The Magic Season

Every year, in the village hall, they put on a Christmas play. Not a pantomime, a christmas play. Henry - the headmaster of the local school usually directed it. Antibus Pill always wrote it. Antibus Pill who lived right in the middle of Hardmans Wood and made charcoal. To be perfectly honest, this wasn’t really a job that anyone needed doing, but he liked it. Lengths of cord wood were placed in a large dome shape with a chimney in the centre. Antibus covered it with turf, leaving little vent holes all the way round it. Then he dropped some glowing embers in through the top, so the whole thing fired, and he placed an iron lid over the hole and then pulled up a chair for four days as it quietly burned, and watched the sweet smelling white smoke pour out of the vent holes. As he sat and watched the charcoal burn he would read. Then, when the burning was done - you could tell it was ready because the smoke turned from white to blue - this is just one of the ways in which making charcoal is similar to choosing a pope - he would allow the charcoal to cool for two more days. And during all of this time - he would also read. His cabin, built in the middle of the woods was filled from floor to ceiling with books. A good proportion of the books were collections of theatrical anecdotes, so don’t start thinking he’s some kind of intellectual. And if he wasn’t reading he was writing. Mostly poetry, but from Hallowe’en onwards he was writing the Christmas play.

How Antibus got the job of writing the Christmas play was a mystery. A mystery almost as great as who the hell was buying all this charcoal. But he had been doing it for a very long time. And every year he came up with a brand new twist on something. One year, he wrote a modern version of the nativity. It was set in a brothel.

Aggie Pendragon, head of the WI nearly pulled the whole venture after she saw the dress rehearsal. Antibus and Henry both objected (though Henry’s heart really wasn’t in the project that year - he’d never been the same since his cat had been killed by that boy). Antibus told Aggie that he’d told her two months ago that the thing was going to be set in a brothel. Aggie - rather a simple soul, had to admit that she had been labouring under the misapprehension that a Brothel was where soup was made. Which makes Joseph Campbell the world’s most successful pimp. Anyway - the show went on and it was a massive success.

To be honest - the show was always a massive success, and to the whole town, it signalled the start of Christmas. Everyone turned up to see the shows. Mr Hockle, Mr Trice and Mr Chandler, who owned neighbouring shops on Perrigrew Street often took leading roles. The fact that everyone thought that Antibus Pill was an oddball, and they never invited him to their summer barbecues was pushed under the carpet and a wonderful night was always had by all.

You can picture the scene - christmas tree in the entrance hall, and a trestle table with plastic cups filled with orange squash. Aggie, and the lower orders of the WI selling raffle tickets. The raffle prizes were nearly always supplied by Peter Binkleman of Binkleman’s toys. Heaped high under the Christmas tree, wrapped in shiny paper with tags dangling off them saying things like ‘I’m Yours’, and ‘Shake Me, I Love it’. Neat rows of children would sit in front of them cross-legged and mesmerised. It’s worth mentioning that Peter Binkleman always made sure that every child won a present in the raffle.

He’d always arrive late, just before the show started, wearing a christmas cracker hat, holding a tray of mince pies that he would hand out in the aisle. PB basically wore a christmas cracker hat through the whole of December, and was definitely of the opinion that Thursday the 24th of November wasn’t too early to start being Christmassy. The fact that he was late annoyed Antibus Pill. He was doing it to attract attention. Just like Laurence Olivier did later on in his career. When arriving at the theatre to watch a play, he would wait until the house was full, then make a conspicuous entrance into a box, garnering a round of applause from the audience. Antibus knew this because he had read several books full of theatrical anecdotes.

Anyhow - this year Antibus Pill was writing a version of ‘A Christmas Carol’ set in Hamlet’s castle, but in modern dress. This was a complicated undertaking, and one that would definitely go over the head of 90% of the audience. But this wasn’t a consideration for Antibus. He pored over his books of theatrical anecdotes, and the various versions of ‘A Christmas Carol’ that had been produced over the years. Many of them drew attention to the wonderful Victorian special effects - and in particular reference made to Pepper’s Ghost.

If you haven’t heard of Pepper’s Ghost, then here is a quick description of how it works. The effect is a ghost appearing on stage. The way it works is that a sheet of glass, or a half silvered mirror is on the stage at a precise angle - that the audience cannot see. Hidden away somewhere in the wings is an actor dressed as a ghost. When the effect is needed, the ghost actor is lit, or steps into the light. And he is positioned in such a way that he is reflected on the glass which is on stage, and a ghost seems to appear, who disappears when the ghost actor is no longer lit. It is essentially a very simple effect, but one that is incredibly effective.

So - Antibus was reading about this, and became slightly obsessed with creating the Pepper’s Ghost effect in his production. He had cast himself as the Ghost of Hamlet’s Father slash Jacob Marley figure, and this, he decided would be the perfect appearance with which to attempt the Pepper’s Ghost illusion. It also hadn’t passed him by that theatrical legend would have it that Shakespeare himself played the Ghost. This kind of thing was right up his alley. Antibus feared technology. He didn’t own a car, nor was his house connected to the mains. But he knew he could create magic nonetheless, and he set to work building his illusion.

Six weeks into rehearsals, and things were going as well as could be expected. The two lead characters - named Scramlet and Ophelabelle were really rather good, and it seemed that perhaps Antibus’ idea wasn’t such a bad one. They couldn’t help feeling however that they would get more done if Antibus didn’t insist on practising the Pepper’s Ghost illusion for basically most of the time. He had rigged up a glass sheet with a wooden frame that was indeed invisible to the audience. And the cast. Henry kept walking into it, and had insisted that they put stickers on it or something. Antibus didn’t. He has also created a tiny dark booth, hidden right in the corner of the wings, tucked away behind the Safety Curtain crank. No one could see him, and he was perfectly happy. He could control his own light source, and it had been decided that he would record his lines, and they would be played out over the sound system, while he acted away as the ghost, while the illusion mesmerised the audience.

There was only one problem. It didn’t work. Not once. Whether it was the angles. Or the light source. But it just didn’t work. Sometimes his legs would appear on stage. Sometimes his head. Sometimes nothing appeared at all. On one occasion, and no one knew quite how this had happened, Mr Chandler appeared on the glass whilst he was having a pee in the Gents.

This upset Antibus in such a terrible way. He had such a passion for the old ways. For the old things. Mr Trice said he had a multi media projector that could probably do the same job, and they could record the footage on his phone.

This was enough for Antibus to nearly break down. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know why he had placed so much importance on this thing. He was so tired. Tired of the modern world. Tired of living outside of a community that barely tolerated him. Tired of making charcoal that no one wanted. He realised that he desperately wanted to impress them. Make them gasp. Make them squeal. Make them point, and wonder if, for one brief moment, magic was real, and reason banished.

But Henry, in an uncharacteristic show of force made the decision. Mr Trice’s projector would be used, and the effect would be just as good, and far more reliable. He asked that the pane of glass be removed forthwith from the stage. He rubbed his reddened nose as he did so, and even glowered in Antibus’ direction.

Rehearsals continued, and though progress quickened, Antibus’ heart was no longer in it. He had filmed his piece on Mr Trice’s phone in ten minutes. It’ll be fine, said Henry. But Antibus knew it wasn’t magic. This wasn’t what he wanted.

And he glumly went back to his cabin in the woods. For an hour or two he lay on the turf dome of the last batch of charcoal of the year. It was warm on his back. Natural warmth. The white smoke puttered out of the vents. And Antibus closed his eyes.

The night of the show arrived, and true to form Peter Binkleman arrived late, and handed out mince pies. Everyone was excited about the show. ‘The Melancholy and the Ivy Dane or To Be or Not To Be Christmassy’ was quite the talk of the town.

But backstage there was panic. Yesterday, Mr Trice had dropped his projector. The bulb had broken, and whole thing was out of commission. They were going to have to resort to plan A. Or Plan bloody awful as Henry had called it. Antibus, and Pepper’s Ghost were back on. Without rehearsal. And it had never gone right.

But Joe Public didn’t know a thing. And the show started beautifully. People laughed, people clapped. People wondered who Horatio Cratchet was, but went along with it anyway.

Then came the point in Scramlet’s chambers where Jacob Marley was set to appear.. Darkness fell across the set. Silence in the audience and in the wings. Would it work? No one had even spoken to Antibus, and by now he would be tucked away in his little darkened booth.

Suddenly, a sharp intake of breath rippled across the hall, as the flickering figure of Antibus appeared, twirling and dancing, bathed in smoke and glistering light. His voice boomed across the sound system in the hall.

“I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, and yard by yard. I girded it of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it.”

And as image of Antibus danced impossibly on the stage, wreathed in smoke and unearthly light, the gathered crowds gasped. They squealed. They pointed, and wondered for one brief moment, if magic was real, and reason had been banished.

Mr Trice watched from the back of the hall. His hands clasped to his mouth, pleased that he had made up some cock and bull story about his projector.

The rest of show was a triumph.

The audience got to their feet and roared their applause, their tummies full of mince pies and Christmas cheer, and their heads dizzy with awe.

No one noticed that Antibus didn’t come on to take his bow with the others.

A few hours later they went to his cabin. Or what was left of it. A few charred remains of Antibus’ life. A stray ember from the charcoal dome had flown down the chimney, into the cabin and set it alight.

Antibus was trapped inside, and burned alive, dancing impossibly through the flames wreathed in smoke and unearthly light.

He had never made to the village hall that night.

But his Pepper’s ghost had.

The Side A Theory

When Lawrence Pip was born at his parents’ house in Pilthorp in 1978, the radio was turned up loud. What was playing on the radio was this : ‘Born Free’. The theme from the film ‘Born Free’. The 1966 recording my Matt Monro.

This story became family legend, and for the rest of his life, Lawrence Pip had an umbilical connection to music.

As he grew up, music became everything to him. I know what you’re thinking. Lots of people like music. But Lawrence Pip felt that music spoke to him in a different way. That songs were about him, and for him, and could affect his life in ways that others simply couldn’t understand. But only the songs from side A of a record. He felt uncomfortable about the songs on side B of an album. Side A was all about hope, excitement, the thing wasn’t even halfway over. Side B is the decline, the relentless downward slide to the end. And Lawrence wanted none of it.

Even the thought of side B could depress the young Lawrence Pip whose initials are cleverly LP in case you hadn’t noticed.

So the music obsessed Lawrence Pip grew up only ever listening to the Side A of every album he owned. But that was all he wanted. He carried with him a little notebook, and would write the titles down of songs that spoke to him at particular points.

One day. When Lawrence Pip was eleven years old, he was waiting outside the school gates. It was early November. It was half past six. It was getting dark. Lawrence Pip was expecting to picked up by his mother in her little blue Renault 5. He was expecting her at six o’clock after the rehearsal for the school play had finished. But she wasn’t here. A little worried feeling crept up from his small feet, up his legs and into his tummy. Soon it reach his eyes, and then he would cry. This was one of his fears. That his parents would forget about, forget that they ever had him, or maybe decided that they didn’t want him any more. And now maybe - this was the day, this was the time.

The school wasn’t in a busy part of town. It was in rather a remote location. Only the church nearby, and Hardman’s Wood behind, where, as night descended, you could hear the foxes bark in the eerie way they do.

Lawrence decided that this was to be the last moments of life as he knew it. And as tears pricked his eyes, he began to hum ‘Don’t You brackets Forget About Me close brackets’ by Simple Minds, from Side A of The Breakfast Club Original Soundtrack album. Somehow he felt that this would make his mother remember him. The songs speak to him, after all. He pulled out his little notebook, and wrote ‘Don’t You - open brackets Forget About Me close brackets’ . Then he did a peculiar thing.

He ripped off the sheet of paper, and ate it.

About thirty seconds later, a Renault 5, which he and his mother had named ‘Little Blue’, screamed round the corner, and a breathless, and nearly crying mother jumped out and squeezed Lawrence Pip so tightly he farted. She’d lost track of time, and was he all right, and he could have whatever he wanted for supper.

So LP was all right. All his worries had been for nothing. Apart from one of them. He had lived the last moments of life as he knew it. Because he had started something he couldn’t stop.

These songs were more than simple melodies. He could control his life with them. And so began what Lawrence Pip called ‘The Side A Theory’.

Whenever he wanted or needed something, he would simply find the appropriate song, on side ‘A’ of an album, write it down in his little notebook, and eat it, and it would, as far as he was concerned, come true.

Now - it is fair to say that a lot of his little miracles were self prophesying. On a trip to the circus with his parents when he was just a little too old for it, he made quite the show of eating a piece of paper with ‘Send In The Clowns’ written on. And on the train to Cornwall with some school friends in 1994, he smugly ate a piece of paper with ‘Go West’ written on it.

But other times were more inexplicable. When, at seventeen years old he fell in love Carmel Diskens (initials CD) in the year below him, a girl so very very far out of his league, he scribbled ‘Love Me Do’ on his notebook, and swallowed it. A week later, Lawrence and Carmel were found kissing on the bench outside Our Price in the High Street. It was during that week that he also ate a piece of paper with ‘I wanna sex you up’ written on it. Which also came true. He did want to sex her up. He wanted to sex her up very much. But Carmel didn’t want to sex him up. So he wasn’t sexed up. But his faith in ‘The Side A Theory’ held firm. When he wrote things down on pieces of his paper from his notebook and ate them. They came true.

And this didn’t stop as he got older. Instead of using an alarm clock, he ate pieces of paper with ‘Wake up Boo’ written on them. Or on occasions where he wanted to rise before his house guests left, ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go Go’.

He even tried to record his own album - and the first track on Side A was called predictably ‘The Side A Theory’. But this was a project he soon gave up on. Music was made for him. He didn’t have to make music.

Once, his girlfriend at the time - Molly Prandle the Third (initials MP3), tried to talk to him about this over dinner. She was pretty convinced that he had a serious psychological problem. He ate a piece of paper with ‘Don’t Speak’ written on it, and poor Molly almost immediately started to choke on a fishbone.

Lawrence Pip was unshakable in his theory. And it worried the hell out of his friends. Clearly there was something wrong with Lawrence Pip. By this time it is 2010, and Lawrence Pip is 32 years old. A 32 year old man who eats bits of paper so that his wishes came true.

So, in December of 2002, a gathering of 8 of Lawrence’s closest friends staged what an American would most likely call ‘An Intervention’, and what we would call a “jolly good talking to.’

This was it. Enough was enough. Lawrence Pip was never going to grow up, get married, have children or even a proper career while he leaned on this ridiculous crutch.

So one Tuesday night, with a light sprinkling of pre christmas snow on the roads outside , Lawrence’s friends gathered in the Saloon Bar of ‘The Walnut Tree’, a nice little pub just a couple of doors down from the taxidermists. They sat a table a decent distance from the Jukebox, and waited for Lawrence.

When he arrived, they laid it all out for him. How illogical it all was. How inappropriate it was that he dumped his longest ever partner by eating a piece of paper with the words ‘Leave Me Alone’ written on it.

He had to stop all this. Leave it all behind. Grow up. Be a Man.

But Lawrence was furious. They didn’t understand. They never had. What he had was a gift. They had seen it in action. They had seen the miracles. Just last month, at a party he had demonstrated the magic. But - his friends said - eating a piece of paper that has ‘Do The Conga’ on it is not a miracle. The people did the Conga - said Lawrence. Yes. They said. But ‘Do The Conga’ was playing. You had nothing to do with it.

But just as Lawrence started to write ‘Shut Up’ on a piece of paper, the notebook was snatched from his hands.

Aha. He said. Why would you take the notebook, if none of it is true? You believe it.

We don’t. They said. But you do, and that is the problem.

Lawrence opened his bag and pulled out a much larger notebook. I can make you believe it. He said.

And pulling a marker pen from his pocket he scrawled ‘The Side A Theory’ in capitals on the paper.

This piece of paper was much bigger than he was used to. So he ripped it up in to smaller pieces, and popped the first one in his mouth.

And within ten minutes he was dead.

The autopsy confirmed that Lawrence Pip was a sufferer of Pica - an illness which is characterized by an appetite for non-food items. It usually occurs in children, but passes. Not so in Lawrence’s case. The massive amounts of paper he had eaten over the years had eventually killed him. He hadn’t realised that paper contains trace amounts of mercury, and is deadly to humans in large quantities.

But there was one peculiar little twist. Before they piled Lawrence into the ambulance, on that December night, the paramedics pulled a piece of paper out of his mouth. The little ripped bit of the ‘SIDE A THEORY’ note.

The central piece of the note.

Which simply said. ‘DE A TH’.

The Dark Room

Here is a new story for you all, called 'The Dark Room', first performed on July 28th 2011 at 'Tall Tales' at 'The Good Ship' in 'Kilburn'. I wrote this one whilst on holiday. I went to France and it rained for two weeks which made us cross, but I don't think you can tell in the story.

In other housekeeping news - there is a 'Tall Tales' style podcast available called 'Listen and Often' which is available at www.listenandoften.com and in iTunes here - my first story 'What Peebee Did Next' is read on it, aswell as lots of other things.

Anyway - here is the story - I hope you enjoy it. Do leave feedback, and tweet it and facebook it and all that shizzle. Even print it out and leave on benches for curious tramps if you wish.

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The Dark Room

Augustus Pike woke up covered in sweat and shuddering with shame and regret. He was remembering a slightly stupid remark he had made at a party in 2005 to some people who he didn’t really know. They gave him a sideways look, and he was desperate for the ground to swallow him up. The remark was something about Rob Schneider being in ‘Jaws’. One of the others in the group corrected him - saying that Roy Scheider was the actor in ‘Jaws’. Rob Schneider is the actor in the film ‘Deuce Bigelow Male Gigolo’, and ‘Deuce Bigelow - European Gigolo’. And now the embarrassment was flooding back over him at eight thirty three in the morning.

This was not uncommon for Augustus, who frequently encountered crippling bouts of latent embarrassment - for things that had happened up to two and a half decades ago. The fact that he was in unfamiliar surroundings was possibly not helping. But he had more important business on this fine Thursday at the end of an unexpectedly damp July. When some people were returning from holidays in the south of France where it had just rained the whole time and they might as well have stayed at home.

Augustus was conducting research for a book entitled ‘Unexplained Pictures’, which was going to largely be about unexplained pictures. It was also going to be largely awful, but he was contractually obliged to his publisher to write a book this year, and so that was what he was going to do.

There was only one unexplained picture he was interested in anyway. One he had bought from an auction several years ago. It was a Mezzotint of three men. One of the men seemed to be in 18th century clothing, and one in 19th century clothing and the other man had his back to us, so it was hard to work out what he was wearing. The only distinguishing feature on the third man was a square symbol with three letters clearly visible. H T D. The picture, though badly drawn and unspectacular, had intrigued him because he couldn’t work out who on earth could be bothered to do it. And what on earth was the symbol? It was an unexplained picture, and fell neatly into the brief of his book which, in case I hadn’t mentioned it was called ‘Unexplained Pictures’. It will be in bookshops in November. It won’t really. This is all fiction. All of it. I’m not even real.

Anyway.

The research period fell into the exact same period in which Augustus was moving house. He had sold his property but hadn’t got round to buying a new one, and so decided to rent a place for a few months in the village of Specksham, which was known locally as the home of taxidermy. The place he had rented had last belonged to a photographer who specialised in taking awful photographs as far as Augustus could tell when he searched through the boxes of snaps left in the backroom. There were also a number of amateurish charcoal drawings - nearly all landscapes, apart from one which was part landscape, part scratchy drawing of a moustachioed man looking surprised. Imagine what Tom Selleck would look like if you dropped a Cornetto in his lap. That’s what he looked like. The photographer himself had apparently done a runner, leaving the landlord with lots of unpaid rent, but the place itself was perfect. Augustus moved in with a load of boxes, a laptop, and several crates of excellent wine.

He woke up with with shuddering embarrassment at the time he had jumped into a friend swimming pool with white shorts on in an attempt to appear spontaneous to a pretty lady. When getting out of the pool it became clear that his shorts also became clear when in put contact with water and everyone could see his balls. Not to mention his penis. This memory made Augustus curl up a little in his unfamiliar bed, then uncurl, get out of it and get the old photographer’s studio feeling a bit more like a home.

A few days later, and everything was going swimmingly. He hadn’t unpacked his boxes and cases, but he had lined them neatly up against the walls and decided that they were basically chests of drawers like that anyway. All of the wine he had painstakingly unpacked, and put in the tiny cupboard-like room that the photographer had clearly used as a darkroom. The room was surprisingly cool and smelt faintly of the chemicals used in developing photographs. He was sorting through hundreds of unexplained photos a day for his book entitled ‘Unexplained Pictures’, and conducting hours of research into the pictures which supposedly contained images of ghosts and ufos. Well - hours of research if by research you mean ‘making shit up about them’. Augustus was surprised by the fact that he was enjoying himself. The book was fun to write - the images in turn spooky, then laughable, but never not interesting. He worked tirelessly through the whole day - if your definition of ‘tireless’ is ‘with only two or three naps’, which luckily Augustus’ was, and on into the evening, the ‘research becoming more and more exciting, with the more red wine Augustus drank.

His mood was so good that he didn’t even shout at the elderly man on the high street who asked him for money, whilst shaking a collection box.

“What For?” asked Augustus.

“To Help The Donkeys.” said the old man.

“Help them do what?” said Augustus, not unfairly.

“Um. Be Happier Donkeys?” Said the old man.

“Fair enough” acquiesced Augustus, and thrust a pound coin into the pot.

“Here’s your sticker.” said the old man.

“I don’t like stickers” said Augustus, taking one, and immediately tried to wrestle it from his fingers. “I’m not putting it on me.”.

“I made those stickers myself” said the old man, who really did like donkeys.

Augustus was long gone however, and was stocking up on biros and Post-Its at the newsagents, because that definitely counts as work.

That night, Augustus put aside the peculiar Mezzotint and drained his glass. He picked up a shoebox of his own private photographs and wondered if this was an untapped seam of mystery. It wasn’t. The box contained hundreds of uncategorised, un-albumed pictures that spanned at least four decades. With pictures that were actually square and over exposed cause they were taken in the seventies, and pictures taken a few months ago that had used expensive equipment to make them look like that. He leafed through them and discovered that with every image came another burst of latent embarrassment. Mispronouncing things in French Restaurants, producing unflushable items in other people’s lavatories whilst attending dinner parties, trying to get off with women who were trying to pity him. He needed another drink, and half staggered towards the Dark Room clutching a school photograph. As he made his way towards what was now his wine cellar, he pondered his eleven year old face in the middle row of the class photo in the scratchy school uniform. And he remembered the day. And he remembered the fart that he thought would slip out un-noticed. And he remembered the actuality of the fart in question, the implausibly ripe and noisy that made him the laughing stock of Mr Hayes’ class, and ensured that no one ever wanted to play kiss chase with him again. He shuddered at the memory, and opened the door to the dark room.

He was surprised to find himself standing in the middle row of Mr Haye’s class photo wearing a scratchy uniform. He looked down at his eleven year old body, and felt a desperate urge to break wind. He looked around at his classmates of so long ago, and would have felt more able to asses the extraordinary situation he found himself in had the rumbling in his little belly not felt so urgent. Perhaps he could let it...slip out. But he remembered. He remembered the familiar shudder he had felt only moments ago, and held it in. He clenched and wriggled and smiled as the photographer who seemed so old, but was clearly about 24 took the photo, and Mr Hayes smiled. And a flood of nostalgia swept over him as the scent of the school hall, and the feel of the little blazer crash his senses. And then.... It’s gone. He was standing outside the Dark Room door. He no longer held the photograph in his hand. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The wine store was there as usual. He grabbed a bottle, and went back to his desk, thoroughly discombobulated.

After another half a bottle, he decided to give the Dark Room another try. He picked up another photo. This one backstage at an amateur production of ‘Charlie’s Aunt’. He was 23, and trying to smoke a cigarette to impressed the short haired girl who put the things on the props table. He had missed a cue, and failed to appear on stage at the correct time. The ridicule he could take... It was the disappointment that really shook him and made his inside twist with chagrin.

He stood outside the door to the Dark Room, and held the photo in his hand. He couldn’t work out whether he wanted it to work again, or not. Or would he rather the school photo incident was a hallucination brought about by too much wine and not enough food. But he couldn’t not know. Holding the backstage photograph, of his 23 year old self dressed as a footman inexpertly smoking a Marlboro Light, he stepped into the Dark Room.

And coughed. And blinked in the darkness. And looked around at the hushed hubbub of the amateur cast and crew. A few paces ahead of him, the short haired girl arranged the props on the trestle table marked out with masking tape. In his white gloved hand, the cigarette rested, smoke twirling into the darkness. He could hear the play going on somewhere in the distance.

He crushed the cigarette out, and went straight to the wings. And it all came flooding back. The set, the lines, he knew the cue. He stepped out onto the stage and took a breath.

He didn’t know his line.

He exhaled at the door of the Dark Room. His hands empty.

The door creaked open in front of him, and he could see the racks of wine bottle shining in the darkness.

He allowed his mind to wander. And there was no shudder.

The enormity of the situation crashed over him like a wave in a storm, and he ran back to his desk.

Then he ran back to the Dark Room and grabbed another bottle of wine, and then he ran back to the table, and flung all the photos for the book to the floor and concentrates solely on his own back catalogue. The back catalogue of shame.

And so Augustus began the night of his life, time-travelling within his own lifetime, leaping from photo to photo, putting things right that once went wrong. You know, a bit like Quantum Leap.

It was incredible. Somehow, somehow he had been given this chance to cast away the hundreds of tiny embarrassment demons that shook him daily. He revisited parties, and holidays and public events and family Christmases for tiny fractions of times, seconds sometimes, and with each visit he removed another gremlin from his subconscious.

By four thirty three in the morning, he was exhausted. He had revisited over a hundred periods of his life, and it had taken it out of him.

He piled his photographs back in their shoebox, and drained another bottle. As he did so, he spilled a few drops on the Mezzotint of the three men. Annoyed at his clumsiness, he wiped the paper, and thrust it in his jacket pocket, out of harm’s way and set off for another bottle. The Dark Room still served two purposes.

Pushing the door to the Dark Room open, he stepped inside, expecting to grab a bottle from the cheap rack near the door.

What happened was that everything stopped.

Three weeks later, the landlord came by. No rent had been paid, and he wanted to know why. The place was empty. Not a soul inside. Just like the photographer - the guy who looked like Magnum who did the terrible charcoal landscapes. Now this one had disappeared.

On the floor of the darkroom was a curled and stained Mezzotint of three men. One of the men seemed to be in 18th century clothing, and one in 19th century clothing and the other man had his back to us, so it was hard to work out what he was wearing. The only distinguishing feature on the third man was a square symbol with three letters clearly visible. H T D.

When showing the drawing in the pub that night, an elderly man took an interest. He tapped the symbol on the back of the third man. ‘H T D. He said. Help The Donkeys’. I designed that myself.

At least one of Augustus’ unexplained pictures got explained. Home made stickers really are very sticky.

The Pecking Order

Hello all,

Here is another story, first performed at 'The Good Ship' on 26th May 2011.

Again - if you enjoy it, spread the word, let me know, let others know, have a love in, etc.

This one is called :

The Pecking Order

On Perrigrew Street, just a few minutes from the municipal gardens and a twenty minute drive from the lake and Hardman’s Wood, there were lots of smart little terraced houses, and three shops. They were a butchers, a bakers and a candlestick makers. Mr Hockle the butcher and Mr Trice the baker did a roaring local trade, and did very well, due to excellent fresh produce, local sourcing etc. The candle stick maker - not so much. It’s not that his candle-sticks weren’t good. No - they were extremely good. It’s just that there wasn’t much call for them, and the candlesticks he supplied were of such good quality that they didn’t break, so generally people only bought one. Not like chops and buns. Mr Chandler, who owned the candlestick makers couldn’t help feeling that he’d entered into a bit of a niche business. It is worth noting that Mr Chandler, Mr Hockle and Mr Trice have been in a tub together. It was at Mr Hockle’s summer barbecue in 2009, and the outdoor spa pool was his brand new purchase, and they were more than happy to have a go in it.

So - Mr. Chandler was grateful that he had such a reliable tenant in the rooms above his shop. The rooms were also rented as a business to a spindly little man called Dr. Federin. His doctorate certificate hung above the door at the top of the stairs, but the writing was rather smudged, and it was hung in a very dingy corner. But there was a shiny brass plaque mounted next to the door. It read - ‘Dr Federin - Reincarnationalist’. Because that is what he was. Dr Federin was a professional reincarnationalist, and proud to be the only one in the world. And he did a slow but steady trade.

On the morning that we too ascend the creaky stairs to Dr. Federin’s office, we are joined by an elderly lady. She is called Quenelle, but she has never eaten a quenelle. She is on her own, and has been on her own for a little over two months, because a little over two months ago, her husband of 58 years passed away. And a little over 8 years ago, on their 50th wedding anniversary, Quenelle and Horace had been given a voucher for Dr. Federin’s Reincarnation service, and they had taken it up. And now Quenelle was walking up the stairs to fetch her reincarnated husband.

Dr Federin always dressed in the same way. Black narrow trousers, a bright yellow shirt with a thin black tie and a bright blue jacket. He darted around the room with quick efficient movements, and stared at you with shiny yellow and black eyes and pale complexion. His yellow shoes were pointy, his legs seems to be permanently bent at the knee, his chest puffed out, and his little goatee beard immaculately trimmed. His office, which had been his premises for more than thirty years, was wood panelled, with books and armchairs scattered all over the place. The fireplace was normally active, and the smell of woodsmoke filled the room. There was a counter of sorts that he had bought from a gentleman’s outfitters that was closing down like an island in the middle of the room. One wall was filled with enormous leatherbound ledgers.

When Quenelle entered the office, Dr Federin greeted her with open arms and hot tea. He consoled her for her loss. He marvelled at what a wonderful man Horace was. And he confirmed that the reincarnation had been a success. And with that he disappeared into the back room and re-entered with holding a cage with a cloth covering it. He whipped off the cloth to reveal a blackbird, sitting on a perch and eying Quenelle with undeniable affection.

‘Hello Horace’, said Quenelle, and as Dr Federin opened the cage, Quenelle’s husband of fifty eight years hopped onto her shoulder and started to sing. It was hard to make out, but you could just about hear the melody of ‘Fly Me To The Moon’. ‘His favourite song’, cooed Quenelle.

‘Here - it’s nearly lunchtime. Give him some of this’. Dr. Federin held out a plate with three biscuits on it. A bourbon, a pink wafer and one of the cow ones. Horace twitched his head from side to side. Dr Federin twitched his head from side to side. Horace hopped onto the plate, and started to peck away at the cow one, now and again pausing to sing ‘Fly Me To The Moon’. ‘He loved those cow ones’ whispered Quenelle.

‘No. He loves those cow ones’ said Dr. Federin, smiling as Horace hopped onto Quenelle’s shoulder and affectionately pecked her hair.

A delighted Quenelle left Dr Federin’s office an hour later, after hearing all the aftercare instructions. She left with her husband sitting on her shoulder, and a heaviness gone from her heart.

She passed on the stairs a young couple, bounding up two steps at a time. This was Angela and Mortimer who had been married for a little over 58 days. One of their wedding presents was a voucher for Dr. Federin’s Reincarnation service, and they were coming to claim it.

It is worth noting at this point that Dr. Federin’s service did not come cheap. It was not ridiculous, but it was not cheap. He had a steady trade, nearly always from couples who had been bought the service as a gift - normally at a wedding, or wedding anniversary or civil partnership or engagement party or whatever. He saw couples very much in love, and was pleased to be able to offer them a little peace of mind. It is also worth noting that many of them never claimed their final product. But some did. Like Quenelle.

When Angela and Mortimer arrived in the office, they were excitable and frisky and found the whole thing hilarious. They found Dr Federin hilarious, but he didn’t mind. He talked them through the process. How they would be reincarnated. Firstly they must fill in ‘THE QUESTIONS’. ‘THE QUESTIONS’ was an enormous questionnaire to be filled in by the partner or spouse. It covered everything from favourite songs and movies and books and foods, to allergies quirks and habits. It was an exhaustive and exhausting process, but, Dr. Federin claimed. Vital.

He encourage Angela and Mortimer to do it while sitting in his office. He prepared a fresh pot of coffee, and served it to them as they giggled and scribbled on the telephone directory sized document.

He sat in his favourite armchair and pulled out an enormous copy of ‘Ulysses’. He had never managed to finish it, and felt that this was a failure on his part. He opened the book, and started yet another battle in this seemingly never-ending war.

When Angela and Mortimer had finished ‘THE QUESTIONS’, Dr Federin lead them into the backroom - pretending not to see them mock his darting walk, or steal kisses from each other when they thought he wasn’t looking. He didn’t mind. They were very much in love.

The second part of the procedure then took place - THE DRAWING OF FLUIDS. He sat them down one at a time in what looked like a Dentist’s chair, and clamped them down. He took a needle and promised it wouldn’t hurt a bit, and proceeded to draw fluids from the ‘ascendral points’ of their bodies. Elbows, little toe, the scalp, behind the ears These were the points where the soul could be reached. The thin spots. He drew the fluid from them, and they were surprised to see multicoloured tubes filling from the thin spots.

There are things that medicine doesn’t know. Claimed Dr. Federin. There are things only I know.

When they were finished, Dr Federin gave them a certificate that was a sheet of metal ostentatiously engraved. It had a unique number on them that was the ticket to their everlasting life. He gave them the rules. The reincarnation would always be in a bird. The bird makes the best host. And they must allow at least two months for reincarnation to take place in the even of one of them passing. Angela and Mortimer giggled as they half listened, and ran down the steps two at a time.

Dr. Federin watched them from his window. He watched them run out of the office door beside Mr Chandler’s shop, and into the road. And he watched as Mortimer was hit by a van and killed instantly.

This was where things started to go wrong for Dr Federin.

Dr Federin was special. He was extremely special. He did know things that other people didn’t know. He could talk to birds. He had a power over birds. He could make them do all kinds of things. What he couldn’t do was reincarnate people.

It is also true that he had hundreds if not thousands of extremely happy customers. Widows and widowers and bereaved partners with a bird that was to them their dear departed. A comfort.

This is what Dr Federin did. THE QUESTIONS was the important part of the procedure. With those answers he knew exactly what the partner thought of the other. What their favourite colours and books and biscuits were.

The stuff in the chair was showmanship and sleight of hand. A little prick from a needle, and a trick tube and voila. The racks of coloured water capsules were nothing, but he felt that he needed to show his customers something visceral.

Then he entered everything into a database. He used an extremely powerful computer and search engine to monitor the progress of all of his clients. He knew if they went to see their doctors, or were going mountain climbing. He knew if they were ill or had a bungee jump coming up. And when he thought there was a possibility of death coming up - he would start the training.

First of all - he would catch a bird from Hardman’s Wood. He didn’t have to catch them. They came to him when he sang. And then he would start the process. Using his avian communication powers he would train them to sing, train them to recognise and show affection for the client. Train them to be attracted to green rather than blue, Emmerdale rather than X factor. This process took the time. So as not to be cruel to the birds, two months was the minimum time it could take. A bird is very easily overloaded.

So why did Dr Federin tell Angela that it could be done in a week? Because she cried. Because she looked as though her world had fallen apart, and it had. Because he didn’t know if she could last two months.

Deep down he knew he couldn’t do it. But he couldn’t say ‘no’ either.

And so the process began. He went to the woods and caught several birds. He would try this on a few specimens. One of them might take.

He combed through Mortimer’s file, each answer a little heartbreak of it’s own in Angela’s not even grown up handwriting. And he tried the process.

He tried to make the birds understand too quickly. Tagliatelli alla Vongole, Turquoise, The Fast and The Furious Tokyo drift. Seriously. That was Mortimer’s favourite film. Don’t judge him, he’s dead.

But the information was too hard and too much and much much too fast. What happened wasn’t pretty. The birds popped. They just popped. He had a backroom full of popping finches. And each time Dr Federin would have to start the process again. Like reading Ulysses - he was fighting a losing battle.

On the sixth night Dr Federin couldn’t sleep. He had failed. He got through nearly 300 birds. And he hated himself and he hated his business.

He was going to have to tell Angela that she would have to wait, and he would have to look at her face while he broke his promise, and it was all too much.

At four o’clock in the morning, he eventually drifted into a comatose slumber.

But he didn’t have to tell her. Because later that night, very quickly, and very quietly, the rooms above Mr Chandler’s shop filled up with birds. The birds had flown from the lake and Hardman’s wood, which really is much quicker as the crow flies. Takes about five minutes. The birds crept in through the open window in Dr Federin’s room, and soon the floor was three feet deep in a sea of fluttering hopping, disquietingly calm birds.

They washed up onto the bed like a bristling feathery tide, over the bent legs, over the puffed up chest, ever the goatee beard.

They smothered Dr Federin in his sleep. He didn’t even wake. They filled his lungs with feathers and he died right there.

Then the birds left. Apart from one. A bluetit remained, sitting on Dr Federin’s chest where his heart would have been. The bluetit, with its beautiful yellow chest and bright blue jacket. It hopped over to the open copy of ‘Ulysses’ and stared at the text for a few minutes, and then just seemed to give up.

In the coming days, Dr Federin’s fraud was exposed as his office was taken apart. It made the local papers, and Angela had to have it explained to her. Don’t worry - she gets over it.

But in a kitchen in a different part of town, with the radio on, and a blackbird on her arm, Quenelle glimpsed the article and threw the newspaper into the recycling bin without reading it. She shared a cow biscuit with Horace and smiled as he sang ‘Fly Me To The Moon’.

Some things, she decided, you don’t have to know.