Christmas with the Cubes

I received a pack of Rory's Story Cubes as a Christmas present from my son. A set of nine six-sided dice, each face inscribed with a different image. Examples include: a question mark, a book, a shooting star, a hand, an eight-pointed star. The dice themselves are quite heavy and of beautiful quality (I play a lot of wargames and have an extensive collection of dice, not many of which match the story cubes for sheer quality).

On reading the "rules", it seems the game can be played in at least two ways. Firstly, roll three dice and use the pictures to describe a character. Secondly, roll all nine dice to tell a story. Here are some examples, generated after a particularly delicious (and huge) Christmas meal ...

1) Character

Three Dice: Question Mark, Book, D6
Character: An RPG PC. He doesn't know who he is, so rolls a D6 and consults a rule book.

2) Character

Three Dice: 8-point star, walking stick, house
Character: An old man, hobbling with a walking stick. He is heading home but gets lost. No matter which way he turns, he can't find his way home.

3) Character

Three Dice: Dragon, Apple, Wand
Character: A wizard who tricks a dragon with a golden apple, with the aim of retrieving a wand from the dragon's treasure pile.

4) An Event

Three Dice: Abacus, Lightning Bolt, The World

Event: A calculation goes wrong which causes massive storms and the world is thrown into post-apocalyptic nightmares.

5) A Story

Nine Dice: Sheep, Walking Stick, Pyramid, Sleep, Hand, World, Fish, Shooting Star, Book

Story Seed: It's night time and the world is asleep. A shooting star streaks across the sky and hits the ground, breaking the entrance into a pyramid. An old shepherd, who has had fish for supper, rounds up his flock with his crook and moves them to safety. Deep in the bowels of the pyramid, a book whose cover is stamped with a red hand, begins to glow.

6) A Story

Nine Dice: Apple, Moon, D6, Worried Face, Mobile Phone, Speech Bubble, Eye, L Plate, Keyhole

Story Seed: It's night time and a crescent moon rides low in the sky. An apprentice peeps through the keyhole. His mentor is speaking in some strange language into an even stranger device (Apple iPhone :-) ). When the mentor listens to the device, he has a worried expression on his face. There's a chance things will go badly wrong after this conversation. 

I think the cubes would make an excellent party game. I might bring them down to the next Fiction Fix. They certainly get the ideas flowing, even if it can be a bit of a stretch to include all the dice (the shepherd's fish supper, for instance).

Just One Second

An Observation

I've spent a lot of time over the years waiting for trains. Occasionally, when I glance at a station clock, the first second of that glance seems to take ages. When the clock ticks to the next second, time seems to catch up with itself and the seconds tick by normally.

Maybe this is just me being cynical - after all, the train companies are known for delays! - but it got me thinking. What might happen in that long second? So here's an idea with a slight Christmas feel ...

Search for "The Physics of Santa Claus" for some interesting information.

===

A corporate board room ...

The representatives of the top five toy, game and leisure companies gathered around a long, glossily polished conference table. These were powerful individuals, who controlled the hopes and dreams of every child on the planet. They did not like to be kept waiting and Mr Smith had kept them waiting for over half an hour.

"This is ridiculous," growled the chairman of Mattel, Inc. He made to leave but, at that very second, the double doors at the far end of the boardroom opened.

Standing there was a small, young-looking man, wearing a dark green suit, red shirt and green tie. His blond hair was cut short and his ears were quite definitely pointed. Smith smiled politely. "Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise for keeping you waiting. It's the Devil's own business getting the sleigh parked around here!"

Smith waited for the laughs but they didn't come. Oh well. To business, he thought.

"As you are all aware, we are in the run-up to the most joyous time of year. Children the world over are being as good as they possibly can be, writing their lists and posting them to the North Pole. Some even write several lists - I know because my team double checks each one - to try and sneak extra presents past their parents. These children, of course, end up on the Naughty List." Again, no laughs from the assembled CEOs. Damn they're a tough audience, Smith thought.

"Naughty or Nice doesn't really matter at this time. We all know our good and bad points. What we're here to talk about," the elf went on, "is delivery."

"Hogwash," blurted Mattel. "We all know it's the parents who do all the buying, wrapping and delivery. Your boss is merely a front-man. A figurehead. Has been for over 2000 years. We rule Christmas." He looked around the table for support and saw nods from Hasbro, Parker Brothers and even Sony.

"Not for much longer. You see, Mr Claus has decided to re-assert his authority and legal rights on the issue. This," Smith produced a roll of parchment from thin air, "is the original agreement." He unrolled the scroll and slid it onto the conference table. "As you can see, it was signed in Bethlehem by the Three Wise Men - the original gift bringers - and Mr Claus. He has inalienable rights to the delivery process."

Sony spoke up next. "That document is out-of-date rubbish. Our legal teams will tear it to shreds and Mr Claus won't have a leg to stand on."

Smith ignored the outburst. He had expected this from the company whose last original idea had been over ten years ago. He continued smoothly, gazing at the placid, and rather attractive, face of the Parker Brothers representative. She looked almost as perfect as one of their products. "Delivery is rather a two way process, don't you think? Goods get sent from one place and arrive at their destination. Of course, there are some time delays between despatch and receipt, but they are built in to the process. Have been for millennia."

"It doesn't take magic to move all that product," Mattel sneered. "It takes bloody hard work and a logistics chain that spans the world. One fat guy in a sleigh can't compete with our resources."

"Oh, but magic can compete," Smith replied. "Compete and grind your logistics and supply chains into the slush."

"We've all seen the physics, Mr Smith." When Parker Brothers spoke, her voice was almost musical, as perfect as the voice recordings her products used. "The speed required to deliver all in one night is impossible to achieve. The friction alone would be enough to turn the reindeer into Blitzen-burgers," the other directors sniggered at that.

Smith fumed inwardly. How could she raise a laugh when his best lines had failed miserably? He rallied well, however. "You haven't seen all the physics, Ms Parker. In fact, there exists a branch of physics even Professor Hawking would have difficulty understanding."

"Here we go," muttered Mattel, "bluff and swagger will not get us to surrender our market dominance."

The boardroom clocks, which showed the time in seven different cities world wide, clicked to thirty-six seconds. 

Smith examined his fingernails for a moment. "Have you ever noticed," he said to no-one in particular, "how when you glance at a clock, that first second seems to take longer than the rest? How that second seems to stretch before the rest of time runs to catch up? No?" He looked up at the assembled directors who stared blankly back. "Imagine, if you can, how much could be accomplished in Just One Second."

The boardroom clocks clicked to thirty-seven seconds.  As the clocks ticked to thirty-eight seconds, every mobile phone in the room started ringing. Warehouses in seven different timezones had been emptied in a split second.

"Delivery, as I said, is a two way process. Goods are received at their destinations but their sources are left empty. All in Just One Second."

Julia

A light-hearted piece, again written for the Get Writing course at City College Peterborough. It was written to answer three questions: Whose house is Julia leaving?; Why was she there?; Where is she going now?

==

It had, as usual, been a very relaxing day. Julia was one of those 'ladies who lunch' and her needs were taken care of very nicely, thank you very much, by a staff of three.

Julia left her house as darkness was falling. She had spent ages getting ready and now felt she looked perfect. Her outfit was immaculate; her nails clean and delicately pointed; her teeth pearly white when she smiled. Not a hair out of place, she thought, contentedly.

The night was cold but not viciously so. Julia settled her coat more comfortably around her shoulders. She ignored the car in the driveway and set out on the short walk to her favourite restaurant. Streetlights and headlights glistened from the wet roads. Traffic rumbled by, sending up walls of water from roadside puddles.

Her restaurant, she always thought of places as 'hers', was quiet at this time of night. Julia was the sort who was used to getting what she wanted. Sometimes she had to be very forceful, even loud; these times did not suit her temperament - ladies should not have to raise their voices. Other times required infinite patience, an approach she much preferred. She wondered which of these qualities would be needed tonight.

She sat at her favourite table in a quiet, almost secluded, spot near the back of the restaurant. From here she could see all manner of people passing by. It was interesting to be so anonymous, she reflected, almost ignored by the hoi-polloi. Yes, there were whispers and murmurs around her, some of which were almost certainly about her, but Julia rose above such gossip and calmly regarded the other patrons with her usual disdain.

Service tonight was excellent. Her meal came along quickly and was served with a rich claret. Delicious! Julia was not the sort to bolt her food and she savoured every bite. Neither was she a glutton and she knew when to stop to preserve her svelte figure. It would be a waste, however, to let such a fine meal go unappreciated. Julia collected the leftovers. Perhaps the staff's dog would like a bite? she thought.

Carrying her 'doggy snack', Julia set off for home. She walked back by the same route she had taken on the way to the restaurant. Familiarity was important to Julia as it gave her the sense that she was the 'lady of all she surveyed'.

She let herself into the house and deposited the 'doggy snack' on the kitchen table. Then she went through the usual routine of the staff going absolutely berserk. She watched as they ran around the kitchen, fetching cloths, rubber gloves and cleaning sprays. The shorter staff member was in the corner, alternately giggling and suppressing the urge to vomit.

She sat impassively and weathered the tirade. This was such a matter of routine for her now that Julia did little more than blink at her outraged employees. Her patience, normally her greatest virtue, was wearing thin. Without a word, she rose and left the kitchen, the sounds of scrubbing, wiping and cleaning receding behind her. Some people could be so ungrateful, she thought.

It's not as if I've done anything wrong! she railed inwardly. Years ago, they would have been grateful for what I've brought back. People could be so fickle!

It was in her nature to do what she did and Julia revelled in that nature. If her staff couldn't handle her leaving dead bodies in the kitchen, maybe it was time for her to find new staff.

She purred happily and flicked her tail, then sauntered into her living room.

==

A fun little piece that kept some readers guessing until the last couple of paragraphs. If you'd like to read more of my work, please visit my website at colinabrett.me.uk . Thanks for reading!

Colin

Secrets

Another new piece of creative writing, this time with the theme of Secrets. It was written for the Get Writing course at City College Peterborough.

==

SECRETS

Colin Brett, November 2017

Part One: 2008

John Armstrong leaned back from his desk and blew out such a huge sigh that it ruffled some of the many papers in front of him. He had prepared all term. He wasn't a straight-A student but he had completed all the course work on time, received decent marks and had done reasonably well in the mock tests.

Now, with less than a week to go to the exams, his mind was a complete blank. Nothing he had learned that term had sunk in. Never mind trivial details, the broad-brush subject matter still eluded him.

The only way John could pass the exams was by cheating ... He needed an 'edge'.

John closed his A4 ring-binders and saved the work on his laptop. He checked his email. Nothing of great importance had arrived in the ten minutes or so since he had last checked. Email could be such a pain in the arse, he thought, as he closed the email and logged into his Pinterest, Instagram, Twitter and Facebook accounts. John wasted another hour, watching funny cat videos and checking what his Facebook 'friends' were up to. Not that they were all friends, as such; most were just people he had met while out on the town, in the Students Union bar or at the squash club. A couple were 'flings', one night stands with girls who swore they'd stay in touch but never did.

One contact jumped out at him: Adam Harris. Who the hell was he? John clicked to Harris's bio. A student at the other college in town, by the looks of him, but John could find little else on him. He did notice Harris was online right now, so, on impulse, John sent him a message: 'fancy a pint?'

==

The bar was full of the after work crowd. Busy enough and noisy enough that John and Adam could have a few drinks and a chat without being overheard.

Three pints in and John asked, "Where do I get these smart drugs? You know, the ones that increase brain speed and recollection."

"You know they're illegal," Adam replied.

"Legal, shmegal," retorted John. "I need them. Otherwise I've got no chance of passing these exams."

"Well," Adam replied slowly, "I do know where you can get some but I wouldn't recommend it."

"Why not?"

"The side effects can be catastrophic: memory loss, migraine, even neural degeneration."

"What? You mean like Alzheimer's?"

Harris took a long pull at his pint before nodding.

"And what are the chances of these side effects?" John wanted to know.

"About one in five," Harris replied. "That's why they're illegal. You'd be better off on Red Bull to give
you the buzz you're looking for."

"Red Bull is for pussies," John remarked. "I had Jolt Cola in the States a few years back. That did the trick but made me run for a piss every ten minutes."

They laughed about that.

John went to grab a couple of more pints. When he returned, Adam was scribbling something onto a sticky note.

Adam handed the small, pale yellow scrap of paper to John. "If you're serious about this, give this guy a bell." Adam drained the last of his pint before starting on the new one John had just brought. "Or drop him an email. He's flexible like that," he added with a shrug.

John looked at the sticky note. A mobile number and an email address for d.ablo at hotmail.com. John pocketed the note, then settled down to do some serious drinking.

==

A hungover John Armstrong walked slowly across the campus of that other college. It had been a heavy night and he'd made the call as he crashed back in his room around two a.m. Now it was mid-afternoon and he still felt fragile. Despite being a student himself, John felt uncomfortably out of place amongst these other students, many of whom were wearing scarves and hoodies in the rival college's colours. It was like being in enemy territory. Indeed, the rugby teams were known to hate each others' guts.

The meeting had been arranged in the college's admin building. He blearily looked at the directions he'd scrawled on the sticky note. Admin building, yep; through Reception and turn left, yep; to the end of the corridor, yep. Door. That wasn't in the directions he'd taken. If it was locked, or God forbid, alarmed, his little excursion would be over and he would be in a world of trouble.

John looked about. He felt like a lemon standing there by himself. Swallowing in a suddenly dry throat, John pushed open the door and waited for the alarms to start screaming.

Blissful silence. John recovered from the feeling of relief, which splashed over him like a bathtub full of water, and walked through the door. Ah, he recalled from his directions; stairs, down two flights. He walked down the two levels of concrete stairs, his footsteps echoing around the stairwell. Forty-Watt bulbs, and green Exit signs indicating that the way out was back up the way he had come, provided sporadic light as he descended.

A stain on the wall, suggestive of a leering imp, marked the dealer's 'office'. It was really just an understairs cubby hole. Cloaked in shadow the dealer said, "You want some of these brain drugs, yes?"

"I need them," John said. He fumbled nervously and came up with a roll of tenners.

"I don't need money," said the dealer. "I need something much more personal." John had a creepy feeling the dealer was going to make a pass at him but with a flourish, the dealer produced a contract. "Sign here. Exam success for your eternal soul!"

John backed off a couple of steps and the dealer followed. The man unfolded himself from the cramped confines of the cubby hole. Under slightly brighter light, John was looking at a smartly dressed man of indeterminate age, maybe thirties, maybe fifties. He had short, dark hair and pencil moustache.

"Well, John Armstrong, will you sign?" His voice was silky smooth. The man flourished the contract. About A4 sized, it was covered in thin, spidery writing. "Imagine the wealth that could be yours! All for the price of your soul," the man's voice turned icy, "which, looking at you, isn't exactly a king's ransom."

John felt vaguely insulted. Surely his soul - if he had one, John didn't really believe in that sort of stuff - would be worth more than the hundred quid in tenners he was rapidly stuffing back into his pocket. But then, of course, he would be getting a bargain. Assuming he didn't have a soul, then he'd be getting the smart drugs for free, and this 'dealer' could go back to hiding under the stairs. Gingerly, John reached for the contract and began fumbling for a pen.

"Here, use this," said the man, proffering a black fountain pen.

John took a closer look at the contract. It certainly wasn't written on paper. It was soft to the touch and slightly textured, flexible and strong; at least it wasn't easy to tear. The writing was in no alphabet nor language John had ever seen. "What is all this?" he asked.

"Oh, just standard legal boiler-plate stuff," replied the dealer. "You know the sort of bumf that you'd see when buying a fridge or washing machine." There were several clauses that would not be included when buying white goods but the dealer glossed over them. He waved the fountain pen under John's nose.

With little to lose and an awful lot to gain, John signed the contract.

The dealer handed John a bottle made of dark brown glass which was stoppered with a cork, rather than with one of those annoying 'press down and twist' caps. John held the bottle up to the rather dim light and could just make out that the pills, maybe nine or ten of them, had a greenish tinge and were marked with what looked like a skull symbol.

The dealer grabbed his hand and forced it down. "Don't flash them about," he hissed. "If anyone finds them, you'll get in serious trouble."

John shoved the bottle into his jacket pocket and moved towards the stairs.

"Good luck," said the dealer as he retreated into the shadows.

John hiked back up the stairs. About mid-way, John realised that the dealer had known his name even before he'd signed the contract. He had never mentioned his name when the meeting was arranged. Adam Harris might have told the dealer but Adam had seemed discrete and, even with a few drinks inside him, had still tried to dissuade John from meeting the dealer. Had someone overheard them in the bar?

John needed to know. He almost ran back down the stairs to find the dealer. The area was deserted but there was a strong smell of rotten eggs under the stairs. John switched on the LED flashlight he had attached to his keyring. Nothing. Even the imp-stain on the wall had been replaced with a phallus, grafitti-ed in black spray paint.

He wondered if he had imagined the whole thing. There might have been something in his drink that was still affecting him. The bottle of pills, however, was in his pocket, as was his cash. It would be his little secret.

Shaking his head, a bewildered John Armstrong climbed back up the stairs and into a future even his most fevered imaginings couldn't conceive.

===

Part two of this story is set in 2017 and, if you're interested in what happens to John Armstrong, drop me a line: colinabrett AT gmail.com .

Thanks for reading.

Who's There

ACTIVE WELLNESS CREATIVE WRITING ASSIGNMENT 17.7.17

A piece of writing with the theme "Who's there?"

IS THERE ANYBODY THERE?

Madame Zara sat in front of the mirror and peeled off her costume.

First came the soot-black wig, complete with greying strands and scarlet head scarf. This she neatly set onto a polystyrene head, then turned her attention to her eyelashes, which she peeled off with tweezers and dropped in a wicker-work waste bin. The discarded lashes looked like startled spiders in the basket. Zara next reached for a deep pore cleanser and carefully removed the rest of her make up, the rouge, the lipstick and the heavy mascara. Finally, she popped the dark brown contact lenses from her eyes and placed them in saline solution.

Julie Jones, aka Madame Zara, Spiritualist Extraordinaire, brushed out her naturally mousey hair and regarded her reflection with calm blue eyes. Cleansed of her make up, she looked, indeed was, twenty years younger than Madame Zara. Julie was glad to be rid of the old witch for another week. Down to business, she thought.

Over a glass of chilled white wine, Julie sorted the paperwork from her last session. Four of her guests had paid cash - some of which she had earmarked for a new pair of shoes - and two by cheque, made out to Madame Zara Ltd. As an added bonus, all of her guests had left happy that evening, one had even suggested bringing a friend to the next gathering. She was used to getting a few disgruntled comments, usually over missing details from a relative's past. Her excuse was often that the spirit had had such a blissful time in Heaven, and was so happy to be communicating with the guest, that such minor details were occasionally forgotten by the spirit.

For all that she was a fraud, however, Julie was at least a professional fraud. She took her diary and wrote notes about her guests that evening. Mrs Holroyd's dearly departed husband had written a letter to the widow which had never been found. Mr Collins' wife was sunning herself in Paradise's equivalent of Morecambe on Sea, which was where they had honeymooned fifty years ago. And poor Miss Esme (Julie had never learned her surname) desperately missed her old terrier. Julie noted all the quirks, foibles, characteristics and, most of all, the losses of all her guests, and their departed, so that their deep-seated needs would not be forgotten next time.

It was three AM by the time Julie had finished her notes - and the bottle of wine - before retiring to bed.

===

Julie stirred in bed and opened her eyes. Bloody neighbours' dog was intermittently barking hysterically and whining as if whipped. It was not the first time the dog had gone berserk at an ungodly hour. She really must have a word with the landlord about this. Burying her head between the pillows, Julie unsuccessfully tried to shut out the noise. She tossed and turned for thirty minutes before sighing heavily, her breath turning misty in front of her face, then swinging her feet out of bed to go to the loo. The floor was freezing under her bare feet. Goosebumps spread up her arms and icy fingers slid down her spine.

Wait a bloody minute, Julie thought as she recoiled from the cold floor. It's the middle of August!

A breeze circled her bedroom. She felt it caress her skin and saw a trail of purple sparkles trace their way across the walls. The curtains, heavy velvet and closed against the sodium streetlight outside her window, didn't budge an inch.

There was a small thump and a dimple appeared in her bedclothes. It was quite small, maybe the size of a football, or, perhaps, a small dog. The sound of rapid panting accompanied the dimple.

Julie felt her skin crawl and she back-pedalled up the bed, to sit against the headboard with her knees under her chin, her arms wrapped around her shins.

This can't be happening, she thought. It's a nightmare. I'm dreaming. With that, she pinched her left arm with her right hand. She cursed. The pain she felt was all too real.

"Is there anybody there?", Julie managed to say. She couldn't believe she had just said that! Her voice sounded pitifully small in the darkness of her bedroom.

Another dimple, this time the size of a plump bottom, appeared on her bed. There was a smell of perfume, not her own, in the air now.

"Surely you know who I am?" The voice, polite and well-spoken, sounded distant but startlingly clear. "You've been calling me for weeks."

"I'm dreaming, I'm dreaming," Julie muttered under her breath, "I'll wake up soon and all this will vanish."

"This is not a dream," said the voice. The temperature in Julie's bedroom dropped still further as a figure slowly resolved itself on the corner of the bed. The image, almost like an old black and white photo, was of a woman in her late fifties, with greying hair, wearing a dark dress and shoes. "You have been a very wicked girl," said the shade of Mrs Annette Collins.

Julie Jones fainted.

===

"I told you she wouldn't take it very well." A man's voice, this time.

"Better than I expected, George," replied Mrs Collins. "At least she didn't scream the place down." She looked over at her companion. George Holroyd wore the suit he'd been buried in, the silk tie still perfectly knotted and his shoes had almost a mirror shine.

"Do you think she'll be still, you know, all there when she wakes up? The other one went stark raving mad."

"I think we were a little forceful with him," Annette conceded. "The poltergeist act was one step too far. Poor chap couldn't take it."

"Why do you think she'll be any different?"

"This girl knows she's a fraud. It makes her mind-set different to our first chap who really believed he was a medium. When we proved him right, he snapped. She, however," Annette gestured towards Julie Jones, "has the sort of criminal mentality that makes her mind much tougher."

===

Julie had overheard much of this conversation. She had not woken up from her nightmare. It was all impossibly real. There were ghosts in her bedroom! How could this be? One thing irked her. "I am not a criminal," Julie croaked. Her mouth was dry and her stomach was turning flip-flops.

"Ah, she's awake," Annette said, with considerable pleasure. Then, more sternly, "You most certainly are a criminal, young lady. You have defrauded over a dozen people in the last year by praying on their grief, exploiting their loss and riding rough-shod over their emotions. It seems you have made a comfortable living out of their misery."

Julie sat up in bed, still with her knees under her chin. "I gave them what they needed most. A sense of closure after a horrible bereavement."

"Keep telling yourself that, girl," said George, acidly, "if it helps you sleep at night."

Julie wasn't sure if she would ever sleep at night again. She tried to justify what she had done. "Look, I have a mountain of student debt to pay off. My normal pay couldn't scratch the surface, so I had to improvise a bit." Three years studying Psychology hadn't made her eminently employable but it had given her the skills to read people, reach into their problems and help present a solution. It was just that some people needed solutions more radical than talking therapies. "I helped my guests ease their grief."

"You charged the earth for your services."

"Better that than their GP getting them hooked on Valium," Julie retorted. She was getting cross. "What do you want with me anyway? Are you going to haunt me until I go crazy?"

"The thought had crossed our minds," Annette replied, with a smile when she saw the girl's eyes widen in fear. "But no. We have a job for you."

===

It started small. At her next session, Madame Zara passed on messages directly from the spirits. Mrs Collins told her husband that Morecambe on Sea had been such a dump back in the Sixties, she was now happily living in Heaven's version of the Costa del Sol. Mr Holroyd's letter had fallen behind the mantlepiece; a little work with a knitting needle and pair of tweezers would allow her to recover the letter. And Buster, Miss Esme's darling terrier, was happily chasing rabbits and treeing cats through Doggy Heaven's equivalent of Epping Forest.

Thus was Madame Zara, the grasping, cantankerous old crone, reborn as Madame Zara, the caring, considerate, compassionate conduit to the afterworld. Julie herself continued working at a daycare centre for the elderly, while Madame Zara Ltd saw business booming and ninety percent of the fees were donated to reputable charities.

The visitations continued, with Annette and George bringing their own guests, and seances became something of a local attraction. Madame Zara made a few public appearances which allowed Julie to continue with her life unmolested by Press or paparazzi.

All in all, thought Julie one night as she finished her notes, doing public relations for the dead was quite a rewarding career.

It Hurts

ACTIVE WELLNESS CREATIVE WRITING ASSIGNMENT FOR CITY COLLEGE PETERBOROUGH 10.7.2017

A piece of writing that starts with "It hurts".

IT HURTS

"It hurts," Georgie Holland muttered into the Ladies' Room mirror, as she gently prodded the bruise on the left side of her neck, "worse than any love bite I've ever had." And, on reflection, she had had many love bites and not just on her neck. How many arguments had she had with her mother over the ugly purple bruises? How much make up would she need to conceal this mark, not just from her mother, but from her boyfriend, Matt?

She rummaged through her handbag until she found some talc and concealer. Georgie dusted the bite mark with talc, which almost matched her pale skin, and then applied layers of concealer. It didn't really work: the purple mark was still faintly visible. Matt might see it and her mother certainly would.

Georgie sighed heavily, brushed out her jet black hair and began to touch up her deep purple lipstick. It had been a tough day at college, two spot-tests and an ad-hoc presentation had been sprung on the class, which, coupled with her memories of two nights before, had made it hard for her to think straight. She could scarcely believe what had happened that night ...

===

She would have sworn on the Bible that she had not been drinking that night. Georgie hadn't touched a drop for over three months. It had been at a party, of sorts, an informal get-together for someone's birthday, someone Georgie didn't even know. One guy had tried to slip something into her glass of Coke. When Georgie spotted the clumsy attempt, she had hit the roof, her temper getting the better of her. The Coke ended up in the guy's pants, Georgie's language plummeted into the gutter and she balled her fist ready to punch his lights out.

"Don't," the voice, low but clear even over the noise of the party, smothered Georgie's temper like a blanket over flames. A small, cool hand wrapped itself around Georgie's fist. "He's not worth the effort." Georgie looked around to see the shorter girl who was holding her hand. As Georgie's temper drained away, the other girl turned to the guy on the sofa. From the soft, gentle voice of a few seconds before, the girl's voice turned to East End Cockney and grated, "You better fuck off out of here, right now. Pull any more of that shit and I swear I'll kill you."

The guy, with a startled look on his face, bolted for the door.

"Sorry about my language," the girl's voice had returned to its previous mellow tone. "Some people just bring out the worst in me," she finished, a little sadly.

"Th ... Thanks," Georgie stammered, looking down at the other girl, who was head-and-shoulders shorter than she. "I'm Georgie."

"Lacey," the other girl replied, as she released Georgie's still-clenched fist and made to shake hands.

Georgie took the outstretched hand. They stood in the centre of the room, the whirl and the crush of the party melting into the background around them as they shook hands. To Georgie, the moment stretched as her gaze was locked into Lacey's dark brown eyes.

"Let's get out of here, shall we?" Lacey suggested.

The next thing Georgie recalled with any clarity was waking up in her own bed with watery Autumn sunlight leaking through a gap in the curtains. Fragments of memory floated at random through her mind: Lacey's small, cool hand locked in hers as they walked through the streets of Oxford; giggling like naughty schoolgirls; dancing under the heat of a club's spotlights, pushing away guys who attempted to join them; theatrically air-kissing their goodnights at a taxi rank; Lacey, forcing her against a wall and sinking needle-sharp fangs into the side of her neck; a rush of ecstasy; two days of feeling hungover.

===

Georgie dragged herself back to the present. Two days since she had met Lacey and she couldn't get the girl out of her mind.

Was she really just a "girl", though? Georgie wondered. Everything she could remember from that night, everything she had read in her occult-obsessed early teens, made her suspect one thing: Lacey was a vampire. But how in God's name could that be? The wildness of her early teens had caught up with her at last. Perhaps there had been something in her Coke after all? She might even have put it there herself: it wouldn't have been the first time.

"You're going mad, Georgie," she told her reflection. And perhaps I deserve it?

With that strangely comforting conclusion, Georgie swung her bag over her shoulder and strode out of the Ladies' Room.

"Hi, Georgie."

That calm, clear voice again! Georgie spun on her heel and looked straight into the deep brown eyes of Lacey. Her heart leapt!

Lacey linked her arm through Georgie's. "I've missed you, babe," she said.

Unable to control herself, Georgie replied with absolute certainty, "I've missed you, too."

Together, they walked out into the night.

Back to School!

Another catch-up.

I have recently enrolled on a creative writing course at the City College Peterborough. It only runs for five weeks but hopefully I'll be able to post what I write through this blog.

More updates as I get them.

Colin

Update

OK, so here I am after quite a hiatus. I'm going to try to get into writing here more regularly.

So, what have I been up to?

• I'm working with Aspire in Peterborough for various personal reasons. This has been on-going for some time and it's a long, slow road.
• On the technical side, I've learned a bit more Python, installed Kivy (a cross-platform graphical interface which can be used for Android apps) and been helping out with some Windows 10 user support.
• I am designing a campaign for Peterborough Wargames Club set in the borders between England and Scotland in the late 16th Century. This is likely to be up and running in early July.
• Oh, yes: and keeping an eye on the imminent release of Warhammer 40000, 8th Edition. I'm really looking forward to dusting off my 40K armies.

Signing off for now, as I've just realised how bad my typing has become over the last year!

Colin