Dear Husband

You got what you wanted.

Perched upon the lofty, snow-capped peaks of Mount Kaligari, were you but to look, there would not be the tiniest square inch of soil visible that you do not clasp in your greedy fist. Neighbourhoods, districts and cities all fell to your ambition. What you could not take with threats, you ripped away with bloody actions.

Sage leaders surround themselves with wise counsel, but when you told me of the joy and pride you took in finding the best and brightest minds, I never knew it was so your torturers and executioners would be entertained. I did have my suspicions, but what was I to do? A mere woman, engaged upon household chores, I was pre-occupied. Staff do not organise themselves.

It delighted me to hear how gratified you were on receiving my gift. The Emperor was a tricky fellow and a hard nut for you to crack. Having his skull fashioned into a nut-cracker was simply destiny. If only he had known it, he might have kept a lower profile.

Now that you have conquered these lands, now that your enemies are beaten, dead or enslaved, now can we do what I want?

Mother wants to meet you.

I realise I may have painted a picture of her that is less than flattering. We are not estranged, as you have suggested, we merely hold different opinions on who ruined who's life. Please, do not take sides, however your conscience might urge you. I trust you will treat my mother the way she deserves. All I ask is that you journey with me to her estate. She is simply dying to meet you.

Snap.

The revelation slapped him in the face like a sodden cardboard box full of wet towels hitting the side of an Amish barn at midnight during a hurricane. An eerie grey-brown owl hooted urgent warnings in his head, chasing away the sheets of boiling field-mice, each clutching an indecision, bad thought or sabotaging instinct. As they fled to nothing, he understood with perfect clarity where he had been going wrong. The map of shoddy choices was revealed as the dreck swept from his mind.

In the split second that he shed the negative, a massive vacuum formed within him. Inspiration clasped his ears, pressed his face to her bosom but when he opened his mouth, so his tongue might play across her soft flesh, his head was filled with wondrous ideas.

He felt re-born. Reborn and renewed. At last purpose motivated him, something solid, real and tangible. He had a goal, and for the first time in his life he ached and burned to achieve that upon which he had set his heart's desire.

Misfortunate it was that this vision and clarity, this new direction in his life, struck him while he was two steps into a five step crossing and the bus that struck him seconds later was hampered less by epiphanies and more by physics and a slow foot upon the brake.

Voices

I hear voices, but I am afraid to open the attic trapdoor. Afraid of what I will find.

So I do nothing. Lie awake. Still afraid.

I hear voices, but the silence is worse. The silence is worse because that is when they speak in hushed tones so I can not hear. That is when they plot.

I hear voices, but I am afraid to open the attic trapdoor. Instead I press my ear to the wood and wonder who they are and what plans they are making, down there.

Accord.

The river pawed at him, its great, greedy fists pummelling, pulling him away from the shore. When he finished sawing at the straps with his dagger both armour and blade were swept away into the churning water. It felt as though he was being spat upwards as his frantic clawing was finally repaid. He hauled himself onto the bank and lay there, suddenly shivering and shaking, aware just how cold he actually was as the brisk wind buffeted his quivering body.

"Charles?" The voice exploded trees filled with birds in his head.

"Steady, sirrah!" Charles said, spitting the last of the water from his mouth in the process. "My men are close behind me and, on my word, will treat harshly with you."

"Hah!" the voice replied. "I have a veteran company ready to fall upon you at my single word."

Charles recognised the voice now. "What single word? Charlatan? Liar? Thief?"

There was a sigh. "So it is you, Charles. Do come a little closer. I can barely see you from here."

"What sort of fool do you take me for, Henry?" Charles asked. "Do you really-"

"It's is drier here, and sheltered, somewhat, from the wind," Henry said. "Don't be a ninny."

Charles, aided in no small part by his bull-headed nature, stood and after teetering on his feet a while, took step after shaky step towards the voice. He moved, slowly and deliberately, from the riverbank to a small copse of trees not far from the water. The owner of the voice lay here with his back against the trunk of a tree and his hand pressed to his side, ineffectually staying the flow of blood that soaked his shirt.

Charles slumped to the ground, opposite. "Is it bad?" he asked.

Henry raised his hand to show the bloody palm, but winced and quickly pressed it back again. "Bad enough."

Charles snorted. "But for your trickery, I might have laid a heavier blow myself and decided the matter for sure."

"But for your stupidity," Henry replied, "you might not have charged your cavalry across a bog."

"It was green grass, as far as anyone could tell," Charles said.

"Aye, and a bog it became, after the previous week's rain and your horses churning it to mud at a gallop."

Charles snorted again. Then, after a while, he asked. "So... you won the day then?"

Henry raised his bloody palm anew and laughed. "Hard to say. The day is not yet done, but I may be."

"Pah, it'll take more than that paltry nick to finish you, Henry."

"While I value your opinion, I... well, anyway... there was another matter."

"Speak your mind," Charles said. "I welcome the distraction after this debacle."

"Quite," Henry replied. "I just wondered whether I should have sent young Catherine some token last week."

"It was her birthday." Charles shrugged. "Despite our disagreement, she is still your niece. Oh, she is with child."

"That young dolt finally figured out what he was doing then?" They both laughed.

"You're quite the favourite uncle, you know," Charles said. "She became ever so cross when I told her I intended to have your head."

"Sweet child," Henry said. "And such a doting daughter for thinking you capable of achieving the deed."

"I could yet..." Charles slapped at his empty scabbard. "If I only..."

"Why not come over here and finish me off with your bare hands?" Henry asked. "As father would have."

Charles barked a laugh. "With his bare hands? Why the merest glance would have shrivelled you to ash, the way he told it. Anyway, it would be undignified. Suppose we were to be found out, rolling around here, attempting to slap and pinch the life from each other? It wouldn't do."

Henry nodded his agreement. "You know, of course, who will benefit most from this? Your man, Le Croix. I expect he is already back at your castle, digging your grave."

"As if Penningham will let this opportunity go to waste," Charles said. "You may hope to leak away completely from that pinprick, for you can be sure he will squeeze some advantage from whatever else is left."

"He is an ambitious man," Henry agreed.

"As is Le Croix," Charles acknowledged.

The wind howled over the river. The sounds of battle were distant now, and growing quieter as the sky darkened.

"I shall be going now," Charles said. He stood and stretched, shook the blood back into his limbs and turned away.

He had walked just a few yards when he heard: "Stop, Charles. Lend your brother some assistance."

Charles sighed. He retraced his steps, then went over to his brother and helped him to his feet, choosing not to comment on the pained grunts he heard as he hauled the other upright.

"You know, brother," Henry said, "much of the trouble between us would be settled if you were to wrest Penningham's estates away."

"I expect so," Charles said. "And I fancy you might help me with that, in exchange for some land on my western borders."

"I expect so," Henry echoed.

With their arms about each other they made slow progress away from the river.

"Doesn't Le Croix have his lands on your western border?" Henry asked.

"Do shut up, brother."

Sung.

Ruth didn't want to brush the tear from her eye, afraid it would attract the attention of her other sister. Miriam was holding court in the centre of the trailer, looking so slim and elegant in her tailored black jacket and skirt. It wasn't supposed to be about her coming back with her stories about offices and pensions.

Vladimir, Ruth's husband appeared by the chair she was sat upon and swapped her tea for a fresh cup. His hand reached out and stroked her hair, and with sleight of hand that would have pleased his father he rubbed the salty tear off her cheek. He looked so handsome in his black tails. They exchanged sad smiles before he slipped back into the crowd. She took a sip from the cup. It was far too sweet again, but she so appreciated the gesture.

"Sorry for your loss, Ruthie." she clasped the long bony hand that was offered to her. Poor Marco, forced to stoop inside the confines of the trailer. Such a sweet young man, but already he had to use a cane to support his frame.

Vladimir returned, set a plate of buns on the arm of her chair, squeezed her hand and was away. He had spoken such beautiful words about her sister. His rasping accent painting an aching portrayal of her love for live, love for her friends and for her work.

Lolo and Bolo both tried to hug her at once, bounced off each other and settled for patting her shoulders, an arm around each other's waist. Sad, nonsense words burbled from their quivering lips and their beady eyes in their tiny heads looked so miserable, though they probably didn't quite grasp what was going on. They knew their friend Ruthie was unhappy, so they were unhappy.

Vladimir came and steered them away, gently shoving them towards Miriam, who he knew detested them. He handed Ruth a heaped plate of biscuits. With her free hand she pulled his head down to kiss him on the check, making him wriggle. He put his hand over her hand, pulling himself free, fingers trailing off against her fingers until just their tips were touching and then he was gone again.

"She was a fine, fine woman." Henry's eyes were level with her own and she recognised the moist redness of genuine grief. There had always been stories, rumours about Henry and her sister. He was a decent man, but she wished they had been more open. People would have been happy for them. The opportunity to be a couple was lost for fear of ridicule. Faint heart.

Vladimir reached down to rest a hand against Henry's back, exchanging a silent nod of understanding with him. With his other hand he placed a plate bearing a whole coffee cake on Ruth's lap.

Ruth looked at the cake, stared intently at it for several long seconds. Her whole upper body fell forward, curled into a ball of sobs, her beard bunching in the the cream topping of the cake. She stood suddenly, sending the plate to the floor and the cake with it. She swept biscuits and buns after them, charging through the mourners to collide in a desperate hug with her sister Miriam, who stared daggers over her shoulder at Vladimir.

Her husband started towards her, but Henry's grasp on his coat tail stopped him short.

"Give her a minute," Henry said. "We've all taken Two Ton... I mean... Tessa's death pretty hard" He looked at the pile of food on the floor. "But you have to remember, Vladimir, there's no getting her back."

oh no doctor lies

He threw out his chest, tossed his unruly mane of blond hair and roared, "No, Doctor Lies, YOU are mistaken! Do you think I am so easily duped? I, who saw through the String-Tingler's insidious plot to replace the world's currency with blood-sucking mimics? Do you think I will be so easily defeated?  I, who single-handedly stopped a swarm of meteors from crashing into the earth and destroying all of civilization? When there wasn't even anything WRONG with my other hand! Do you think I will crumble under the pressure? I, who so silently, and with admirable nobility, bore the heartache of my lover's betrayal with Maximus Slime, the details of which you can read in my best-selling autobiography? Oh no, Doctor Lies, inform your wicked plan that it has a mighty foiling in ITS future!"

The man behind the desk pushed the spectacles up the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Captain Awesome, first of all it's 'Doctor Silverman'. Secondly, I really appreciate your positive attitude, and believe me it will be a boon in the coming months, but the tests are conclusive. I'm afraid it's definitely cancer."

Snap.

As Alice pushed her battered tartan shopping trolley towards the mall she watched a child playing hopscotch in the distance. The blonde girl, in her red duffel coat reminded the old woman of Little Red Riding hood.

Sitting on a low wall, bordering the car park, was a young man who must be her father. The little girl would throw her stone, then hop, skip and jump the course, running to hug her father's leg when she succeeded and letting him lift her onto his knee and bury his face in her neck when she failed, kissing and snuffling and sending her squealing back to the course.

Drawing nearer, Alice could see the toy shop carrier bag next to the man's foot, and next to that the discarded MacDonald's wrappers, stacked ready for the bin. The man looked at his watch, and though she was still too far away to hear it, Alice sensed how wistfully he sighed as he called his child over for another hug, just because.

He caught Alice's looking at him, chin resting on the little girl's head and he gave the old lady a shy smile.

When she was level with him Alice looked at the hop scotch course the little girl had drawn on the paving slabs. Each chalk line neatly intersecting the middle of the block's edge. With every hop and jump the little girl's feet landed where the corners of four blocks met.

"Oh, love, doesn't she know?" she asked the man. "Step on a crack-"

"She knows," he replied. "She won't let me draw it any other way."