250 Words: Aesthetic insanity

I like to vary my walks home to add a kind of variety that in other areas can be lacking.  Sometimes I walk across the concourse and through the station’s vaults.  To do so I go down an escalator, above which are pictures of food, presumably available in the shops at its bottom.  They have been placed, I would guess, in an attempt to excite the taste buds and whet the appetite in readiness for the walk past the food shops that is imminent and avoidable only by doubling back.  

However, every other picture is in black and white and, next to colourful neighbours only serve to give the opposite effect.  The black and white food looks off to me.  A tomato looks blue in my mind: putrid and inky on the inside, the olive both crisp and hard.

I travel down the escalator fearful of what I will find.  Maybe mould growing across peaches like unwanted affection spreading its greasy hand upon a tender thigh?  

Or perhaps meat rotting and smelling like a thousand rank farts and causing innocent patrons to evacuate their stomachs all over the floor.  

Maybe even mutated and passed-it food that has become jaded and evil.  Will there be an army of these blue tomatoes waiting to smother me under their mushy weight?

Of course not but the aesthetic insanity of those photographs doesn’t make me feel like purchasing any food.  Instead I only want to walk on with blinkers shielding me from anything untoward.

Iris and the Swallow

Our relationship (it certainly hadn’t only been mine) had ended abruptly, for me at
least. I was so deeply into it that I couldn’t see (or ignored) that he wasn’t in so deeply
before he ended it. He seemed more upset than me on the day it happened, which was
strange and didn’t help.

Anyway. I had wanted to get away from everything and be on my own for a bit.
Fortunately my grandparents were about to go on holiday and were happy for me to
housesit. They had asked me and my fellow grandsiblings many times before. This
was the first time I had taken on the role.

My grandparents live in the most beautiful cottage in the Kent countryside. The front
has a sweet little garden bordered by bushes and flower beds that looks across the
village green while the back garden is larger, more ornate and more homey somehow,
probably because it is filled with more memories. It also backs onto fields that stretch
as far as the eye can see. A scene I could stare at all day while forgetting all else-
which is exactly what I was planning for my week in isolation.

My grandmother, of course, was eager to stay, bless her, and look after me. She could
see the sadness in my eyes, despite the brave face I was trying to wear and the smiles
I was forcing my mouth into. She wanted to sit me in an armchair wrapped in a blanket
and pamper me (probably with sweet tea and sticky buns).

She seemed determined, in fact, not to go on her holiday. Much to the annoyance of
my grandfather who is a much more practical person and he was evidently thinking
of the spent money. Plus he could see I wanted to be left alone and joined me in
convincing my grandmother to leave and enjoy her holiday. Which we eventually
managed, though I can remember her the worried expression on her face as she looked
back at me from their car as it drove off and out of the village.

For the first hour I wished they hadn’t left as I wandered the cottage lost, staring blindly
at each room replaying in my mind memories from my childhood and thinking how dead
the house seemed without my grandmother’s presence.

So I found the backdoor key on the ring my grandfather had presented me with and let
myself out into the garden and the view greeted me like an old friend. I fact it stopped
me dead on the back step and I stood in awe looking out across the fields that seemed
to carry on forever before me, each it’s own shade of green or brown. It’s such a
beautiful scene, I wish I could explain it properly, and one that is only halted by the
curvature of the earth. I am sure it would have started to bring feeling to my numb
breast but instead, as I stepped forward into the garden I felt something squidge under
my left big toe.

In a spa I’m sure the feeling would have felt lovely and brought the relaxation I was
seeking, relieving all the tension throughout my body. Here, in this situation, it served

only to heighten it and force it out of said left foot as I instinctively took a leap forward
before looking at the ground with a stomach full of dread.

Lying on the ground was a frog with a newly crushed head. I hoped against hope that
it had already been dead- certainly it looked like it had been gone a while but then how
would I know, this was all new to me. In shock I fell to my knees and buried my head in
my hands, filling the palms with tears.

On top of everything else I couldn’t handle the idea I’d killed an innocent creature. I
also couldn’t handle doing anything with the body and left it just as it was, hoping a cat
would take it.

I then retreated into the house for the afternoon and sat in an armchair wrapped in
the crocheted blanket that was normally draped over it. I then proceeded to stare
into space while turning recent events over in my mind once again until I was hungry
enough to make dinner.

Normally I would have eaten in the garden, or at least the kitchen from where I could
look out across the garden, but instead I returned to the blanket and watched the news,
guiltily hoping something worse was happening elsewhere before switching to Hollyoaks
when a suicide bombing was announced.

By the end of the episode (and my dinner) I was determined to try relaxing in the
beautiful surroundings and went to find a tranquil spot in the garden to find escape
through childhood reminiscences, a good book and Pinot Grigio. So long as I didn’t
look in the direction of the frog I felt all would be fine.

Initially I sat and took in the view while cradling the first glass in my hands and taking
my first sips. Out of the corner of my eyes, though, I could see flies starting to gather
over the frog and I couldn’t relax or enjoy it completely.

Yet I did all I could to put this out of my mind by casting my eyes over the garden and
remembering little stories connected with different items in view. Such as the time
my little brother fell in the pond while trying to retrieve his little Thomas ball, crawling
through the small gap under the hedge so we could explore the field (the gap created by
my mother and her siblings) and watching visitors to the bird table from the kitchen, my
grandparents telling us what each one was. The possibility of seeing wildlife here had
always been one of our favourite things.

Throughout my childhood my grandparents would often tell us about the wildlife they
had seen in their garden (or the evidence they had found). We would hear of different
mammals that had visited or been seen in the fields and about endless types of birds.
We were lucky to get a sparrow in ours- even robins were rare but they had blue tits,
great tits, even a kestrel hovering above one time. And they often heard owls at night.

But not while we were there. We never seemed to see or hear any nearly as much as
we were told about, no doubt scaring everything off with our own wild noises.

Swallows were what we wanted to hear about most, though. I think because we had
all had Swallows and Amazons read to us in the cottage. Each year my grandmother
would officially announce (normally via our mother) that summer had arrived when they
had seen their first flock of swallows pass overhead. And they would also tell us who in
the village had been blessed with swallows’ nests and would therefore gain good luck
that year (often the two things did not actually go together).

However, again, us kids never saw a thing. Even when there was a swallow nest in
their attic we were not allowed to go up and see it and all activity above seemed to halt
during our visit. Iseem to recall it raining incessantly during that visit, stopping us from
being able to watch them come in and out of the house.

For years I had barely visited this house. Throughout my teens and twenties, when me
my sisters had quietened down a little, I had always seen my grandparents elsewhere,
my mother generally visiting alone or when I was busy. This time I was hopeful of
seeing something new. I didn’t care what. I just wanted to see something that might
signal a new start.

It was a beautiful summer’s evening. They always seemed to be here, it had always
been an idyll. The garden faced south and a wonderful red sunset was starting over to
my right and I positioned myself to gain a better view and also to avoid the mass of flies-
seemingly getting larger all the time- that were gathering and growing over the frog’s
corpse.

As the temperature cooled I read and drank, never fully immersing, as the author
seemed to be reflecting my defunct relationship too closely for comfort. I would read
a paragraph or two, or just a few lines or words glancing frequently around the garden
at different spots and remember events of past summers- picnics with teddy bears in
attendance, flower bed tours, treasure hunts, hide and seek, story times…

But my mind and my eye kept going back to that corpse, the head of which I had
crushed with my toe. Crushed like I felt I had probably crushed him and his spirit
by coming out with it too early, no doubt attaching weights that tugged at him until
it became evident he could no longer carry on. I may even have just been his in-
betweener. Maybe that’s why he was so upset that he hadn’t felt it too.

Whatever. My plan didn’t seem to be working at all. I started to think about the old
walks around the area and whether I could try one in the morning when a flash of blue
appeared in the corner of my eye. One that started above me and ended not far above
the dead frog.

I stopped dead and just turned my head. Very. Slowly. And looked at where the flash

had ended then looked up at the sky. Where I saw a bird circling. Then down it came
again, diving until it reached they fly cloud that had formed and plucked, I assume- it
was impossible to see the catch- one for its supper.

It was amazing. My first swallow. And doing something I’d not heard about from my
grandparents. Evidently they had never had the services of a dead frog on their lawn
before.

It was fantastic. I watched as it swooped down again and again, feeding from the
selection available. I watched in disbelief, honoured and humbled by it and a smile
started to form on lips. Inside I still felt like a wreck yet, for the first time in weeks, I felt
like things were going to be alright.

---

Entered in The Bridport Prize, 2012

250 Words: The Haberdashery of Thoughts and Ideas (4)

It did not take long. Upon each flask was a small label containing a name and a date. After looking at a few I saw that they were ordered in alphabetical order of surname and before long I was picking up the flask with not just my name but that day’s date. I returned to the back counter with it.

“If that is for you then you will find inspiration within. I am certain it is from the look on your face but, if not then there will be some strange side effects I am led to believe.”

“How much is it?”

“Take it, it is yours. No charge- the books and other ventures keep us going, this is just a little project the Wizard set up to help the world along a bit.”

I thanked him, perhaps a bit too much given that I did not know if it would work at that point. It was just that I was so overwhelmed by the whole thing- the strangeness, the coincidence, the fact my name and that day’s date were on the flask that I took back to my car with me.

*

It was dark when I got home; I was scalded for being late for dinner. After I bolted it down and had a cursory chat with my wife I took the flask to my study and drained its contents.

Nothing happened at first other than feeling a little bit lightheaded. Once this faded, though, I began to write…

250 Words: The Haberdashery of Thoughts and Ideas (3)

“On the surface, this emporium of wonders is a bookshop which, as with any other, is crammed full of the thoughts and ideas people have had, written down and subsequently been published through the ages.

“However; with the addition of magic, this bookshop has something extra- in short, this section at the back: the real Haberdashery of Thoughts and Ideas!” the man told me, pronouncing the shop’s name in a grand way, lifting his arms into the air as he did so.

He continued, “It is but one part of the life’s work of the Wizard, Niq, who spent many, many years creating helpful solutions to problems. Niq foresaw the needs of many future writers and created these potions to help jog out the cobwebs and help things flow once more, so to speak. You must be one or you would see a wall here covered in posters concerning books forthcoming to the marketplace.

“We’ve seen many lost souls in here over the years. Not many of the great and the good, if I’m honest, but some. A few. And now you.”

I stood, staring at him, in bewilderment, not believing a word he said- though it did seem like too much of a coincidence not to be, perhaps. “It’s true,” he said in response to my reaction, “Come back here, find your bottle and you will see.” He lifted a section of the counter and beckoned me to walk through. I did just and that and began my search…

250 Words: The Haberdashery of Thoughts and Ideas (2)

Within the shop looked like many of the second-hand book shops I had been in over the years.  There were shelves from floor to ceiling made from a variety of woods and a mishmash of different styles, from shelves attached straight to the wall to bookcases of different sizes and shapes.

Hanging from the ceiling and stuck on the shelf edges were the titles of different sections and areas: Fiction A-Z, Philosophy, History, Science, Religion and Theory were some I remember seeing in there that day.

Inside the front bay windows was a large, unattended desk piled high with books still to be sorted, a hefty tome for recording sales and the locked cash box that served as the cash register.

I was starting to think that this maybe wasn’t the place for me necessarily when I noticed that, at the back of the shop, there was another counter running across the width of the shop separating it from the area behind. An area full of further shelving, containing glass flasks filled with an assortment of coloured liquids.

My curiosity led me onwards and I was quickly standing at the counter staring beyond to this curious section at the back of the bookshop. I wondered, quite possibly out loud, what it was all about and, as if in response to my thoughts, an old man appeared before me and asked if I required help. When I replied in the affirmative he said, “Well, then I shall explain it to you…”

250 Words: The Haberdashery of Thoughts and Ideas (1)

I was lost for words. My brain wasn’t coming up with any thoughts that I could translate onto paper with pencil. I’d even turned to the dictionary, a whole book of words- randomly flicking its pages and staring at entries but found nothing that could kick-start my creativity.

Films and books hadn’t helped either, they only served to be make me feel small, inadequate and unable to better what had gone before; nor creative exercises I found on the internet.

In the end I took to driving for hours, hoping I might see something in the city, town or country that could become the basis for a story. Each day I would rise, get ready, then see where the road took me. Then, when I started to get too tired or too far from home, I would switch on the satnav and let it guide me back. Slowly I was covering the whole of the manageable radius.

It was on a Tuesday afternoon I found it, not long before home time, in fact, on a narrow street in a part of the city that had once seen prosperity but was now slowly decaying. The shop itself looked well over a hundred years old, maybe two hundred. Its front featured a bay window jutting into the street. Each of its three panes were made of a grid of small windows containing ribbed circles like bottle bottoms. Given its name I walked straight in. This might just be what I was after…

250 Words: Durban

The lady in white sings the boys in and out of harbour; welcoming them to our city, telling them we want to give them one last taste of what they are fighting for.  To show how proud we are of them and the risk they are taking for the whole of the free world.  

She greets every ship with her voice and never misses a single one.  Reminding them of the civilisation they are will protect in the desert or the jungle.  She believes in the war and gives something to those who will man the front line thousands of miles away from this island of peace she represents.  She welcomes the men on their long voyage to relax and enjoy the delights of Durban.

***

She’s a siren, the first part of the charm offensive.  She sees only white faces, the potential for new seed to fill the streets.  Colour is the issue in these parts and keeping them separated into neat boxes of different sizes and quality.

The soldiers are told where they can go and who they can talk to, the colours they are able to mix with in a way that creates no spots.  Civilians welcome them with open arms inviting them to dinner: afterwards indirectly reading them the manifesto.  

The lady in white sings them out of harbour, into the Indian Ocean and over the horizon.  Filling their heads with her song as a reminder of Durban so that, if they survive, perhaps they might return.

250 Words: Untitled nipple issues

I lost my heart to a doctor.  It lay unseen at her feet, still faintly beating, its blood seeping into the snow.  For she only has eyes for her love.

But that's a story for another day.  I'd like to talk to you today about nipples.  One pair in particular as it happens.  On Borough High Street there’s a rug shop.  In the window, for some inexplicable reason, is a painting of a naked woman lying back in a relaxed pose vaguely similar to the mirror image of Venus at her mirror.

She is probably rather attractive in her lovely nakedness.  I don't know, though, because her nipples are what attract my gaze.  I don't have much nipple experience I should confess.  Even so, this pair seem abnormally long and pointy.  Horribly so.  One of them points upwards to heaven like the Tower of Babel.  It's almost enough to make me swear in French!  Lord, they even disturb me in my sleep, twisting and drilling into my chest as I lower myself onto her, unable to stop myself.  

The painting was in the sale.  No surprise there, I thought: who would want such naked absurdity in their home?  I felt vindicated when it was moved away from the window to a less distracting position.  I would like to make a further quip here but someone has now bought it.  They, perhaps, are our hero and are welcome to my nightmares.  “Bless them,” he says, wiping a tear from his eye.

250 Words: Death and destiny

His body lay battered and shattered at the edge of the sea, a few bits of seaweed clinging to his arms and legs.  The fingertips of the waves gently prodded him in a final attempt at rousing him from eternal sleep.

She swept down the beach, the sky seeming to turn black as her world started to fall about her and its constituent parts morphed themselves into a giant monster that would stalk her for some time.  All her fears since the storm had taken his boat had suddenly become something tangible.  Not just troublesome thoughts or nightmares anymore: her love lay lifeless as a sack, the only blot on an otherwise beautiful scene.

She crouched down and brought his limp body onto her lap. He had been twisted by the waters, seemingly into something else.  His trailing arm lay unnaturally and she could see his blue fingers would never hold a quill again.  As she knelt on the sand, her back perfectly straight, maintaining all dignity, she studied his face and tried to see if there was anything left inside the half closed bruised eyes or if any more beauty would spill from his mouth.  Finding nothing, her task began to become clear in her mind.

She would never let him truly die; this beach would not be his final resting place.  She would make sure his memory lived on and that he would always be read and loved.  And she would not rest herself until she had succeeded.

250 Words x 2: Leaving the old job and Starting the new one

I managed to avoid a speech!  And it didn’t take any grumpiness.  Apparently, at Rachel’s work an outgoing employee had to really put her foot down to steer clear of that pitfall.  All that I did was say no.  I barely talk as it is- imagine me trying to make a fucking speech!?!

Simon made one.  I hate being the centre of attention.  On my 21st (well, my Nan’s 73rd in reality) the whole family sang to me and Chris said he’d never seen anyone so embarrassed.   Having people say nice things about you is awkward somehow, no matter how gratifying.  It was the same when I left Cubs and Arkela made this big speech about me being the model Cub.  I didn’t know where to look.  It was the same on Wednesday- in the photo I just look suspicious of my now ex-boss.

Otherwise all was lovely.  Wine made my head fuzzy and I chatted a little more than usual, explained the new job a bit more and shook some hands.  Then we retreated for the afternoon and I chowed down on leftover tortilla crisps as I continued the never-ending tasks that I was about to finish.

I sent an e-mail instead- rushed because I remembered with only minutes to spare.  Apologised for my computer vampire tendencies and thanked for all of the help given.  And I said my final goodbyes (gained some hugs- only two, though: I had been hoping for more) and accepted the final lift home.

*

Getting up that early every day is horrible and strange but surprisingly easy.  Sleepy movement gets my body standing, dressed, refreshed and walking through the freezing house with lips chapped, cracked and cut into the blistering cold for the bus stop.  Paranoia tells me it won't come, leaving me relieved when it appears around the corner.

John drives us to the capital, from Willington Street to Tooley Street for me, as I try (and ultimately fail) to reach the state of real sleep while simultaneously trying to ignore my natural curiosity to see where we are and what is out there.

The walk at the other end is nice.  A chance to wake up properly, get the blood pumping through me again.  It takes me past the Wetherspoons at Elephant and Castle we went to once- makes me think of that night every day.

The job itself is great.  Everyone’s very nice, although I'm too shy to talk much.  You can tell the building was once an institution, all two-tone painted corridors, a bit like school, really, but with old film cameras in showcases.

I sit listening to old men talk all day- what could be more fun?  They mostly make me feel more and more glad we haven't had to go and fight a war.  And I swear I'm gonna pick up a Geordie accent from them before long.

All that's left to do is to explore the area until I find a record shop closer then Waterloo Station.

250 Words: Episodes in the life of Edwinski (1)

Edwinski was bored.  He’d been sitting in the café for sixty-five minutes and was on his umpteenth black coffee.  He had pretended to read large chunks of his newspaper while using the crossword and its notepad to good effect.  The woman he’d been trailing for weeks did nothing but talk.  About all the wrong things.  And incessantly, wherever she went.  If not here, then in bars, restaurants or parties in hotels.  

It wasn't like the old days.  Edwinski never got into fist fights or shot his pistol anymore.  He didn't even take the gun out with him- just locked it in the hotel room safe or in his hire car's glove compartment.

And this private eye bullshit was beneath him.  The star of the old force reduced to following people like a snake.  He wasn't allowed to touch or talk to this woman, even if he wanted to, even if it would get results.  That's what really needled away at him.  That was how he worked his magic: meeting in crowded places and stealing them away, peeling off their cocktail dresses, kissing and caressing the newly naked flesh as he went and getting them to purr out the information needed.

Not anymore.  Just sitting and eavesdropping.  Sex had become meaningless- a way to briefly raise the tempo of his repetitive life.

"Crud," he muttered realising she had left.  He'd be in the shit for this.  Annoyed, he got up and left to try and see if the situation was salvageable.

250 Words: Crush on a colleague

Please don't touch me lightly on the shoulder or wheel into my office on your chair and fix me with an intent stare as you squeeze me for the details of the news you’ve heard I have.

Because all it does is encourage me, stupid as it may sound and as retarded as it is: without knowing it, you are sowing seeds that could result in red tulips and ugliness.

Please don't ask me how I am when my eyes are looking weary, don't say nice things about me or brew tea and make me take extra biscuits.  Please don't treat me so kindly and so generously.  

Because I'll have us married in my head.  I'll dream of holding your hand and I'll want to give you red carnations knowing I'll receive only striped ones in return.

Please don't wear short-cut or figure hugging clothes; boots with skirts and shirts.  Don't bend over in any way in my presence.  Don't laugh at what I say and please don't smell quite so dreamy.  

Because it will only make me want to disrespect you and I don't want to think of you in that way.  Trying not to while wanting is near impossible.  

And you are older and married.  Untouchable and unknowable.  Nothing can happen.

Therefore please pay me no mind, keep a more definite barrier between you and I.  And, Lord forbid, please do not push me off a wall.  I cannot fall like that again - I don't have the strength.

250 Words: Chain of vengeance

Like the gathering of allies before the trenches or the throwing of deadly stones back and forth across walls, a chain of vengeance is formed.  For every throat whose hand slits another, a hand will come to slit in revenge.  Throat for throat builds link on link until one of two things occur to join the ends together.

Either the throat becomes too large because it is the throat of many and, like a tree, the knife will only draw sap and the wound will heal- this throat's roots quickly enveloping any and all threats, linking the chain forever.  

Or one man will arrive to smite all the remaining links.  A darkened hero who will almost certainly act alone.

In life, the former will invariably occur; in fiction, the latter.

Otherwise new links are forged and man after man will fall into the earth and the chain will forever continue to grow.

Thinking about this, John waits in the shadows, a knife in his pocket, his fingers about the hilt.  He knows he must play, that the knife must be used for its darkest purpose.

He wonders if he can end the chain here somehow.  If it weren’t for the repercussion… then what?  John knows such thought is futile, any hope dumb.  He is already a link in this chain, hence his position in the alleyway, part of a larger throat he hopes is large enough to survive and protect as he rises into the light, sending the knife home.

250 Words: Empire

She wades thigh deep in blood, sending thick but graceful waves ahead of her into the dark.  A constant drip from the cavern’s roof reminds her of all she has encouraged men to do.  Forever the blood falls and splatters - once every other second, for centuries at a time: enough to make a mere mortal go insane.  Such a sound to her, though, is music.  It keeps her alive in hope and in nourishment.  Cupping her hands, she drinks ravenously from time to time.  That is, when she stops fantasising about the next surge forward or rebellion crushed resulting in mutineers on the gallows.

At times it pours down.  When it does, she occasionally wonders if it will ever drown her.  But she knows it will not.  That, even when the blood does run dry, it will at some point pour once more.  Because men lust after the things she needs, she will always receive them sooner or later.  Her invisible, intangible, un-knowable web is spun close to the most foolish flies who happily wrap themselves up in it, knowing not what they do.

A sudden gush and she can hear the battle’s roar.  She lets loose a cry, thirsting for more soil to loom over, casting her shadow over the people for as long as it lasts.  The flag is raised and, in ecstasy, she falls backwards, submerging herself in the new effort to make her glorious.  And she floats happy, smug and quite bloated for some time.

The Vales Family Rite of Passage

Abraham Vales and his son, Roland, pulled up outside an old shop in a part of the city that had once seen prosperity but was now slowly decaying. The shop itself looked well over a hundred years old to Roland, maybe two hundred. Its front featured a bay window jutting into the street. Each of its three panes were made of a grid of small windows containing ribbed circles like bottle bottoms. The inside was so dusty passers-by couldn’t see inside the shop or the dead flies piled up on the otherwise empty windowsill.

Within the car, Abraham turned to his son and gave the explanation that had been handed down through the generations ever since his great-great-grandfather had walked into the shop and struck a deal: the reason why each visitor had subsequently been able to build up their own separate, successful life. A secret that lay inside the shop and in discussion with its keeper.

The pair exited the parked car and, as Roland straightened and regained feeling in his legs, he looked up at the old wooden shop sign. Its paint had faded considerably and was peeling at the edge of the planks it was made from but it still clearly read, “Oracles, Inc.”

They crossed the street together before Abraham took the lead and halted briefly saying, "It's old and creepy, son, but there's no need to be scared," before pushing the door open and leading his son inside just as his father had once done for him.

Inside the shop was a little less run down than it had appeared from outside- partly because the dirty windowsill was obscured from view by a shelving unit. It was still a going concern, in fact, and looked a bit like what you might expect from a shop called Oracles, Inc.: Roland saw crystal balls on sale, astrological charts, Tarot cards, even a cauldron.

One side of the shop was lined with books, which Roland gravitated toward while his father approached the counter and rang a bell. But before he had scanned even a few spines a man who seemed to be even older and more worn than a shop front entered the shop.

In he crept aided by a stick, his head down in concentration as he walked forward. When he reached it, his hands moved to steady himself at the counter and he lifted his face to view the man who had rung him. He smiled in recognition of Roland's father and said in an old, but not tired, voice, "Ah, I had a feeling I was to be expecting you today."

"You remembered! It seems like only yesterday that I was in here and you gave me your gift, Mr Hartnell." said Abraham.

"You say it as a nicety and nothing else. So much has happened since then. Surely it cannot feel like only yesterday," the shopkeeper replied. Roland was sure he saw a twinkle of menace in the old man's eye and a shiver ran quickly down his spine.

"Maybe so, either way I have brought my son, Roland, here as you said I would, slightly earlier than is tradition."

The old man turned his head to take Roland in for the first time. "And so I see," he said, "He looks just like he did in the vision. Young and cocky. But lost on his path. Come to see old Hartnell about the future. To carry on tradition and also to learn so as to plan."

He smiled, insincerely Roland thought, and again he felt unsure about this. But then he remembered his dead-end situation, his newly pregnant fiancée, Cassie, what could be revealed and saw the dread as nerves only.

"Now," the old man started again, "Follow me and your future I shall reveal." He turned and went through to the back of the shop.

Roland paused for a second and looked up to see his father urging him on. And he followed the old man, leaving his father in the shop that was now a waiting room.

Once in the passage, he spotted the old man's withered and bent frame had shuffled past a staircase and was walking along a short corridor with two doors coming off it and one at the end. He had stopped to wait for Roland, who was now approaching.

"Don't worry, your father will be quite safe."

"Aah, good," thought Roland, "A little reassurance. He can't be all bad."

The old man turned and headed for the door at the end of the corridor; Roland followed him through.

***

The room was quite small and almost entirely empty. In the far corner was a chaise-longue onto which the old man was installing himself and a chair next to it that would allow the occupant to look down into the man’s face.

Roland walked quickly across the room, a little excited now the reading, or whatever it was, was about to occur. But only a little. Most things made him nervous and this was no exception.

As Roland sat down, the old man looked seriously into his face and asked if Roland was ready to see what was ahead of him. "Yes," he said quickly. And then, "I think so, anyway. I mean. I need all the help I can get. I’ve no idea what to do with myself or how to do anything, so any help, really... is... a, er, good thing."

"Yes, well," the old man began, slightly dismissively, like older people do sometimes when talking to those younger than themselves. "I can certainly help you out.

“What I do is offer a viewing of what is to come. I have no control over what you see. I simply look into your soul and whatever comes, comes. It might be something like this week's lottery results. Or it might be business plans to help you now or in the future. Or a woman and a place, the words you will need.

"I shall relax here and allow the power to work through me. All you need do is lean forward and look into my eyes. Some disturbing things will occur but ignore those. You'll soon forget it anyhow once the picture show begins."

Nothing more was said. Roland simply nodded, a look of pure seriousness on his face as he began to enter a period of intense concentration. He clasped his hands together, leaned forward and looked into the mysterious old man's eyes. They were a deep, dark blue in colour with little flecks of white like stars showing through. After a second it seemed like the stars were moving. Roland blinked deliberately but it made no difference. They were definitely moving: getting faster and faster before blurring together to become circles of white destroying the night sky of the old man's eyes. These stars then took on a more silvery appearance before spreading out beyond the irises and across then out of the eyes turning the old man's face into a three-dimensional mirror reflecting Roland's face in a wonky, abstract way. Once this process was complete, a new one started. The mirror seemed to melt and collapse, turning Hartnell's face into one flat piece of mirror, correcting Roland’s reflected image.

After about thirty seconds the reflection of Roland's face faded away and was replaced with a view of the two of them in that room. The picture show was beginning.

***

The picture of the room soon began to speed up, blurring the scene a little as it began to move forward. At first Roland could not quite make out what was going on, but quickly he got used to watching in fast forward and saw himself leaving the shop with his father before doing many things: boring, everyday things in fast forward. This shocked him a little. He had expected to see only the important scenes, like with Scrooge. It was a small point he was willing to overlook, though, when suddenly he found it slowed down for bits he would find more interesting and he was at the bank showing plans for a business, and shaking the bank manager's hands, then preparing and using the loan to start up that business: a music shop and second hand bookshop all in one with a small café where musicians and comedians could perform. During all this Roland found he could slow the pictures down or speed them up, rewind and replay with a single thought allowing him to take in the important details, and then he was planning the wedding: the church, the reception, the stag night in London drinking the night away with all his friends and everything became fuzzy for a bit, then his wedding nervous at the front, scared shitless and worried, until finally the music began, he looked back and Cassie coming up the aisle took his breath away, the reception and speeches, and on it rocketed: the honeymoon and work, more and more mundane bits and pieces, only the periods he spent asleep were left out, but he was now hooked, waiting for the important parts and slowing it all down to see the first child, the way it looked, the feelings of pride, a supremely worn out and beautiful Cassie holding the little girl they had created and onwards: more children and holidays, his hair receding and turning grey, the kids leaving school and home, his father dying, the funeral, bringing his sons to see Hartnell, the waits in the shop, grandchildren and, eventually, becoming a geriatric, Cassie slipping away, the sadness and the grief followed by his own demise: the mind going and illness setting in until the day to go came, his family all around him, and a feeling, a strange feeling, a wonderful feeling within the ageing Roland- a feeling of freedom and life through death.

The young Roland was confused and concerned about this. He had been half aiming to pull out after his death to see what happened and to clear up the mystery. (Even if it was to see his body rot, he could pull out before he saw too much. Ultimately he was expecting the show to end with his death anyway). But this feeling was throwing him off. It was odd and unexpected; like Roland had been unhappy with the wonderful life he had just been shown. Confused and concerned, deciding he had seen enough and that he may as well leave that mystery open, Roland pulled his upper body back and closed his eyes.

The show was over.

***

When Roland opened his eyes again he felt like he had never pulled back, like he was sitting alone in the back corner of a cinema watching what his eyes saw enlarged and on a screen twenty metres ahead of him. And on the screen he saw Hartnell wearing the most evil grin he had ever seen.

***

Meanwhile, Roland's father sat curled into a ball in the penthouse that was his mind, hoping his son would realise the implications and pull out before going too far.

***

Finally the day arrived. That final day when Roland would regain control and he was the most excited he had ever been. The bars surrounding him were rusting quickly, would soon be weak enough to break through. The final scenes he had viewed in Hartnell's shop were played out and Roland leapt to the surface from the hole he had lived in for nigh on seventy years.

He achingly flexed each part that still could as he assumed control. And he smiled. Spent the last minutes of his life smiling incessantly as he waited for death to arrive and become the first fresh breath of uncertainty he had had since walking into the trap of the known-future.