At last, Dear Reader, the Underdog Anthology V is published…
*Knot a graphic novel, Clicky… /streams smoke… Short stories, many authors…*
… I’d been speculating with Leggy late on Friday as to the date it might appear…
… The first ‘event’ listed in the Wiki link – ‘The Year of SIX Emperors’…
*Five pointed star! I was thinking of The Okie Devil of Textus… /flicks ash… Cade’s got stories in the book. I didn’t even think of that, Clicky… /pats snout… What did I list next?*
I am having a long weekend, Dear Reader. I spent yesterday daytime making final edits to stories in the soon-to-be-published ‘Underdog Anthology V: Six in Five in Four’. Leggy has a preview, in which he includes one of his stories from the book…
mid-15c., “belonging exclusively to one person,” from Latin peculiaris“of one’s own (property),” from peculium “private property,” literally “property in cattle” (in ancient times the most important form of property), from pecu“cattle, flock,” related to pecus“cattle” (see pecuniary). Meaning “unusual” is first attested c. 1600 (earlier “distinguished, special,” 1580s; for sense development, compare idiom). Related: Peculiarly.
*’Also KT and KH’…/drags… No shit! …/streams smoke… *
Then last night Cade and I resumed his introduction to Doctor Who, and also caught up with Leggy and Poppy… Les amis…
*/flicks ash… Knot a favourite episode, Clicky… /drags… although, excellent use of a jammie dodger… /blows smoke rings… I’d forgotten about that…*
*Like the villain, House, in The Doctor’s Wife, Clicky, Daleks are a bit like a sea anemone… /puffs… “hard on the outside, squishy on the inside”… I hadn’t made that connection before… /taps teeth…*
Anyhoo, in honour of Old Peculier’s neighbour’s cat, Dear Reader, and seeing as a ‘cat‘ won today’s Grand National, I thought I’d take a leaf out of Leggy’s book – pun intended – and post one of my stories from UAV. It’s short and called ‘Nine Lives’. The Knot-Sew confidential making of it can be found here. Enjoy!
*******
NINE LIVES
Karl sat at his kitchen table, smoking and observing the tendrils of early morning mist gently tickle the tops of the garden hedge, before continuing their soft creep to the ground. It was dark outside but the lawn glittered with stars; pregnant dew drops nestling in the grass caught the thin, amber light that spilled from the kitchen window. He stubbed out his cigarette and gulped back the last dregs of cold tea from his mug with a grimace. Not long now, Karl thought, she’ll be home soon. Outside the mist started to swirl and pool.
He stood up and stretched, bones creaking and knees popping as if to salute the end of his vigil. He fleetingly considered that he was getting too old for this malarkey, but she needed a watcher – someone to light the way back. He could bear the discomfort; it was only for the night. Karl rubbed his eyes under his glasses, and dragged his hands down over bristled cheeks to wipe any tiredness away. He contemplated putting the kettle on when he heard the first high pitched bark puncturing the dark. The second got him moving. “Not the foxes again!”
As he opened the back door, the wet slap of morning air to hit Karl’s face was accompanied by a rude crash and skitter of a dustbin lid falling, somewhere in the mist. She’s coming from the right, he thought, opening the door wider to peer out into the murk. More barks, louder this time, and a fiery hiss, were followed by the sound of clambered wood, as the garden fence shook violently. Karl held the door further ajar, and a white streak shot out of the mist and between his legs, into the kitchen.
Karl closed the door on the mist and the foxes who, by the sound of it, were now rummaging through next door’s bin for tasty scraps. He turned to the slight figure, lying on the kitchen floor. “For goodness sake, Lara, do you have to tease the foxes? It upsets the neighbours.”
“It upsets the bins,” Lara replied, lightly panting as she rolled over and attempted to sit up. “No, they were waiting for me. Foxes are not called cunning for nothing, Karl.”
“Yes, but they usually leave you alone when you’re hedge riding.”
Lara sighed. “It would seem witches aren’t held in much esteem these days. Not by people or wildlife.”
Karl surveyed the flush in his wife’s cheeks and her glittering eyes, and thought she still looked pretty formidable considering her advanced years. He also noticed the shudder in her arm propping her up. “You should get off the floor. What would you like, sofa or chair?” he asked, scooping her up, with barely a tremble from his own geriatric limbs.
“Sofa,” Lara replied with a wan smile. “Thank you, dear. And a cuppa and a ciggie wouldn’t go amiss either.”
“Funnily enough, I was just about to put the kettle on,” Karl replied, before lowering his wife, so she could reach out and pluck the cigarette packet and lighter from the kitchen table. A fat bead of blood splashed onto the surface below, quickly followed by another. “You’re injured?”
“Damn foxes.” Lara winced and drew her arm back toward her chest. “One of them managed to get a mouthful of armpit. I don’t think it’s too deep. Just stings a bit.”
“But you’re bleeding,” Karl said gruffly. Too gruffly, he feared, from the look his wife shot him. “Okay, let’s get you comfortable and then I can clean that up,” he continued in a more conciliatory tone, before carrying her through to the front room.
Karl noticed that Lara was already on her second cigarette when he returned five minutes later, to set out a bowl of hot water, soap, flannel and towel on the carpet before her. “Kettle’s on for tea,” he said kneeling down. He adjusted his glasses and gingerly started to lift Lara’s elbow. “Can’t let it get infected, how would we explain that to Dr Patel?”
“I can always change back so you can take me to a vet,” Lara replied sharply, pulling away from his grasp.
She must be in great pain, Karl thought. “Come now, dear, we don’t have pet insurance. We don’t own a pet.” Lara’s eyes briefly flashed at his riposte, but her body relaxed and she allowed him to lift her arm. “So apart from getting into a fight with some foxes…”
“Ambushed by some foxes,” Lara quickly corrected him.
“Sorry, ambushed by some foxes on the way home, how was the rest of your night?”
Lara took a deep drag from her cigarette. “Well it started off okay,” she said, billowing a great cloud of smoke. “I went to see Annie and girls down at Saint Michael’s.”
“And how are Annie and the girls?” Karl asked as he cleaned her wound of blood.
“Dead.”
“Naturally.” Any bleeding seemed to have stopped, but the swelling around the punctures had already started to bruise, turning an angry black mauve that only truly flourished on elderly skin. Karl stopped himself flinching at the sight. “You’d think they’d get themselves a spirit cat.”
“They’ve got a spirit cat,” Lara gently rebuked him with a chuckle.
“A ghost cat, then.” Karl smiled at her mirth. “You know what I mean.”
“Oh a ghost cat would be just as stuck as they are. Graveyards are lonely places, Karl. The residents like the company and the gossip. Especially the newly interred. Once the funeral is over, they rarely get more than a yearly visit from any family. If that.” Lara finished her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray perched on the arm of the sofa. “How’s it looking?”
“Ugly but clean. It’ll need some arnica,” Karl replied, rising carefully to his feet. “That’s in the kitchen. Besides, the kettle must have boiled by now. No, no. You stay there. I’ll go.”
Lara laughed and shooed him away with her good arm before reaching for the cigarettes and lighter.
Karl could hear swearing from outside the back door; Jim must be up and found the aftermath of the fox fracas. Karl popped the kettle on and grabbed the arnica and some aspirin from the medicine cupboard, chuckling at the string of expletives emanating from over the garden fence. He glanced out the window to see that sunrise was already burning off the mist that had been so thick an hour or so ago. It looked like it could be a lovely day.
The sound of the front doorbell caught him off guard. Who would be calling at this hour? Karl wondered and went to open the front door. Through the frosted glass he could make out the shape of a woman in a bright pink dressing gown. What could she want? Karl thought as he unlocked and opened the door. “Morning Celia. Is everything alright?”
“Oh Karl,” his next door neighbour cried, her face puffy and contorted with distress. “Karl, I’m so sorry if I’ve woke you,” Celia started to apologise. “There was some trouble with foxes in our garden last night. I don’t know if you heard any of it.”
“No,” Karl lied. “But I heard Jim swearing earlier. Did they make much of a mess?”
Celia looked distraught at the suggestion. “Well yes, but…” she trailed off with a sob. “Karl, it’s Lara. I’m so sorry. They killed your cat.” Celia had not come empty handed; she held out a bundle, wrapped neatly in a towel, out in front of her.
Karl felt an icy chill bloom from the crown of his head and cascade down his body. “Thank you,” he said numbly, taking the bundle from Celia’s shaking hands.
“I’m so, so sorry,” Celia continued but Karl had already shut the front door. He felt the lightness of the bundle in his arms. It felt so slight.
“Lara?” Karl called as he carried it through to his wife, but the front room was empty. He laid the bundle on the sofa and sat down next to it. A spiral of smoke floated up from the ashtray perched on the arm. Karl turned and picked up the last of the burning cigarette and with trembling fingers, finished his smoke.
*******
I’m off now to introduce Cade to Thoughtful Man’s favourite companion, Dear Reader…
*Ugh, ghastly biscuits, Clicky… /sticks out tongue in disgust… It was bad enough smelling them being made, walking past the the Peeky Freaky factory, twice a day… /flicks lighter… Snot my taste… /lights up…*
This week, Dear Reader, I have been introducing Cade to Doctor Who. He’s a Who Noob…
*Knot anymore he ain’t, Clicky… /snickers…*
… And last night I also introduced him to the the Noble Donna…
*Martha was the night before, Clicky… /drags… And Rose and Captain Jack at the weekend… /streams smoke…*
*No River Song is tonight, Clicky… /puffs contentedly…*
“If you ever see a little blue box, flying up in the sky, you shout for me Gramps.”
Thoughtful Man and I had a blue box experience today, Dear Reader…
*/puffs angrily… Is there nuffin the bint won’t do to get out of Brexit, Clicky? /flicks ash… Don’t answer…*
Because I work on the 13th floor of the Tower, and because I have to take at least 20 minutes for lunch for my ‘health and safety’ – my time is flexible; I can bank the rest – I take one cigarette to work with me each day. Carried in a salvaged, old-style box. Today’s was a Mayfair box…
“You’ll never guess what happened at lunch today,” I told Thoughtful Man, shrugging off my coat, after he’d brought me home from work. He’s thoughtful like that. “I gave my cigarette to a tramp.”
Thoughtful Man squinted hard, the way he does when I mention I’ve given something away. Or interacted with tramps. I have form…
*That’s another story, Clicky… /final drag… Now don’t interrupt… /stubs butt… I’m tryin’ to fiction-all-lies an actual factual happening… /blows smoke rings…*
“Why?” he asked bluntly.
“Because she asked me for it,” I said innocently, slipping out of my work shoes and rolling down my tights. The first thing I do when I get home is strip off my work clothes. The change from formal to informal is one of the little pleasures I take from my day.
Thoughtful Man’s squint soften slightly. “She?”
“Yes. I saw her in the lobby of Tower as I was going out to smoke. Didn’t think anything of it ‘cos we get all sorts coming in everyday,” I said, pulled my dress up over my head. “Anyway, I went and sat in my usual place on the window ledge, round the side of the building. It’s less windy.”
Thoughtful Man was silent but I just knew what he was thinking…
*I’ll get there, if you stop interrupting me! …/huffs…*
I pulled on some jogging bottoms and Thoughtful Man’s old, raggedy sweatshirt. “And I’d nearly finished smoking my cigarette, when the lady tramp ambles round the corner. She was holding up a bottle of perfume.”
“Perfume?” Thoughtful Man interrupted me. “Like she was going to mace you?”
“Yeah. Do you know her?”
Thoughtful Man sighed; he encounters all sorts every day too driving his taxi round the mean streets of our town. “She’s completely fucking mad. I saw her today as well, when I was standing on the rank.”
I plonked myself in my Library chair and lit up a cigarette. “She didn’t spray me or anything. She asked me for a cigarette. I only had the one and I’d nearly finished smoking it. I said ‘Sorry’ and showed her the empty Mayfair box.”
“What did she say?”
I grabbed our small dog, who’d been buzzing round my feet, trying to lick my ankles. “She asked me for the one I was smoking. So I gave it to her.” I ruffed Poppy’s floppy ears and she gave me a smelly, wet, licky kiss in return. “And then she asked me for the empty packet.”
Thoughtful Man stiffened. “Did you give it to her?”
“Well yeah. I’ve got other empty boxes saved.” Oh how I hate the god-awful plain packaging government has foisted on us.
Poppy jumped off my lap and trotted over to Thoughtful Man, who picked her up for a tummy tickle. “I must have seen her after you did because, when she walked past me, she threw an empty Mayfair box at my feet.”
“Really?” I asked with a squint. I didn’t know whether to be amazed at her aim or annoyed that she’d dumped my little, blue box. “Did you pick it up?”
“No.” Thoughtful Man looked aghast. “She’d screwed it up.”
“Damn!”
*Shit! …/clocks time… I’ve got a double-bill planned for Cade tonight. We’d better finish up, Clicky… /pats snout… Still, no work tomorrow, eh? Come on flexible time!*
*No, Clicky…/drags… Lovely as the animation is… /blows smoke… I was thinking about the memo… the one about all the collusion… /puffs… Honestly! Could only ‘appen under Trump! …/taps ASH…*
*Oh course! Elephants have phenomenal memories, Clicky… /pats snout…*
early 15c., from Latin memorandum“(thing) to be remembered,” neuter singular of memorandus“worthy of remembrance, noteworthy,” gerundive of memorare“to call to mind,” from memor “mindful of” (see memory). Originally a word written at the top of a note, by 1540s it came to stand for the note itself. The Latin plural is memoranda. Compare also agenda.
…Coupled with the trailer of a movie I saw earlier on Twitter. To be released this summer, a prequel sequel in the story of Donna and Sophie…
*Frank? Witch one? RedandBlue? …/grins… And John the letter writer. Knot to mention Clarence from Clare that’s so Shining, Clicky… /drags…*
‘The three prisoners were serving sentences for bank robbery when they executed their escape plan using stolen spoons, dummy heads and a raincoat raft. Their exploits were turned into the 1979 movie “Escape from Alcatraz,” starring Clint Eastwood as Morris.
‘U.S. Marshal Michael Dyke, who inherited the unsolved case in 2003, told The Associated Press in 2012 that he didn’t know whether any members of the trio were still alive. But he had seen enough evidence to make him wonder.
‘That evidence included credible reports that the Anglins’ mother, for several years, received flowers delivered without a card, and that the brothers attended her 1973 funeraldisguised in women’s clothes despite a heavy FBI presence.’
Now, if you’ve been paying attention, Dear Reader, employing your ‘Clicky’ to full potential in navigating this shambles, the pics Cade ‘grabbed’, well, quite simply they blew my socks off…
I have been pleasantly surprised three times in the last two days, Dear Reader. Whilst I was writing the last ‘On The Lash’ post, I was seriously considering adding in something about Aikido. Lashy seemed a bit agitated and I was wondering if he’d heard of it…
*Ye oldy email to Legs, Clicky… /lights up… Shame my Sync Miss For Him shamble is now gone… /drags… but the MEROVEE comet is still alive…*
As a person who is accused of causing harm by a group that does nothing BUTcause it, all whilst wrapping themselves in the cloak of ‘harm reduction’, I’m just not prepared to demean myself by stooping to their level, becoming just like them…
Aikido (Japanese: 合気道Hepburn: aikidō) [aikiꜜdoː] is a modernJapanese martial art developed by Morihei Ueshiba as a synthesis of his martial studies, philosophy, and religious beliefs. Aikido is often translated as “the way of unifying (with) life energy” or as “the way of harmonious spirit”.
Ueshiba’s goal was to create an art that practitioners could use to defend themselves while also protecting their attacker from injury.
The Ki to harm reduction…
Well, Dear Reader, you could have knocked me down with a feather as I listened to the next John Lamb Lash talk, posted on Christmas Eve night, when he brought up the subject of Aikido!
‘Likewise, you can think of apposition as a technique of psychological warfare, like Aikido. It’s very similar to Aikido. The Aikido Master, who I had the opportunity to meet when I was in Japan… In Aikido, the Master uses the incoming force of the opponent to overcome the opponent. In a skillful way it’s a method of apposition, it’s not a method of direct body contact, direct opposition.
‘So Aikido uses the force of the attack to overcome the attacker. I’m showing you how to use the force of the attack on the Romay and Sophia coming from the Xenosh, to overcome and demolish the Xenosh.’
*Yeah… /taps ash… Lashy includes a hammer in there but I’m reminded of what my martial arts practicing osteopath told me when he fixed up my frozen shoulder that time, Clicky… /drags… I asked him about aikido and helping the opponent to the floor, and he replied, “The floor? The floor is fucking hard.” …Nice man, fixed me up a treat…*
The second pleasant surprise was to read the Christmas post at Twilight Language and find it linked to one of my Kubrick posts! I told Thoughtful Man that he’d seen the blog owner, Loren Coleman, on the telly…
*Yeah, I don’t think he believed me, Clicky… /final drag… Or he was too busy cooking dinner… /stubs butt…*
Pleasant surprise number three then, Dear Reader, was last night’s Christmas Doctor Who episode…
*/chortles… Feminists must of been fuming that the first thing the first female Doctor does is blow up the Tardis and then fall out of it… /lights up…*
Enjoy the rest of Boxing Day, Dear Reader… And have a Song ❤
Dear Reader, today the new/knew/gnu Who outfit was released to the world…
Apparel (n.) c. 1300, “fighting equipment or accouterments, armor, weapons;” mid-14c., “furnishings, trappings;” late 14c., “personal outfit, a person’s outer clothing, attire,” from Old French apareil “preparation, planning; dress, vestments,” from apareillier (see apparel (v.)). Middle English also had apparelment (late 14c.).
I AM the SynchroMiss planted on Earth, here to share my downloads, intel, and code-cracking, integrating the art of synchronicity as we transition to a higher state of consciousness and awareness.
