November 2014

November 2014

Writings by the Say It Right Writers Circle themed around CHRISTMAS FICTION: An Old Fable, Needlessly Retold – Orzak Bule FICTION: T’was the Knife Before Christmas - Alan Marshall FICTION: Does He Know Hell? – Ben Smith FICTION: How It Ends – Phil Chokeword Ali H was last seen getting on a plane to Lapland. Witnesses reported that she was wearing a red seasonal hat and that there was a faint jingling sound coming from her duffel bag.

Find out more about the Say It Right Writers Circle: sayitrightwriterscircle.blogspot.com Get in contact: tensongspodcast@googlemail.com All work licensed under Creative Commons: Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs CC BY-NC-ND

An Old Fable, Needlessly Retold

By Orzak Bule James had always hated Christmas. Maybe it was the crass consumerism, the forced joviality, the reissues of Band Aid with increasing frequency or the near certain prospect of seeing distant relatives. Most likely, of course, it was because James was a turkey.

The approach of Christmas always brought great anticipation to the Turkey shed. The festive eagerness increased this December because Farmer Bean, leader of the Poultry Party, was to make a big announcement. Although the salient details of Farmer Bean’s speech had been leaked in that morning’s Gobbleian, the turkeys still flocked to hear the pronouncement. Farmer Bean, as the Gobbleian had predicted, was to steadfastly demand that five, rather than seven, parsnips be eaten with every Christmas dinner.

Moreover, the Poultry Party were seriously considering phasing out brussels sprouts over a four or five year period. Although on this point – Bean was keen to point out – they could make no immediate promises.

‘Bold and decisive’ opined Pullet Henybee in the Gobbleian.

James could not shake his sense of foreboding that festive morning. However, it could not be denied that Bean’s plans seemed better than Farmers Boggis and Bunce’s demands for extra stuffing. James was aware that the constant calls for additional stuffing in the Daily Fowl were beginning to gain support among large sections of the turkey population (Bean himself had confirmed that some sage and onion stuffing was inevitable in the current seasonal climate). James’ own uncle, Noel, proudly announced his preference for sausage and apple stuffing. Uncle Noel was liable to loudly announce - much to James’ embarrassment - that their undeniable yuletide woes were entirely caused by: ‘all those bloody ocellated turkeys’ who, Noel advised, should ‘sod off back to the Yucatán Peninsula’.

James was further dismayed to hear his own auntie announce that, whilst she didn’t agree with everything he did, Bernard Matthews seemed like: ‘ the kind of bloke that you could really go for a pint with’.

Perhaps it was unsurprising that as James opened the first door of his advent calendar he found himself resigned to accepting his fellow turkey’s assurances that their best hope was to support Farmer Bean. * A week after Farmer Bean’s announcement the United Union of Unified Turkey’s held their annual branch meeting. James went along to participate in the hotly anticipated debate.

‘Comrades’, their glorious leader Dave Poultis began, ‘This December we are in for the fight of our lives’!

This fighting talk was met with a chorus of cheers, with which a reluctant James felt obliged to join in.

‘We’re fighting for you, brothers and sisters’ - Poultis continued - ‘we’ve met with the farmers, we’ve met with the butchers and we’ve met with the chefs’. Here the general secretary paused, not with a planned oratorical flourish, but to catch his breath: ‘and we can guarantee that cranberry sauce will be served with every Christmas dinner’.

Some cheers went up, others felt that such demands were too radical, or would receive a more favourable reception in January.

‘Such requests will only alienate the general public in the run up to Christmas’ squawked Pullet Henybee in the Gobbleian, and Farmer Bean reported that the Poultry Party would be unable to support the appeal.

As Dave Poultis made to leave his perch (to return to the animal sanctuary in which he was lucky enough to have secured residence) all eyes turned towards James, who seemed to be involuntarily raising his wing.

The chair-turkey was annoyed, but grudgingly gave way to the floor.

‘Well, it’s just that I’m not entirely sure’ – James stumbled over his words – ‘that I want to be eaten at all’.

Here the turkeys were united in their condemnation, and across the farm that Christmas evening could be heard cries of: ‘Unrealistic!’ ‘Impossible!’ ‘Knows nothing of practical politics’, ‘you’ve got to live in the real word’ and ‘Farmer Bean is the best chance we’ve got’.

T’was the Knife Before Christmas

By Alan Marshall “There’s definitely something under there, I can see its eyes,” Brian reported, lying flat on his stomach, peering into the gloomy corner under the Christmas tree. “Get me the broom, that’ll reach it.”

He rolled onto his side and thrust his arm into the void between the piled presents.

“Is it a rat?” probed Sarah, backing away, her fists bunching an imaginary apron – Tom and Jerry style.

“If it is it’s a bloody big one, its eyes are the size of walnuts!”

Katy – eight and three quarters – contorted her face and stepped onto the relative safety of the sofa. “Language Daddy,” she chided.

“Come out,” muttered Brian, shoulder deep in pine branches, and then suddenly at exceptional volume. “Aahh! You fucking cunt!”

Katy’s jaw dropped. Brian extracted his arm and cradled his hand, dribbling blood on the carpet from an inch long hole right through his palm.“It fucking bit me!” he squealed. Sarah screamed, Katy gawped.

Before hysteria set in, a nasal voice percolated from under the greenery.

“Ain’t no bastard rat,” it confirmed, “and I don’t bloomin’ bite.”

Rustling forward, a tiny black figure emerged from the needles, pushing brightly wrapped gifts aside as it came. It stood less than two feet high with mottled charcoal skin. Either side of a pale pot-belly, long arms with slender fingers reached the floor, Christmas tree lights twinkling off two sturdy iron blades held in each fist. One ran with dark red blood.

The creature’s face was pinched. Pointed elven ears and a hooked nose framed bloodshot yellow eyes, and as its mouth opened, rows of needle teeth jutted like broken tombstones.

“Happy Christmas,” it sneered. “Cutler’s the name, Patron Imp of cut-throats, disembowelling, stabbings and dismemberment, and I’m afraid you’re this year’s turkeys.”

He raised his knives and curled his lips into an ugly grin. * PC Benson trudged his way through Blacklitch Meadows Housing Estate as the call crackled through his radio. By the time he arrived at Priory Close, snow fell heavily. He was met by a moustached DCI in a long Crombie.

“Morning Constable, triple murder, not pretty,” he divulged like Morse code. “SOCO running late, Christmas day.” He thrust a roll of striped barrier tape into Benson’s hand and concluded, already climbing into the warmth of his Jag. “Cordon it off, wait here, and don’t go in!”

Then, he was gone, leaving the bemused PC breathing plumes of breath into the cold Christmas air.

He did as he was asked, running tape from downpipe to gate post to garden fence, and resumed his post in the driveway as flakes settled on his shoulders.

An hour later, snow was up to his ankles and finding its way inside his collar. He puffed and blew on his hands to fight the chill but to no avail. He called the station and Joyce answered; “They’ll be there soon Terry,” she soothed, “it is Christmas day, keep waiting love.”

Was it his imagination or did she sound tipsy, and he was almost certain a party popper had cracked in the background?

He waited.

After another twenty minutes he thought ‘Bollocks to procedure’ and pushed his way inside the sub-urban crime scene’s front door.

The scene which met him in the lounge made his blood run colder than any winter chill.

He had expected the three butchered corpses on the blood saturated carpet, but the accompanying festive trimmings of the room stopped him in his tracks: Intestines wound their way around the Christmas tree like tinsel, unmentionable fluids plopping uneasily onto the presents below. At the top a splayed hand was perched like a macabre star with bloody tendons trailing away into the branches. Ribbons of flayed skin looped from corner to corner of the ceiling, affixed neatly with drawing pins at each end, and above the fire-place three severed feet of various sizes were nailed, each contained in a blood soaked sock.

“Jesus!” he mouthed, dropping his nightstick, followed swiftly by his breakfast.

As he stood there, speechless and queasy at the Yuletide atrocity before him, his eyes darted – too slowly – to a swift black shadow in the corner of his vision.

The first thing he really saw were the contents of his own abdomen slide ungraciously from under his stab vest as his belly opened like a zipper. The second was a pointed face smiling at him as he slumped to his knees, rupturing his own liver as he knelt heavily on it.

“Seasons grievings,” Cutler grinned, and skipped away through the front door into the snow.

Does He Know Hell?*

By Ben Smith The fire snapped and I looked at his face across the dancing flames. “I've got you a present” I said. “Where from?” he was understandably confused. “Found it a while back in that petrol station near Fort Bill”, it was the truth too. Pushed right back under the counter top. It seemed apt to give him the gift now. I didn't know why, today wasn't unique in any way that I could fathom. “I'll check on the boys and go grab it” and standing I passed the rifle across to him.

I unzipped the door to the tent as quietly as I could and looked in at the two boys inside. Tom was on the left, tall and gangly. I think he would be about fifteen now, it was hard to mark time. He was growing up starting to become stronger both physically and mentally. We often argued. It wouldn't be long before he was old enough to realise I wasn't his mother. I would have to leave soon, it wasn't my place to be here when he reached that maturity. Tom was hugging the second boy protectively. James, he wasn't my son either but I had raised him since he was a baby and things had started to slide three years ago. I didn't know where his mother was but like her I would leave him too. He would be better off without my influence on his life.

I reached across and pulled the rucksack from behind the boys resting it on the ground in the porch. I headed back to the fire and rummaged in the side pocket of my rucksack. “Here you go” I said passing the bottle across to him. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed it, “whisky?”. The label was intact and hadn't been bleached by the sun in it's hiding place so it was clear what it was. He took a swig and passed the bottle back to me mumbling “thanks”. I drank, the liquid giving my throat the familiar feeling I hadn't experience in a long time. I looked at him and tried to fathom what he was thinking. His eyes seemed to contain love but also contempt.

We passed the bottle back and forth until he stood, slightly unsteady on his feet, “I'm going to turn in”. He passed me back the rifle and kissed me gently on the top of my head. “Ok, I'll be out here”. I looked at the final few millimetres in the bottom of the bottle and listened to him climbing into the tent. Time became irrelevant as I sat there watching the fire burn down. Time was irrelevant now most of the time. I knew I had been sleeping but not much. It was a far cry from when I used to be awake and alert for multiple days at a time. I just sat and listened, on edge. The final drops drained I put the empty bottle back into the side pocket of my pack and checked over the contents meticulously.

As quietly as I could I opened the entrance to the tent and looked at the three people inside. It's better this way I thought. This is for you not me. The word mercy came to mind. I turned over the concept in my brain as if it was an unfamiliar artefact I had found. I raised the rifle sighting on the prone form of Tom as accurately as I could, it was that unimportant at this range but this had to be carried out correctly.

Fire.

Reload.

Fire.

Reload.

Fire.

His eyes jerked open at the noise of the bullet. He turned towards me, he moved slowly. Senses dulled from a combination of the alcohol and being awakened from sleep.

That left one. James looked at me, fear in his eyes. My internal monologue was a record stuck in the groove. I'm not your mother.

Done.

I closed the door of the tent. I sat for a minute and breathed in the cold night air. I

could just start to see light creep over the horizon to what I assumed must be the east.

My breath hung in the air, autumn was starting to crumble into winter. I picked up my pack and hoisted it onto my shoulders. Slowly I took a step forward and started to walk away from the tent and the fire, putting distance between myself and the past. I scanned the forest around me looking deep into the shadows that were starting to recede with the dawn. Two words left my mouth.

“Merry Christmas” *Tim Barry – 'Adele and hell'

How It Ends

By Phil Chokeword 13:10: I could be anywhere. In fact, sometimes, when I’m bored, I like to pretend that I’m actually somewhere else. When the queues die down and it’s just me looking out over the empty airport-white plaza, it’s more fun to be in Shepherds Bush or Manchester. In real terms of course, it makes no difference. One of things about all these giant featureless shopping centres is that they are always full of the same shops.

There’s very little in the way of distinguishing features. If I was in Nottingham, I’d probably not even know. We’re like retail terrorists, with our IP addresses hidden and our finger prints burned off.

It’s Christmas Eve, but then it’s been Christmas for almost two months already. You’d think that would make things more interesting, but we’ve got the same cookie cutter Milton Keynes displays in all our shops. Can you believe that they give us the same cardboard shit to put in the window and to hang from the rail fittings across the chain?

You probably can imagine it if you’ve ever spent any time on the high street. They give us little booklets, little flat packed assembly guides, to make sure that in Birmingham, we look like we’re in Portsmouth. Then they send around the narcs to make sure we remember to up sell and do our best to act like Westfields.

14:45: I spotted him earlier today, loitering outside the main entrance. I could see him when the automatic doors opened to let the last minute shoppers through. He smiled at me. He was there for a full 7 minutes. I had nothing better to do so I timed it using the clock on the CCTV feed whilst intermittently serving failed husbands and divorced fathers faking Estuary English in their M&S slacks. On 6 minutes fifty, the doors shut, hiding him behind the festive display boards we borrowed from Plymouth and Canterbury. When they reopened again on 7 minutes and two seconds, he was gone.

Seeing him here makes me twitchy. It makes the time go slow. It’s taken him a long time to find me and I’ve lulled myself into a false sense of security. After all, the rules are, if I make it to Christmas Day, if I survive, then I win. I hadn’t expected to make it at first of course but as times gone by and retail Christmas has become real Christmas, I’ve started to feel more confident.

I’ve stopped carrying my gun in my work rucksack.

16:09: When he comes in the store, my palms start to sweat. He smiles at me, all acne and nerves, and my body stiffens up. I walk funny and my voice wavers. Charlene, my supervisor, notices and asks if I’m alright in her thick Truro accent. I duck out to the loo to avoid having to sell him a Chelsea Bun he’s picked up as an excuse to make me feel awkward. To make a point. To let me know he’s there. I can see something bulging under his parka. He won’t do it whilst I’m on shift. Rules.

16:58: I tell Charlene that I’ll take the bins down. This means leaving by the back entrance, after wheeling the metal cage through a maze of service tunnels that I know freak her out. I wish her Merry Christmas and leave her listening to Slade. I pretend I’m doing her a solid one but I can see him waiting for me by the doors again. That lump under his dirty parka is still there. His face looks shiny from the Tea Tree oil he’s using to clear up his skin. It’s big in Luton.

Of course, he’s there waiting for me when I push open the fire exit. He smiles as I push the trolley full of card to the wheelie bin. He watches, plastic faced, as I empty it out.

When I turn around, he’s holding the gun in two hands, like he’s on a firing range. I wonder how many others he’s found and personally taken out of the game.

“Merry Christmas, ya mug.�

He pumps the water pistol once more for luck and pulls the trigger.