Ten minutes late, the bus arrived.
As it pulled up, sweat beaded on his forehead, his back a river.
Holding the top of this rucksack, folded over in a tight grip, he paid his fare.
The only seat available to him was at the very rear of the bus in the centre aisle. Not ideal, but it was better than him standing. Keeping hold of the bag tightly, he rested it between his knees. If he had a window seat he might have been able to relax and put it on the floor. But today of all days, the zip broke. Unable to close it properly and no other bags at home to use, he had no choice but to hold it closed by hand.
Cramp started to creep into his fingers. He felt eyes looking at him. Burning into his soul. He didn't look at anyone just in case he panicked and ran.
For a chilly day, he was warm. Those beside him couldn't miss the damp sheen on his head. The river had now pooled down the back of his boxer shorts.
He counted the stops, seven to go. The bag’s contents felt heavy.
Could he do this? He knew he had to, but could he pull this off? He already found the perfect spot for the package yesterday. Yesterday was the dry run. Timing had to be perfect. Not too soon as to stand out, and not too late as to have dozens of people who could possibly identify him. The number of people around had to be just right as not to bring suspicion around him. Five more stops.
It was now or never. There was no going back. If people found out, they would never forgive him. Especially his sister.
Four.
The bus sped up. No more stopping for a couple of miles. Last bit of open road. The bus driver stepped on the accelerator.
The back river had turned cold, uncomfortably cold while his head melted. As the fresh sweat was wiped away with his coat sleeve, he didn't see the young male red deer jump the farmers fence onto the road. The bus driver did and slammed the brakes on, while she tried to safely manoeuvre.
Bert with no seat in front of him was hurled forward. His left arm smashed into the headrest two seats forward. His fingers lost control of their grip. The bag was thrown through the air, down the length of the bus before it landed with a thud.
The driver somehow managed to regain control without crashing and more surprisingly missed the red deer entirely.
Children and adults alike were petrified and in shock, some screaming. The driver left the cab and asked if anyone was hurt. But in her haste, she didn't spot the bag and tripped on it. Her full weight was behind her foot as she stumbled and turned into a kick, the contents of the bag released. Bert could only look in horror as he lay on the floor, and his mothers head rolled out staring at him in disgust.
Sunday, 24 February 2019
Saturday, 23 February 2019
Verbuary - Wine
Billy was a make do and mend type of guy. He learned the hard way. The steel industry and local mines were decimated by the Conservative party in the 80’s. That led to the closure of the towns and areas main employers. The knock on effect was brutal.
Families once carefree with cash suddenly found themselves at weekly jumble sales at the British Legion. Bidding on second-hand clothing to dress their families.
Billy's dad couldn't or wouldn't find a job. Options for him were slim pickings. Hundreds if not thousands scrambling for each position if it came up. He passed his time reading books from the library, often one per day.
As time went on, and the cruel days passed, discount shops popped up, including a homebrew shop. And so Billy's dad gave it a go. A large white plastic bucket, hydrometer, a tin of brown malty syrup with a sachet of yeast under its lid, and a bag of sugar. He was set.
Time progressed, and his dad became a dab hand at brewing and drinking. Two litres a day on average. It did the job but as he used the cheapest ingredients it tasted horrible.
Billy got older and found it wasn't just beer that could be brewed at home. His friend's mother started making wine. Country wine. Not a grape in sight. Autumn was her favourite time of the year for this. Blackberries, elderberries, crab apples. Anything fruit based was used.
The knock one effect of the closing of the steel company made the local rail tracks obsolete. It closed and they lay dormant for many years. With no trains to worry about. She would be out there as often as possible picking the free fruit before everyone else got to it. For pies, jams and wine.
This is where Billy got the bug. Country wine was beautiful. Fruity was what his taste buds craved. Not that awful beer his dad made. Mind you with a splash of lemonade on the top, it was almost palatable.
Armed with some demijohns, rubber bungs, and airlocks from the flea markets. Billy set away experimenting. Both he and his friend made it into a competition, to see who’s was nicer. Few pounds of fruit, water, orange peel, dried raisins or sultanas, sugar, topped off with high alcohol tolerant yeast, and he was off.
He quickly learned there was an abundance of fresh country ingredients to use all year around. Autumn led to Spring, with Mayblossom, dandelions, and elderflower. However while its drinkable immediately. It really needed to mature to taste better.
The science of winemaking enticed him to try and improve year on year. Different sugars, different yeast strains. Time was needed for chemical reactions within the bottled wine to create new aromas. The wine acids react with the prized alcohol to create esters. This gave wine its perfume. Young wines rich in polyphenols was the reason for the unpleasant dryness he once suffered in his mouth. During aging the tannins transformed, giving the wine a more delicate flavour. Something he preferred to the moisture removal of the unaged.
Space in the house was a problem, every cupboard was full of bottles. But the tastes were divine. To make more wine, he had to drink more for the valuable space.
20 years later Billy is a recovering alcoholic and now uses autumnal fruits to make non-alcoholic cordials. His next worry might be diabetes.
Families once carefree with cash suddenly found themselves at weekly jumble sales at the British Legion. Bidding on second-hand clothing to dress their families.
Billy's dad couldn't or wouldn't find a job. Options for him were slim pickings. Hundreds if not thousands scrambling for each position if it came up. He passed his time reading books from the library, often one per day.
As time went on, and the cruel days passed, discount shops popped up, including a homebrew shop. And so Billy's dad gave it a go. A large white plastic bucket, hydrometer, a tin of brown malty syrup with a sachet of yeast under its lid, and a bag of sugar. He was set.
Time progressed, and his dad became a dab hand at brewing and drinking. Two litres a day on average. It did the job but as he used the cheapest ingredients it tasted horrible.
Billy got older and found it wasn't just beer that could be brewed at home. His friend's mother started making wine. Country wine. Not a grape in sight. Autumn was her favourite time of the year for this. Blackberries, elderberries, crab apples. Anything fruit based was used.
The knock one effect of the closing of the steel company made the local rail tracks obsolete. It closed and they lay dormant for many years. With no trains to worry about. She would be out there as often as possible picking the free fruit before everyone else got to it. For pies, jams and wine.
This is where Billy got the bug. Country wine was beautiful. Fruity was what his taste buds craved. Not that awful beer his dad made. Mind you with a splash of lemonade on the top, it was almost palatable.
Armed with some demijohns, rubber bungs, and airlocks from the flea markets. Billy set away experimenting. Both he and his friend made it into a competition, to see who’s was nicer. Few pounds of fruit, water, orange peel, dried raisins or sultanas, sugar, topped off with high alcohol tolerant yeast, and he was off.
He quickly learned there was an abundance of fresh country ingredients to use all year around. Autumn led to Spring, with Mayblossom, dandelions, and elderflower. However while its drinkable immediately. It really needed to mature to taste better.
The science of winemaking enticed him to try and improve year on year. Different sugars, different yeast strains. Time was needed for chemical reactions within the bottled wine to create new aromas. The wine acids react with the prized alcohol to create esters. This gave wine its perfume. Young wines rich in polyphenols was the reason for the unpleasant dryness he once suffered in his mouth. During aging the tannins transformed, giving the wine a more delicate flavour. Something he preferred to the moisture removal of the unaged.
Space in the house was a problem, every cupboard was full of bottles. But the tastes were divine. To make more wine, he had to drink more for the valuable space.
20 years later Billy is a recovering alcoholic and now uses autumnal fruits to make non-alcoholic cordials. His next worry might be diabetes.
Monday, 11 February 2019
Verbuary - Jealousy
I'm out of sync with the daily challenge. I wrote this last week but just finished typing it up now. Anyway, here it is.
Marge and Jill had been friends since nursery. Neither of them moved away from the small village of Puddlestep, other than for the few years at University. Jill married a local blacksmith and had a daughter with him.
Eleven years ago, they decided over a couple bottles of Merlot to enter the local village flower competitions in the area. Both had always loved Gladioli and Dianthus, so decided to start off with them. To make it fun, they had a mini wager. Whoever placed higher overall in that year, got a spa day courtesy of the other.
For the first seven years, they placed relatively equal. Jill had three wins to Marge's four.
Then something happened. Jill won every competition around for four years. No one else could come close. Marge would joke around about voodoo and witchcraft, Jill would laugh along.
Jill’s husband Mick ran his blacksmith business and a few garden sidelines from a converted barn and garage on their property.
Marge was sure they had some trick they weren't sharing.
As Mick shod horses and handcrafted fittings for the locals and farms, he had plenty of access to as much horse, pig, sheep and chicken manure as the women could use. He kept the compost bins in both gardens full, turned and aerated. Was Marge doing something she wasn't telling Jill?
It was Jill's turn to host the weekly wine and Chinese night. Tuesdays have always been Mick’s night down the local with his mates, so Jill used the free time to her advantage.
“Come on Jill, what's the secret, enough is enough. I know you're doing something with the plants you aren't telling me.”
Looking at Marge, and in her best Russian accent, “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you Mr. Bond”
They both laughed.
“Ok, Ok. I’ll show you after we finish dinner. I suppose its gone on long enough, but I’m not refunding the Spa days. I did win fair and square”
Again they both laughed, even though Marge was suppressing her anger at being lied to.
As darkness fell over the quaint village, the two ladies walked down the garden to the converted barn. Inside, there was a series of connected metal tubs, plastic containers, pipes, a woodchipper and what looked like a moonshine still.
“Few years back, Mick was wood chipping Mrs. Mackay's old apple trees branches. He didn't notice her cat was asleep in the chipper before he switched it on. Two seconds later he heard and spotted the minced mess.”
“Oh my god, shes still got posters on the lampposts now, looking for it”
“Yeah I know, Mick feels guilty as hell every time he sees them. He cleaned up, but the blood was still visible on some soil and grass area, so instead of digging it up, he quickly spread some horse manure over it the bottom of the garden. She can’t walk anymore, so would never have noticed that bit covered.”
“Gross”
“Going back the following month, he spotted the blooded area grown nearly double to that of the area not splattered with blood. So he experimented without telling me. He managed to get hold of a dead sheep from one of the farms. Poor sod, had been attacked by stray dogs. Woodchipped it, mixed it with horse and cow shit. He fermented it in those metal vats. Somehow he distilled something from it with that gear there”, pointing to the copper pipes next to his forge, “It worked, so each year he made more of it for me”
“I want some, come on, don’t be greedy”
“Ok hang on will you,” walking behind her.
Marge was still staring at the equipment setup to notice the blade slice across her throat. Falling to her knees, Jill watched her friend bleed and die.
“I did say if I told you, I’d have to kill you. Can’t wait to see what you do the Gladioli this year”
Marge and Jill had been friends since nursery. Neither of them moved away from the small village of Puddlestep, other than for the few years at University. Jill married a local blacksmith and had a daughter with him.
Eleven years ago, they decided over a couple bottles of Merlot to enter the local village flower competitions in the area. Both had always loved Gladioli and Dianthus, so decided to start off with them. To make it fun, they had a mini wager. Whoever placed higher overall in that year, got a spa day courtesy of the other.
For the first seven years, they placed relatively equal. Jill had three wins to Marge's four.
Then something happened. Jill won every competition around for four years. No one else could come close. Marge would joke around about voodoo and witchcraft, Jill would laugh along.
Jill’s husband Mick ran his blacksmith business and a few garden sidelines from a converted barn and garage on their property.
Marge was sure they had some trick they weren't sharing.
As Mick shod horses and handcrafted fittings for the locals and farms, he had plenty of access to as much horse, pig, sheep and chicken manure as the women could use. He kept the compost bins in both gardens full, turned and aerated. Was Marge doing something she wasn't telling Jill?
It was Jill's turn to host the weekly wine and Chinese night. Tuesdays have always been Mick’s night down the local with his mates, so Jill used the free time to her advantage.
“Come on Jill, what's the secret, enough is enough. I know you're doing something with the plants you aren't telling me.”
Looking at Marge, and in her best Russian accent, “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you Mr. Bond”
They both laughed.
“Ok, Ok. I’ll show you after we finish dinner. I suppose its gone on long enough, but I’m not refunding the Spa days. I did win fair and square”
Again they both laughed, even though Marge was suppressing her anger at being lied to.
As darkness fell over the quaint village, the two ladies walked down the garden to the converted barn. Inside, there was a series of connected metal tubs, plastic containers, pipes, a woodchipper and what looked like a moonshine still.
“Few years back, Mick was wood chipping Mrs. Mackay's old apple trees branches. He didn't notice her cat was asleep in the chipper before he switched it on. Two seconds later he heard and spotted the minced mess.”
“Oh my god, shes still got posters on the lampposts now, looking for it”
“Yeah I know, Mick feels guilty as hell every time he sees them. He cleaned up, but the blood was still visible on some soil and grass area, so instead of digging it up, he quickly spread some horse manure over it the bottom of the garden. She can’t walk anymore, so would never have noticed that bit covered.”
“Gross”
“Going back the following month, he spotted the blooded area grown nearly double to that of the area not splattered with blood. So he experimented without telling me. He managed to get hold of a dead sheep from one of the farms. Poor sod, had been attacked by stray dogs. Woodchipped it, mixed it with horse and cow shit. He fermented it in those metal vats. Somehow he distilled something from it with that gear there”, pointing to the copper pipes next to his forge, “It worked, so each year he made more of it for me”
“I want some, come on, don’t be greedy”
“Ok hang on will you,” walking behind her.
Marge was still staring at the equipment setup to notice the blade slice across her throat. Falling to her knees, Jill watched her friend bleed and die.
“I did say if I told you, I’d have to kill you. Can’t wait to see what you do the Gladioli this year”
Tuesday, 5 February 2019
Verbuary - FOUNTAIN
The park fountain was huge. A marble Lion and Griffin facing each other since 1914. A memorial to the late Colonel Bruce's wife Emma.
Even though on his private land, the fountain has been open to the public to enjoy however they want. 24hrs a day
Over the decades, drunken revelers have danced and fornicated on many a summers night and New year's eve.
The family don't mind, especially Mark the current family member in charge.
Recent family fortunes have developed by always supplying what the local villagers need in their shops, pubs and restaurants.
Mark would often sit there from his conservatory staring down the 300m pathway, watching people enjoying themselves in the golden floodlights.
As the final party goer left tonight, he slipped on his boots, called the dogs and meandered down the tree lined passageway to the water feature.
He placed his hand to the left of the Lions back, he uttered an ancient phrase. A low deep noise vibrated through the stone, before the end of the tail rotated revealing three wooden levers.
In turn, right, left then centre he pulled them. A faint red light shone in the Griffin's eyes when all levers in their new position.
Walking around to the front of the fountain, he stands and stares at the Ruby eyes. Mumbling a second phrase in a language he doesn't understand. Kneeling down on the grass, he bends forward over the stone rim to submerge his head into the cold water.
Even though the October water is a shock to the system, he kept his head under for a ten count.
Colours, sounds and pictures flood his brain. Memories from the party he witnessed but never attended hit him hard. Laughter, crying, work, homelife, bereavement. Visions remembered but never lived.
The info dump was immensely painful. On the count of ten he yelled out under the water.
Tonight, he knew he was coming to the end of his cycle as the Guardian of The Fountain of Knowledge. At 55, it was time to pass the batton and secrets to one of his kids. But which one deserved it.
Who could be trusted? The fountain was built with a duel purpose. A memorial to his wife but one which could do good for the locals in her name.
The Colonel spent 18 months and a small fortune hunting down a guru who was renowned for magic incantations.
The fountain was hand carved by the guru and his tribe. The colonel was trained in the function of the mechanism and the mystical two phrases.
The crystals were set to absorb memories from people in pleasure nearby maximising positive energy. The levers reversed this positivity into the water. The second mysterious phrase allowed this energy to pass into others when submerged into it.
The Colonel used this knowledge to aid the local villagers. Emma while living in the Manor house always found time to help and volunteer with any struggling or ill locals.
This burden has so far been passed through five Guardians. In his bones he might have only a few more memory absorptions left in him. Each time is more painful than the last.
But who does he pass the batton to. Alfie or Diane? Nah. He doesn't care for either too much. They can be both burdened with it.
Monday, 4 February 2019
Verbuary - Audience
Billy packed his 12 year twin daughters into the car. His wife didn't want to come. It wasn't for her. Dreamworks and Disney themed nights irritated her immensely.
The excitement by the kids was loud, excitable and a right pain in the arse.
They were running late. The car park of the recently refurbished warehouse was only half full. No one about. That was weird, these things are usually a nightmare to get into to.
They must have be very late. The kids moaned about missing some. But that's nothing new with his offspring.
Child in each hand he opened the double doors.
They stopped in shock. Billy's eyes nearly popped out of his head. Scantily clad women and naked men were sprawled out on settees.
Cameramen, sound technicians and a make up artist we're busy working in front of them.
His hands immediately turned the twins around facing the closing doors.
Then it dawned on him, this show wasn't Disney based at all. This production of an "Audience with Woody" was a different kettle of fish. One his wife will not be happy with.
Sunday, 3 February 2019
Verbuary - Update
The careline warden updated the Dr over the phone about the current symptoms Mrs Humble had. She was suffering with her head aches and back pains and today she could hardly stand up. She could barely make it to and from the comode.
The Dr also needed to discuss the list of medication the patient was on.
She called Bert, the son, immediately afterwards to get him upto speed of his mother's recent illness. The warden informed him the only painkiller his mother was taking was codydramol.
The on call Dr said her painkiller was a low dosage, so Bert needed to arrange someone to give her some paracetamol. The wardens are not however permitted to issue medicine.
After the phone call ended, Bert drove to his mother's house and looked over the plain white box, then the printed chemist label. In black and white "Codydramol 10/500 tabs"
After a 4 year stint in quality control/assurance pharmaceutical labs, he notices a thing or two on prescribed medicine. Quick Google of codydramol backed up his fears. The 500 represents 500mg of paracetamol. The overworked Dr, (giving him the benefit of doubt here) missed this and between him and the warden nearly overdosed Berts mother on paracetamol.
Moral of the story is don't take things at face value. Chinese whispers can kill. Next time don't be lazy and speak to the Dr yourself.
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