Filed under: Uncategorized
Filed under: Uncategorized
In 2007 I wrote a short story in three (or maybe four) parts and comprising of 300 ‘chapters.’ A year or so later my computer broke to some extent and it seemed lost forever. I have now managed to restore it and, since I’m too busy to write anything else to put up here, am going to serialise it for you over the next few weeks.
In the skies above a Moustachioed time, twenty six twenty-sixth century storm clouds travelled back in time overnight to a disarmed twenty-third century with strict weather controls. They moved together, holding hands, lead by tour administrator cloud ‘Claude’ who carried a clipboard and waterproof map. It was a long journey and they traversed the three hundred years in question with no delays. A rest was called and they camped down for a nap in early twenty-fourth century Crumberly Hall, a stately home that they intended to visit some time earlier. They were just kids, organised kids but kids nonetheless.
Meanwhile in the rolling green grounds of twenty-third century Crumberly Hall… (more…)
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“What did you do with the tin of beans that was at the back of the cupboard?” Dad asked. I had eaten them, heated them up and eaten them on a couple of slices of toast. “You idiot, I was saving that up as a family heirloom! It had been there for six years.” The beans had tasted ok. After that Dad collected and brought home lots of heirlooms – plastic toys from kinder eggs, ornamental gourds, ringtones, roadkill woollens – but none of them lasted. They all became broken or lost or eaten or all of the above. Eventually he found one that would last – a six year old boy named Oscar. “Meet our new family heirloom.” Oscar looked up at me with a confused look on his six year-old face. I was unsure of his suitability as an heirloom, he was not really a thing to pass down through the generations, more a human life to be brought up. “Hopefully he will stay in the family for many generations.” Just like the other heirlooms, Oscar did not last long. Within a few weeks his real family came to collect him and the search for a family heirloom went on. Dad threw himself into the task with his usual cheer and we all wondered what he would bring home next.
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“retrospective tailoring.”
no moustachioed gent had said these words to a moustachioed gent before but now, in the forecourt of a quiet tailoring station, a moustachioed gent stood in his usual clothes and heard what the tailor said to him in hushed tones. he took the words and folded them into his ears like precious cotton buds, knowing that he came to this tailors because the tailor was moustachioed and when he made this decision he was letting in bounding oddness.
“we are a dying breed, you and i,” said the tailor, “and i know old and expensive secrets.”
the moustachioed gent’s heart leapt at the sound of secrets and though he had come in for a mere pair of trousers he had a feeling that he would leave with much more.
“tight green elvish trousers at the age of twelve would have changed your early teenage life and had a knock on effect for the next twenty years. striding around town in cricket whites, holding a bright white parasol would have put you at the height of elegance aged thirty.”
the moustachioed gent gasped. “you can make those changes.”
“for a price, i can re-clothe you at any time of your life and you could enjoy the fruits of fashion hindsight. i could put you ahead of every trend for the last forty years.”
the moustachioed gent thought about it long and hard for a few minutes. “what about back-dated tailoring technology? How many years back could you tailor me a parallel universe waistcoat?”
“for a price,” the tailor stroked his moustache as though it brought unknown powers. “for a price i could go back as far as five years. your waistcoat would shift around you with intimate and instinctive knowledge of the fashion of thousands upon millions of parallel universes. i do not properly understand the concept behind it, or the science involved but i can certainly do it.”
“and what is the price?” the moustachioed gent asked giddily.
the tailor leaned closer so that their moustaches were almost touching. “to most,” he whispered, “their souls. but as you are moustachioed like me i’ll ask just your bones.”
the moustachioed gent could not but agree. he said a strange goodbye to his bones whilst the tailor knocked up a new waistcoat in the back of the station. they had served him well but what more need could he have for them when he had his waistcoat of parallel universes.
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Since last night at six in the evening myself, Ryan, Lisa and Sian have been participating in a 24 Hour Draw (I’ve been mainly writing though I have doodled some too and written some comic strips and illustrative poems (or something)). Anyway, click the link below to see all the work we’ve done so far (we’re here til six this evening) and there is also two web cams for you to watch (for twenty four hours if you choose)(well, ok, only the eight that are left!). Must go, lots to do!
Ric
“Sir, this is a fine cake,” a Moustachioed Gent commented as he imbibed birthday cake – moist sponge, delicious jam, colourful icing and, oh oh, buttercream – though it was nobody’s birthday. He was sitting at the kitchen table of a flat he had not visited before.
“Thank you,” said the man leaning against the sink. “But I think that you came here to speak with your wife…”
The Moustachioed Gent agreed and when he had finished his cake he got up to go and find her whilst the other man filled his washing machine and unloaded the dish washer.
The wife was found on the balcony, smoking in her furs. The fact that she now lived in another man’s flat hit the Moustachioed Gent squarely in the moustache for the first time. It wobbled a little. For her part, she concentrated on her smoke.
“He is a competent baker, but no artist,” was the Moustachioed Gent’s opening gambit and he awaited her reaction. His wife smoked some more and he observed and missed her and her furs.
“He is a good honest man and I believe you have tasted his birthday cake.”
“It is nobody’s birthday,” the Moustachioed Gent replied coolly.
She returned to her smoke, something she was good at. A former junior champion. They both gazed out to the harbour where the low tide reminded them of a near-gone glass of wine. Boats were beached on the sand, hanging limp from ropes like balloons that had lost their fun. They both felt the weight in the cake room of their stomachs.
“I made you a banana cake with your favourite icing,” said the Moustachioed Gent finally. “Please come home.”
There was silence for a moment and then the Moustachioed Gent’s wife turned away, stubbed out her smoke on the balcony railing and daintily wiped a tiny tear from the corner of her eye. She did it so carefully as for the movement to be invisible unless you were watching for it.
“What’s wrong?” demanded the Moustachioed Gent, gently taking her elbow.
“It’s all cake cake cake. He is a nice man and he thinks of more than cake. He would not up and leave me in the middle of the night and disappear for two months to dig around in the Black Forest Gateau and-“
“That was an important archaeological exploration,” snapped the Moustachioed Gent. “It was vital to visit the project at that time. The history of cake was there to be discovered and and…”
They had reached an impasse and there had grown now between the Moustachioed Gent and his wife a gap which cake could not possibly be expected to fill.
His wife’s new lover appeared at the door to the balcony. “Dear the lemon drizzle cake is ready.” Lemon? The Moustachioed Gent was sure that he saw his wife wince.
“I think you’d better go,” the lemon drizzle man warned the husband of his lover, the superior cake match but not the tender, caring man he could be. The Moustachioed Gent turned and left, a leaving leave with solemnity, dignity and finality.
Back at home the Moustachioed Gent was not so composed and with his eyes scrunched into bawls like smudged love letters he cried sugary tears whilst stuffing a lazily-made, error-strewn carrot cake in his mouth. It didn’t matter how good the cake was – he wasn’t enjoying it.
He moved quantities of butter and sugar into a large mixing bowl and with a fork began to take out his frustrations on the ingredients, treating it roughly until it became buttercream exactly to his liking. Now he walked through his silent home to the spare room which he had monopolised with his projects. The cake that stood in that room was a six foot tall Victoria sponge – the base three feet high and the top of the cake also three feet tall and suspended from the ceiling by strong chains. Was this obsession something to do with his wife leaving? The Moustachioed Gent wondered as he stood looking at his beautifully big cake, a quantity of buttercream in his hands.
After an interlude of sadness he climbed carefully into the middle of the cake and, lying on his back, began to apply a layer of buttercream to the underside of the top layer of cake. And, he mused, if the cake were to fall on him then no one would know he was ever there.
