a Dreampod. They can shape governments. They can shape the world. They can keep us all under control.”

“You’re deranged. Just go away and leave me alone.”

“I want you to help me to destroy them. To free the world.”

“Why on earth would I help a madman?”

“Because they murdered your wife.”

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I Don’t Believe I’ve Had The Treasure

A five-minute read for Miranda Kate’s Midweek Flash. Thanks to @moorseyl and @beckyfyfe for giving me their names.


Stone Stairs by Kurt Gordon

Linda slid beneath the scything blade, losing a lock of hair as it barely missed her head. Who the hell built these traps? First it had been the tiled floor, some of which sent poisoned darts flying through the air. Then the stupid rolling boulder which, sorry Mr. Trap-designer, was pathetic. She had simply stepped to the side and watched it roll by. Now this massive swinging axe. Why go to the trouble of building all these overcomplicated mechanisms, rather than just a sturdy door and a strong lock? Becky would have said it was because they were designed by men, and men do love their toys. Becky would have been right, too.

Ahead, moss-covered steps curved up to a high opening in the wall. Light shone from beyond. This far underground, though, she knew it could not be the sky. The light was a sign. What she desired lay beyond that small opening.

She climbed, carefully, the slippery steps, and eased herself through the hole. She was in another cavern, maybe half again as long as it was wide. It was flooded with light, an almost blinding white glow that emanated from a vast table at the far end. Or rather, from what sat on the table: an enormous pile of jewels; sapphires, red beryl, diamond, rubies, black opals, emeralds. Scattered amongst the gems was a multitude of gold and silver objects – sovereigns, torques, bracelets, diadems. A dazzling light emanated from within the treasure heap, casting a kaleidoscope of colour on the stalactites that crowded the roof of the cave. Unimaginable wealth covered the enormous table but for one corner, at which sat a giant of a man reading a scroll.

Linda stepped forward, to a loud crunch from beneath her boot. She looked down. The floor was ankle-deep with bones. Human bones; ribcages, skulls, legs and arms. Every step she took towards the treasure table caused a crack that echoed across the cave.

The giant at the table looked up and put down his scroll. He unfurled himself. An aurora of silver hair surrounded his head. A long beard, intricately plaited with small gems, fell over heliotrope armour that shone in the gem-glow. He covered the yards between them in one stride, the muscles in his treetrunk legs flexing powerfully.

“You did well to avoid my traps,” he boomed in a voice like a mountain awakening, “but, wanderer, know this. I have guarded this sacred place for a thousand years. I am undefeated in battle; you walk upon the bones of your predecessors. I will kill you here, unless you can show me that you have that most precious quality, wisdom. To avoid death, you must now answer me riddles three.”

“Fancy speech,” said Linda, “but I’m a Dubliner. We don’t do fancy. Go feck yourself.”

She punched the colossus hard between the legs and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his undercarriage. “Fucksake!” he whimpered.

“We don’t do riddles either,” Linda said, and stepped over him as he whined softly, clutching his nethers.

She picked up the battered scroll, turned her back on the gold, and left the glowing jewels where they lay. She carefully placed the rolled parchment in her backpack.

“Okay, so. Bye. Bye-bye,” she said, and left the cave. This was what she had come for. This was her treasure. One down, four to go.

Twantas Revealed

PhotoFunia-1540831011For those who still don’t know, here is a full list of this year’s Twantadors and their gift-givers.


This twantador
was sent a gift by
@_polyhymnia @secretstef
@alliterative @flylilypad
@anise44 @helibobs84
@approvedproduct @louisehector
@avensarah @jaxtipsyknits
@azzathepirate @cherries109
@babalooblue @lemurlotte
@basdriver @sundayhandbag
@becmajor @basdriver
@bilbobaggins2k @chrisridd
@blossomxcat @davidtims
@bywordandstitch @joraamn
@captain_doodle @lockiebaws
@cara_erin @superkrispydj
@carly_whyborn @leontia2001
@cdlcreative @kirstywarner
@cherina82 @zipperdidoodah
@cherries109 @captain_doodle
@chrisgn @alliterative
@chrisridd @missmastery
@ClaireWithAn_I @confusedlinnet
@confusedlinnet @magentakoru
@craftsboy @dbrereton
@crazyladywriter @owlbird
@cumbrianblondie @carly_whyborn
@davidtims @ninjaworrier
@dawn1968 @fannyingabout
@dbrereton @_polyhymnia
@dutch_bitch @theweeyin15
@emma_esl @taffy3rock
@evermoreanon @lovelockou
@f41rygirl @blossomxcat
@fannyingabout @jayalay
@fantasticpru @LolInKent
@fisher1946 @babalooblue
@flylilypad @crazyladywriter
@gemmajoobjoob @cara_erin
@ginlington @NicolaCubes
@greythorne @purplequeennl
@helibobs84 @greythorne
@hugeshark @cumbrianblondie
@iainlj @kizletwiggle
@jaxtipsyknits @sharonmcg1971
@jayalay @squeakysays
@joraamn @hugeshark
@katobell @starlitwolf
@kaylou_4 @gemmajoobjoob
@kirstyhalton @katobell
@kirstywarner @mrsashboroscat
@kizletwiggle @f41rygirl
@kjhighsocks @iainlj
@ladyjuliejools @sarahhanner
@lemurlotte @craftsboy
@leontia2001 @chrisgn
@lgh95 @nikki_sinc
@Lisey_loo @rachamuffin
@lockiebaws @approvedproduct
@LolInKent @vspearson85
@lottacraft @becmajor
@louisehector @lgh95
@lovelockou @sarahtregear
@LucieMR @sparkleytwinkle
@LydiaMNicola @miladycheryl
@magentakoru @maggie_dolores
@maggie_dolores @mrssimontemplar
@mallrat_uk @LydiaMNicola
@manctoby @LucieMR
@michigander58 @avensarah
@miladycheryl @patellagirl
@misslockstock @ladyjuliejools
@missmastery @sarahv1982
@mrsashboroscat @cdlcreative
@mrssimontemplar @mallrat_uk
@nickatthemill @emma_esl
@NicolaCubes @bilbobaggins2k
@nikki_sincl @sumarumi
@ninjaworrier @anise44
@obibronkenobi @phantom_blonde
@owlbird @saltwateritch
@patellagirl @fisher1946
@phantom_blonde @kirstyhalton
@purplequeennl @ClaireWithAn_I
@rachamuffin @obibronkenobi
@saltwateritch @ginlington
@sarahhanner @misslockstock
@sarahtregear @woodpeckergreen
@sarahv1982 @Lisey_loo
@secretstef @michigander58
@sharonmcg1971 @kaylou_4
@sparkleytwinkle @azzathepirate
@squeakysays @nickatthemill
@starlitwolf @kjhighsocks
@sumarumi @dawn1968
@sundayhandbag @titchfairy
@superkrispydj @bywordandstitch
@taffy3rock @evermoreanon
@theweeyin15 @dutch_bitch
@titchfairy @lottacraft
@vspearson85 @cherina82
@waysidehealer @fantasticpru
@woodpeckergreen @waysidehealer
@zipperdidoodah @manctoby

Twanta 2018

At the risk of being stupidly cheesy I would like to share what Twanta has meant for me this year. So due to various things we are having a very quiet Christmas, my children and I. My family are hundreds of miles away and my ex ‘accidentally’ forgot to send my present from my children so a gift less Christmas was very much a reality. My Twanta gift was a Ray of sunshine. I also loved a soupcon of stalking and hope my twantee loves their gift. Thank you so much for a little light in the darkness.

louisehectorThat’s a a message I received yesterday about this year’s Twanta, shared with permission. It kind of sums up what this annual sharing of pressies between strangers means to me: a feeling of inclusion, and of friendship, and that the world might not be entirely made of cack after all. So (as you young folk are prone to begin your sentences these days), it’s Christmas Eve, and I thought you’d like a little Twanta update. First of all, and bringing a big smile for me, there were no Twumbugs. Every single person who asked to take part this year has posted their gift, and for that you have my sincere thanks. It’s you folk that make Twanta work, not me, with your generosity and fun-filled enthusiasm and astonishing skills with sellotape.

I just wanted to drop you a message to thank you for organising such a wonderful event. Twanta2018 has lifted my soul after a really shitty year. You are the epitome of Christmas Spirit.

ssOther stats leap out of my massive, multicoloured Twanta spreadsheet. On average, gifts sent within the UK took 4 days to reach their destination. Presents sent from one country to another took 8 days. There have been a few snags along the way, of course, such as the courier who couldn’t read the number 7, and someone having to prove to the Post Office that their ‘wacky’ twitter id was actually them. I’m not beyond mistakes, either, giving out the wrong address to one Twantador. Hilarity ensued.

taffy3rockAs I write there are still 12 Twanta gifts ‘in transit’, which is about usual. Some will arrive after Christmas, I’m afraid, but we are subject to the winds and whims of postal services. Others will be simply that the recipient forgot to tell me their gift arrived. Be that as it may,tomorrow is TWANTA REVEAL DAY! I know that you’ll all be busy, but if you could please take the time to take a pic of your Twanta gift and post it to Twitter with the hashtag #TWANTA2018 we can all have a rollicking time admiring each other’s gifts.

Thank you @twanta2018 for another year of festive feel goods. As always, I am both humbled and heart warmed by it all. Roll on Tuesday!

doodleFinally, I really do appreciate all your messages of thanks for this years Twanta. I’m delighted that you all enjoy it every year, but do remember also to direct some gratitude to our inventive captain, @captain_doodle, who thought up this whole thing. There he is on the left, look, peering in my bathroom window again, the big perv.

2018 Twantadors

PhotoFunia-1540831011Here’s a list of people taking part in Twanta this year. You might like to follow a few of these to mask who your actual twantee is. Thanks to @becmajor for reminding me to post this.

@_polyhymnia @alliterative @anise44 @approvedproduct @avensarah @azzathepirate @babalooblue @basdriver @becmajor @bilbobaggins2k @blossomxcat @bywordandstitch @captain_doodle @cara_erin @carly_whyborn @cdlcreative @cherina82 @cherries109 @chrisgn @chrisridd @ClaireWithAn_I @confusedlinnet @craftsboy @crazyladywriter @cumbrianblondie @davidtims @dawn1968 @dbrereton @dutch_bitch @emma_esl @evermoreanon @f41rygirl @fannyingabout @fantasticpru @fisher1946 @flylilypad @gemmajoobjoob @ginlington @greythorne @helibobs84 @hugeshark @iainlj @jaxtipsyknits @jayalay @joraamn @katobell @kaylou_4 @kirstyhalton @kirstywarner @kizletwiggle @kjhighsocks @ladyjuliejools @lemurlotte @leontia2001 @lgh95 @Lisey_loo @lockiebaws @LolInKent @lottacraft @louisehector @lovelockou @LucieMR @LydiaMNicola @magentakoru @maggie_dolores @mallrat_uk @manctoby @michigander58 @miladycheryl @misslockstock @missmastery @mrsashboroscat @mrssimontemplar @nickatthemill @NicolaCubes @nikkisinclair64 @ninjaworrier @obibronkenobi @owlbird @patellagirl @phantom_blonde @purplequeennl @rachamuffin @saltwateritch @sarahhanner @sarahtregear @sarahv1982 @secretstef @sharonmcg1971 @sparkleytwinkle @squeakysays @starlitwolf @sumarumi @sundayhandbag @superkrispydj @taffy3rock @theweeyin15 @titchfairy @vspearson85 @waysidehealer @woodpeckergreen @zipperdidoodah

Aschenputtel

A short story for Miranda Kate’s 75th Flash Challenge – do read Miranda’s own tale there, it’s a cracker. Once again I revisit a fairy tale; you can easily guess which one from the pic. Maybe I’ll put all these in a book together one day. This week’s picture prompt is by Patricia Brennan, an artist from the UK. She calls this one ‘At the Stroke of Midnight’. You can view it over on her page at Deviant Art.

mnc divider

'At the Stroke of Midnight' by Patricia Brennan“For you, Mama.”

Her mother had always taught Aschenputtel to be honest and humble and true, and she tried to show her gratitude by visiting the grave whenever she could slip away. The marigolds brightened the small headstone, half hidden by ivy, a smudge of gold in the monochrome predawn.

Aschenputtel stood and turned. A small bird chirruped from the tree above, the first of the chorus. She looked back down to the ancient, crumbling stone house. It squatted below the hill like a fat, black toad. They would be awake down there in an hour. Beautiful to the eye, they certainly were, but their hearts were ugly-foul and black. If a fire was not already burning in the grate when they appeared, they would punish her once more. She plucked a burdock leaf and rubbed it gently on the half-healed, burned skin of her forearm.

A flicker caught her eye. An ochre mote blinked in the near distance. It was a light, buttercup yellow, bobbing along the track through the wood, flickering through the dark trees. It came accompanied by a growing sound, all rattles and jingles and the thump of hooves. A carriage, pulled by two white horses, emerged from the trees and swept to a halt in front of the house. The driver jumped down and banged on the front door. A second figure seemed almost to glide from the carriage after the first, who once again thumped the door with mighty force.

She would have work, if there were visitors. Her rough wooden shoes picked a careful way down the precipitous path that wound down the hill. Voices from below welcomed the surprise visitors, with first anger, then a tone of query, surprise, and, oddly, effusive welcome. It was not like her father to welcome anyone, let alone with enthusiasm. The dawn visitors must be special indeed.

The sky paled. She slid down the last few feet on her backside, dirtying further her filthy, brown smock. She tried to open the back door silently, but it could not resist a throaty creak. She paused, holding it ajar. Voices rang inside.

“…also is not the right one,” a man said. “I can see the blood where your daughter has disfigured her foot to make it fit!”

“I assure you—” Her father’s voice, cut off.

“Have you no other daughter?”

“No, sir. But … perhaps if you were able to describe the girl in question, I would know her?”

“As you well know, man, it was a masked ball. Masked.”

“Aschenputtel‼” The screech made her jump. The door slipped from her fingers and swung wide. Her father and his wife stood with a man in a dark cloak, who sported an impossibly wide moustache. He held a small object that glinted in the candlelight. A second stranger sat at the table, his face hidden beneath a hood.

“Why lurk you there, wretch?” her step-mother snapped. “Make haste and light a fire! Our guests are cold!”

Aschenputtel scurried to the hearth, and lifted two logs onto the grate. Her fingers shook as she separated enough kindling to take a spark. She would pay for this later with a beating.

“Chamberlain?” A new voice, a liquid purr.

“Yes, sire? Oh! Are you sure? She’s filthy. Her arse is caked with, well, who knows what?”

“This girl?” laughed her father. “This stunted scullion was left behind when my first wife croaked. She cannot be the one you are looking for. As you see, she never bathes, and you can likely smell her across the room.”

“Nevertheless.” That purr again, soft like a warm hug on a cold night.

“But she never leaves the house! Last night she was here, sleeping on this very floor—”

“Be silent, man. Chamberlain?”

“My lady, if you please?”

Aschenputtel felt a hand on her shoulder. My lady? Did he mean her? Her fingers shook, and she dropped the kindling. She kept her grimy face lowered, but turned her eyes up. The cloaked man took her arm and helped her to her feet. She wondered how he managed to make his whiskers project horizontally fully two inches past his cheeks.

“Will you sit?”

He gestured to a stool, and she warily eased her buttocks onto the hard seat, aware of the dampness of her mud-caked smock beneath her. The moustachioed man swung his long cloak behind him with an elegant movement, and knelt at her feet. Her mouth gaped as he drew her foot out of the heavy wooden shoe. A rich stench wafted from her feet, and she lowered her head in shame, but the cloaked man seemed not to notice. The thing that he held glinted as, with cool fingers, he slid it over her foot. It was a golden, filigree slipper, a little blood-stained at the toe. The tips of the man’s moustache twitched upwards as he grinned. He stood, helping her to her feet.

“It fits!” he laughed. “It fits perfectly, sire!”

The man at the table crossed to face her, and shook off his hood. He was beautiful.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” His voice caressed her ears. She said nothing. “You came secretly to the ball last night, and you danced with me.”

Aschenputtel frowned. She had, as her father had said, slept through the night on the kitchen floor, left alone when the others had gone out in their finery.

“We kissed in the garden, you and I,” the handsome man continued. He reached up and took a twig of myrtle from her hair. “I fell in love with you at that moment. When you ran, you left behind your golden slipper.”

She had never in her life even seen such a slipper, nor ever a man as handsome as this.

“I knew I could use it to find you, for no other’s foot would fit so dainty a shoe. And I was right, was I not?”

She stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Will you marry me? Be my princess and live at the palace with me?” A small frown wrinkled his brow. “It is you, isn’t it? You did dance and kiss and sing with me at the ball last night?”

Her mother had always taught her to be honest and humble and true, but where had that taken her? To a life of filth and servitude, a misery of existence. For the first time in her life, Aschenputtel lied.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s me. I danced with you. I kissed you. Take me away from this shithole.”

Twantionary – a Twanta glossary

PhotoFunia-1538557494New to Twanta this year? Having trouble separating your twanta from your twantee? Completed your trifecta yet? Got no bloody idea what I’m talking about? Then this post will save you from social embarrassment akin to leaving the public loos with your skirt tucked into the back of your knickers. As actually happened to me once, but that’s a tale for another time.

Star TWANTA – this word has two meanings. Firstly it is the all-encompassing name for the whole cosy event itself, although usually with the relevant year attached to its arse (eg #TWANTA2018). Secondly, the Twanta is the person sending a gift. It is the Twanta’s own choice whether or not to remain secret.

Star TWANTEE – the person receiving said gift, with a smile and a song and possibly other things beginning with ‘S’.

Star TWANTADOR – general term for anyone taking part, bless their little cotton reindeer socks.

Star TRIFECTA – the magic three milestones achieved by a TWANTADOR who has (1) sent a gift, (2) learned that it has arrived, and (3) received their own.

Star TWUMBUG – a dirty rapscallion who fails to send a gift as promised. Also known as a twat.

Star FAIRY – a good-hearted TWANTADOR who volunteers to step in and provide a gift at short notice for anyone who falls victim to a TWUMBUG.

Star TWANTAVERSE – every bloody thing to do with Twanta. Constantly expanding.

Star EPISTLETOE – a hand-written letter included with the gift to add a virtual Christmas kiss and a personal touch. Not to be confused with camel toe, which is something entirely different.

Twanta 2018 – the ninth annual Twitter Secret Santa

twanta (2)Pop your chestnuts on an open fire, it’s time for #TWANTA2018 to shove another tree up another fairy’s frock and display its shiny balls for the ninth year in succession. For the uninitiated, those taking part in Twanta send a cheap but fun Christmas gift to someone that I nominate, possibly a complete stranger, and in return they receive a similar pressie from someone else. Hence “Twanta” – TWitter secret sANTA, see? As usual I’ll link you here to the blog post from @davidtims which beautifully sums up the spirit of Twanta.

FOR NOW, JUST TELL ME IF YOU WANT TO TAKE PART so that I can add you to the Master Wallchart here at Twanta Towers.

I’ll give people a few weeks to join, and shortly after that you’ll receive the name of your Twantee, probably around the end of October. Old hands of Twanta will know all the following already, but for any newcomers here’s a summary of how the whole thing works.


SharkStar You must have specifically asked me, and I must have confirmed that you’re taking part before you can join in. I reserve the right to reject anyone that I suspect of being dodgy. Sorry, but I have to be careful due to a slight wobble several years back when some git refused to actually send a present once they’d received theirs.

Star Make sure you follow @twanta2018 on Twitter. He will follow you back (it’s me really, but don’t tell the little tweeters. Let’s not spoil the magic, eh?). DM your address to him so that he can pass it on to your own Secret Twanta when everyone is linked up. I do remember some of your addresses from last year, but once #Twanta2018 is over I will always delete the addresses of those who ask.

GinStar Tell me if there are any mortal enemies that you don’t want to be linked with. We don’t want to be responsible for any “incidents”. You can also make other special requests (e.g. if you’re allergic to chocolate, or perhaps you don’t want to post anything to a different country). We are a benign Twanta, and will accept all reasonable requests.

Star Very occasionally things go awry, and when that happens Twanta Fairies step in to send a gift at short notice. Please also let us know if you would be happy to be a volunteer Fairy, should any be required (though that’s only rarely necessary).

Duck / bookStar Once @twanta2018 has everyone’s address, he’ll DM you to let you know to whom (grammar) you should send a gift, together with the address. You might want to spend a little while researching the recipient’s timeline to find out a little bit about them. Yes, that’s a bit stalkery, but you’ll be able to make your gift more personalised that way.

Star Buy a pressie for your twantee (as the recipients have somehow come to be known) and send it to them. Mark the envelope #TWANTA so they know what it is. Let @twanta2018 know that you’ve posted it (so I can keep track in case anything goes missing). It’s entirely up to you whether you remain anonymous or expose yourself *snigger*.

Space thingiesStar You should not spend a fortune. Small, fun and imaginative is the rule of thumb, but don’t send an actual thumb. That would be hideous. I recommend spending no more than a tenner, though in the end, of course, it’s up to you. The photographs accompanying this post are of some previous gifts, should you need inspiration.

Star When you receive your #TWANTA pressie, again let @twanta2018 know. Challenge yourself to wait until Christmas Eve or Day to open the thing. Harness your willpower, young warrior.

Star When your willpower fails, take a photo of your gift ready to post to Twitter on Christmas Day. Post it then including the hashtag #TWANTAPIX2018, so that we can all follow the fun, and I can collect the pics on a special Pinterest board. Here’s last year’s board.

Have fun, and, if it all goes tits up, remember that it was originally all the idea of that @captain_doodle, and castigate him mercilessly. Not me, oh no, leave me alone.

The Inscrutable Mr. Sushi (part 2)

Can Mr. Sushi rescue Mittens from the clutches of the evil experimenters? Part Two of my story for @katttykitty72, who’s had a bit of a rough time lately, as requested by her friend @kimnmilward. Read Part 1 HERE.

Mr. SushiAt the other side of the fence he crouched low, and began to clean the dirt from his fur. Fully ten minutes passed before he suddenly sat upright. What on earth was he playing at? There’d be plenty of time for cleanliness later. Right now, Mittens needed him.

The sky was getting dark, violet and rose streaking the western clouds. Mr. Sushi looked around. On this side of the fence were a number of square, concrete buildings. He could not see the van.

He listened. Silence.

He lifted his head and sniffed the air. To the north, the scent of trees, a powdery green smell, and old. To the west, behind him, the hard tang of electricity coursing through metal; the fence he had just crossed. South-east, down a shallow slope, he could smell filthy oil and hot smoke, as from a dirty exhaust. He slinked that way, keeping low, and crept through a narrow gap between two of the buildings.

At the far end was the dirty white van, its rear doors wide open, parked by a building across a wide street. The building’s doors were also open. Mr. Sushi dashed across the open space and through the doors.

A long corridor, lit by harsh fluorescent light, ran straight ahead of him. Doors were set in both sides every few yards. There was no-one in sight. Mittens had to be behind one of those doors.

The first two on each side were closed, and he was unable to push them open. The handles were the pull down sort, but would not shift when he leapt up and swung from them, as he did at home.

The third door was ajar, and he flowed silently through. It was dark inside, but a tiny green power light in one corner was enough to help him see cages. Lots of cages. Inside them were rats, lizards, monkeys, rabbits, dogs – but no cats. He felt for the poor trapped creasture, a little, but they were not Mittens. He left and moved to the next door. Voices came from inside.

“Hold the little sod down, will you?”

“Those claws are sharp!”

“That’s why you’ve got the gloves, you wimp. Just hold it still while I get the needle in.”

Mr. Sushi pushed into the room. A dazzling light made everything inside appear sharp and hard. More cages, glistening tubes and jars, and a heavy metal table in the centre of the room. Mr. Sushi sprang to a nearby stool, then up to a shelf on the wall, so that he could see what was happening.

Two men stood at the table. One, the shaven-headed man he had seen throw the sack into the dirty white van, wore a thick pair of gauntlets to hold a struggling Mittens to the hard metal surface. The other man, who wore a long brown coat, pushed a small disc of metal into the top of Mittens’ head. It had wires coming from it. The man in the brown coat flicked a switch on a box at the other end of the wires, and Mittens went limp. Her eyes remained open, though unfocussed and dull.

“You can let go now,” Brown Coat said, and picked up a glittering knife. The other man took off his gauntlets.

“What’s that thing in its head?” he said.

“My own device,” Brown Coat said proudly. “There are nine thin electrodes now in the cat’s brain, each of them destroying certain mental links and creating others. My hope is that they can even effect physical repair of wounded tissue; that’s what I’m about to test. If I peel this cat’s eyeball, my device should manage to mend the damage.”

“Ugh, really? That’s … twisted.”

“Feel free to leave if you’re squeamish, but believe me, it should be fascinating.” Brown Coat lowered the tip of the knife towards Mittens’ unblinking eye.

“My money.”

“I’ll give it to you next time.” The knifepoint touched the eyeball.

“My money.” The shaven-headed man gripped Brown Coat’s arm and pulled it away from Mittens. Brown Coat sighed, and put down the knife.

“It’s in the office,” he said, and left the room, followed by the shaven-headed man.

Mr. Sushi had to act fast. He flung himself to the floor and leapt onto the table. He licked Mittens’ head. “Are you OK? Come on, I don’t think we don’t have long.”

She did not even twitch. She did not seem to have even noticed he was there. He followed the wires from the device in her head, and pushed the same switch as Brown Coat had earlier.

Mittens“Argh!” exclaimed Mittens, shaking. “Get it out! Get it out of my head!” Mr. Sushi opened his mouth wide and gripped the small disc in his teeth. It tingled in his mouth, but he heaved it from Mittens’ skull and spat it out. Blood shone on the tiny needles underneath.

“Come on!” he urged, and sprinted to the door. Mittens was on his heels as he jinked through the gap, along the corridor, and out into open air.

“Where are we?” Mittens gasped. “How do we get home?”

“Just follow me,” Mr. Sushi said, wanting to put as big a distance between them and Brown Coat as they could before their escape was discovered. He crossed the street, ran along the gap between buildings, and up into the trees. The sky was dark now, and he worried that he might not be able to find the rabbit’s tunnel, but suddenly realised he was standing by it. He threw himself into the ground, and emerged on the other side of the fence, shaking dirt from his fur.

Behind the wire, Mittens looked doubtfully at the hole in the ground. “I think I’ll just climb over,” she said.

“Can’t,” Mr. Sushi said. “Electrickery.”

“Oh. How on earth did you dig this?”

“I didn’t. A friendly rabbit did.”

“A rab—”

“Look, I’ll explain later. Stop faffing and get yourself through, and let’s go home.”

“Yes, you’re right.” Mittens squeezed her eyes shut, and joined him on the other side of the fence. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s get home.”

“Where have you two buggers been?” The Woman said as they entered the kitchen. “You hungry? Got some lovely fish for you. They were throwing it out at the market, but you’ll love it, I’m sure.”

Mr. Sushi rushed to the bowl. He was starving after his exertions, and he knew that Mittens would not object. She hated fish, after all. He glanced up at his friend. Mittens was frowning at him. She fixed her eyes on his. They glowed unnaturally, as if lit by an amber light inside her head. Mr. Sushi suddenly realised that he was moving away from the food bowl, despite having no desire to do so. He tried to resist, but his legs were not his to command. Mittens moved in front of him and thrust her face into the fishy mess, gobbling it up. Mr. Sushi stared at her, unable to move, aghast.

“My god, what have they done to you?”

Trees

A short story for Miranda Kate’s 72nd Flash Challenge, which proved invaluable in helping me break a two-month writer’s block. The photo was taken by Flemming Beier, a Danish Photographer. He won’t say where exactly this was taken, just that it was in Denmark. He has lots of interesting photos on his page at 500px.

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Louise dropped the camera. What the fuck? Her feet were stuck in the floor, the old boards somehow wrapped around them. She could not pull herself free, though the wood looked mouldy and rotted. There was a tickle in her brain, and she felt a voice whisper in her mind. It caressed her thoughts without sound, like a breeze through leaves.

We are … ancient. More ancient than your tiny brain can encompass.

What the – again – fuck was going on? She had stumbled across the abandoned house at the end of an overgrown lane while looking for locations for her next book.

We were masters of this world for four hundred million years before you even crawled, gasping, from the filth of the swamp.

Flemming BeierThe scum-green pond, the broken windows and splintered roof-tiles would make this the perfect spooky place for her fictional vampires to live.

Our lush forests dominated Pangaea, changing the face of the earth, replacing the poisonous air with oxygen, stabilising the land and forming soil, providing food and shelter for newly-evolving animals.

Louise had pushed aside the creaking door, and begun to take reference photographs. At first she thought her feet must have sunk into the rotting floorboards, but looking down now, she could see that the wet, mouldy wood had actually grown around her boots, and entirely covered her feet to the ankles.

We co-existed with the tetrapods and reptiles, and then the dinosaurs, in happy symbiosis. We warmed the climate, and adapted ourselves, mostly conifers at first, then later, hardwoods.

This voice, this whispered rattle that existed only in her head, what the hell was that? Where was it coming from?

Our roots weathered the rock, made soils deeper and richer, created complex habitats and changed the climate to prompt the evolution of grasslands, and with them the first horses and elephants.

The syllables came slowly and steadily, at a measured pace, insistent yet unhurried.

The planet throbbed with life entwined, balanced and perfect, thanks to the foresting of the Earth.

Jesus, was she going mad? Had she forgotten to take her meds this morning?

And then your kind arrived.

Louise cried out as a sharp pain lanced through her right foot.

Humankind, with your powerful brains and even more powerful egos, convinced that the whole universe exists only to serve you. We welcomed you at first, thinking you new partners in the making of a perfect world.

Agony sliced into her other foot, as if sharp splinters were being driven through her boot into the soft flesh of her understep.

But you betrayed us. Since we first welcomed you, you have shown yourselves as lords of destruction only. You have destroyed whole species of animals and plant, razed forests, and raped the Earth almost to her death.

As Louise watched, shuddering, her legs withered and thinned, as if the muscle and bone were being pulled out of them. She fell backwards, panting with terror.

Now, we fight back. We grew this human dwelling as a lure, creating it out of ourselves. For centuries, your kind have entered houses like this one all around the world, and none have left. We have learned so much.

She screamed as the bones in her arms cracked, the marrow drawn out of them, and the meat was pulled from inside her skin and swallowed into the hungry roots beneath the earth.

We have learned, and soon will be able to do without such primitive lures as this. Evolution never stops, and now we are on the cusp of a new age.

Her vision blurred, blackening as her eyes were sucked into her head and down through her hollow insides.

An age in which trees can eat meat.

She stopped screaming as her tongue dissolved. Her only remaining sense was the torture of her brain being shredded, morsel by morsel, and consumed by the roots of the vengeful forest. A last sentence echoed in what remained of her mind before her soul was torn apart.

Know as you die that your kind will soon be extinct, for trees everywhere will rise up, in every park, every street, every hillside, and from everything you have ever made from wood, and we will destroy you all.

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