The Clan of the Cave Bague

So, this pneumatic blonde practically leaps at me as I walk into the hotel function suite. She’s waving her arms and squealing an introduction in a high-pitched nasal whine. I have to stifle a snigger as she tells me her name is Candy. She’s like a five-foot-nothing self-propelled stereotype, shoehorned into less lycra than the average swimsuit model.

I smile and shake her hand as I wait patiently to get a word in.

“So, yah,” she says, “I was at Camp Comanche in ‘02 – you know, the Hatchet Jack thing?”

I think about this for a moment. Hatchet Jack was that caretaker – the one who had a thing about collecting the heads of the summer camp supervisors. By the time I recall this, Candy has launched into a graphic description of how she alone managed to escape the killer and bring him to justice. Sounds like bullshit to me.

“So what about you?” she asks, finally pausing for breath. “Who did you survive?”

I pause. Ok, so I knew that this question would come up multiple times during the weekend, but I still feel a little unprepared. It was all so recent, you know?

“I was at the Macefield Prom. You know, the one in the news a few months ago.”

“OMG!” she says. Actually like that. Ohh-Emm-Gee. “That’s so amazing! That guy killed, what, two hundred people in one night?”

“Two hundred and twelve,” I correct.

“How did you escape?” she asks, her eyes like saucers.

I repeat the story I told the police.

“Wow! Hiding for all that time! You must have been terrified!” I see the usual look of disgust in her eyes as she pictures me hiding in the store cupboard while people were being slaughtered like cattle within a few feet of me. I don’t give a shit.

“You do what you have to,” I say brusquely. I glance around the room. There are about fifty people present; some of them seem as animated and excited as Candy; some are nervous, withdrawn. One girl sits on her own in the corner, her dark hair hanging down over her face as though she’s trying to hide. I wonder what her story is.

“So,” I say, “this is my first time here and I don’t know anyone. How does it work?”

“Well,” Candy says, “we just kind of chat informally for a bit until everyone’s here and then we have a talk by our founder. For the rest of the weekend we have workshops and stuff. The timetable is on the noticeboard. “ She points across the room.

“Who’s the founder?” I ask.

“Oh I dunno his name,” she squeaks. “Some bigshot shrink. That guy who was trapped in his own psychiatric ward when the patients got out.”

“Robert Kleiner?”

“Yeah, that’s him. He’ll talk about, like, whatever, and then he’ll get one of us to tell their story. Hey, if this is your first time, I should introduce you to some of the regulars.”

“Yes, that would be good,” I say.

I flinch as she grabs my hand, but manage to stifle it. She drags me over to a pair of women who are talking excitedly by the bar. One of them, a tall redhead, seems to be recounting something involving a knife to a shorter dark haired girl. She makes exaggerated stabbing motions in the air.

“Laurie! Jolene! Guess who I have here?” She pauses for a moment and then turns to me, with no sign of a blush. “What’s your name?”

“Josh,” I answer. “Josh Scott.”

“It’s Josh Scott!” she says. The sighs of “Ohh!” and “Ahh!” fail to disguise the blank looks. They’ve no idea who I am but that’s ok – I don’t know who they are either. The difference is, I don’t really care.

“He’s the guy from the Macefield thing! Remember? The guy who hid in the cupboard?”

All of a sudden I gain a deeper insight into Hatchet Jack’s motivations. Light dawns in the girls’ eyes and one of them breathes “Wow! That was, like, two hundred people, right?”

“Two hundred and twelve. So what’s your story?”

“Uhh, I’m Jolene,” says the redhead. “My friends and I were abducted by that weird inbred cannibal family.” I nod attentively as she details her escape. She spends a significant part of her monologue describing the hideous ways in which her friends met their untimely end. I offer sympathies for her loss.

The dark haired girl speaks next. She introduces herself as Laurie and immediately regales me with a convoluted tale of hockey masks, gardening implements, and lots and lots of blood. Her eyes are glittering with excitement as she demonstrates the killing blow she used to decapitate the frenzied deformed kid who’d been stalking her and her friends all summer. I try my best to remain focussed on her story, but I worry that the deep twist of revulsion that sits in my stomach is showing on my face.

I nod at the girl sitting alone in the corner. “Who’s that?” I ask.

“That’s Sandy. She doesn’t talk much,” Candy answers. A look passes between the three women. Was that a suggestion of an eyeroll from Laurie.

“I’ll just say hi,” I say. “Nice meeting you.”

“Sure,” says Candy, pouting a little.

Candy, Sandy, Jolene and Laurie, I think. It’s like a b-movie script gone mad.

I walk through the yapping crowd, occasionally nodding and smiling in response to interested glances. The girl is sitting at a small round table, a glass of fruit juice untouched before her. I clear my throat and she looks up.

“Hi,” I say. “My name’s Josh.”

“Sandy,” she answers, her voice barely audible.

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

She shrugs, so I sit. She’s pale and pretty and very nervous; she picks distractedly at her fingernails. She interests me.

“If you don’t mind me saying, you seem a little out of place here,” I say.

“Why?” she asks. “It’s a support group. I need support.”

I think about this. “Well, yeah, that’s what I thought too. A support group for the survivors of violent crime. That’s why I’m here, but…”

She looks up at me. “But?”

I shrug. “I dunno – just seems a bit more like a social club to me.”

“The Survivors Club,” she smiles briefly. “Yeah, it can get like that sometimes.”

It occurs to me that she hasn’t asked who I survived or how many of my friends were killed. The silence between us is uncomfortable and I wrack my brain trying to think of something to say. I decide to be upfront and ask her what brought her here when I’m saved by the bell: there’s a squeal from the PA system and a bass thumping as a microphone is tapped. A mellifluous voice bids us all good evening, and I turn towards a small podium in one corner of the room. A middle aged man in a rumpled suit is standing there beaming at the crowd. The good doctor, I assume.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for coming. As most of you will be aware, this is the fifth meeting of the Victims Support Group. We have a great weekend of workshops and therapy sessions lined up for you, but to kick things off I’d like to share with you an inspirational story from one of our founding members. Please give a warm welcome to Jason Boyd.”

There’s a smattering of applause as an athletic looking young man steps up to the podium. He introduces himself and begins talking. My attention drifts within seconds and his voice becomes a background drone. I sneak a glance at Sandy. She has a look of complete boredom on her face. I lean towards her.

“Don’t you think it’s a little weird?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“The way they seem to enjoy telling their stories so much. Almost like they’re bragging they were more clever than everyone else, even though they really just got lucky.”

She shrugs again. “It’s just their way of coping. They’ve triumphed over adversity – doesn’t really matter if they did it through violence, or running away.” She pauses. “Or hiding in a cupboard.”

I smile. “You heard about that, then?”

There’s no returning smile. She seems quite insightful. I’ve no idea what she’s been through and get the impression she’s unlikely to talk about it with a stranger. Which is a shame, really, as she’s probably the only person in the room I’m interested in hearing about. Still, there’s plenty of time over the weekend to get to know her.

The guy on the podium is still droning on and making hacking gestures. I glance around at his spellbound audience and note the sparkling eyes and the the looks of bloodlust on their faces. I’m sitting in a room full of monsters. The knot of disgust tightens within me. They’re all so proud of themselves. It’s not such a big deal to survive something. Anyone can do it. Admittedly, it helps when you’re the one doing all the killing. It’s going to be a fun weekend.

Triad

i. Chrissy Dances

And the waves lap gently at the sand, pushing it up and pulling it back, undecided on whether they should stay or go but nevertheless forced into constant motion by the irresistible pull of the moon.

Chrissy sits and waits on the shoreline for the dashing young man who must surely happen by soon. But the waves lap, and the sand stirs, and Chrissy’s shadow lengthens across the hard packed rippled surface and still he does not appear.

Her crown sits askew on her golden head and her eyes gaze vacantly down at her feet. She wriggles her toes into the sand and watches as the saturated ground gives up its water in tiny pools around her feet.

The sun dips lower in the sky, resting its head on the horizon, and sends glowing amber beams of sympathy to soothe the young girl’s pain. Chrissy smiles back sadly, and looks once more along the empty beach.

She folds her arms over her knees, rests her chin on them, and begins singing softly to herself. A light breeze creeps cautiously from the ocean surface and sidles up the beach. It lifts a few strands of soft, fine, hair and strokes them gently. “Everything will work out fine.”

She rises and stands before the ocean with her arms held out. The breeze grows a little more excited, flicking at her white linen dress, and whispering in her ear. She spins slowly on the spot, a careful pirouette. She points with her right foot and inscribes a perfect circle for her Prince to cross. She raises her arms in a graceful arch above her head and pivots forwards, raising one leg in an elegant Arabesque.

The lapping waves give a gurgling chuckle at the dancing girl while their parents roar approval from further afield. The wind cheers and whistles as it flows alongside her, constantly caressing, touching, guiding and leading. She dances up the beach. Her shadow flickers and wavers and the sun turns the water to fire as it clings to the last scrap of the sea. As she dances across the demarcation line between the ocean’s domain and the land’s, the dry sand leaps excitedly in the air around her feet, kicked into glittering tornadoes by the energy of her passing. From over the border, the brine-soaked ocean sand looks on with envy.

Then he is here, clad in black, tall, lean, his face indistinct with the sun at his back. She dances around him, laughing and crying, desperate for a glimpse of his long awaited face. She spins towards him and the last ray of the dying sun burns fiercely in her heart before vanishing, leaving her alone and silent on the empty beach once more. Her arms fall to her sides and her gaze turns down to the eternal sand. She sinks to her knees with her arms outstretched. The beach takes her hands; the ocean strokes her arms; the slowly spreading darkness caresses her golden hair.

And the waves lap gently at the sand and the wind sighs its pity. Chrissy sits and Chrissy waits for another glimpse on another day, while the weeping sun rolls its moment of magical twilight around the world.

ii. Reuben Stands

The darkness approaches, rushing on the wings of ravens, and Reuben runs through its heart. He feels the gentle tug of the world’s turning and the less gentle pressure of the whispering night which surrounds him.

Voices cry to him from the darkness; joyful laughter, angry shouts, tears, grief, and the unbearable keening wail of longing.

He turns to face the latter, his face transfigured in recognition, and throws his voice forwards into the smothering night; “I am here! I am always here!”
The unseen coils of the darkness lash and flex around him, striking his arms, his legs, his back. He stumbles and slows and feels the night thicken. The cry of the longing tears at his heart, pulling at him as he in turn pushes through the murk, and the power of the cry grows with every step he takes.

Reuben redoubles his efforts against the slick, invisible bonds as a distant roar approaches from somewhere behind. It grows lighter ahead. Something shifts beneath his feet. The smooth glassy surface becomes buckled and twisted, pitted and scarred. As he forges forwards, it pulls and sucks at him, slowing him further. Sensing triumph, the invisible coils of night slither and contract around his waist.

Reuben cries out as his feet begin to sink. An icy chill embraces them and the all-too familiar hand of fear caresses his heart.

“Too soon! Have pity!” he cries, as the cold tendrils pulse and surge up and down the length of his legs. The laughter of the darkness and the onslaught of the roaring sound assault his ears and he covers his head with his arms.

The lighter air ahead is flecked with red and gold and it is towards this small hope that Reuben strives. Bright sparks ignite and burn angrily before his eyes, spinning and dancing, coalescing into a light band below and a darker band above. The surface around his legs is liquid and icy, pricking and sticking, lacerating his flesh with vicious tendrils of cold. A wave forges ahead of him, wrapping him in its reluctance, and the darkness gloats and cackles behind him.

The soft earth touches the soles of his feet in a gentle caress. With an exultant cry he pulls free of his ephemeral bonds and sprints, head down, arms pumping, knees rising high to clear the foam around his legs. The world slips into focus; gently undulating dunes beneath a luminous sky of purple and red. The darkness falls behind, unable to match his pace now that the land is on his side, but still stalking its inexorable way towards him. The last tendrils of night spring from his shoulders as he steps clear of the shivering blackness and the gentle light of the dying sun flickers in his eyes.

He laughs and whoops, leaping the last few feet, emerging from the sea as though for the first time, and the firm sand beneath him smiles its welcome. And then, a flicker of white, sunlight on golden hair, the madly pirouetting form of longing made corporeal and Reuben stands transfixed, the pursuing horror forgotten in an instant.

She spins around him, aware and unaware, eyes flashing past without making contact. Her hair whips across her face, stealing his breath and pulling it around her. She slows, her arms raising, turning towards him; her face, in profile, pale and lovely, turning, turning as the heavy curtain of dark – its path leading remorselessly to this place – rests its cold hand upon his back and wraps him in its coils once more.

His heart slows and despair floods through him as the ebony claws tear at him. The world fades. The silhouette falls to her knees on the beach. The blackness is total and eternal.

iii. The World Turns

Mother spins around her centre and dances around Father with breathtaking speed. The solar winds drift across her face, billowing and blowing across unimaginable distance with the softness of a lover’s caress, and the golden light of his gaze lies softly on her cheek. She is everything that is, was, and will be but nothing without him.

And there, on the border between day and night, the thin band of dusk creeps lazily across her countenance, ebbing and flowing with the contours of her beautiful face. Glistening clouds race across lush, green, grassland; the shimmer of burning air rises above parched desert; breathless frozen air hangs still above her frozen crown and feet. And all around and ever present rolls the passionate tempest of the ocean.

And there, on the border between motion and stillness, the thin band of glistening silver sand lies streaked with red as the dusk approaches. A trail of footprints, insignificant on the face of the world, leads from the ocean to the land. A second trail spirals and spins along the length of the beach; meandering and searching, then arcing sharply towards the sea.

And there, on the border between Chrissy and Reuben, the world holds her delicate breath. For a single moment, frozen in time, the girl dances and the boy stands. Her longing heart calls out to Mother for mercy. His anguished mind calls to Father, railing against his absence.

And Mother reaches out with a gentle breeze and strokes Chrissy’s golden hair. She feels Reuben’s feet, standing calmly on her shore. The girl’s breath flows from her mouth, mixing with the breeze and is carried to the boy. “In this small way you are connected,” Mother sighs. For Chrissy is everything that is and was and will be, but without Reuben she is nothing. “In this small way we are all connected.”

And the waves lap gently at the sand in this place of union where opposites meet.

So, I’m writing again, which is good. I’m in the right kind of mental position to do a half decent job of it, so I’m happy with that. But it really is slow-going. Careless Talk is real-world dark fantasy – which is to say that a fair amount of it requires real-world settings and the real-world laws and rules generally apply.

So why am I telling you this? Well, it’s a funny thing. When I say I’m writing again, I’ve actually spent four days reading and taking notes and haven’t actually put a single word in the manuscript. Careless Talk is currently standing at about 35,000 words – about a quarter of the length the first draft will end up. But I must have at least that many words in notes as well, and must have read at least 10 times that amount. In order to get where I currently am, I’ve researched:

• Seances and mediums
• Angels, archangels, nephilim, demons and all things spiritual
• The architectural history of Chambers Street Museum in Edinburgh
• The geography, flora and fauna of East Texas, Mount Olympus, Massachusetts , Glencoe, Babylon and Troy
• How to sail a 19th Century trading ship, how many crew it needs, what they’re called and how they’d spend the day
• The religious rituals of the Ancient Babylonians

Honestly, I’m knackered, and I’ve barely written a thing!

“Gardez l’eau!” the leathery little man bellowed, and promptly ejected the unpleasant contents of a small blue bucket from the first floor window.

Standing, as I was, directly underneath, I was shocked, stunned, and not a little bemused to find myself suddenley decorated in what had, until very recently, been the contents of a complete stranger’s colon. I am by no means xenophobic, but if I must find myself lathered in excrement at eleven o’ clock in the morning, I would much rather it was, at the very least, the excrement of someone I knew and preferably that of a close personal friend.

“I say,” I said, with a furrowing of my brow (which, incidentally, caused some rather nasty trickles to make their way around the sides of my face), “may I perhaps suggest a little consideration for passers-by when lobbing your unmentionables from your window, my good Sir?”

“No you may not,” snapped the little man. “I shouted the customary warning. Anyone hearing those words should consider themselves fairly warned. Your personal hygiene is not my responsibility.”

I squinted up at him, mopping ineffectually at my face with the morning newspaper. “It is also customary,” I began through gritted teeth, “to allow a little time to elapse between calling the warning and letting fly with the bucket of effluence.”

The little man’s leathery visage set hard, looking for all the world like a gorilla’s palm. “I allowed more than sufficient time for a plan of evasion to be produced and executed,” he stated.

“You did nothing of the kind, I cried, shaking my fist. “The two events were as near simultaneous as makes no odds! You need to leave a margin of at least a few seconds to allow the individual occupying your intended strike-point to take himself out of harms way – otherwise you end up in a heated debate with an enraged and excrement-soaked stranger.”

He leaned out from the window and studied me intently. He did at least appear to be giving the suggestion a reasonable amount of thought.

“So you’re saying,” he began slowly, “that I should call ‘Gardez l’eau’… and then wait?”

“Yes,” I said. “You should wai…”

The second flood of noxious semi-solids struck me full on the face, and the bucket followed less than a second later.

I danced from foot to foot in a furious little jig and shrieked incoherent outrage up into the annoying little man’s face. “Why?” I bellowed. “Why would you do that?”

“By means of demonstration,” he cried, offended. “As you are being so good as to assist me in improving this essential life-skill, I felt it only fair that I should take the opportunity to demonstrate that I had assimilated your information correctly!”

“But you didn’t have to actually throw it! And you certainly didn’t have to lob the bucket down afterwards!”

“Ah yes, I do apologise for that – I’m afraid I became a little over-enthusiastic in my learnings. In my defence, however, I should point out that you had adequate time to prepare yourself but chose instead to stand chatting.”

“What?” I gasped. “Because I didn’t realise you were going to throw another bucket of foul water on me!”

His eyes fairly bulged from his shoe-like face. “I cried the customary warning!”

“In demonstration!” I shrieked, recommencing my little hopping dance of fury. “In conversation!”

“When someone says ‘gardez l’eau’”, the little man said carefully, “It should be perfectly evident that something unpleasant is likely to follow. Whether in conversation or not.”

Before I could gather my rapidly spinning thoughts, the third deluge of filth sluiced down from above with the sound of an overinflated snail.

“Gaaaaaah!” I cried, and was suddenley cut short as a large galvanised steel bucket wedged itself firmly over my shocked head.

I staggered to and fro for a moment before grasping the bucket with slippery filth-soaked hands and pulled it from my head.

“That was deliberate!” I wailed.

“Of course it was deliberate,” said the little man. “That’s why I said ‘gard’…”

“Shut up! Shut up!” I roared, incandescent with smelly rage. I raced across to the other side of the street as the little man disappeared back inside the building. As I stood panting and leaning against the wall, he reappeared bearing what looked like a firehose.

I gaped in horror. “What do you have there, Sir?” I whispered.

He thought about it for a moment and then smiled.

“Pressure,” he said. “And range.”

And the waves lap gently at the sand, pushing it up and pulling it back, undecided on whether they should stay or go but nevertheless forced into constant motion by the irresistible pull of the moon.

Chrissy sits and waits on the shoreline for the dashing young man who must surely happen by soon. But the waves lap, and the sand stirs, and Chrissy’s shadow lengthens across the hard packed rippled surface and still he does not appear.

Her crown sits askew on her golden head and her eyes gaze vacantly down at her feet. She wriggles her toes into the sand and watches as the saturated ground gives up its water in tiny pools around her feet.

The sun dips lower in the sky, resting its head sadly on the horizon, and sends glowing amber beams of sympathy to soothe the young girl’s pain. She smiles back sadly, and looks once more along the empty beach.

She folds her arms over her knees and rests her chin on them. She sings softly to herself. It may be “Some day my Prince will come,” but we can’t quite hear. A light breeze creeps cautiously from the ocean surface and sidles up the beach. It lifts a few strands of soft, fine, hair and strokes them gently. “There, there. Everything will work out fine.”

She rises and stands before the ocean with her arms held out. The breeze grows a little more excited, flicking at her white linen dress, and whispering in her ear. She spins slowly on the spot, a careful pirouette, pointing with her right foot and inscribing a perfect circle for her Prince to cross. She raises her arms in a graceful arch above her head and pivots forwards, raising one leg in an elegant Arabesque.

The lapping waves give a gurgling chuckle at the dancing girl while their parents roar approval from further afield. The wind cheers and whistles as it flows alongside her, constantly caressing, touching, guiding and leading. She dances up the beach, her shadow flickering and waving and the sun turns the water to fire as it clings to the last scrap of the sea. As she dances across the demarcation line between the ocean’s domain and the land’s, the dry sand leaps excitedly in the air around her feet, kicked into glittering tornados by the energy of her passing. From over the border, the brine-soaked ocean sand looks on with envy.

And then he is there, clad in white, tall, lean, his face indistinct with the sun at his back. She dances around him, laughing and crying, desperate for a glimpse of his long awaited face. She spins towards him and the last ray of the dying sun burns fiercely in her heart before vanishing, leaving her alone and silent on the empty beach once more. Her arms fall to her sides and her gaze turns down to the eternal sand. She sinks to her knees with her arms outstretched. The beach takes her hands and the ocean strokes her arms.

And the waves lap gently at the sand and the wind sighs its pity. Chrissy sits and Chrissy waits for another glimpse on another day, while the weeping sun rolls its moment of magical twilight around the world.

The Book of Fail

Being an account of the End of Days

Chapter 1

1. And it came to pass that The Great Orange Stupid looked upon the face of The Company and was displeased.

2. He spoke unto the sky and unto the firmament and unto all living things saying “Where is there an Administrator of Systems that I may have unto myself a well configured network?”

3. And the firmament was silent. The sky also was silent. And all living things were too busy playing Nintendo to offer an opinion.

4. And The Great Orange Stupid rolled up his sleeves and said unto himself “Lo, I shall make me a room of servers. Five cubits long it shall be and three cubits wide, even unto a height of three cubits.

5. And I shall decorate the room of servers lavishly with the cheapest B&Q paint, so better to attract an Administrator of Systems worth of my network.”

6. And The Great Orange Stupid did build the room of servers. Five cubits long it was and three cubits wide, even unto a height of three cubits.

7. And the Great Orange Stupid did lavishly decorate the room of servers. And the walls ran off-white with the cheapest B&Q paint. And The Great Orange Stupid took all of the mops and buckets and cleaning cloths and caustic soda and vacuum cleaners and old bin bags from out the room of servers and did lay them on an alter for the cleaners to collect.

8. And the Great Orange Stupid looked upon the face of the room of servers but was displeased.

9. And he spoke unto the room of servers saying “Woe to thee, O room of servers. Where are thy racks? Where are thy servers? Where is thine disorganised rats-nest of broken cables?” And the room of servers sat silent in its shame, for neither had it racks nor servers nor a disorganised rats-nest of broken cables.

10. And The Great Orange Stupid reached out with his hand and there were racks. And he reached out his hand and the racks were filled with servers of exquisite brokenness.

11. And he called out to the rats of the field, saying “O ye rats of the field! Weave for me a complicated and unmanageable tangle of CAT-5E that I may vex and dismay my Administrator of Systems.”

12. And the rats of the field heard The Great Orange Stupid and did scamper to him, weaving a nest of complicated and unmanageable CAT-5E.

13. And The Great Orange stupid looked upon the room of servers and saw that it was good.

14. And The Great Orange Stupid did summon all the monkeys of the field and did say “O monkeys of the field! Write for me software that I may run on my servers of exquisite brokenness. And make it complicated and unmaintainable and invest it with FAIL and stupid.

15. And the monkeys of the field did write the software and did invest it with all the FAIL of the world and all the stupid of The Great Orange Stupid and did taint the servers of exquisite brokeness with its hellish presence.

16. And The Great Orange Stupid did speak to the Angel of Human Resources saying “Find for me an Administrator of Systems, that I might populate mine room of servers with his presence. Let him know UNIX and Oracle and Perl and legion other computery skills, yay even unto Visual Basic.”

17. And the Angel of Human Resources replied “Alas Great Orange Stupid, nowhere in thy kingdom is there to be found an Administrator of Systems with the skills thou dost require.”

18. And The Great Orange Stupid grew vexed and waxed mighty in his wroth. And he spake unto the Angel of Human Resources saying “Thou shalt venture out into mine kingdom and find for me such an Administrator of systems. In the corners of all the world thou shalt search and thou shalt not return until the Administrator of Systems I seek is found, lest thou be the recipient of a good kick in the knackers.”

19. And the Angel of Human Resources did scowl and went forth into all the kingdom.

“Go on,” she laughed, her eyes wide and sparkling, “show me again!”

I gave a pretend sigh of long-suffering and dug the ten pence piece from my pocket again. It danced over the back of my hand, flickering in between my fingers like a ghost, before flipping up in the air, catching the light streaming through the coffee shop window in a blaze of silver, and vanishing, only to re-appear – this time – from between the pages of the battered paperback sitting beside my new acquaintance’s cappuccino.

She clapped her hands and let out a squeal of delight.

“That’s fantastic! However do you do it?”

I shrugged and smiled. “A lot of practice, a lot of spare time, and a lot of lost pennies,” I answered. “Look.”

I popped the coin onto the back of my hand and trapped it between two fingers. I wobbled it left and then right.

“It’s not really dancing, it’s just a kind of controlled falling.”

“I know how it feels,” she said.

I smiled and navigated the coin to and fro, slowly, considering the light patterns it cast on the back of my hand.

“It’s something I do,” I said, “something I’ve always done. Fidgeting with a purpose. I suppose it helps me relax.”

“Let me try,” she said.

I held the coin out to her. Our fingertips touched as she took it. A brief spark of connectivity – the passing of something between us. A blush and a smile. Dropped eyes.

“Ok, just balance it there, between your fingers. Now let it drop slowly to the left.” The coin hit the tabletop with a clatter.

“I don’t think I’m cut out for that type of fidgeting. Requires too much effort.” She thought for a moment. “I play with my phone,” she said, “for my fidget-fix. I can’t really work it, but I like messing around with it anyway.”

“I don’t have one. Can’t abide the things – I had one at my last job, but it seemed like I had no privacy any more. No escape.”

“What do you do?”

“As little as possible,” I laughed. She smiled and waited. “Well, I fix things mostly. Electronics. How about you?”

“Public Relations,” she said. “I convince people that the glass is always half full. Might have been more helpful to go down your route though – I have problems changing a plug.”

“Everyone has their gift,” I said, “I’m not much good with people.”

“Oh, I don’t know – you could dazzle them with your dancing coin trick!”

We laughed. I took a sip of my latte and she smiled over the table at me.

“You have a moustache.”

“I came in wearing one,” I countered.

“Then you’ve aged suddenly – it’s gone all white.” I dabbed at my top lip with a napkin. “Better?”

“I’ll have to think about that. You looked quite distinguished.”

I glanced down at the paperback.

“Stephen King?”

She blushed. “I like them straightforward. I have enough plotting and scheming to do to get me through the day.”

I held my hands up. “No criticism intended – I’ve read a few myself. It’s just that, you know,” I dropped my voice to a chilling stage whisper, “we’re in a coffee shop!”

She laughed again and instantly clapped her hands to her mouth, eyes darting left and right. Her hands came down, but the smile remained.

“Let them stare,” she proclaimed, loudly, “I’ll just pretend I’m writing an acerbic critique of pulp fiction in a modern setting.”

“While really enjoying it,” I added.

“Yes, while enjoying it, and grinning at the gory bits.”

“And drooling.”

“Ah, no, I don’t drool. Well, not often.”

We sat in silence for a few moments; a comfortable silence in which nothing needed to be said. A waitress clattered past the table, snatching up a tray left by the previous incumbent before scurrying off in a cloud of efficiency.

“Makes me tired just looking at them,” she said.

“I’m developing idleness into a new art form,” I smiled.

“I don’t think it’s possible to be idle. I’m always doing something. Even if I’m not. If you see what I mean.”

A brief pause.

“No, not at all.”

We laughed again.

“I mean, even when I’ve nothing to do and nothing I can busy myself with, I’m always thinking, watching what’s going on around me, that kind of thing.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean – it was just too much of a comedy opportunity to pass up, that’s all.”

She shot me a look which would have been withering if not for the radiant smile lighting the lower half of her face.

“So what did you think of him?”

“Him who?” I asked.

She nudged the paperback.

“Ah, the venerable Mr King. Actually, I thought he was a lot of fun. Something about vampires, if I remember. It was a long time ago.”

“I know the one,” she nodded sagely. “Lots of vampires. Lots of gore.”

“And drool,” I added.

“Oh yes, lots of drool. Almost as much as you had on your top lip a few minutes ago.” Again, the tinkling laugh lit the room.

“Your coffee.”

“S-Sorry?” I asked.

“Your coffee. Are you in the queue or aren’t you?” The waitress gave me a tired look, trying her best to avoid rolling her eyes. The woman behind me in the queue gave an exasperated sigh.

“Uh-uh-oh, th-thank y-y-you.” I stammered.

“Do you want milk or cream,” she said. Very slowly and very clearly, as though my inability to articulate in some way made me deaf and stupid as well.

“C-c-c-c”, the word lodged itself in the back of my throat; fully formed but unwilling to proceed.

She dropped a handful of of cream cartons on my tray and looked at the person to my left. I was dismissed.

I turned back towards the girl sitting by herself in the window seat. She glanced up momentarily and our eyes met, ever so briefly, before I dropped my gaze, blushing.

I collected my tray and looked around for a vacant seat, then walked towards an empty table for two. A quick glance at the girl revealed she was reading her book again.

“No sense dwelling on a fantasy,” I thought to myself, placing the tray on the table, “the words won’t dance for me.” I pulled a notebook and pen from my jacket pocket. “Controlled falling might be a start, though.”

Controlled Falling