The Writer’s Block, part 3

On the ground floor

Princess Lucidity was not as alone as she would have liked as she burst through the double-doors leading out from the stairwell, laser pistol thrust forward in the grip of both hands. The unwelcome entourage she led included Jenny Everywhere, who had insisted on coming to the point that if the Princess had tried to use the Wand of Principality to stop her, she’d have “blown her damn hand off first”; Marieka the barbarian, who had likewise threatened to slit her throat (this time a little too close for comfort) and the other Jenny Everywhere from the second floor who had quite literally bumped into her on the stairs. It was quite understandable for her to be here, but the other two… they would never learn. It was no use reminding them about the healing nanites in her bloodstream or the two spare bodies in the basement if they tried anything. It was no use trying to point out she was risking her current one for their benefit. Their primitive minds could not grasp such basic common sense.

Briefly surveying the scene that lay before her as the antiquated overhead lights she’d switched on from behind the door reluctantly spat out their emissions one by one, Lucidity noticed that the door to the empty side-office behind reception was open ajar, its light already on, and with her peripheral vision just to say managed to see a flash of scarlet outside the front door to accompanied by the sound of a frantic rush of stiletto heels. Looking around, she had only just managed to see a couple of telltale bullet holes in the wall opposite the office before having to swiftly duck behind the door as several more rounds came flying, thankfully without much thought as to where they were aimed. Before anyone had any chance to say anything, a javelin sailed past, embedding itself in the reception desk. Typical of Marieka to act on base instinct- skewer first, ask questions later. She would be the death of them all one day. The temporary occupant of the office had nothing more to respond with but the frantic but the futile clicking of the trigger mechanism of an empty-chambered gun- clearly her twenty-first century mind was not much more evolved. Before she would even have chance to remove the empty magazine, Lucidity intervened with quick-fire reasoning.

“If you don’t mind… Miss Lastrange,” she said, careful to make sure she addressed her opponent with the correct assumed name to avoid further misgivings, “perhaps we could proceed without further violence? I’m sure the walls would prefer not to have any more holes in them before tomorrow.”

“Screw that,” whispered Marieka. “Let’s just kill the b-“

“Hold your tongue, cavewoman,” Princess Lucidity interrupted, “and let your betters do the talking. No-one asked for your input-“

A sharp prod in the small of Lucidity’s back was enough to put an end to any further scolding. The Princess would have preferred for Marieka to not press that particular point- metaphorically and literally- any further. It had rather hurt the last time. So perhaps it would be wisest to save her energies on Lady Deleval:

“Ahem… Miss Lastrange? If you don’t mind?”

A glimpse of head could be seen peeking around the open door, only to disappear again.

Meanwhile, on the third floor…

“Makie, dear, why not do us a favour and put the kettle on, or something? I know you’re scared but I’d rather have my arm back sometime tonight.” Megan’s words, however reassuring their tone, were largely wasted as the other girl’s vice-like grip held fast.

“B- but it’s not safe…” Makie whimpered… “and I need you… to protect me…”

“Don’t be daft girl,” Megan insisted. “I’m sure the others can manage it. You don’t think I’m not scared too? After all I’ve been through?”

“O- OK, Mejie…” Makie agreed with some reluctance, slightly relaxing her grip.

The room returned to its previous awkward silence for some moments, punctuated by the odd awkward glance.

It was finally broken by a gentle knock at the door, which promptly opened and in walked Alice.

“Hope you lot don’t mind me popping in for a brief while, you know… I’m afraid I couldn’t sleep with the awful racket downstairs…” She paused upon realising there were two very unfamiliar faces in the room looking at her.

“Sorry… new faces… hello… nice to meet you… I’m Alice, Alice Jane… I mean if I remembered you were coming, I’d…” She looked down at her clothing, feeling rather embarrassed at not being properly dressed.

“Hi,” said Mike, Mike Moheden, don’t know if you’ve heard of me…”

“Not everybody has,” Laura whispered to him in Lyniezian, before turning back to Alice. “‘Nisi, I’m Laura Mycarina,” she went on – her English, though clear, intoned with a strong Clochan accent – “and we shan’t be bothering you for long, Miss Alice. Don’t worry about us.”

That what she’d told them hadn’t sunk in was hardly any comfort to Makie, who was too troubled to say anything else. She was beginning to worry for Laura as much as herself. Proud Laura, didn’t she realise the danger she was in? That there would be no possible chance of escape?

In fact, nobody knew quite was to say, until Santa decided that after all this unpleasantness, the mood needed to be lightened somehow.

“I distinctly recall someone mentioned tea,” he boomed. “Would anyone fancy a cup?”

“Ra-ther,” added Arty. “Though since the cat’s away, you couldn’t perhaps sneak me a bottle of Brown, old chap? Strictly under the table? Please?”

“No trouble at all, my boy! I am the bringer of good things, am I not?”

“Erm… well, since I’m up…” said Alice, desperate not to be any more trouble. “Just the half a teaspoon though if you don’t mind, thanks. I’ll be needing the sleep sometime tonight.” She gingerly took a spare seat at the table. “Although if this commotion goes on…”

(Another half dozen shots and a crunch from downstairs could not have been worse timed for such words.)

“… I think I’d prefer a G&T instead!”

“Yes, er… please,” said Laura, trying to remember how English manners went. “If, as you say, it’s no trouble. I’d like the Simsonai yamen- sorry, Samson Extra Strong Blend, two spoonfuls, Lyniezian style without the milk, you know… and if you have any plum cake to go with it, I really haven’t eaten much all day…”

“Afraid we’ve only got biscuits,” Santa told her. “And tons of lebkuchen. Despite who I am, I wonder about the Author and why He seems so fond of the stuff…”

“I’m not sure what lebkuchen is, but I’ll try it, thank you,” Laura replied.

Mike was too busy thinking how much Alice reminded him of his Aunt Lucy, back when he was a boy, and she was 20 years younger. Even down to the way she spoke, the feigned ‘received pronunciation’ tone to hide her natural Yorkshire accent, and the way she was always flustered when trying hard to compose herself. She’d been like that at the funeral, the poor woman. Uncle George had only been 66…

A sharp elbow-jab in the ribs from Laura brought him back to reality.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” he said.

Meanwhile, on the ground floor…

“We can be here all night, Miss Lastrange,” Princess Lucidity shouted towards the half-open door.

The sound of clicking as one magazine was emptied and another loaded was the only reply.

“Or if you insist,” the Princess went on, “I can always vaporize that door you’re hiding behind. And possibly much of the wall. I don’t think it’s a supporting wall, thankfully for us. Which is it to be, Miss Lastrange?”

More clicking followed.

“Or perhaps it’s Lady Delaval?”

After a pause, came a reply:

“Lady Delaval, madam, is dead. As will you be, unless I see weapons on the ground and hands on heads.”

Princess Lucidity laughed a haughty laugh. “I do think we rather have the advantage, milady,” she exclaimed.

“Perhaps one of us could try, Your Highness?” asked one of the Jenny Everywheres, the one that wasn’t dressed.
“I appreciate the offer, but I think I can handle this,”

“She does have a point,” piped up the other Jenny. “Perhaps a change of tack?”

“I’ve got several points and I wanna shove them all into Princess Thunder-Thighs there…”

A deft half-turn from ‘Princess Thunder-Thighs’ followed and Marieka found a sharp jolt of lightning sending her collapsing helpless to the floor.

“I did tell you not to call me that again,” Princess Lucidity exclaimed, neck craned round to face the fallen barbarian. “And I told you what would happen!”

“And I’ll… do it… again…” moaned Marieka, half-insensible.

As they were arguing amongst themselves, they barely noticed the sound of heels clattering across tarmac, followed by a car door slamming and the vehicle it was attached to madly screeching away. The Princess turned towards the front door and saw its tail-lights flash as it turned the corner out of sight. A faint smile appeared in the corner of her mouth. She’ll be back, she thought. In, let’s see, about thirty seconds? And then the fun really begins…

In the basement…

“Ak!” said a small, wizened looking figure which had just entered through a door from what would otherwise have been the boiler-room, half-dragging a taller, cloak-wrapped figure behind it. “Gakarit sogmoth! This not Mekkrit home! Tokgrotrit merat… strange magic! All over valley, hyoomahn! Not know where Mekkrit is, one night! Mekkrit drive mad soon! Come on, come on, stupid hyoomahn…”

“Oh, let me sit down, foul creature!” moaned the cloak-wrapped figure. “Let me sit down and rest a while…”

“Stupid hyoomahn! Not let yeggrahtik eat you, Mekkrit will not! Is right behind you! Hurry, Mekkrit close door!”

The cloak-wrapped figure, none the wiser about the complete lack of danger she and the goblin were in fact in, shuffled through as the goblin scurried and closed the door against the warm, droning metal behemoth that lay beyond. In front of them, a faint glow from a mysterious, magical set of lights shining down from the ceiling shone down onto a tiled floor and walls, the walls somewhat shinier than the floor, and beyond a low wall, dull silvery pipes with strange knobs and other things attached to them were attached to an outer wall. Along the other walls ran slatted wooden benches and a row of metal hooks, some of which had damp, skimpy-looking garments and some other pieces of material hanging from them, attached to a wooden rack. Doors could be seen in several of the walls. None of this mattered to the cloak-wrapped figure, who collapsed onto the floor, rested her back uncomfortably up against one of the wooden benches, and proceeded to catch her breath.

Several loud noises could be heard from above, sending the goblin scurrying under one of the benches in fear of her life. The cloak-wrapped figure pulled her hood over her ears, hands clasped around her head, hoping the nightmare would soon end.

On the third floor…

“So, Alice,” Megan asked, hoping it would lighten the mood, “how’d your little excursion into the woods go? Get any nice shots?”

“Oh, definitely! I took several red squirrels, a couple of woodpeckers, and – I kid you not- a most unusual thing! An actual, real live herd of mammoths! Would you believe it! All the worlds they’re extinct in…”

“Howsh other-Jennee?” slurred Makie, one arm still gripping in vice-like fashion to an ever-reluctant Megan’s arm, the other slamming the glass which had held her fourth gin and tonic down onto the formica-surface of the table, which wobbled on its thin metal legs under the sudden pressure.

“Other-Jenny is doing fine, Miss Marieka,” Alice said, using Makie’s proper name as was her custom. “Well, tired and frustrated really, but who can blame her, I suppose.”

“Please forgive me If I’m losing my hearing, or if my English is a bit… rusty, as you say over there, but did you actually say mammoths?” asked Laura, who was privately wondering just how much of a madhouse this building was. “I thought they were extinct, in the real world…”

“She won’t belieeeeve you,” Makie half-sang. “Gizza notha glass, willya pleeese…”

Alice reluctantly poured her a fifth, frowning.

“You’ve had enough,” Megan scolded, tugging on her arm.

“No I haven’t! Way no!” sang Makie.

Alice drained her own, before turning to Laura in an attempt at explaining:

“Well, I suppose they are, though it depends on which world you mean, and what you mean by real. I mean, I’m sure Jenny- my Jenny, that is- you’ll meet them both soon enough I’m sure- will tell you all about the dimensions and probabilities and quantum thingummy-doodahs. But there are, as far as I can remember, an infinite number of possible worlds. Everything it’s possible for her blessed Author- or should I say cursed- to imagine!”

“I was under the impression there was just the one,” Laura replied.

“Well if you don’t believe me, just wait until I develop the prints tomorrow and see if you believe me! The camera never lies! Which, strictly isn’t entirely true, but then, I don’t do celebrity photoshoots, so mine doesn’t. So there.”

“I really must cut back on my work schedule,” Laura said in Lyniezian, turning to Mike. “Or see that psycho-specialist old Doctor Menai keeps telling me I should see about my ‘work stress’. I could swear either this place is insane, or I am.”

“Seems real enough to me,” is all Mike could reply, before taking a swig from his ale-bottle.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you! Some friend you are!”

“Ey! Mikey-boy! Whenya done, do us ‘Across the Distance’!” yelled Makie.

Mike, taken aback, looked across at the small, drunken, colourfully-attired girl sat opposite him, turned back to Laura and whispered:

“Actually, you’re completely right. The place is stark raving bonkers.”

The pair could barely contain a mutual fit of laughter.

Outside, the squealing of tyres and the roar of an engine could be heard as a car sped off into the night.

Moments later, the same noise could be heard, this time getting closer.

Everybody, besides Makie who had collapsed face-first onto the table, rushed over to the window to see the commotion…

The Writer’s Block, or, Where My Characters Go when the Story is Not Finished; A Self-Parody (part 2)

Finally, the long overdue second part, which I have no excuse not to have uploaded by now.

For Jenny Everywhere rights, see part 1.

Warning for occasional swear words and comedic threats of violence. Nothing nasty actually happens, though…

On the ground floor

Mystique Lastrange knew something was amiss with the room she had just entered into. Of course, this floor of the M.J.T. was being refurbished, so what a suite of rooms might otherwise look like differed greatly in appearance to what lay before her- a small, unfurnished, plain looking room with metal blinds drawn against the window- but it certainly did not look like this. Keeping her pistol drawn and cocked ready in one hand, she tentatively poked at the blinds for some hopeful indication she hadn’t suddenly disappeared into some Backrooms-esque hellhole of urban legend. The darkness which lay beyond did little to ease her mind. Turning cautiously around, gun pointed in front of her at all times, she noticed that even the door out of the room didn’t look like the one she’d come through- a plain wooden construction with a wire mesh glass panel up top and an old-fashioned mechanical lock instead of the keycard-operated electronic sort the original door had been. What appeared to be some sort of open foyer could be seen through the panel, but not much could be discerned in the dull ambient light which lit the space. Instinct immediately pushed Mystique to make herself well-hidden and, though her current attire wasn’t exactly suited to comfortable crouching, she ducked out of sight of whoever might enter the foyer.

Sitting down on the ground, she shed the wide-brimmed hat and high-heeled shoes she had been wearing, the better to appear undetected. She resisted the urge to tear her tight-fitting dress to allow for greater freedom of movement, lest the sound draw attention. Changing into her getaway clothes would probably make things easier on that score, but the time it took would leave her defenceless and that certainly wouldn’t do. Mystique jolly well intended to live every single minute of every day that it took to see her plans come to fruition. Making as little noise as she could, she shimmied up towards the door handle on her knees, and slowly pulled on the handle with her free hand, opening the door ajar and peering into the semi-darkness beyond. A loud clatter, which she only too late realised was coming from the outer door, startled her and she fired two shots blindly… fortunately for the door and whoever was behind it, both ended up embedded in the walls opposite, sending splinters of wood panelling flying.
The clattering on the door was replaced by a momentary “Bugger!” in a voice that sounded oddly familiar as a flash of scarlet illuminated by the glare of a pair of car headlights could be briefly seen as, with the frantic clomping of heels on concrete, whoever it was scurried for cover.

Moments later, there followed a clattering of more footsteps and a sputtering from above as the foyer was filled with light…

Meanwhile, on the second floor…

“Please stop tossing and turning will you, Alice?” asked Jenny in soporific frustration. “I’d really rather just get some sleep after that long trek.”

“I’m sorry, darling, I just can’t,” Alice replied. “It’s that lot and their constant bickering upstairs. How’s anyone supposed to sleep with that?”

“Just block it out, dear, I always do…”

The sound of gunfire from below put paid to any chance of peace and quiet the two ladies might have hoped for. Two shots, coming from somewhere near the entrance lobby and barely muffled by the intervening floors and ceilings, followed shortly after by the noises of clattering doors and a rush of footsteps coming through from the floor above.

“O holy mother goddess, grant us strength,” Jenny moaned, before dragging off the covers and tumbling out of bed. Alice followed suit.

“O divine one, please forgive the impertinence of Thy servant Jenny,” muttered Alice. “Grant us Thy nurturing strength. Blessed Athena, do Thou also grant us Thy favour, Thy wisdom and protection…”

“Might have known you’d take the gods seriously,” Jenny interjected. “Not like they’re actually bloody listening…”

“How do you know?”

“Well it’s all down to the bloody Author isn’t it, cursed be His name. If He chooses to write it it’ll happen. Nothing your goddesses will do to change that…”

“How do you know the Author really exists? This whole setup we’re living in could be just one more elaborate ruse by that Jenny Nowhere…”

“Let’s just get dressed and get this over with, shall we?” Jenny said with an air of finality, as she hastily yanked her jacket on over her nightie, wrapped a gunbelt around her waist, shoved her feet into a pair of slippers, and made for the door, not bothering with any trademark accessories. “You coming with, or..?”

“I think I’d better go upstairs and see about the others,” Alice replied. “I’m not sure all this Wild West business is good for the constitution. I’d much sooner stay in one piece.”

“Suit yourself.”

Alice pulled on a dressing-gown and slippers, and as Jenny left for the door, turned on the light and quickly checked herself over in the makeup mirror she kept by the bed, trying her best to get her hair straight before she left the room. No use in dying looking a mess, she joked to herself mentally. With the others doing their best to deal with whatever was downstairs, she supposed she could afford to take a little time. What was the worst that could happen when you’re already living in a building full of Amazons, adventurers and psychopathic killers?

Previously, on the third floor…

The door finally opened and in walked Makie, Arty, Laura and Mike, the latter not sure what to expect but with a look of trepidation on both their faces.

“Ah, little Miss Makie has arrived at long last, with our new arrivals I see,” Princess Lucidity said haughtily, doing her best to look regal and imposing. (Which, given her size, wasn’t that hard.) “Darling, aren’t you going to introduce them properly?”

“Don’t bother, we all know who you are,” retorted Marieka, fumbling with the ring on a can of lager.

“That will be enough, hussy,” scolded the Princess. “Manners are manners.”

“One day I’ll show you where you can stick yer manners, yer big green haired cunt,” the barbarian muttered, half to herself.

Makie rolled her eyes. Here we go again, she thought. Can’t be gone two minutes…

“Arty, if you’d be so kind,” Lucidity went on.

“Ah, erm… Your Highness, may I present Miss Laura Mycarina and Mr. Michael Moheden. Erm… my friends, may I present Her Highness, Princess Lucidity Morningstar, First Lady of Eta Carinae Prime.”

“Erm… hello… much obliged, your highness,” replied Laura, not quite sure how to address a Princess. Especially one that looked like her. “I’m not supposed to curtsey or anything am I?”

“I’m not Queen Victoria, you know,” Lucidity replied. “You’re about a thousand years late for all that antiquated nonsense, darling. Oh, and call me Lucidity… everybody else does.” Lucidity’s gaze fell in steely manner upon Mike, who was trying his best not to appear intimidated. There was something about the woman which had a profound effect on his nerves.

“Evening, min yensa,” he said, curtly.

The doorbell rang. Moments later, so did several gunshots.

“Ah, that’ll be the next new guests,” Lucidity went on. “The damned elusive Delaval and herself. I’ll deal with this one if you don’t mind. Alone.”

The Writer’s Block, or, Where My Characters Go when the Story is Not Finished; A Self-Parody (part 1)

The character of Jenny Everywhere is available for use by anyone, with only one condition. This paragraph must be included in any publication involving Jenny Everywhere, in order that others may use this property as they wish. All rights reversed.
All references to other works, which remain copyright of their respective rights-holders, are meant for the sake of affectionate parody only.

Author’s note: I guess it was time to update this blog sooner than later. This is something I’d been working on for a while, and is basically “what it says on the tin”: largely a parody of my inability to get stories finished, as well as perhaps some sort of character-buliding exercise. Or maybe just an excuse for the usual silliness.

“I could have sworn she said the third exit,” exclaimed Laura, trying hard not to admit that she had precisely no idea how she had managed to reach the mysterious, dimly lit, uninspiring looking grey concrete building standing before them.

“It was definitely fourth,” replied Mike, matter-of-factedly.

“I distinctly remember hearing third. Third exit from Jaina Mycarina’s Roundabout onto Mission Street then…”

“Mission Street’s the other way, going south towards Litmen, though, I should know, that’s where the Saviour’s Mission that Mama goes to every Sun-“

“Oh, why is it always you who has to be right, eh?”

Mike said nothing. She was clearly in one of those moods, and it would do no good to contradict. Silence reigned, and as Uncle George would have said when he was still alive, they all got wet. Or at least they would have, but Mensen 134s, unusually stylish as they were for Lyniezian cars, lacked a convertible option. Notwithstanding, the actual weather outside, as he observed when idly looking out of the window until the woman by his side had finally cooled off somewhat, showed no signs of raining.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going in there to ask for directions,” Laura eventually insisted. “There must be someone still working or whatever they do in there. Truth be told, what is this place, anyway?”

It was, indeed, not at all clear what function the building served. One might assume some kind of office block, or special school, or maybe a telephone exchange, or even flats, but its presence was entirely unexplainable. Neither of them, despite living in the city all their lives, had any recollection of it ever having been there- though that was hardly unusual. It was a maze of streets, which came and went as the next phase of redevelopment bulldozed through, leaving the familiar patterns of childhood changed beyond recognition. What was for sure, the surroundings- an un-Lynieizianly large, even more dimly lit car park, surrounded on all sides by a shadowy, impenetrable thicket, rustling ominously in the breeze, was no help in discerning where they were.

Laura pushed the driver’s-side door open against the still-blowing wind and got out of the car, ready to brave the elements once more. Mike soon followed her as she clomped with determination across the worn, chipped tarmac over to what appeared to be the front entrance to the building, preceded by several concrete steps with a metal handrail attached. Next to the door lay a small brass plaque in which the English words “WRITER’S BLOCK” could be just about made out when Laura had shifted her body to one side enough to allow the dim glow of the car headlights to illuminate them. (The lack of a Lyniezian translation was slightly jarring.) Something that looked like an entrance lobby and reception desk lay beyond, but it was dark and empty. Nevertheless, she proceeded to rap on the door and shout “Is anyone there?”

“You might want to try the bell,” piped up Mike’s voice from behind, as he attempted to motion to a laminated note with “For attention, please ring” written on it just above a doorbell-button.

“As if I hadn’t thought of that,” Laura scolded back, once more unwilling to admit her error. Proceeding to do what had been suggested, however, yielded no further result. The lobby was as dark and empty as it was before.

“Well, that’s that out,” she went on, and with hand thrust back into her coat pockets, she pivotted on her heels and made back for the car.

No sooner had she began to do so than light appeared from behind and a dozen locks clicked open. Turning back, she noticed a small, blue-haired girl, probably about eighteen or nineteen years old, wearing a bizarre assortment of clothing in colours so bright and clashing that even in this light, Laura thought her eyes might bleed. Orange T-shirt, purple jacket, green skirt, purple and yellow striped hose… turquoise lipstick? She wasn’t quite sure this was what the hip-and-happening youth of today were wearing right now (which was certainly not much worse) but what she was sure about was that that girl lacked any sense of colour co-ordination whatsoever. As crazy as she might have got in her roughly week-long punk rocker phase back in the day…

“Eh… are you Laura Mycarina and Mike Moheden?” asked the girl in a heavy Tymena-sounding accent, interrupting Laura’s thoughts.

“Excuse me?” asked Laura, not sure what the hell to make of the situation.

“How do you know who we are? I mean, if you’re a fan…” said Mike.

“Maybe you should let me do the talking,” interjected Laura who seemed determined to do things her way tonight. Turning back to the girl she insisted: “I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding, min tansa, we only came to ask for directions back to-“

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said the girl.

“Why not? I suppose you don’t know the city, right?” replied Laura, getting somewhat annoyed.

“It’s… not quite like that?” said the girl.

“Which means what, exactly?”

“There… well… isn’t any city?”

“What do you mean, isn’t any city? We’ve just been driving round it for the past half hour! Now either you stop playing this silly game missy, and actually help me out here, or I’m leaving…”

“You can’t.”

“And who’s going to stop me? You? I’ve had a very long and awkward day and all I really want now is to relax at home with a glass of wine and the late movie on TV2. And by the gods am I going to…”

“Well you can try…” interrupted the girl, surpressing a giggle.

“How’d you mean?”

“I mean drive all the way down there,” the girl went on, gesturing down the driveway, “and you’ll just end up back where you started. Once you get in, you can’t get out.”

“That’s impossible!” shouted Laura. “You tell her, Mike!”

“Oh, now I’m allowed to say some-” Mike tried to scold before Laura gave him The Look. The one you didn’t argue with. So he tried his best with the girl:

“Well I mean surely if we came in one way we should at least be able to come back, right?” What goes in must come out…”

“Not round here it doesn’t, not unless The Author wills it, cursed be His Name.”

“The Author? You mean, like God? I’m not sure I believe in God anymore, Miss…”

“Makie. Well, Marieka if you must. Not exactly God, I mean, we’re more like characters in a story. The Author built this place with his mind to send all the characters from stories he hasn’t bothered to finish yet. Hence the Writer’s Block. Kind of funny if you say it in English…” Makie released her suppressed giggle into fits of laughter.

“I suppose you think this is all one big joke do you, Miss Makie?” asked Laura, still in no mood to believe anything that contradicted the normal order of reality, let alone hindered her ardent desire to salvage some sort of enjoyment from her ruined evening. “Excuse me if some of us aren’t laughing.”

Trying hard to control herself, Makie eventually went on:

“I think you’d better come inside for a bit and have something to drink, come and meet the others, and we can discuss stuff in there. I’d rather not stand out here in this weather.”

“Might as well,” said Mike. “I mean now we’re here…”

“Oh, go on then,” said a resigned Laura. “Maybe we can get some sense out of somebody.”

The three walked through the door, which Makie closed and locked behind them, an elaborate procedure involving two keyholes, several bolts and a chain, “just to stop the door from rattling as that’s kinda annoying,” as she explained it. The entrance lobby which greeted them, a utilitarian but vaguely seventies-style affair with wood-panelled walls and dark grey carpet underfoot, housing a plain wooden desk atop which sat little more than a telephone at one end (one of those modern push-button affairs), a bell with accompanying “Please ring for attention” (again, oddly, just in English) at the other and an open visitor’s book with accompanying pen which Makie gestured to.

“Don’t forget to sign in,” she told them. “Doesn’t really matter but Her Highness insists on it.”

“Her what? I thought you were Lyniezian?” asked Mike, whose turn it was to be annoyed. “You shouldn’t have to bow and scrape before royalty you know…”

“Don’t ask,” was all the reply. “Oh, and you don’t need to put the time down, it has no meaning in here. If you don’t mind I have to make the damned call upstairs…” Makie picked up the phone and began to dial.

“You first or me?” asked Mike.

“I don’t see why we’re even doing this but since we’re here… well, I don’t know who ‘Her Highness’ is but if this were my work I’d be insisting on nothing less from our receptionist. Can’t have the Safety Office coming down on us like a ten ton truck next audit…” Laura said as she printed her name, scrawled her signature and, as if to echo her point, checked her brand new digital watch and noted the precise time, contrary to suggestion. Mike quickly scrawled in a signature whilst Makie finished talking to whatever person was on the other end of the phone.

“All done?” she asked. The others nodded. “Don’t forget you can check out any time, but you can never leave.” Looking at Mike, she added, “Loved the cover by the way. That guitar solo was a-ma-zing.”

“Thought you were a fan.”

“For real! Both of you, actually… well, the other you. Starship Trooper was one of the best ’80s bands out there…”

“But we’ve never been in a band together since high school!” insisted Laura. “And I mean we were only called that for a couple of months, when was it…”

“Around that time we took the trip to England? The one with no waterfalls and the kissing gate…”

“Could have sworn it was before then. You and your brother and that damned Yes song… and… Makie? Your world? Don’t tell me we’ve not just gone on some magical trip but we’re into parallel universes as well? Have I stepped into a sci-fi magazine?”

“Not exactly, but yeah. I’ll explain it when we’ve got upstairs.” Before going anywhere, Makie reached into a drawer under the desk and pulled out some booklets. Handing them to Mike and Laura, she told them, “Don’t forget to take a guidebook. It’ll help make sense of this madhouse.” Laura was unsure it would, and besides, she didn’t plan on staying long enough to read it. If she wasn’t back in her own bed by midnight, sleeping alone or not, she’d be damned.

“So,” Mike asked as the two followed Makie’s lead through a set of double doors and up a flight of stairs, “you said we were an ’80s band in your world… does that mean time travel too? How successful will we have been?”
“Don’t encourage her,” muttered Laura through clenched teeth.

Neither of them had bothered to care less that Makie had not bothered to turn any additional lights on and was lighting the way with a torch.

“Time travel, parallel universes, you name it. She’s right. I mean we’ve got a space princess, an amazon warrior, and a pan-dimensional being who wears goggles and a scarf for starters. And the actual, honest-to-gods Santa Claus…”

“Whatever Santa Claus is,” muttered Laura, largely to herself.

“And for real, you guys were huge. Well, will… have… would… you know. it’s actually weird to see you two when you’re still so young. Didn’t know Laura was so pretty in real life too…”

Laura was a bit confused as to why that kind of attention was somehow foisted upon her. She recalled back in her youth the girl fans of their band were mostly giving that kind of attention to Mike (not that he paid attention) or more likely, his brother. If anything, in the already awkward circumstances, it made her a little creeped out and ready to say such rash things as:

“Please, please don’t tell me you’re a…”

“What, lesbian? Yeah. Forgot you lot were all trogs back in the ’80s as well,” Makie retorted with more than a hint of annoyance in her voice. “Oh, don’t mention it in front of the others, either, Mejie might not be too happy…”

“It’s alright, I mean… I don’t mind,” insisted Laura, trying to save face. “Whatever turns you on…”

Trying not to be fazed by Laura’s casual bigotry, Makie went on trying to explain things. “We’ll be going up to the top floor, left and down the corridor. Just before we do, don’t argue with the space princess, don’t piss off the amazon, and whatever you do stay out of room 33.”

“What’s so bad about room 33?” asked Laura.

“More like who. Come on.”

“Just don’t expect me to be obsequious,” insisted Mike.

“You could try putting the revolution on hold just for half an hour, you know,” Laura cut back, trying to lighten the mood.

“The revolution doesn’t take tea breaks,” Mike replied.

With such banter provoking a twinge of nostalgia for happier times, it seemed to Laura, in spite of everything else, there might just be hope yet.

---

“Oi! Hearts are trumps if you don’t mind! I win this one!” yelled Jenny.

“Actually, I think you’ll find that wands are trumps,” replied Princess Lucidity in regal tone, well-trimmed red fingernails tapping rhythmically on a silver bejewelled rod placed before her on the table. None of them particularly needed to be reminded of its function.

“I’ll bet my friends Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson would remind you we’re playing German whist, not tarot,” retorted Jenny, her casual tone belying the obvious threat.

“Oh, Holy Zarquon’s singing bloody fish!” yelled an exasperated Santa. “Perhaps I should fetch some cowboy hats from my sack, if you want to pretend you’re in a smegging Western movie!”

“Keep your heads on Zaphod,” said Jenny. “Just trying to remind Her High and Mightyness there she doesn’t have a monopoly on violence.”

“She hardly needs reminding of that,” Marieka of the Clan Renavam pointed out nonchalantly, before taking a hearty swig of ale and wiping the excess from her chin. “One well aimed javelin will see to that.”

Princess Lucidity scowled at her haughtily. “Never mind that! Where is that girl? Are three flights of stairs too much for you primitives?”

“What the fuck Lucidity?” Megan yelled at the Princess, holding back sudden tears of rage. “Call our Makie primitive one more time and-” A gentle nudge by Jenny quietened her down.

Arty, looking intently at his cards, pretended to ignore the commotion. “I fold,” he said, laying his hand face up on the table.

“As if I need reminding we are playing whist, and not poker,” Lucidity pointed out. “Since you don’t even know how to play cards, boy, go fetch,” she commanded.

Arty at once got up and made for the door, not wanting 10,000 volts of extra encouragement. He closed it behind him and fumbled for the light switch. One by one, the geriatric flourescent lights buzzed and sputtered to what passed for life along the length of the corridor, startling the three figures making their way along it who had been content with Makie’s torchlight augmenting whatever ambient light came through from the glass in the doors of assorted darkened rooms. Makie, in particular, made a small jump and muttered “Not again” half to herself.

“Oh, you’re here,” Arty told them. “Name’s Arty… Arthur Michaelson,” he said, proffering a hand to Mike, not being prepared for the strength of the handshake with which he was returned. “Mike Moheden, right? Heard all about you. Musician, right?”

“Right,” Mike replied, just noticing this was the first time he’d spoken English all night, hoping his faint twinge of a Clochan accent wasn’t too much for the posh-voiced, lanky-looking English fellow who’d made his aquaintance. “I don’t suppose you want my autograph do you? Seeing as I was a bit well known round these parts, once upon a time…”

“Before his differences with the record company,” noted Laura.

“A true artist needs creative freedom,” Mike explained. “Especially from the bourgeois money-grubbing pigs at Teledai.” He made a face at Laura, so as to say ‘so there’.

“The revolution doesn’t take tea breaks, you see,” Laura added. “Nor does Mike’s inner child.”

“Anyway, old boy… Madam, er, Miss, er min y-“

“Laura will do,” was Laura’s curt response.

“…Laura,” Arty went on, “the others are getting impatient. Especially…” (a note of trepidation arose in his voice) “…the other half.”

“That’s the space princess,” Makie whispered to Mike and Laura. “Her name’s Lucidity. Try to humour her but don’t let her scare you, ‘right? The revolution can, y’know, at least take a beer break can’t it? There’s plenty in the fridge by the way…”

“I don’t plan to drink and drive, you know,” said Laura. “Got any Samson’s? Could do with a good strong cuppa.”

The Delaval Dilemma, rough part 1

Here’s another silly “Imperialist Lyniezia” related story for the writing group I started working on a few weeks ago. It’ll possibly do with some tweaking before I try to finish it! By the way, the protagonist is the same character as “Mystique Lastrange” in “An unfinished Megan story”. Based on prompts provided by Joan Opie.

Miss Blondine Scarlett (or so she was calling herself at the moment) had finished dressing and, looking her reflection up and down in the full-length mirror, just knew she looked stunning in the current iteration of her latest signature look, comprising a bright red tea dress, matching hat, gloves, shoes and (of course) lipstick. It would be sure to turn heads, not only of passing Lyniezians in their dreary casual attire, but also of the guests of the Tymena Gentlewomens’ Society’s monthly Afternoon Tea. At least, those of ladies from the other world: demure ‘English roses’ in their pretty floral attire or elderly grande dames quietly tut-tutting their disapproval to one another. They’d been indoctrinated to cloak themselves in mock humility; beauty was a duty and “modesty” a virtue, no doubt in deference to their lords and masters: the dominant male. Her own people, of course, would recognise and appreciate the effort, even though she hoped not too many would recognise her. At least, not openly, anyway.

As much as she looked the part, though, she wasn’t sure she felt it. An uncomfortable feeling of nausea, which had been churning around in her stomach all morning, lurched up and threatened to erupt. Barely digested remnants of scones and cucumber sandwiches would not be a welcome addition to her ensemble, nor to the pristine carpets of the two Misses Lancaster, her hostesses. Though outwardly the epitome of the ‘English rose’, as immaculate in their manners and virtue as in their appearance, Miss Scarlett knew full well that every rose had its thorns. Handle them carefully, lest you be pricked.

Even with that in mind, she decided she simply had to go. Not only because it was one of the few occasions in this Goddess-forsaken country where she could be amongst people of the better sort, where for once she could almost pretend to be who she really was, but also because it was a good place for intelligence-gathering. Beneath their elegant facade, the ladies of the Society were survivors, those who had lived through conquest and ignominy, yet learned how to make their way in this strange new world. One way or another they had found their way into positions of some importance, and the connections they provided were invaluable. Every idle word, every morsel of gossip, might yield valuable information to further her great agenda. Besides, though there were many thing she was not looking forward to in the upcoming gathering, they were too trifling to daunt her. Her discomfort- she was sure of it- must be something physical, not psychological. She must have a quiet word with a certain good doctor… tomorrow, perhaps. A couple of tablets from the medicine cabinet would have to do for now.

En route to the front door, Miss Scarlett glanced through the glass door into the living room and could not help but notice that a certain picture was hanging at a rather awkward angle. It was the reproduction portrait of Queen Moriana Renavam II dressed in warrior garb, one of the few figures of Lyniezian history Miss Scarlett deemed worthy of admiration. It guarded a secret safe, which held important family treasures from the old world, and if the picture had been disturbed, something was very amiss. As such, the only course of action was to detour into the living room and, with the windows set to translucent, remove the picture and check the contents of the safe. The furious honking from the taxi waiting outside would not deter her. She found almost everything in its place: gilt-framed photographs of long dead relatives; a broken statuette of Bellerophon riding Pegasus which had been a childhood favourite; and a jewellry-box meant to contain, amongst various decorative pieces her mother and grandmother had collected over the years, the all-important signet ring which was proof of her true identity, once a symbol of power that had been handed from mother to daughter for over a century. However, much to her horror, the ring was missing. The feeling which came over her did not bode well to her flagging constitution, and the condition of her stomach which might let rip at any moment. It took some moments for her to compose herself, both physically and mentally, before retracing her steps to the door and relieving the taxi-driver of his impertinent impatience. Whoever was responsible (Myria, the new cleaner, perhaps?) would have to be dealt with later. Preferably with a very sharp knife.

To be continued…

It was another Dark and Stormy Night: A Travesty only the Author will Understand (with Added Annotations so the Reader Can)

[Notice: The character of Jenny Everywhere etc. etc. blah blah crap you know the drill.]ⁱ

[Content warning: violence, swearing, mild sex references, lots of incomprehensible in-jokes and general stupidity.]

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain beat down hard against the window and the wind howled like a demented wolf-bat. In the distance, lightning flashed and the thunder roared in response, as if Zeus and Thor were engaged in an epic turf battle to decide who exactly was going to be thunder god on this bit of this otherwise god-forsaken planet. In the midst of this sat Arthur Michaelson, sat at his typewriter yet again, looking out the window wondering if yet another damned tree would collapse over the power lines to his house and cut his work short for the night.ⁱⁱ It was more interesting, he supposed, than the drivel currently staining the scroll in front of him. It was different from the usual even worse drivel he’d normally write about nubile young space princesses brandishing laser swords, trying to rescue their hapless beaux from some green-skinned femme fatale from the planet Zog’chandra, who was trying to lure him in with her feminine wiles in order to eat him alive when he least suspected it.ⁱⁱⁱ (That, or something very similar that would keep the punters happy.) No, this was supposed to be about an ordinary girl happening upon and ordinary guy in some railway station back on old Earth, hoping to rekindle the spark that had lain dormant for the past ten years since they had been childhood sweethearts or some such. Sentimental mush. But somehow he couldn’t get it quite right. Needs must, he decided to at least look down on the drivel he had written before the lights went out and he’d have to go to bed and dream about his dead wife and why he couldn’t save her all over again. This is that drivel.

***

Laura waited impatiently as the station tannoy announced that the 18:45 to Menaasa would be delayed for another four hours due to the wrong type of leaves on the line. Damn it, the wind was in danger of messing up her perfectly teased hair that had taken enough hairspray to burn a hole in the ozone layer all by itself and it was insufferable. She was too tired from seeing her- ahem – “clients” all day and it was blatantly insufferable that she couldn’t make a few bucks more. She tapped her 6-inch heels nervously against the concrete floor of the platform. Damn these railway strikers complaining that the timetables had worked out to their dissatisfaction! Didn’t they think of the ordinary passenger and their needs which she just had to satisfy? It was such a nuisance that she barely noticed the noise of someone- or someones- materialising next to her with a loud “SHIFT!” noise. One of those someones, someone who probably would have very vaguely resembled KT Tunstall (if she’d had her hair cut really short, just so happened to be wearing aviation goggles and purple-and-yellow-striped scarf, and wasn’t Scottish^iv) if Laura had known who the hell KT Tunstall was since it was the ’80s, accompanied by a moody-looking, tomboyish teenage girl wearing a baseball cap and hoodie that looked ever so anachronistic. The first of the “someones” crept up behind Laura, tapped her on the shoulder and muttered in her ear “Hiya Lozza, how’s it hangin’ minliena?”

Laura stumbled and tripped over. “Totally bitchin’,” she exclaimed. She got up and dusted herself off. “Ah, Jenny, it’s you. What the hell are you doing in my story? I’m supposed to be moping and internally whinging all to myself. Kindly leave me be.”

“Nice to see you too, Laura. But what exactly are you doing here?”

The moody-looking teenage girl nudged Jenny in the ribs and said: “What exactly are we doing in Clochan North Station? Not exactly somewhere for an exciting adventure is it? Unless you were planning on hooking me up with-“

“Give it a rest Megan, we’re only getting started. This here is the Eighties. Time to savour the big hair and the sweet synthesizer music.”

Laura, unfazed, carried on.

“What does it look like? Me, a lone woman stood on a deserted station platform, all dolled up and nowhere to go? Obviously I’m a prostitute. Not some random career girl, like maybe an estate agent or something, just desperate to see their sister or something.”^v

“Last I saw you were a bright young college girl with a future ahead of her. What happened?”

“Oh, a bad break-up, this led to that, now I’m just happy to screw anyone for the money. Shit happens, you know?”

“Err… no?”

“Well you wouldn’t would you? Were this written in a short story I would see it condemned as an improbable fiction. By the way, if your young friend wants to couchez avec moi ce soir, I can do her for $50. Mates’ rates.”

“How about that guy over there? Isn’t that Mike Moheden the rock star?”

“Meh, he had his chance ten years ago. Besides, me crossing that bridge in these heels? Do you want me to kill myself?”

“Err…. no?” asked Jenny sarcastically. “Why don’t you wave your arms at him maniacally or something? Let him come to you?”

“Err… ’cause he’s all plugged in?”

At that moment, Mike was dead to the world, trying desperately to listen to his tape of the band New Horizons which was named for some card that let you enchant lands so you could tap them to add 2 mana of any colour to your mana pool, wishing their attractive lead singer Mena Tenazi was moaning with pleasure in her beautiful alto voice and running her fingers all over his body as deftly as she was the Juno 60 she was playing, all whilst clutching his precious guitar tightly to his chest.

Megan nudged Jenny again. “You know what else would make this scene totally complete?”

Just then a wormhole opened up above the track and something dressed in camos plopped out of it, screaming with a rough Yorkshire accent and shouting “Ooof! Whoever did that’s getting a bloody frag enema!”

“What did I say about speaking of the devil?” exclaimed Jenny loudly.

“How very cliché,” remarked Laura, yawning with boredom and pulling out a fan from her overnight bag for dramatic effect. “What are we getting next? A tap-dancing robot girl?”^vi

The thing pulled herself up off the tracks, dusted herself off and lifted herself up onto the southbound platform. “Sorry I’m late to the party, chucks. You’ve not by chance got owt to blow up?”

“You could try the picket line outside,” remarked Laura nonchalantly. “Or Mr. Walkman over there.”

There was a distant sound coming over the wind from outside the station entrance, of one female and several male voices having an awkward argument, followed by a bloodcurdling battle-cry and the sound of metal slicing through flesh and crunching bone.

“Looks like someone beat me to t’first one,” replied Mary, for it was she, the mad bomber of deepest, darkest Yorkshire.^vii

In walked a rough-looking woman, greasy hair fastened back into a braided bun, wearing nothing but furs, leather boots, a backpack and more spears and javelins than it seemed humanly possible to carry, bloodied longsword in one hand, can of Tymena Dark Mild in the other. “Ey. Name’s Marieka of the Clan Renavam. Youse dunno if there’s anywhere to get any more booze?”^viii

“Oi! No outside drinks!” called a voice (from a door behind them marked “Refreshment Lounge”) in broad Clochan Lyniezian. “If you want to get a cuppa Samson’s Extra Strong Tea, I’ve had no bloody customers all day and I’m getting sick of it, so feel free to step in!”

Mary tossed a grenade into the aforementioned doorway, which exploded with a satisfying “BANG!”

“Did anyone have a clue what she was on about?” she asked.

“Err, excuse me,” interjected Laura sarcastically, “actual Lyniezian who actually understands Lyniezian here?”

“Shut up yer frickin’ whore,” counter-interjected Mary. “Nobody asked you…uuggh…” she continued as a miraculously well-aimed javelin went sailing straight into her chest.

“YESSS!!! Finally I hit something with a thrown weapon that actually looks humanoid!” shouted Marieka triumphantly.^ix

“AWESOME! ‘Bout time someone took care of her,” exclaimed Megan. “You said your name was Marieka right?”

“Errr, yeah? And, thanks?”

“Well, I used to know a girl called Marieka. Smaller and slighter and had much bluer hair than you, but same name. And if you want to know a great place to get some more beer, I know this little joint called the Leaky Bicycle just over the road and round the corner. Wanna come?”

“Errr.. sure!”

The two set off before Jenny or Laura knew what was happening.

“Did you just see what happened there?” asked the former to the latter.

“What happened,” replied Laura, “is that my last paycheck of the night just walked off with some baby-eating harridan.”

“I think she’d take offence to that last one.”

“Eh well. Whilst you’re at it, you never told me what happened to your other bit on the side, that Leelee lass…”

“She was NOT my bit on the side, just some annoying limpet-like idiot, who unfortunately got eaten by the Wast Monster whilst we were on holiday in the English Lake District.”

“Eh?”

“Tells you all about it in…” explained Jenny as she reached into her backpack, “… this here book,” pulling out a small, beaten up copy of Corinne’s Pocket Guide to Lake Monsters of the British Isles. “Available for two pounds ninety nine at all good bookshops.^x And no, I don’t know what that is in Lyniezian dollars, so you can have mine for free.”

“Whatever,” yawned Laura disinterestedly, pretending to fan herself before the fan itself was flung out of her hand by a sudden gust of wind.

“Never mind,” replied Jenny.

Just then the station tannoy announced that all trains had been cancelled in both directions for the foreseeable future, and that their humble announcer was going home for a nice glass of elderberry wine and to put up her feet and watch telly, all ready to join the union in the morning and, whilst she was at it, call the police.

“Well, that’s it for the night,” said Laura. “I’m tired.”

“Fancy going past the videoteken^xi then going back home for a little Betamax and chill?” asked Jenny.

“I don’t think you actually understand the meaning of that woefully mangled and anachronistic comment, but sure, why not? On the house. I thought you were asexual though?”

“Well…. I am a multidimensional traveller who has access to the knowledge of infinite alternate selves, I think I know a bit more than you think I do. And… if it’s you, it’s okay.”

“One more thing before I go, if you will indulge me min nara liena…” said Laura, before proceeding to remove her shoes, trudge all the way across the tracks barefoot, clamber up to the other side, march over to a shocked Mike Moheden, yank the earphones off him and yell:

“THIS IS FOR PREFERRING THAT KEYBOARD PLAYING STRUMPET OVER ME YOU FREAKING ARSEHOLE! DON’T THINK YOU WERE IMMUNE TO MY OBVIOUS FOURTH WALL BREAKING POWERS OF PERCEPTION!”

before proceeding to jam the heels of her shoes directly through his temples into his brain, then breaking the guitar over his head and walked right back across the tracks barefoot.

“Didn’t think you had such wanton acts of ultraviolence in you Loz…” exclaimed Jenny.

“I surprise even myself sometimes,” Laura replied.

The two walked off towards the station exit.

“Your universe or mine?” asked Jenny.

Both women laughed uproariously.

Overhead, Zygonitarian Demolition Fleet Captain Zzlplwik Mlplenk had had enough of watching these proceedings and exclaimed:

“Bah! Enough of these ridiculous Earthlings and their ridiculous carryings on! Gunner, charge the demolition beam! Helm, set in a course for Betelgeuse, hyperspeed factor four!”

The explosion could be seen from distant star systems when the time was ripe.

tHe EnD!!!^xii

****

Arthur Michaelson removed the scroll carefully from the typewriter just as the power went out. Fumbling for a matchbox in the desk drawer, he pulled out a match, struck it, set light to one end of the offending document and tossed it into the stove. With another match he lit the smelly naphtha lamp with which to light his way to bed for yet more fateful dreaming.

THE ACTUAL END.

iFor legal reasons I’ll include the actual license: “The character of Jenny Everywhere is available for use by anyone, with only one condition. This paragraph must be included in any publication involving Jenny Everywhere, in order that others may use this property as they wish. All rights reversed.”

iiFor reference, the character of Arthur Michaelson and his inability to write stories on a dark and stormy night are the idea I had called The Ma’Chandra Chronicles, set on a fictional world called, unsurprisingly, Ma’Chandra and peopled by those who, for some reason, came originally from Earth but found themselves trapped down a wormhole and ending up there.

iiiThis was probably inspired very, very vaguely by one of the movies for Rumiko Takahashi’s Urusei Yatsura series, and will in turn be inspiring another silly piss-take of my own called Princess Lucidity to the Rescue, coming to a blog near you very soon.

ivNot too sure if the KT Tunstall reference is fitting, but for the fact I found out that (like Jenny- at least, my version of her… maybe) she had part-Chinese ancestry and is also pretty awesome, in your humble author’s opinion. (I’m a little wary of making Jenny’s ethnic background official though as I feel like I might be stereotyping her Mum, though.)

vThis came from the fact I could not for the life of me work out what the heck Laura- who, as you might recall featured in several of my other stories- did for a living. I still don’t. Obviously in the actual story she’s not a prostitute, but someone on Quora “helpfully” suggested it.

viI actually had a dream about this whilst on holiday in the Lake District. Don’t ask. More jokes based on the same holiday follow shortly.

viiWould you like to know more? See here (tap dancing robot girls and lake monsters also feature): https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/DarthWiki/Consequences

viiiMarieka is my stock D&D character. If you play D&D with me you’ll probably already know this. The badly mangled Teesside dialect is not normally associated with her, mind, but was inserted for the lulz.

ixIn the games I was playing at the time, somehow I could never successfully roll to hit when attacking with javelins.

xRemember that holiday in the Lake District I was talking about? Those pocket guidebooks could be found in every bookshop and gift shop going. Obviously not featuring lake monsters, needless to say. (Publisher name has been altered so I don’t get sued or anything.)

xiLyniezian for “video rental store”. Of course you worked that out already, didn’t you?

xiiMost of the Consequences stories ended like this. Also, if Capt. Zzlplwik Mlplenk seems remarkably similar to the Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz from Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy franchise, it is quite deliberate. (Albeit for reasons of affectionate parody only, again just in case I get sued.)

The Maybe Invasion

Note: The character of Jenny Everywhere is available for use by anyone, with only one condition. This paragraph must be included in any publication involving Jenny Everywhere, in order that others may use this property as they wish. All rights reversed.

Content warning:: contains one use of racial slur and reference to potentially sensitive subject matter. The author does not condone the use of racist language in “real life” situations, any more than he condones tyrannical dictatorships.

***************************************************************************************

The girl burst through the door of the police station, almost about to trip over the edge of her mud-splattered skirt. Finding her feet and catching her breath, she just managed to notice the stern-faced desk sergeant sitting across the room; nervously, she adjusted her headscarf back into place and tucked in her blouse lest she find herself in trouble for appearing insufficiently presentable. The sergeant looked at her intently with a wry expression on his face, tapping his pen impatiently, and then spoke up in a gruff Yorkshire accent:

“So, when you’ve finished sorting yourself out, Miss, have you actually any business since you’re clearly in such a panic? Eh? Is something wrong?”

“They’re… they’ve taken over the whole place, sir,” she said, exasperated. “Everywhere, sir, it’s like they own the place, I mean I managed to escape as quickly as I could, I had to warn someone…”

“Hang on, hang on, slow down,” interrupted the policeman. “You’re confusing me. Who’s taken over, and where?”

“I… I was up at West Garth Farm, over towards… I forget, I was visiting my Uncle John with my sister, and Jenny- she’s a friend of ours- though my sister’s been taken… we were just about to go out and milk the cows, when these soldiers come out of the woods and rap on the door, and tell us they need to use our place as a ‘base of operations’ or something… they told Uncle John they’re planning an invasion and they’re a scout party… I think…”

“Soldiers? I mean, I presume you mean not any of our security forces? An invasion? Up here? I hope you’re not wasting my time, girl, we don’t have time for silly childish games here! And you don’t look so young that I can’t arrest you for wasting police time.”

“Please, sir, you have to believe me! There really were soldiers! Helmets, camo-whatsit, machine guns… Sounded like foreigners, too, forgot where they said… Lyni… something… please sir, can’t you do anything?”

“So,” inquired the sergeant in disbelieving tone, “what you’re telling me is your uncle’s farm had been taken over by a squad of foreign soldiers who intent to use it as a base of operations for an invasion? An unlikely story if ever I heard one, but you sound as if you mean it. I think we’re going to have to take you through for questioning.”

“Why, am I in trouble sir?”

“Not yet; we just need some details from you, that’s all. If you’ll just take a seat and stay there, I’m going to have a word with my superior.” The sergeant picked up the phone on his desk and dialled. Nervous, the girl did as she was told.

“Hello, Inspector? This is Sergeant Cooper down at the front desk. I have a young lass here with a rather unlikely tale of foreign invaders taking over her uncle’s farm. I’d like to send her through for questioning. Is that alright with you sir… yes… yes I see sir… are you sure sir… yes, I’ll tell her what to expect… no, she’s just sat down sir. Very well-behaved. A little the worse for wear though, got muck all over her skirt and bits of weed on her jacket. Looks like she made a run across the fields… Yes sir, I will. Thank you sir. Be seeing you.” Replacing the handset, he turned to the girl. “Well, miss. The inspector says this might be urgent, so what we’re going to need to do is take you through to the interview room for questioning. Now do bear in mind we may have to search you, but don’t worry, we have some WPCs who will take care of that for us, we men won’t be watching. Now, I’m going to need to see your ID so I can have your details.”

The girl looked somewhat embarrassed.

“Did you forget to take your ID when you were busy escaping, miss?” inquired the sergeant.

“No, it’s just… I had to put it underneath… you know where…”

“Well, the WPCs can see to that,” the sergeant informed her, before pulling out a piece of paper and a pen. “I’ll have to take some details from you before we take you through then. What’s your name?”

“It’s Alice, sir. Alice Louise Whitehead…”

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Alice had barely managed to dress again when there was a bang on the door and an exasperated male voice shouted from behind it, asking if she was done yet as they needed to question her now. Being even more confused and frightened following the ordeal she had just endured (in spite of the friendly and somewhat apologetic reassurances of the policewoman who had conducted the search) she nervously let out a “Yes, sir,” and the keys turned in the lock. In walked two uniformed policemen, one grey-haired and slightly balding, the other a younger man. They were accompanied by the same policewoman who had searched her not long before, carrying a notebook and pencil, and another, stern-faced looking man dressed in an unassumingly drab grey suit. He stood off to one side whilst the uniformed men sat down at the far side of the table and the woman at one end, fiddling with a digital voice recorder whilst the older police officer instructed Alice to sit down, then introduced himself:

“Now, Miss Whitehead, I’m Inspector Blackwood and this,” gesturing to the younger man, “is Constable Jones.” (No mention was made of the man in the grey suit, and Alice did not dare to ask; besides, she was smart enough to realise he was probably one of them, the secret police.) “Now, were just going to ask you a few questions about the soldiers you claim to have seen…” then turning to the plain-clothes man murmured “do we need to bother with the formalities for your recording, ‘F’, or can we just get on with it?”

“By the book, as always, Inspector,” replied the man matter-of-factly, in a somewhat more upper-class, less regional accent than the uniformed officers.

“Make sure you write this all down, Cartwright, every detail,” he instructed the policewoman, before turning back towards Alice’s direction. The man in the suit pressed a button on the device and placed it on the table. “Right, interview commencing at…” (he glanced at his watch) “…nine fifty-two a.m., Inspector Michael J. Blackwood presiding, also present are PC Peter Jones, WPC Mary Cartwright; interviewee is a Miss Alice Louise Whitehead. Now, Miss Whitehead, the sergeant informs me you were staying at your uncle’s farm, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Alice nervously.

“West Garth Farm is its name?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And where is this farm located, miss?”

“Err… I don’t remember, sir,” she replied, earnestly but even more nervous than before. “I… don’t know the area too well sir…”

The Inspector looked at her sternly and told her:

“You’d better not be withholding anything from us, Miss Whitehead, this is a very serious matter and you’ll be in real trouble if you don’t tell us what we need to know. I’m sure the gentleman over there,” motioning to the man in the suit, “has other ways of getting it out of you. Now, where is it? Which direction did you come from? How did you get into town?”

Trying hard to recollect and gather her thoughts whilst holding back the tears, Alice motioned with her hands and said:

“It was… that way… sir… I think…”

“Which way?” enquired Constable Jones.

“I think we’ll try this another way, Jones,” his superior intervened. “As you walk out of the door, which way would you go to get back?”

“Err… up to the left… follow the road round, there’s a path off to the right, I think, it goes over the hill, and then… I really can’t remember sir!”

At this point it was too much for Alice and she burst into tears. WPC Cartwright looked up from her notes and lent over to try and comfort her.

“It’s alright, Alice,” she said, “don’t worry, take your time.”

“Cartwright,” interjected the inspector, quietly but firmly, you’re not here to conduct this interview, keep your remarks to yourself! We’ve no time for this!”

“But can’t you see she’s frightened, sir? Wouldn’t it be better if you let us-“

“This is a matter of national security, not a babysitting session; I can’t afford to just turn this over to the women. Now kindly keep your place or I’ll have you done for insubordination, is that clear?”

“Yes sir,” replied the WPC, reluctantly. She bit her lip nervously and returned to her duties. This would never have happened before, she thought. But no-one spoke of ‘before’.

The Inspector waited patiently for a brief moment, glanced nervously at ‘F’ who was still standing stony-faced in his original spot, then decided to pass Alice a handkerchief to dry her eyes, thinking it the least he could do. He muttered something angrily under his breath, waited for Alice to settle down, and then carried on.

“Now, lass, when you’ve quite managed to compose yourself properly, we can carry on. You told us that soldiers came to the farm this morning, is that right?”

“Yes, sir,” murmured the girl at length.

“About what time did this happen?”

“Early, sir, about five. I was about to help Uncle John milk the cows when there was sudden knock on the door, and there were these soldiers.”

“Can you describe these soldiers? What did they look like? What were they wearing? What were they carrying? What did they sound like?”

“Well… like soldiers usually do I guess… helmets, camo-whatsit…”

“Camouflage?”

“That’s it sir, sorry…”

“That’s alright, carry on.”

“Yeah, as I said, the usual kit, machine guns, backpacks, the lot. Mostly men I think, one or two women…”

“Women, sir?” interrupted PC Jones.

“Not unknown, Jones, in foreign parts at least,” the Inspector reassured him. “Wasn’t that long ago we had them here, too, though not quite in the front lines. Your memory is short, Jones; get a grip! Now, miss, carry on.”

“What else can I say, sir?”

“Well do you have any idea what else they looked like? White, black, Asian, Chinese? Which country?”

“They looked white sir, not quite like us, mostly at least, I didn’t really see. Can’t remember quite where they said they were from… Lyni… Lynie…zian? That was it, sir, Lyniezian.”

The inspector looked puzzled, and turned to ‘F’. They began talking quietly amongst themselves.

“Have you ever heard of such a place, ‘F’? I mean, your people would know, surely…”

“Never, Inspector, I assure you.”

“I mean…. Are you sure this girl isn’t just leading us on a wild goose chase?”

“In my line of work we discount nothing, Inspector. It’s possible this girl is leading us astray, that she is not quite what she seems, but I don’t think a girl of her age is going to be good at keeping up the pretence forever. Sooner or later she’ll crack. I’ve heard about this West Garth Farm, we’ve been monitoring the place for a while in connection with that ‘Jenny Everywhere’ woman and a teenage girl we suspect is her accomplice. We picked her up last Thursday; we couldn’t get to Jenny Everywhere herself as the Lord Protector himself has granted her immunity from prosecution, and,” the agent noted with more a hint of sarcasm in his voice, “the Lord Protector surely knows what he is doing. But, be that as it may…”

“So what do you suggest we do? Call in the heavies and drag them out kicking and screaming? Or…”

“That would be up to HQ, really, but I don’t see all that as really being necessary. It’s unlikely this Jenny Everywhere is likely to be armed and dangerous, at least in the sense of carrying any sort of firearm; I believe the appropriate authorities have seen to that. You ask me, this girl is a decoy, we’re supposed to believe in this invasion malarkey, sent in the Exts expecting a firefight and discover all is well whilst off goes a bomb somewhere miles off. Or perhaps it’s a booby trap and the farm is where the bomb is. Perfect way of weakening our capacity. Either way, I’ll get on to my people, let them know and get further instructions. You just question the girl a bit further and see whether she starts showing any weaknesses in her story. Be sure you leave the recorder running and don’t start tampering, would you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. By the way, you know you’ve left it running?”

“That can always be edited out, Inspector. With the right software.”

The agent turned to leave the room whilst the inspector turned back to the girl and continued the interview:

“So, Miss Whitehead, do you know anything about these… Lyniezians? Did they say where they came from? How they got here? Do you hear any planes fly overhead in the past few days that they might have dropped from?”

The girl, barely able to overcome her trepidation, began to murmur:

“I… I think they said they…”

“Spit it out girl, we haven’t got all day!”

“…They came from… another universe, sir… and I didn’t… hear any planes, sir.”

“Not this again,” murmured the Inspector.

“You don’t expect us to believe that Miss Whitehead, surely!” piped up PC Jones. “Just because of all these stories and odd occurrences…”

“I’m not sure what we should believe anymore, Jones, given the circumstances,” interrupted his boss.

Fear turned to frustration with Alice, and she could not help but shout out:

“Why won’t you believe me? Why won’t anyone believe me! I’m just telling you what I saw, I thought I was doing the right thing…”

“That’s enough of that!” Jones shouted at her. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“Jones!” the Inspector reprimanded him, sighing in frustration at the calibre of officers he had to work with these days.

“Sorry,” Alice said half-heartedly. “I just… well you have to do something, surely?”

“Calm down, girl,” the Inspector reassured her. “We can’t do anything unless we know what it is we’re dealing with, can we?”

“No sir,” she replied sheepishly.

“And as for you Jones, I think you’d better let me do the talking from now on,” he said quietly but firmly to the junior officer.

“Now, it’s important that you tell me everything you can remember about these soldiers, Miss Whitehead. What they looked like, what they said, what they were carrying, what they were doing, so we can understand what’s going on. Let’s start with how many they were, and what particular people made them up. Was any one the leader?”

The girl sighed, tried her best to wipe the rest of the tears from her face, and began to answer:

“There were maybe twenty… thirty? Most of them were outside, so I didn’t get a look. I didn’t have time to look, but as I said, most of them were white, couple of Chinese, black, maybe, one definitely looked Paki, one of the women…”

“Do you know what the leader looked like?”

“It was a man… they called him the Group Leader, I remember that. White man, not that young, had a strange accent but he knew English pretty well.”

“And this Group Leader, do you remember his name?”

“No sir.”

“Do you remember what he said?”

“He just came in and told my uncle he was taking over the farm and needed the house to set up a…”

“Like a base of operations?”

“Yes sir, I think so.”

“And how did he plan on taking over the country with just twenty or thirty soldiers? Did they even have any vehicles, like trucks?”

“No sir, they were just on foot. I think he said there would be more of the ‘coming through’, but I don’t understand what he meant.”

“I… see. So they were just the advance party, or were they scouting around?”

“Not sure sir, I didn’t hear. Uncle John tried to shout at him, and said he really had to milk the cows and I had to come with him.”

“And they let you?”

“Yes sir. That’s how I got away, sir.”

In the distance a loud noise, not quite like the sound of thunder and a rush of wind, could be heard, but the Inspector ignored it.

“You don’t mean to say they let you?”

“No… the Leader ordered a couple of his soldiers to guard us, but Uncle John had a plan. There’s a side door in the barn, they weren’t watching it, and when one of them decided they had to go to the toilet, Uncle John tried to distract them, startled the cows whilst I snuck through the door and made a run for it.”

“An unlikely escape,” said the Inspector in disbelief. Perhaps this was the first sign of the girl’s story coming apart, as ‘F’ had claimed might happen.

There came from outside another loud sound not quite like thunder and the rushing of wind, but this time much louder and closer. Before the Inspector could return his thoughts, ‘F’ returned from outside.

“That will be all, Inspector,” he said, pointing at the recording device.” The Inspector understood implicitly.”

“Ah, right… interview concluded at… ten fourteen a.m.”

The agent switched off the recorder, returned it to his pocket and beckoned the Inspector closer.

“Pretty brief interview, though I think we got a few details…”

“Well, you won’t be needing to question her anymore. My people have decided to send a recon team up to West Garth, and they’re sending a van over to take the girl into our custody. I trust you can detain her until they arrive?”

The Inspector tried to hide his nervousness, knowing full well the rumours of what happened in ‘our custody’. For all that he did not trust Alice, and for all his initial harshness she was not much younger than his own daughter, and it was no way to treat a girl that age; he would not wish it on his own offspring. But when ‘they’ had made up their mind, that was that. You dared not object.

“Yes, sir,” he replied reluctantly.

Meanwhile, Alice could not help but be confused and afraid as to what was about to happen. Her mind began to race. Would they let her go? Try to keep her safe? Or would they arrest her as a suspect in… she didn’t know what? (The desk sergeant’s threat of arrest was still fresh in her mind, and that was just for wasting their time. She sensed that they trusted her even less now, enough to make her recall the horror stories her elders quietly told about how police arrested anyone for anything “these days”, even kids.) Or worse still, perhaps the man in the suit would take her off to wherever they had taken her older sister Megan, the troublemaker, the subversive. But surely she’d been a good girl, always tried to do the right thing, never tried to tell a lie or act “above her station”, whatever that meant. She’d never been in trouble with the police before; but now, with her trying to tell of the unbelievable events she had just witnessed- events her interrogators had not thought entirely truthful- she wondered if this was the one time. You could never been too careful with the people “in authority over you”.

The Inspector turned to his subordinates.

“Cartwright, you restrain Miss Whitehead; she is to be placed under arrest pending transfer to Int. Sec secure facilities; Jones, you go outside and get WPC Lacey to accompany her.

WPC Cartwright’s expression could barely contain her disgust, but she dared not voice it. She was in enough trouble as it is merely for speaking up. All she had to say was to ask the Inspector:

“Should I take her to the cells, ‘F’, or put her somewhere else? I mean it’s no place to keep a child with Jackson and his gang…”

“The stationary cupboard will do, Cartwright”, instructed the Inspector.

“And if you don’t mind me asking sir, on what charge?”

“This is our jurisdiction now, Miss Cartwright, so you need not concern yourself with such… minor formalities,” interrupted ‘F’. “Kindly do your job and remember your place.” (The policewoman need not guess what that last part meant: know your place, as a woman, and to bodies unaccountable to any ordinary legal redress. Hers not to reason why, as the old poem went.)

Alice started to panic as she heard all this and tried to bolt for the door, but was held back by Cartwright.

“No, please… I thought I wasn’t in trouble… why are you taking me?”

“Just keep still and come with me,” scolded the policewoman as she applied the restraint. “I’m sorry it has to be this way, but I’m just following orders. We all have to do what we’re told.” A note of reluctance could be heard in her voice.

Proceedings were interrupted by a third loud noise, directly overhead and followed by the roar of jet planes flying overhead and trailing off towards the north, startling all in the room.

“Lord, have mercy,” exclaimed the Inspector.

“Now do you believe me?” shouted Alice, who had barely been let go of by a shocked Cartwright, and for the first time in her life was sounding defiant.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” explained ‘F’. “The bats really have left the belfry.” (No-one bothered to enquire about the meaning of that last cryptic utterance, even if they had dared.)

As they rushed to leave and find shelter, the Inspector briefly turned heavenwards as if in prayer.

“O Lord, make haste to help us,” he muttered.

The sound of distant explosions could be heard to the north, followed quickly by gunfire over to the west. The invasion had begun.

A Not-So-Brief Encounter (parts 1 and 2, revised work-in-progress version)

[Author’s Note: The original attempts may be found on the Republic of Lyniezia blog, here and here. Subsequent parts will eventually deal with the two characters’ (Laura and Michael’s) eventual meeting where they will attempt to catch up and, just maybe, see if they can repair their broken relationship. And for readers of the original blog, I still don’t know what Laura does for a living yet, which is one of my main sticking points. For reference, the story is probably set around the year 1989, give or take.

There are some bits which obviously need tweaking, or clarifying. I’ll let you work them out for now.]

Part 1: Laura

The wind whipped and howled along the station platform. Laura stood patiently while the tannoy announced the 18:45 train to Menaasa was running late. Another twenty minutes, she thought. Damn it all! Did these people even think of the ordinary passenger before they decided to call a strike? Well, of course not, she reminded herself, not when services and moreover their jobs are on the line, but when you’re cold and tired, when your hair is getting messed up by a wind so strong even your usual industrial strength hairspray couldn’t hold it in place, when you’d promised to meet your sister at the other end by eight to have time for a drink and catch-up before the taverns shut for the night, any lingering feelings of solidarity are swept away much like the tattered pages of the Neyoven Dajaren newspaper currently sailing past her. And knowing her luck, if twenty minutes became thirty or forty or an hour, so would the eroding remnants of her patience. It would have been as well if she’d taken the car and made the nearly three-hour drive herself.

She pulled her coat tight around her body in a vain effort to stay warm, trying at the same time to stop her skirt flapping around too much in the wind, wondering if the station teemaanten was still open – if it had been at all today – for a warming mug of tea and maybe something to eat. She hadn’t eaten at all since midday, and had been too busy with clients to have a proper sit-down lunch. But nowhere served food this late, aside maybe from the pancake shops catering to those too busy or lazy to make themselves supper on a Friday night before going out for the night, be it drinking in the taverns or trendy wine bars, going to gigs at music clubs, or dancing at whatever discos were called nowadays (since she’d decided she was too grown-up for that sort of thing). There was no way she’d miss the train trying to find one. She sighed mournfully. Twenty-nine and she already felt the world was passing her by. Everything was changing, in Lyniezia, in the world. Like never in the past would she have known the trains not to run more than five minutes late, even during the strikes of the ’70s. They might not run at all, but at least if they did they’d be on time. Damn, damn, damn!

So caught up was Laura in the frustration of the moment she might barely have noticed the familiar-faced man, guitar case slung over one shoulder, heavy suitcase in his hands, making his way to sit down on the otherwise-deserted platform opposite. He put the suitcase on the floor, carefully placed the guitar case on the nearby seat trying to make sure it didn’t blow over, and pulled on a pair of headphones which he clutched tightly to his ears with one hand as he fumbled for the play button on his fancy Japanese personal stereo. No mistaking him, then it was definitely Michael – but he had barely glanced at her and failed to make the connection. She thought perhaps she should wave across and try to get his attention, but a nagging feeling of uncertainty prevented her. It had been ten years since they were last together, when he’d dropped out of college to focus on his music career whilst she’d wanted to press ahead, hoping for a proper job and kids and a settled life he couldn’t give her. It had been hard for both of them to accept; it seemed neither of them had quite got over it. Certainly not him, since he’d written the song Laura, filled with much longing and regretfulness, about her as little as five years ago on the fatefully titled album Who Needs Synthesizers? (It had turned out he did, if he wanted a career in popular music these days, and the record company had unceremoniously dropped him- but that was another story in itself.) She still had that record in her collection; she had collected them all.

Nevertheless, it was worth a try to get his attention, and she could at least do with a bit of company whilst waiting for the train that might never come. Working up the courage, she waved maniacally at him and shouted his name- but he failed to notice, being too engrossed in his music as always, and trying to keep the sound of the wind from interfering with it, or trying to stop his precious guitar from falling over on the seat. She could barely contain her frustration at this complete lack of interest. Maybe, she reminded herself, he simply doesn’t recognize me after all this time, especially given how her look had changed from that of messy “rock chick” to the would-be sophisticated, if suitably professional, modista she was trying to be. But that, likewise, seemed hard to believe: they had known each other since middle school, and she had changed far more in that time than in adult life. Or perhaps he was trying to pretend he hadn’t noticed her to avoid any complications. Undeterred by any of these thoughts, there was only one thing for it: cross the footbridge to the other side of the tracks and go right up to him. A slightly daunting prospect given the bridge was even more exposed to the high winds as well as the vague possibility of losing her balance in the high heels she’d recently purchased to complete her new look, which, if it happened, her mother and the rest of the old kirtle-and-hose brigade would no doubt say “I told you so” to; but she would not be deterred. There was no way she was going unnoticed by him, though there be the devil to pay for it.

At that point, the station tannoy piped up to announce that the 18:45 to Menaasa would be delayed indefinitely due to a “disturbance on the line”, and corresponding services in the opposite direction would be likewise delayed. Damned protestors, no doubt, she thought. There goes the weekend.

Part 2: Michael

Mike Moheden was trying his best to keep the wind from spoiling the sound of his tape of the group ‘New Horizons’ he’d picked up at their gig the previous Saturday night. He’d admired how they were different to the increasingly usual standard for electronic music, actually playing their instruments rather than relying on sequencers and drum machines like so many acts these days. He’d admired (though almost certainly the major labels and less discerning record buyers would not) that they were trying for something beyond the usual norms of popular music; almost shades of progressive rock more than the already-increasingly-outdated synth-pop, but hard to pin down. It might have been of course that he had admired their attractive and very much talented lead singer, Mena Tenazi, whose stage presence would surely carry the performance if she wasn’t constantly hidden by a bank of keyboards, and which belied her shyness offstage when he had met the group at the bar post-performance to “talk shop”. They’d even found they had much similar taste in music, such as a shared liking for the Moody Blues whose song the band was named for. But it was not much use taking things beyond a professional level, as the other keyboardist in the band had been Mena’s boyfriend. Nor was it much use trying to listen to their music in this weather, but it would have to do since his other method of passing time in a deserted station- browsing idly through his favourite weekly news-magazines or monthly music magazines, was even more impossible.

He honestly didn’t know why he had gone to all the trouble of being here at all- lugging down the few personal belongings he had managed to reduce himself down to all the way to the station on the one day when there were hardly any trains running at all, and those that were might never make it- never mind compromising the ideals inherited from his father- a resolute union man- of never crossing a picket line. All this because the man he’d bought the house from in Southtown (with most of the share of inheritance his late, rich English uncle had left him) had insisted on handing over the keys tonight shortly before he left permanently for America. If he’d had the money left to hire a van he would have. If his father’s temperamental car had not been in for its third service this month he’d have been glad of the lift. Even if the buses had been running that might have been something, but their drivers belonged to the same union as their railway counterparts and were striking in solidarity. As it is, all he could do was wait and hope, see what would come along and buy a ticket on board the train (since even the ticket office was closed), hoping to be there sometime before midnight.

It was not as if many other people had bothered to turn up on this particular Friday night, usually busy with the throng of weekenders off to visit their relatives for the weekend, go off walking in the Cytari hills or visit the sights of Tymena or Sorrick, bored and screaming kids in tow nagging and wondering when their train was coming. In the fading half-light of dusk and the howling of the wind, the station had taken on an eerie, foreboding aura, not the sort of place one would expect to find anything but ghosts. Perhaps that was why the sight of the young woman on the opposite side of the tracks, wind in her hair and skirt flapping madly in the breeze, desperately trying to keep the cold and the wind at bay, was so strange. There was something about her Mike felt oddly familiar, but he couldn’t quite tell at this distance, the shape of her face, the colour of her hair which kept obscuring her features and preventing him from being sure. He could for a minute almost have been certain it was Laura, his childhood friend turned lover, the one girl he’d felt he truly loved and- clichéd though the phrase sounded to him- spend the rest of his life with. They’d done everything together: been to school together, attended after-school music lessons together, played in bands together, ran screaming through the park together, marched and protested and tried to change the world together, spent nights under the blankets together when her disapproving parents were away for the weekend, and when high school was over and done with, went to college together. But that was when it had all changed, their youthful exuberance turning to adult seriousness about the directions their futures would hold- he had been obsessed with trying to break into the music business and achieve success at any opportunity, whilst increasingly she had been more reluctant to join him instead of finishing her studies and finding steady work and a steady life. After that point things had only become worse; reluctance had led to frustration, frustration bred arguments, and eventually the only thing either felt they could do was to part ways and let one another pursue their separate futures. It had been difficult for him as he was sure as it had been or her, as if two inseparable souls had been torn asunder. Life, however, went on, and the success he had been hoping for had quickly materialized as, first, he and his brother James had been snapped up by Teledai Records as rising stars of the Lyniezian New Wave, playing up and down the country to sold-out venues full of adoring fans; then, after his brother had quit music for teaching and married life, Michael had gone on to pursue his own solo career with variable success, not the least of which when Teledai dropped him due to increasing (mutual!) frustrations with his creative direction and, from their point of view, commercial viability. Since then he’d had to sign with an independent local label, getting what gigs he could whilst spending the rest of the time taking what jobs he could, the latest of which was working in the family general store still run by his elderly grandfather. His relationships with women had considerably less success, sometimes hooking up with girls who just wanted the allure of being with a famous rock star, which never lasted; others from female musicians he’d met in the studios or on the road, bonding over their common interests; those lasted not much longer. None of them had quite compared to the girl he’d bonded so completely with when he was young. None of them were Laura. But it had been ten years since they had last met, almost another life. There was no point in reaching out to this ghost from his past. What good would it do, to resurface all the old difficulties and heartaches of before? Could they even still be friends? For all he knew, she could by now be married, perhaps even a couple of small children, whom she was no doubt spending a short time away from to relieve the stress of bringing them up. If he came into the midst of that, what questions would be asked? Would it ruin everything? He probably had as much chance with Mena Tenazi, whose beautiful alto voice and deft keyboard playing came pouring out of the headphones, singing a mournful ballad here, an upbeat synth-pop type number there, accompanied by the rest of the band and the natural sound effects of a blustering wind. He tried not to notice anything else, besides keeping his guitar intact and watching periodically up the track for the faintest hint of a southbound train.