Category Archives: Alphabetic Dialogues

An experiment in writing based on the classic improv comedy game, the imaginatively titled ‘Alphabet Game’. 26 exchanges each beginning with the next letter of the alphabet. The results are sometimes odd. To read more about the Alphabet Game, read here: http://missimp.co.uk/2011/03/13/the-alphabet-game/

How We Hate HR (Alphabetic 25)

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“Customer feedback is very important to us,” purred the Human Resources manager. Dave was pleased to hear it, but would have been content to read about it in their mission statement. “Email is such a wonderful invention isn’t it? Far better than real human interaction – and so quick!” Gripping the arms of his chair Dave had a good idea about where this was going.

In his inbox that morning had been an invitation to drop in for a chat about the email he’d sent yesterday about the abysmal fuckheads in Human Resources. Just knowing that they were responsible for hiring and then failing to fire the people who daily inflamed his life with idiocy would have been reason enough for complaint but yesterday had been special.

Kuntedge – the HR manager had see fit to send an email out to all staff urging them to enrol for the mandatory diversity training. Like a mug, Dave had, against his better judgement, first opened the email, despaired at the literacy contained within it and compounded it by clicking on the link to the course information. Maybe it was the organisation’s shoddy IT, maybe it was Kuntedge’s inability to use even that nineteenth century version of a computer but it froze and then crashed Dave’s computer, eradicating hours of work. No, autosave had been disabled at the dictate of the HR security twat so there wasn’t even that saving grace. On finally being able to log back in Dave had sent an email suggesting that Kuntedge put himself on a basic word processing course instead of wasting everyone’s time with diversity training.

Perhaps his tone had been a little sharp, his comparison of HR’s general competence to lobotomised squirrels hunting for nuts in a carpark too oblique and the “cheers” sign-off against company policy. Quickly he realised something had soured when no one would meet his eye in the morning. Rallying his jaded tolerance for stupidity he read their response, sighed at the grammar and mounted the stairs.

Rarely were HR visited by choice; their domain was open only to bewildered penitents and managers desperate to get a clear answer. Smiling, like a power-crazed dog too stupid to know how stupid he really is stood Kuntedge, nodding and waving him into his office. The man’s spiel was fluid and worthless, like the excreta of dysentery. Until the final sentence, Dave managed to screen out the jargon and broken logic.

“Verificationism: we’d like to aggressively pursue a policy of accuracy and we feel that you and the IT section might be able to support that. What we need is a system, perhaps a chart on the wall that will help us find mistakes and correct them before they go out into “the population” (as we call them).”

X-rated language flowed through Dave’s mind, boggling at the HR manager’s general ignorance. “You could always use the spellchecker,” he suggested in as calm a voice as he could. Zeal, the kind you only see in the eyes of the incomprehending, lit up Kuntedge’s pupils and he leaned back in his chair, left hand rotating as he summoned words.
“And that’s just what we’d expect from our IT colleagues, but we need something concrete, something visual – not just a computerised replacement for people.”
“Button,” Dave spat out, “it’s a button on your screen – always has been; how can you not know that?”
“Couldn’t have done it without you Dave – I’ll be sending an email round about the new workgroup – we’ll find a solution, don’t you worry.”

 

The Bleeding Rose (Alphabetic 24)

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A degree of jiggling was required to pop the window out of its casement. Breaching the castle’s defences had been surprisingly empty and with the window now open nothing stood between the thief and his prize. Calmly he looked back over his shoulder to where the gardens fell away from the castle, ending in the open air that surrounded the grounds. Deviousness had scarcely been required he reflected as he climbed over the window sill. Everything, from hiring the para-bicycle to riding it in through a storm cloud and into the ancient yew where it was now hidden from view, had been remarkably easy.

For a thief of greater skill and and experience this would have sounded warning clarions to deafen his ambitions. Grellian Hewl, however, was not so sage. He shrugged off his success as testament to his future reputation and hopped down inside the castle. In silence, the alarms went off. Jasmine scent filled the rooms and halls and made Grellian feel slightly woozy as he sneaked about. Knowing that the object of his break-in was at the keep’s heart he stole stealthily down a portrait lined corridor, feet padding on luxurious carpet. “Left, right, left again” he muttered the directions he’d made a stab at memorising.

Meanwhile, in the grounds pistons huffed and jets of steam disturbed the leaves of the tree in which Hewl had deposited his para-bicycle. Normally the brass automata would have torn him apart as soon as he landed, but they’d been ordered to stand down so they now took pleasure in shredding the man’s transport into fine flakes of metal. On duty perpetually, the robots (their forms somewhere between man, wolf and washing machine) were uneasy with permitting the intruder to retain his life beyond the gardens. Pendulums ticked and swayed inside the guards as they awaited further instructions.

Quickly Grellian became lost in the endless corridors. Recalling what little of the layout he could had not proved helpful. Surprisingly, through sheer luck he blundered into the magnificent atrium which sat at the heart of the castle. There, before him, surrounded by greenery and sculpture from half the cities of the realm, stood the object of his hunt – the Bleeding Rose. Under the light that danced down from the glass ceiling he seized the lip of its pot and shook out the sack he had tucked in his belt.

Very few mortals survive an encounter with a Bleeding Rose, and Hewl was no exception. When he hefted the pot it reacted poorly to the disturbance. Xiphoid leaves twitched, their transparent facets sparkling, and plunged into the young man’s chest and shoulders. Yelling and screaming, Grellian was lifted into the air and stabbed until his blood drizzled over the plant and into the pot where its roots flushed crimson upwards through the Bleeding Rose. Zealous automata finally granted permission to do their work stomped into the greenhouse and detached the man husk from the freshly watered flower.

An Unfamiliar Touch (Alphabetic 23)

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He turned his face away, unwilling to look the creature in the eye.
“Good grief, have you no manners man-beast?” it demanded.
“I, I – I’ve just never met anyone like you before.”
Jelly-like tentacles writhed with pleasure, winding around themselves.
“Kiss me, then, again.”
Lawrence gulped, the first kiss had been when they were both very much in the dark, him especially.
“My first kiss was in the pubescent cave, we swapped mucous for hours.”
“Now, maybe we’re getting into this a bit quickly.”
“Oh pshaw,” the creature made a noise like ‘pshaw’ only with more grinding of things like molars, “on our planet it is common to dive into the mating pit and enjoy the juices of countless partners.”
“Perhaps we’re just a little more reserved,” Lawrence countered, his fingers searching for the edge of the door.
“Quelch me.”
Ridges of dust had built up under Lawrence’s nails as he ran his fingers up and down the groove where the door had slid smoothly into the wall. Somehow the door could be opened again, he was sure of it. The tentacled maybe lady alien unspooled herself towards him, her lower appendages coiled over his knees and she repeated herself in a seductive crunching of consonants. Underneath her frilled skirt of translucent flesh mysterious organs pulsed and throbbed. Violet light filled the chamber as she began to sing.
“What a wonderful voice you have,” Lawrence murmured as her skirt brushed against his hips.
“Xenogamy is used by your people to describe the act of love between flowers; I think you are a precious pistil all of your own.”
And with that touching endearment the alien enveloped Lawrence. Breathing was surprisingly easy – she gave off oxygen as a form of musky perfume and he found himself inhaling huge lungfuls. Contrary to his own beliefs about his desires, now that he was wrapped in a highly oxygenated sensual blanket of gelatinous palps he felt rather more agreeable.
“Don’t you need to take these off?” asked the alien, its feelers perplexed by the extraneous epidermises Lawrence wore.
“Everyone wears them where I come from, but they do come off.”
Freed from his supposed propriety Lawrence gave in to her caresses and allowed himself to be undressed by her dextrous claws and tentacles.
“God no!” he cried too late as she stripped him of his skin and rubbed her ovipositor pads into the fibrous muscle beneath.

The Flock of Fear Adventure (Alphabetic 22)

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Blood dripped from the sails like magic rain. Captain Fatbeard’s expedition had ended in disaster. Doves, or rather, pieces of doves continued to land on the deck in soft thuds. Everyone, even those pessimistic from the start were surprised by how badly wrong it had gone.

For as long as his crew could remember, Captain Fatbeard had a particular fetish for tiny birds. Granted, it was not the strangest appetite on board for with Leslie and his eel trousers no one could really compete – but this story’s not about his deviant writhings. However, Fatbeard was so named because he greased the twists of his beard with fat and matted seeds into the locks to attract the attentions of the English countryside birds. It was a difficult matter at sea for he was often divebombed by seagulls (whom he despised) and twas two mates’ responsibility to beat ‘em off with sticks.

Jealousy between the little birdies who he kept in the onboard aviary was assured and ye could see the hatred for each other that filled their beady black Beelzebub eyes. Keeping the creatures under lock and key, even though they were in a cage somewhat larger than the orlop deck, probably accounted for their ghastly tempers.

Lard dripped from the captain’s chin as he allowed a pair of tits to nestle against his throat and ransack the fatty plunder. Many’s the time I’ve watched this ritual, and their pecks, though fierce seeming are surprisingly gentle; some’d say affectionate, but I consider the two-legged bastards to be Satan’s own arse feathers. Never before though had I seen the sight that followed. Open was the door, with Fatbeard getting his neck groomed in it – out flew a sharp bright little beast which shot into the sky trilling sharply. Prayed for rain we had, for the bulk of our fresh water went to wetting the birdies, and so the sudden darkening of the skies was a thing of hope. Quizzically I stared at the clouds, for they seemed unlike the grey and spitting lumps from which rain falls – they appeared to be flapping.

Rain it was not. Skirling birds of a thousand varieties fell from the sky, wheeling down upon The Golden Shrike. Their beaks were viciously sharp, and though their bones were hollow their flapping was more than just a distraction for jags o’ shattered wing gashed open throats and hands. Under the hail o’ feathery vengeance the aviary was burst open and the domesticated pretties joined their wild kin in battle.

Veins sprayed from man and bird alike, painting the ship in gory hues. Why I meself had a puffin lodged in me eye socket and saw a robin peck its way through a man’s chest. Crossin’ me heart I hauled round a cannon and loaded it with leadshot and birdfeed. Ye’d not comprehend the speed with which the aerial assault was distracted by the flyin’ seeds – they sought ‘em ought and received a battery of leadshot in their gullets.

Zoophiles, such as the poor Captain Fatbeard would be distraught at the buchery; fully half the crew’d been pecked to death but that loss was matched with a ship sticky with blood and feathers. Alas, poor Fatbeard had succumbed to the creatures he loved so fondly in captivity. Birds covered the man’s corpse where he’d tried in vain to hug ‘em, only to receive the death that always lurked in their evil unblinking gaze.

Cecily’s Adventure (Alphabetic 21)

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Cecily clomped down the hall in her orthopaedic shoes. Down the corridor were such delights as the Wine Cellar, the Salt Cellar, the Cool Room and the Potato Cupboard. Every time she had ventured this far into the culinary catacombs beneath the manor she had wasted hours in complex adventures. For three weeks she had had the head of a fish and lived in an aquarium. Good job the Vinegar Tender had been doing his rounds or else she would probably still be blowing bubbles.
Her heart thumped a little faster as she passed the Can Cave, partly from fear but also a romantic stirring at the memory of the brave knight who maintained order in that terrible realm. It had been nearly six months since she had come to his aid, dealing out vicious twists with a tin opener as he lay trapped under a mountain of corned beef. Just thinking about those rebellious misshapen tins made her hands shake.
Kindred spirits, at least that’s what the knight had said before stealing a kiss and lancing an enormous tin of tuna in sunflower oil which was sneaking up on her. Leaving him had not been easy, though she had kept the armour they’d fashioned from that punctured can even though it was too weak and reeked of fishy oil. Maybe it was just not meant to be.
Nearing her destination in a sort of daydream was unwise. Ordering herself to pay attention, Cecily noticed that the door to the Potato Cupboard was already subtly ajar. Prying it open further with her foot she drew her twin weapons – the silver masher and a nine-inch slab of sharpened steel she called The Dissuader. Quince, or rather quince’s slightly sour smell came from the shadows… but that was impossible.
Rory, the Provisions Master, had sworn to her that the quince was safely imprisoned. Seething, vicious fruit whose embitterment at being sidelined by larger, sweeter fruit had utterly soured them and they had sworn vengeance upon the new staples. That included potatoes, whose own turnip forerunners were merely a sulky stew-doomed bunch with no ambition to former glories.
Under the sacks of potatoes that filled the chamber Cecily could hear a sour chuckling, which grew louder as she tore open first one then further sacks with The Dissuader. Violated hollow spuds rolled out. Within each potato lives a potato fairy, from whom it obtains its magically versatile properties. Extinguishing the fairies was an unimaginable crime – if the Potato Fairy Queen still lived then perhaps all was not lost. Yet there was no sign of her, just the darkling shades and tuberous corpses.
Zoetrope-like, the quince rolled and hopped out from their hiding places. Arms borne aloft Cecily mashed and slashed at the fiendish revenging fruit. Boots many times larger and heavier than normal footwear proved their virtue, pulping the fairy-slayers. Cook would doubtless scold her when she returned without his ingredients, but perhaps he’d like to make some quince conserves.

Shadows on the Moon (Alphabetic 20)

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Atypical shadows on the moon’s surface were the first hints of something unexpected in the second extra-solar system mankind had reached. By the time the images of those anomalies had been analysed and inflated by the media, the first manned mission to its surface was underway. Complications dogged their journey, from equipment failures to broken bones.

Despite all the problems the eight man crew achieved orbit only one day behind schedule. Each man had his face pressed up to a porthole to get the best view of the lunar landscape. For Charlie, captain and leader of the expedition the sight of the moon’s uneven surface gave him an unaccountable tightness in his chest, but as it matched the usual tension in his stomach just before a mission he dismissed the feeling.

Gel sprayed into the gap between man and machine, filling the exotic armoured spacesuits to pressurised perfection. High-fiving and joking, Charlie, Alex and Samuel climbed into the orbital shuttle and prepared for their lunar expedition. In between the release of the docking clamps and the shuttle sliding free something went wrong. Just as the three men began to fall towards the surface their ship exploded – that image of the shuttle falling away to the moon was the last thing mission control saw.

Knowing that they were going to die on the moon was a secondary concern for the three astronauts. Light from the explosion had briefly blinded them and its force sent their shuttle into a dangerous spin. Maintaining their even approach was vital and they had almost regained it when they hit the ground. No one was hurt; their cushioned armour protected them and had drawn out their lives. One hundred days had been the target length of their mission – there, and back: they would surely be dead by the time help arrived.

Petulance gets you nowhere in space and so the trio of stranded astronauts were determined to do something useful for the three days worth of air which they had left. Quickly, but without haste Samuel established their location and found they were only slightly off target. Riding high with each step they strode across the barren landscape. Soon they reached the area of unusual shadows which had inspired their disastrous journey.

The ground sloped sharply upwards and the rock thrust out in strange conical structures. “Unless the termites got here first, someone made these,” commented Charlie. Virtues in space include calmness and reason – both of which were forgotten when Alex started screaming. When Charlie had idly joked about termites he had no idea how accurate he was. Xenobiologists from home would find the creatures fascinating, but as they gnawed their way through the spacemen’s armour they were terrifying. Yellow gel leaked and mingled into the dripping blood as the alien insects dragged the men into their nests.

Zooming in from space, only the abandoned shuttle and the bloody trails gave any indication of how badly the previous expedition had ended.

The Wedding Adventure

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Pirate's Wedding by Razor Geisha

Pirate’s Wedding by Razor Geisha

Cat-calls and whistles rang out from the foredeck as Sharon danced and wheeled. Dark though the night was, we’d fought it back with gaily coloured lanterns and affixed candles to our clothes such as those flingin’ wax from Sharon’s shimmies. Every crewman was on deck, save for a sole lookout in the crow’s nest, his peepers peeled for trouble. For tonight was a time of celebration.

Gaargh, me betrothal to me beloved Roberta Clementine had been a stressful and dangerous time. Her brother’s me arch-nemesis y’see- the indefatigable bastard Admiral Kneehorn. I’d bested him in cunning on many occasions and seen me men busted in irons. Just the presence of Roberta Clementine on board The Grim Bastard placed us all in terrible danger. Know ye that the heart of a pirate cannot be quenched with the bowel-watery fear of steel, additionally ye have to prioritise in this job. Lovely she were, laden with white silks, plundered jewels and gold. Men would happily die just to get a glimpse of her winking charm.

Ne’er before has me chest swelled with such pride as I stepped onto deck, me unicorn of the sea peg leg and black velvet night-smiting suit cutting an equally fine figure. Oh, certainly the narwhal’s face spike gouged horrible holes in the deck, as tis mainly for harming the ships of others’ on special occasions.

Proudly I took her arm and led her twixt a corridor of mooning pirates to the forecastle where we’d installed our captive priesty-man. Quellglum, or Reverend Quellglum as he insisted, we’d lately acquired from a missionary vessel which had willingly spread her legs for us. Reading us the ceremony his delivery was marred only a little by the tics and stammer that afflicted the shy clergical. Signalling to Gashin’ Alan to draw off his blade from the vicar’s throat seemed to aid his wordery.

The ceremony was lovely: No Hands Mick gave a rousin’ shanty and the cabin lads’d sought out some moving verse to enchant and inspire the night. Under the glow of our lanterns and grins of me men I took Roberta Clementine’s hand and placed a ring upon it, for she was a thing I liked. Virginal she seemed, and though twas laughably untrue for either of us, we were reborn in our vows.

We kissed and the wedding entertainment unfolded. Exceeding fully me expectations (these being the lads who’d inflated squid for strewing about the Christmas tree) we had bunting o’ stolen lace, music, dancing and an ominous soliloquy. Ye tone was odd but Gashin’ Alan had had an awful lot of rum so we cheered him regardless. Zealously he concluded his solo by hurling himself from the ship. After fishing him out we further rummed ourselves and danced the night away.

Bright was our future, so bright that it blinded me to the unmanned crow’s nest and that the Reverend Quellglum was signalling with a lamp into the night…

The Smuggling Adventure (Alphabetic 19)

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Me heart sank like a man wrapped in chain. Never more would me nights be brightened by the babbling banality of ‘Jabbery’ Jackigan Samuels. Oh aye, he was an annoying fellow in his own way. Particularly when ye sought sleep and his endless tongue-flapping persisted into his snoozling drone. Quilts, pillows and sacks of gold merely muffled his ceaseless speech. Recognisin’ the special qualities of a fellow is me own special talent as pirate captain. This lad was one I could send into any sticky situation confident he’d either talk his way out or be permanently silenced; tis a victory either way.

“Unmentionable” is one of the many ways to describe The Fishwife’s Bra tavern and brasserie which skulked under the cliffs at Doompoint. Verucca-footed and syphilis-cheeked were the pockmarked profiteers who managed the local black market from her filthy corners. Why we’d chosen to trade with them’s a matter of debate with knives upon The Grim Bastard. Exit strategies from our arrangement we’d had several and all rejected for such frippery as the difficulty in persuading sharks to pose as night-maidens.

Ye matter was growing serious for the Doompoint Boys were well known for their violent treachery and unwholesome business ethics. Zen was not in their nature. Add to that the further difficulties into which Jabbery Jackigan had gotten us. By leaving the garrulous fellow on his own in their company we’d erred severely. Call me naïve if ye will but I truly thought that even Jackigan had the sense not to tell the bootleggers about our “other deal” with the King of Tarsus.

Deal with the devil it were – Tarsus had granted us privateer rights in his waters, provided we repaid him by occasionally uncloakin’ the viler bandits that troll in the shallow ends of the rock pool. Ever since that unfortunate affair where his son dressed up as a courtesan and slipped aboard our ship durin’ our special time we’d been in Tarsus’ pockets as well as his prayers. For my part I’d no love for these keel-juice men – our treasure trove was the greater for their loss.

Gaargh, but that damn fool with the flapping face had unveiled us as the King’s men. Hell broke loose when we arrived at the booty cave, the Doompoint Boys had sharp swords, pistols and mean faces pointed at us. In the froth of battle I accidentally set light to the bootleggers’ overproof rum which blasted ‘em out of the cave and into the sea. Jellyfish season was in so they’d no chance of swimming for it: they were trapped in that congealed sting-a-ling beast custard.

Kneeling by the shore was Jackigan Samuels still prattling to the bloated, numb and singed smugglers; next to him lay a length of chain. Like I said, me heart sank exactly like the man wrapped in chains with a stream of bubbles a testament to his inability to keep his trap shut.

The Mercenary Adventure (Alphabetic 18)

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War came to the tiny island o’ Gibbelania. Exhibitin’ all the traits o’ the scornful stereotypes with which her rivals painted her people, they shrieked, hopped and babbled in fear. “Yarr” we cried in excitement as her castle walls fell to our cannons’ punchin’. “Zero mercy” had been declared by our patron and paymaster in this mission. Aye, we were in it for the doubloons – we owed a favour to the King of Tarsus and he’d see it repayed with the swash of our swords. Booty were also part of our enticement; a crocodile’s weight in gold on devastation of the town.

Changing from iron to incendiaries we rained flame upon the gibbering locals. Doubtless they’d offended Tarsus through their mangled speech – twas irritatin’ enough to hear ‘em scream. Every dwellin’ of Gibbelania was afire and we considered our work complete and without setting boot to land, to boot. Feeling well pleased with ourselves we set sail for Tarsus and our shiny reptilian prize.

Gales whisked us to and fro about the sea, sending us twisted about the archipelago of Grim’s Basket, so named by the locals for the bastard creatures ye’re like to stumble across upon your doorstep when ye wake. Had I more wit about me I’d have delayed our passage but the allure of gold’s reliable in damping me caution. I regretted our haste when the first beastkins of the Basket pounced upon us.

Jealous of our life and freshish breath ghostly figures emerged from the sea and clawed at our timbers. Killing ‘em were no option for us owing to their post-life states. Leadshot confused ‘em though, shreddin’ their essence on the waves; the spirits fell behind us as we navigated the straits of the Basket. Me heart sank further as serpentine throats rose out of the rocky reefs, teeth snapping and hissing as we passed.

Now our fears’d come alive: the Morbid Serpent was a beast known to all seamen – tis the ‘cumulated memory of all those fallen to ye blade. Orange faced, spear-toothed with a hide of scales reflectin’ the faces of weeping and raging foes the creature snarled at me men – a head for each of us. Perhaps I’m less sensitive than some of me crew for rather than quail at the sight I merely loaded me whale gun and unloaded her spark-wise into the brute’s familiar patchwork skull. Quite what result I’d expected I couldn’t rightly say, but I’d certainly not imagined the meta-Morbid Serpent – a confusticated writhing of victimised serrpent flesh, turning its face inside out to reveal its own abused soul. Royally puzzled it bit off its own heads and collapsed in a swirling self-hating heap of ooze.

Suddenly smooth sea guided us out of Grim’s Basket and into the port o’ Tarsus. Twas most convenient and we fairly bounded into the King’s throneroom – makin’ clear twas to claim our prize, and definitely not to run away from the ocean. Unbeknownst to us the King had a range o’ pet crocodiles and he ushered only the smallest and unhealthiest runty lizard onto the scales for balancin’ against the gold. Virgil was the King’s name and I determined never to allow his name any sway in my future dealings – so it was that I waited till evenin’ to ensure his daughter suffered not from that burden.

 

The Priests of Tzazanoth

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Twixt Earth and Moon lie creatures whose existence I’d never even suspected. Unless you peer upwards through a device wrought by the dark astronomical arts you’d never perceive them. Vile, amorphous shapes loose in the Earth’s halo, sheltered by the mystic shroud the Moon casts over them. Wizened travellers from the birth of time, they lie in wait about our tiny hub of life; they wait to consume it.Extolling the virtues of Nethersight the priesthood of Tzazanoth hold rituals ghastly and foul at the Lunar apex. “Yield to our influence, embrace the sacred blinding hood and have your will sapped and fed to the masters”. Zealotry drives them and their combination of archaic speech and sensory deprivation appealed to me.

After I succumbed to their ideals I found myself clad in black, kneeling in a ring about their temple enclave. By midnight we were cold and bored, the other devotees and I. Calling for the undead gods of a dimension twisted between our own and the death of the universe was tiring.

Despite the lack of response from hours of incantation and exhortation the Tzazanothian priesthood’s spirits remained high. Ever optimistic of summoning the end of the world they bade us rise and bear flaming brands. “Fling them moonward” they cried with their slackened faces and blazing eyes. Galling though it is to admit now I too tossed my torch into the air. I was stunned when it hung there, seemingly lodged in some invisible structure. Just as I was thinking of slipping out the back too.

Keys were produced by the priests, great horned pieces of filigreed iron which they raised and twisted in the air. Light of a dark and ethereal nature rained down on us like burning rainbows. My eyes burned with unnatural hues, men fell screaming to the ground, their minds unable to grasp the palette of the undead gods. Near the heart of the temple formed an apparition: a twisting figure of wings and writhing tentacles which obscured a fanged skull and hungry leer.

Obsidian blood spattered over us, soaking the ground, rising to our knees and hardening the portal into the undead realm. Perhaps it was then that the reality of the ritual finally hit me – I could not be party to this welcoming of death. Quickly I leaped for the nearest key which had become ossified in the air and with a savage twist, snapped the head off it.

Really, that was the diametric opposite to my intention. So the gateway could not now be closed; gargantuan forms laughed at us their horrid laughter echoing like the death of stars through time. That was my part in the revenance of Earth my friends, and that is why we huddle now in this cellar as Tzazanoth’s hordes scratch at the door.

The Citric Adventure

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Water’s cold when it slaps ye in the face, wettin’ ye features and dragging ye into its arms. Xanthic fish darted about me, evadin’ me splashy bubbles. Yellow they were, and reminded me o’ how I’d come to be sinkin’ face first into the deeps. Zesty indeed had been the feast prepared by our chef, Monty McBuboe. As we’d grown terrifiyingly loose in the tooth during our voyage about the horn of Nepal, I’d made sure to insist that our citric stocks be refilled when we slapped into land once more. Benevolence was the name o’ that harbour, though she were far from’t.

Cautiously our vessel ploughed through their rude pier and came to rest in the general grocer’s. Damned if they weren’t the least friendly o’ folks whose livelihoods we’ve crushed on a poor landin’. Every one of ‘em was in uproar about some matter, whether it were the state o’ their matchwood fishin’ craft, the now open-air market or the grim fate of the orphan crab lads who’d dwelled beneath the pier. For my part I can take such discourtesy only so far, and then I feels obliged to retort ye see. Gashin’ and slashin’ we went, till ye ornery peasants were quieted. Havin’ asserted what the lack o’ manners’ll get ye we appropriated what items we needed for our onward journey. I selected for meself a rare rum or two and left Monty to do the quartermasterin’.

Just as we were to take our leave a wench presented herself – not as a gift, mind ye (which somewhat spoiled me mood) but as a way o’ payin’ off our supposed debt for esposin’ the weakness o’ their portly structures. Keryn were her name, a brooding and malign creature proffered to us at the end of long pointy sticks; I distrusted her immediately, for ye should trust no one who cannot rightly spell their own name. Lest I should seem rude meself I accepted the lass, and promised to convey her to a land of her choosin’. Me next minutes were involved in the sniffin’ o’ them sharp waxy treats that Monty secured on deck, and I quite lost track o’ the mispelled maiden. Neatly we hauled ourselves out from the rubble o’ their town and back into the scurvy sea. Over the horizon and far from where ye enemies can spot ye, that’s me motto.

Perhaps I should have reviewed our inventor more carefully, for tea time brought with it some surprises. Quince be spat into the ocean – for tis lemon that makes the finest tart, and Monty with his dusty top scrapin’s made the finest tart on the ocean. Readyin’ me dessert knife I readied me gullet for its tangy treat, suspectin’ nothing for I’d made no notice of the wench hangin’ above me in the dark. Suddenly I caught her reflection in me blade as she pounced,  teeth bared and eyes ablaze.

Twas then I recalled the reason for mistrust that ought to have preceded her mauled monicker. Usually ye savage Murther-Kin o’ Nethery Hatchet sought me out on land for the offences I’ve caused ‘em. Vanity’s a cruel mistress to their assassins and their greatest weakness so I slapped the tart in her face, followed by me cake blade. Well I’d reckoned without her havin’ a suicide powder tooth ignited by the touch o’ citrus, though it did explain her fearful breath as I was blown backwards into the waiting sea.

Dusting – Alphabetic Dialogues 15

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Sir Bramley Facespierre, master of the immaterial arts reflects on a life of conflict and deceit in his twilight years. He is attended in his manor by Bronzewick, his long-suffering servant.

Sir BF “Vanquished are mine enemies, at long last.”
B         “Well done sir.”
Sir BF “Exterminated with extreme prejudice and elegance.”
B         “Your powers are ever impressive sir.”
Sir BF “Zealously have I slain those who mocked me and scattered their playthings in the mud.”
B         “And we are both grateful and worshipful sir”
Sir BF “Bronzewick, do I detect a faint note of sarcasm in your otherwise obsequious tone?”
B         “Considering the awe-inspiring depths of your insight into the minds of man, sir, I would be astonished if such a thing fell beneath your notice. Sir.”
Sir BF “Doubtless a mind such as mine is indeed proof against deceit.”
B         “Everyone says so sir.”
Sir BF “Fulsome praise indeed, and wholly merited.”
B         “God himself would warm you with his approbation sir.”
Sir BF “Have I ever told you how I came into possession of my powers?”
B         “If I may sir, I do have an awful lot of household duties to accomplish this morning.”
Sir BF “Just a moment Bronzewick, this will take but a moment.”
B         “(Kill me now).”
Sir BF “Look out beyond those trees – over the horizon.”
B         “My sir, what an uncommonly attractive view.”
Sir BF “Oh Bronzewick, ever is your mind fastened to the mere surface of things.”
B         “Please sir, I have dusting to attend to.”
Sir BF “Quell your anxieties Bronzewick, I shall reveal all; we are all made of the same dust – its presence on baubles can surely matter little.”
B         “Rarely is a servant so blessed with such an elightened and generous employer.”
Sir BF “So, one Tuesday or perhaps Thursday in a June long ago I located-“
B         “-through wit, intuition and mastery of the practical arts-“
Sir BF “Unless you cease your interruptions I’ll never manage to relate to you my secrets – oh, I see.”
B         “Very good sir, now if you don’t mind I’ll be about my spoon polishing.”

 

The Dancing Adventure

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imageAllow me to relate to ye the tale o’ Alan and the giant. Burly he were, and rough and tumble in manner except for his feet. Childlike would be the kindest way to describe ‘em, for they were minute and soft with the daintiest nails o’ which ye could conceive. Defining his tasks aboard ship’s tricksy – his bulk made him a fine marauder, and his twinkle-toes were ideal for dancing. Every third moon he’d combine the two in ye pirate dance-off contest.

For many years now ye buccaneer’s boogie had been the highlight o’ the seasons held down at Captain Spim’s Honolulu Boogaloo Hut, up Knifer’s Creek way.Gaaargh, twas a dance to the death. Halibut Harry (a man rank with fishy pores) was the judge at the end o’ the springy months when we returned from sea and tossed Alan into ye dancin’ pit. I’d high hopes o’ victory and wrestin’ ye ivory dancin pump back from Captain Aaaarsbeard.

Just before Alan’s opponent leaped into the pit I’d one of me hilarious premonitions o’ doom. Knives and fire danced before me eyes and cruel mocking laughter filled me ears. Less than a second’s fraction later there came a “ho ho ho” and a vast figure of a man parted the crowd like butter and stepped into the pit. Me heart thumped; Alan’s failed. Now he were a brave lad, make no mistake: he’s taken down men as wide but never so tall. Over ten foot tall at me best reckonin’, for his head pierced the open mouth o’ the pit. Perhaps he came from foreign lands where they prized his unnecessary heightitude.

Quickly the jiggy-bout was over. Right out of ye flutey gate (ye tempo was set by a hammers and metal bars and ye melody fluted o’er the top) Alan ran up the giant’s back, his delicate feet carefully placed to ride his knobbly spine. So swift was Alan’s ascent and so dainty his step that the giant barely noticed till it was too late. Tip-tap tippy tap: Alan’s tap-shoe clad feet slammed and punted into his foe’s head and shoulders. Unless ye’ve been slapped about the head with them steely toe-tips ye’ve no knowin’ of the harm they wreak. Virtuoso style Alan skipped and spun to the flighty flute-tune, every step an elegant kick to the skull and testament to his skill.

We were silent as the music tailed away, and Alan’s mount swayed in memory of his pounding. Xylophones burst into life to sound the end of the contest and the giant collapsed. Ye could not believe the roar of approval and applause as Alan nimbly hopped from the falling giant to the pit’s lip and landed in a plie. Zealously we guarded him as we seized up the ivory dancing pump and our rum reward.

An Amourous Pirate – Alphabetic Dialogues 14

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Captain Ignatius Pigheart samples the dubious pleasures of ‘Old Maisy’s Hole’, one of the few hostelries that offer welcome to a man of the sea. Within its dank walls lie the scum of the port; gamblers, thieves, cripples and night ladies sprawl across the stained furniture. Ignatius brings out the old Captain Loveheart routine for the pretty barwench. Not Old Maisy mind. Braver men than he have attempted to plunder her charms and beaten a hasty retreat as lesser men.

‘Bashful lass eh? Come to me lap ye fine chested beauty. Don’t fear a man with just one hand. Eye too. For tis a sign o’ me bravery and manhood. Gaaargh, ye seems not tempted. Have I an unappealin’ scent about me? It be to ye credit that ye be so honest. Just withhold ye further candour for fear o’ harmin’ me pride. Know ye that I’ve wooed many a lass, above and below ye waves. Let me regale ye with such a tale o’ me piscine paramour. Me state were one o’ inebriation. No, not ye same degree as me present. Oh, for ye moon were spinful and ye stars a thicket. Pray, imagine ye the calll of a merwench. Quite the most allurin’ sound to pierce a fishy gill. Readyin’ me lovin’ portions I were, for action. Softly I called to her. Twas an arrow through me heart when she splashed towards me. Under the waves our bodies met, me leg and her tail entwined. Velvet soft was ‘er touch, aye, ye captain shivered in her embrace. Wet too, but tis expected in ye ocean. eXitin’ ye tavern already? Ye’ll be sad to miss out of the climax o’ me tale. Zephyrs o’ sighs spilled out of ye merwench in delight. And ye could be so lucky, if’n ye so choose…’

Burnin’ Vermin – Alphabetic Dialogues 12

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The Grim Bastard: Captain Ignatius Pigheart and ship’s cook Monty McBuboe decide on their priorities.

MM ‘Topsail’s a-flame cap’n.’
IG ‘Ulcerated albatrosses! Douse her lads, douse her!’
MM ‘Vermin are diving overboard sir.’
IG ‘Well hook ‘em back an’ bag ‘em for supper Monty.’
MM ‘eXpertly braise on ye wood fire for a satisfyin’ly smoky rat steak.’
IG ‘Your cuisine’s more appetisin’ when anonymity shrouds its shame.’
MM ‘Zoology were a bitter disappointment – they shunned me fragile digits for I were cack-handed in me mammal-handling. Now I eats ‘em in vengeance.’
IG ‘After ye’ve exhausted ye gland o’ self-pity perhaps ye’d be so kind as to return to the matter o’ me mastly immolation.’
MM ‘Burnin’ ye say?’
IG ‘Could ye kindly re-affix ye listening ear Monty. Tis lyin’ upon ye caulkin’.
MM ‘Dear captain, where would me senses be without you?’
IG ‘Everywhere about the ship I’d imagine ye leprous dog.’
MM ‘Fret not cap’n, tis but a job for a dab o’ narwhal paste.’
IG ‘Get ye ear, and get ye rats snaffled for vittlin’. Then get ye a bucket.’
MM ‘Have a heart cap’n, ye riggin’ grabbin’ll tug off me loosely hung limbs.’
IG ‘I’ve no heart for ye moanin’ – aye it’ll be some ludicrous punishment for ye.’
MM ‘Just wait till I find me union representative.’
IG ‘Killed in action last week.’
MM ‘Luckless Larry never did well in battle.’
IG ‘My doubloons were on ye enemy from the start’
MM ‘Now cap’n, lose not your heart. Ye have a fine ship and crew.’
IG ‘Oh Monty, would that I could rely on me shipmates to put out fires, and yet ye stand here a-chunterin’.’
MM ‘Perhaps ye might get more from ye crew with less sarcasm cap’n.’
IG ‘Quibbles and quiddities McBuboe!’
MM ‘Right sir, re-affix me ear, gather rats and aid ye de-flaming efforts?’
IG ‘Stop ye prevaricatin’ – tis ye fire that grows most urgent.’
MM ‘Tis a moot point now cap’n for ye sails be cindered.’