The Janitor - a short story by Fiona-Jane Brown

"Ok, ok, you lot, yes, I know you're all deities, but please, keep it orderly, the Big Man doesn't allow me to open the doors before midnight!" the Janitor orders the large crowd which has gathered. Same thing, every year, they've no patience, by Zeus I wish they would take their time! he mutters, looking at his large pocket watch and comparing it with the clock on the wall. The hands on both crept inexorably toward twelve.

The Furies were plotting, muttering, the Janitor swore he could see them pulling the wings off a dead bat. Artemis was stretching her bow back and forth. "Ere, young lady, don't you be putting arrows in that! You'll take someone's eye out!" he warned loudly.

Just then, he saw a familiar face - he had heard the drunken singing for a while now. "Oh now, Dionysus, you've started already, eh? No orgies in the queue, mind, you can do that on the other side!" he called, teasingly, the half-divine rebel-rouser grinning at him from behind a golden mask. One of the Nymphs shrieked and there was the sound of a loud slap as she walloped her groper across the face. There was silence for a bit.

Everyone could see the hands on the large clock reach the zero hour, and a chant of "six, five, four, three..." rippled through the crowd, as the Janitor fumbled for his keys. He knew what they were like. By the first strike, he had the large golden key in the lock. By the twelfth, he had his hands gripped around the door knobs. "Oi! Silence! I'm not opening up until you're all in an orderly line! It wouldn't be the first time I've been knocked down in the rush!" There was a generally shuffling and muttering as the crowd arranged themselves in a line. Satisfied, he turned the knobs and flung open the vast ebony doors. He managed to step back just in time as they all dashed forward, out into the new year, the new day, to carry on the business of the ages.

It took a full ten minutes for them all to leave. Olympus would be quiet for a bit. The Janitor sighed and closed the doors, but not before he could hear the sound of danity running feet and a feminine voice shriek, "No, please, don't close them, I must get through!"

He didn't quite recognise the girl, who wasn't quite wearing a sea-blue robe as she ran towards him. River nymphs! They're always in trouble! He thought. "You're a bit late, little lady, it's gone quarter past, I've got to close up or the Big Man will have my guts for garters!"

"Oh please, let me through, this is so embarrassing, I am Syrinx, a disciple of Artemis. She told me to be here on time, but that's just it, I've... well, I've got a problem... with a man... er a goat... oh, please, help me, he's just a pest!" she cried.

"Pan! He's a wicked boy, worse than Dionysus. Just a sex-maniac. He's after you as well, is he? Oh dear, oh dear, will he never learn?"

"Yes, he's terrible, he doesn't seem to understand my vow of chastity! He's horrible, he ... he smells, he's no better than an animal!"

"Well, he is half-goat! Oh look, on you go, if I see him, I won't breathe a word, ok? Now, on you go, catch up with your goddess, she'll be worried for you!"

"Thank you, thank you, dear friend, may Zeus bless you!" she trilled and ran through the doors.
The Janitor closed them.

Five minutes later he heard it... you couldn't really miss the coming of the chief of Gods, Zeus had a heavy footfall. The Janitor was not unduly worried, surely his boss wouldn't mind letting a latecomer through, especially when she was being pursued by that oik!

"JANUS! WHAT ARE YOU DOING INTERFERING??" Zeus bawled, even before he was within sight.

"Eh? What d'you mean, boss? I did as I always do, opened the door at midnight and let them through!" the Janitor replied.

"You let Syrinx through the doors after they should have been closed! You know the rules, Janus, those that wish to begin the new year on earth must go through the door at the stroke of twelve!"

"Aw, come on, boss, the poor kid's being pestered by Pan, he's a randy sod, won't leave her alone!"

"I'll have you know, Pan is one of my many sons, if he wants a girl, he should not be frustrated by a mere doorkeeper!"

"Ah. But you know, surely you know? And anyway, she just rushed past me, I can't do everything, I'd need two heads to watch both ways!"

Zeus suddenly smiled. "Come hither, Janus, you may have just come up with the best solution ever!" He grabbed the Janitor by the ears and pulled.

"ARGH!!!" the roar of pain and shock was heard all over Mount Olympus and down on earth...

Janus - the doorkeeper of the gods, still stands at the door of the year, having given his name to the first month, but all know him as the twin-headed janitor who can see the past and the future.

Fiona-Jane Brown in an author. You can read her blog here.

Mirror, Mirror - a short story by Megan Loughlin

Mirror, Mirror, on the wall...

Arabella hates mirrors. She hates their cold surfaces and their impersonal stares. She hates the belief that breaking one brings seven years bad luck. She hates the way they seem to be everywhere she looks.

But most of all, she hates them because of what she sees reflected.

Once, she was beautiful. Men flocked to her and women envied her. She was the Face that graced a thousand billboards. She relished in the worship and the adulation. She relished in her body and her face. She dressed herself in the latest fashions and kept herself young and beautiful through an endless string of surgeries. She used and discarded people like Kleenex, never caring about anything except her looks. Those above all she cared about.

She had no friends, only hangers on and lackeys that she used to advance her way further up the rung of success. She clawed her way to the top, never caring about those she stepped on to get there. To her, there was only one thing that mattered-Arabella.

But such an attitude cannot go unpunished forever, and Arabella found this out.

Even now, she has trouble remembering everything. There's a party, then all of a sudden there's smoke, and then an intense and horrible heat blasts her face, blinding her. After that, she recalls snippets of words, phantom-like conversations.

“...Almost completely burnt away...”

“We'll try to save as much of her face as we can...”

“She'll never look the same...”

“...Blind in one eye...”

She opens her eyes to darkness, and a professional voice - a doctor's, she thinks - is telling her that she had a narrow escape. “However, you did sustain some serious injuries.”

“How serious?!” Her voice is raspy, and she trembles. The doctor hesitates.

“Miss Wilkins, you need to get some rest. We can discuss this more lucidly in the morning.”

“I want a mirror.”

“Miss Wilkins...”

“BRING ME A FUCKING MIRROR!”

The doctor sighs in resignation. “There's one on the wall behind you.”

Arabella turns, and for a moment she thinks that an elaborate joke is being played on her. Surely the maimed and disfigured monster she sees isn't her! Why, she doesn't have those hideous scars! Both her eyes are a brilliant blue, not this faded grey color, and her hair is a long, luxurious black, not short and stubbly. Her lips are full and plump, not cracked and pitted like a dried up riverbed.

But then reality hits her. That is her. That-creature, that monster from the pits of Hell is her. Her hands come up, digging into her cheeks as her eyes go wide in horror, and she screams, and screams, and screams, at the realization that her life is over, that her looks, her perfect looks, are gone.

The screaming dissolves into insane laughter, and Arabella grabs the bedside lamp and throws it at the mirror, shattering it into a million pieces.

'Now', she thinks, 'I am beautiful again. I will always be beautiful.'

Always.

Forever.

Who's the fairest of them all? 


Note: Megan Loughlin is an author who lives in Florida. View her book Wolf's Bane on Amazon

Waiting Room

I'm in the waiting room for them to call my name. I have to see an Angel. Just a little ironic seeing that I had spent my whole life as a receptionist in a doctors office.

It's exactly the same as the waiting room in any doctors or dentists you may have ever been in.  Scuffed paint on the walls and the skirting boards, old well worn furniture, broken toys piled high in the toy box. There aren't any out of date magazines though. Instead, there are lots of leaflets.

How To Cope With Change
Welcoming God Into Your Life
Finding Employment
Build Your Perfect Home
Relationship Counciling

This is not what I expected at all.

When alive, I was an atheist. I didn't believe there was anything after death. My parents had been Catholics, so I had the full Catholic burial. I'm still not sure if that was the right way to go. The cremated bodies are gone for good. Maybe that would have been a better choice. So far, all I've done is sit in this room. I don't know what is beyond the frosted windows. They haven't told me. Is this another life to live all over? Do I have to spend another forty years behind another reception desk? I hope not!

The cremated ones don't come here. It seems that the body really does get reborn. We need it after all.

This waiting room is a doctors of sort. I'm not ill though. Just missing a few vital organs. They're fitting me with some new parts. Being a Donor cost me my lungs and liver.

Apparently,  I need them...

Dealing With Criticism

When I started writing, I was like a stubborn child stamping my feet if someone even dared to critique! I suffered from mild dyslexia when I was small (but was tub, matter was rattem, etc), and I guess the hate for being critiqued stemmed from constantly being corrected. When I grew into my teens, my spelling thankfully improved, my brain now able to put things in to the correct order. That didn't make my loathing for critics go away though!

Age hasn't mellowed me. What's changed now is the knowledge that I am not perfect and that even the cleverest and most highly thought of people in the world are where they are for surrounding themselves with experts.

Before you all gasp with horror, I am NOT admitting that critics are experts. In fact, they are far from it! Whether you like something or not is subjective. We are all different and all like different things. But if someone can tell me that I've not been logical, or can point out continuity errors in my stories, I will listen.
Everyone of us hears. We don't all listen. I recommend the art of listening in all aspects of life. What you hear is nothing compared to what you listen to. The critics may be harsh, but if what they are saying is true, act on it.

If someone says that the story is rubbish, that is SUBJECTIVE. The next person might love it! If they say it needs proof reading for errors, however, they are being OBJECTIVE and might be right. So proof your work again.

A 2star review for Being Grey on Amazon said "Humorous at times and mildly interesting but needs spelling and punctuation proofreading. I would read the next book in the trilogy." How bad could it have been if the reader wants to read the next book? They enjoyed it!

Subjectively, they want to carry on with the tale. PERFECT!
Objectively, they pointed out the errors that did need amending (which has since been done, thank you!).

You have to grow a thick skin, but also read between the lines. You never know where help might come from!

My Experience with Createspace

OK people... Tonight I decided to put my new book through the process of Createspace, so that all of those that asked can order a paperback version of it!
I want to share my experience with it if I may...

• Not too difficult to navigate and pretty simple to follow the instructions
• You can upload a basic word doc which makes life easier, but make sure you shrink your tabs - the standard on Word is waaaaay to large for the books and looks daft! (Think it's standard set 1.5cm - I changed mine to 0.6cm)
• I actually ended up editing the layout of the book a few times (maybe a bit more than a few...) before I saw the link to download a template! This is an EXTREMELY handy tool - download it and use it! The difference in the finished product is quite remarkable!
• You get to preview the inside pages of your book once uploaded - if you try that without using the template, you'll see exactly what I meant above!!
• The design page for the cover was not bad either, but would have been nice to be able to change the size and styles of fonts without using their styles only. There are a handful of templates for you to choose from, and bare in mind that you CAN change the colours, style and pictures... Adding my own picture and changing the colour of the background made a massive difference, so pick the 'layout' that you want, not the colours, etc. 
• They do need your IBAN and SWIFT numbers for your royalty payments, so have them to hand or you'll have to spend 30 minutes on the phone to your bank going through endless lists of pre-recorded menus before speaking to someone. Who in my case only wanted to talk to me about my current overdraft facility...
• At the end, they ask you to pay $25 for extended sales - I've not picked this as it meant that my royalties went down like a lead balloon! I wanted to try and keep the price of my book the lowest I could, but still make a small profit. This might be worth having a more detailed look at though.
• For a first timer, I got it all done in about 3 and a half hours. I'm pretty sure the next time I use it, it'll be quicker and smoother. I am pretty IT savvy though, so if you struggle, it may take you longer. I spent most time playing with the formats, so where I said above to download the templates, do it! It would have saved me a couple of hours, I'm sure!!
• And at the end of the ordeal, you get to download your eBook version and the cover picture. The picture is handy for your marketing activites... and here's mine!

So go ahead and have a go!! If you're like me and have only sold as ebook before, there's certainly no harm in trying...

See you on the best sellers list soon!!!

Where To Draw The Line - update

I have now uploaded the new book on to Amazon, so it should be live within 24hrs! The cover needed a lot of work, but this is what I finished on...

At what point do you choose to step over the line between what is right and wrong? How much will it take for you to break the law to uphold the law? When William helped Zoe into the back of his taxi, little did he know that it would change his life forever.

A murderer is on the loose, and Zoe tells William who it is. But the murderer also knows that William is after him. He battles his conscience, the law and a murderer, but does William know where to draw the line?

The Hunted... (a short story inspired by Kristen Slice's photo)

Jake casually rested the shotgun against his shoulder. His back pack was starting to weigh heavy on his back, but they had the scent, and had been tracking it forty miles over three days. Bogart was as impatient as always, tongue hanging out, panting, tail wagging. They were getting closer, and stopping now would lose them valuable time.

The sun was slowly lowering in the sky now. A few hours past midday. A few more hours, and they would have to find a place to camp. Jake was hungry, and no doubt the dog was famished too. But they were hunters, who worked well off each other and knew each others limitations. The dog had stopped before, not because he needed to, but because he had seen that Jake needed to. He had done the same for the dog. Jake and Bogart were a team.

The brush was thick and noisy underfoot. The hunted must have known that they were tracking it. This was no ordinary bear. He was intelligent. Clever. And evil. He had attacked 2 people in the town, and the local radio station had nick named him Yogi, "as he is not your average bear". It was a stupid radio show with a stupid DJ who'd come up with a stupid name. Yes, he was not average. He was intelligent. Clever. Careful. Calculating. He'd been shot twice by the rangers and survived. They should have named him Hannibal. And he was still out there.

Jake and Bogart planned to bring him down.

The dog stopped. Tongue in, tail still. Nose pointing due north.

Jake slowly slipped his back pack off and dropped it silently to the forest floor. He brought the shotgun around and silently made his way to the dog. They were at the edge of small clearing and there, stood in the sun shine about twenty feet away, was the bear. And it was staring straight at them, it's fur raised, head low. It knew they were there. It knew they were coming. The hunt was over.

Jake raised the gun to take aim just as the bear started to charge. Bogart knew not to run in to the line of fire, so started to bark ferociously at Jake's side. The bear took no notice.

The crack of the gunshot echoed through out the forest, followed by another straight after. The dog's barking followed and the birds in the trees took flight. And then silence.

The bear was never seen again. It never came back in to town, or seen at camp sites or on the trail. And neither was Jake or Bogart. It's said that in the pitch of night, you can hear the gun shots and the dogs bark. Hunters and hunted reliving their final confrontation. Or perhaps they are still hunting, roaming the forests looking for each other, never quite finishing what they had started...

Wall (a short story inspired by Li Alonso's photo)

This isn't just any old wall. It is a barrier, secluding us from them. Separating families, friends, communities. It had been built to protect us. It has been a long time that we have needed protecting. 

I come here often. I like to feel the concrete on my back and remember how it used to be before the soldiers had built it. Long before they had needed to build it.

There are times when we forget about what is on the other side. When we wonder what all of the bother is about. Social media will create a mob, who try to break down the wall, shouting their slogans about equality for all and their human rights. Occasionally, one of them scales the wall.

And drops over the other side.

Of course, the military have cameras over there. Every now and then, they 'leak' a few minutes of footage on to YouTube to remind us of the things that live there. The things that they caught. The things that escaped.

Over there, they cut the power, blocked all cell towers and internet traffic, and left the few that stayed there to fend for themselves. They were given the option to evacuate. They said no. 

It's estimated that over two thousand stayed. Twelve months after the wall closed, they stopped dropping supplies. The creatures had brought down one of the choppers by throwing a car at it, so they deemed it too dangerous to continue. 

People are afraid of what they don't know. They fear the creatures because we've not been told anything about them. I have seen one. It was an alien. Fallen to earth in a ship that was broken. Captured, tortured, experimented on. It escaped, with it's fellow aliens, and killed over 300 military personal in the process. Bullets didn't stop them. Once free, nothing could. 

We are waiting for them to die now. But I can't help feeling sorry for them. If that was me, on an alien planet, I too would have killed everyone who had hurt me and imprisoned me. I too would have escaped. They're trapped in there, like animals in a zoo. There is no technology in there to help them, just 26 square miles of forest and farming villages. 

I come here because I love the feel of the concrete on my back. And because sometimes, just sometimes, I can hear them.

Li's photo was taken at the Berlin Wall. I tried to think of a situation where segregating people like that would happen now, and sadly came up with far too many current situations and places... I decided it would be best to treat this as sci-fi instead!

Where To Draw The Line

For those of you who also follow me on Facebook and Twitter, you'll know that I've been working on a novel called Where To Draw The Line. Today, after 7 hours work and 8000 words, I've completed it! All I need to do now to polish it up, proof read it and set it all up for Amazon! Oh, and decide on a jacket cover - here's a rough idea of what it'll hopefully look like!

I found Zoe in the street, soaked through to the bone, crying and with blood on her. She asked me to take her to the hospital, and what should have been a ten minute journey irrevocably changed my life. 

When she later died, and the man she named got away with it, I carried the guilt of her death with me. 

He knew I was on to him, and this was no ordinary man.

The police had no evidence, so I knew that I had to find it myself. And what I uncovered was not just one murder, but a string of them. And he was still playing...

At what point would you stop yourself? How many shades of grey is there between whats right and wrong? Or whats legal or illegal? Where do you draw the line?

Smiles and Facebook

My Facebook update page is full of useful inspirational quotes that tell me how I should live my life, but I wonder how many of these do we listen to? I find them fascinating and thought provoking, but the quotes that make and change my life are the ones shared by friends across the world.They will never fail to put a smile on my face. 

Here are a few of todays nuggets of wonder for you.

Percy pigs - definitely the best sweets ever 


"My name is Odd Thomas. I have accepted my oddness. And I am no longer surprised that I am drawn to trouble as reliably as iron to a magnet." -DEEPLY ODD

Books are like Tardiss. Bigger on the inside

Just found out that we are established middle class!!!


This was a bad choice of meeting place. People might think we're planning to WATCH this show — at We Will Rock You

Just got back from st ives in cornwall, my feet are still sandy cos before I left me and my mate mark jumped into to surfy blue f###ing freezing sea, everyone on the beach was clapping and gasping cos everyone had scarfs hats heavy coats on etc, when I got out I couldn't talk cos it did literally take my breath away ! I'm now back in caerphilly and just noticed one of my testicles is still hiding from the cold, don't do it kids it's not big or clever.

Mummy snuggles

Of following too many rules with writing, I have this to say: 
"I don't follow too many rules. In fact, I have lascivious parties with adverbs and adjectives on a regular basis. It's quite stimulating and, believe it or not, even with a fertile mind, no one gets pregnant!"
LMAO!!!

Try taking a snippet of your friends and family quotes. I challenge you not to smile! And while you're at it, have a little look at the Smile Campaign page that my friend set up. A little page where you can share your smiles and witness other peoples too. No party poopers allowed.

Have a fun day, everyone. You only get one today. All the others are yesterdays and tomorrows! 

Guardians (short story inspired by Don Miskel's photo)

I can be patient and calm. I can wait for him to grow and mature into a decent sensible adult. I can impart on him my pearls of wisdom, and hope that a fragment of what I am saying sinks in and makes a change. I can inspire and build hope and optimism. I can ensure that his life is full of fun and meaningful encounters that will shape the person that he is to become. I will give him adventure and fill his world with wonderful moments that will last forever. I will also show him fear, make him scared, angry. He needs this as much as he needs the good stuff. After all, there would be no good in the world if there was no evil to counter balance it.

My role, as Guardian, has always been to shape the future. There are some of us who are better than others, but our goal is to shape the bigger picture. Not the individual. To mould the future of the whole planet.

They know the future, they have seen it. They have pre-programmed us with our instructions. We don’t have a list of guidelines to follow. There are no company policies and procedures that point us in the right direction. Ours is just to hope that the pre-programming is good enough to see us through. We are left to our own devices to find our way and reach the goal through trial and error.

I know I have a limited amount of time to instil all that is expected of me. A limited time for this most important of all jobs. After that as my Ward gains independence, my role as Guardian will become redundant, and my ability to shape the future is no longer applicable. After that, my Ward will have to stand on his own two feet and find his own inspiration. It is a very large responsibility that we have.

They have programmed us to take the moments of anger and frustration, and to ride the tide until such moments are calm again. From this, lessons are to be learnt. My Ward must maintain a measure of control, but must also learn the hard lesson of defeat, and learn to take it graciously. His is to a life of wonder and new dreams. His is to be a life filled with love.

I watch my Ward every moment I have. I hope I have given him the tools he needs to shape his future. I worry that what I have done is enough. Although I am, as Guardian, in the body of a child, my limited time will be time well spent. 

FOUR STAGES (a short story inspired by Julian Sewell's photo)

So it started as revenge. He’d lied, cheated, and even worse than both of those, persuaded our friends to cover for him. I mean, did he really think I wouldn’t find out? How naive did he think I was? I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ve experienced enough in my life to know when people are lying. It’s in the eyes. The eyes will always give you away.

Besides, in order to be a good liar, you have to remember what you’ve said. It’s all well and good starting off with a little fib, but little white lies will always lead to massive big whoppers. In order to maintain the fabrication, you have to remember each and every single thing you’ve said. Not easy for a person who’s IQ is double digit challenged.

Breaking up is like going in to mourning. It has stages. Denial, Depression, Anger, Acceptance. If any psychologists out there are telling me I’ve missed out a stage, or added one, I don’t care. My past tells me that I cope with mourning in those four stages. This whole situation with him, however, has hit a small snag. I’m struggling to get past Anger. Really struggling. Like, REALLY struggling.

The Denial stage was over very quickly. I found out about his cheating ways, said to myself, “No! He’d never cheat on me! He loves me!” Then I saw the evidence. I’d heard the rumours, followed him, saw him pick her up in his fancy BMW, then saw them make out in the car while it was still parked on the curb outside her parents’ house. Did I mention that she was so young she was still living at home? He’s 37. I don’t think she’s out of her teens yet. Could be younger. Teenage girls always look mature for their age. She was pretty, but the makeup was too thick, the skirt too short and the hair backcombed far too much. If the heels were higher, she’d make good money on a street corner somewhere.

Hello!

I wanted to take a moment in my story writing to say hello to all of my new readers! My blog is now being read all over the world. China, India and New Zealand are my newest additions... so to the new ones, and the regulars, I'd like to say thank you and please keep reading and sharing and sign up for updates!

Kari xx

www.karimilburn.com

Friends (a short story inspired by Beth Marshall's photo)

"This is the kind of place that they build houses on without removing the bones." Harold said. "They wouldn't care about the history. The stories. They wouldn't even care if any ancestors had any complaint." 

Frank laughed,  "You don't have any ancestors."

"I could have! I had plenty of fun back in the war days. Different gal in every town, I had."

"No you didn't. And whores don't count!"

Harold frowned, "I was a handsome fellow back then, you know. All the ladies said so. I didn't need to pay."

"Fellow? You were never a fellow! And if the women were in a bar and you bought them a drink, you paid."

Harold lent back against the cold of the gravestone, a piece of grass bobbing up and down as he chewed one end. The view here was beautiful. The green fields of Ohio spread out before him, forests of oak and hickory behind. "This here graveyard ain't a bad spot to be buried. It's peaceful here."

Frank jumped down off another gravestone and patted the dust off his backside. "It's too damn quiet here. Nothing happens."

"That's the whole point. A nice peaceful place to see out eternity."

"Eternity is a damned long time. All kinds of stuff could happen here in eternity. They might build a new city, or something."

Harold rubbed the growth on his chin and spat out the grass. "Eve would have liked it here. She'd have wanted a farm with some chickens. The woman had a thing about keeping chickens."

"Eve died a very long time ago, Harold." Frank was sympathetic, but always a realist.

"I know she did."

Leaving The Man Behind (short story)

I grew up before the invention of the internet. When making a phone call meant walking to the end of the street to use the phone box. When the biggest craze was the yo-yo and we all had bicycles. We had one rule to abide by; get home before it gets dark. We didn't spend hours on the x-box or PlayStation. Instead, we built swings in trees and raced our bikes through the woods.

My best friend was James Davies. Jimmy to me and the rest of the kids in school. We lived on opposite ends of the same street - he lived the posh end, close to the park. I lived the other end, closer to the school and store. His Dad was a Captain in the RAF. Mine was a steel worker in the factory. His Mum wore Chanel lipstick. I once caught my mum carefully rubbing a pickled beetroot on her lips.

We were chalk and cheese, but we were also joined at the hip. Summer break meant weeks of adventure time; hunting rabbits with air riffles, chasing sheep in the fields, building tree houses. We read comics and The Secret Seven, dreamed of changing the world and inventing something spectacular. We wondered over Apollo and even built our own space ship out of cardboard boxes and tin foil. 

Jimmy's Mum and Dad put up with me, but I knew that I was not the kind of friend that they wanted their precious James to have. They were proper middle class, I wasn't. Jimmy should have been in a boarding school somewhere, but he said that as long as his father’s invalid parents lived in the retirement home, they couldn't afford to send him away. The only time I ever saw the serious side to Jimmy was when he talked about how scared he was of his grandparents dying. As soon as they did that, he'd be sent away.

When we were nine, I saw the marks on Jimmy's back where his father’s belt had been. Jimmy said that he'd deserved it, and that it hadn't really hurt, but I could tell he was lying. Captain Davies had been in the Second World War and said that as a fighter pilot, he'd dropped hundreds of bombs on the Germans. But Jimmy told me that he'd heard him talking to his Mum one evening, and that he was actually a supply pilot, and had only ever flown around the country delivering stuff to the troops. But regardless of that, Jimmy feared his father. When he heard the boom of his voice down the street, he’d drop whatever we was doing and run as fast as he could to get home.

As carefree as Jimmy appeared, he still obeyed his father’s every word.

It was the summer of '72 and we were twelve years old. It had taken a hell of a lot of work, but we'd managed to persuade our parents to let us go camping overnight in the fields just a few miles from home. 

Jimmy had a two man tent. Nothing special, and smaller than our outhouse, but for two intrepid explorers, it was our mansion. My mother had packed us some food. A lot of food. Tinned pork sandwiches, apples and banana’s, 4 bottles of pop, and even a pack of ginger snaps. Jimmy’s mother had also supplied us with 2 water canteens and even more sandwiches. Jam sandwiches, as it turned out. Perfect fuel.

We set up camp on the edge of the field, on a rise. From under the leaves of the huge tree, we could see all of the land stretch away before us. The sheep and cows, the road cutting the landscape in two with a dark grey slash of tarmac. We were kings of our land.

We built our tent, and stored our food and blankets inside so the pretend wolves wouldn’t get to it. We then proceeded to have a great battle, with thousands of pretend troops fighting for their freedom and their lands. Jimmy won.

BEING FUNNY FOR MONEY!

Nature (short story inspired by Ed Elliott Sculpture)

The first time I saw them, I was six. My family lived in a village called London. A small place where hundreds of years ago, millions lived. It was hard to believe the pictures that I had seen. Hard to believe that our small timber house was built on the remains of a great city. But the city was long gone, buried under tonnes of rubble and rotting moss. The trees and wildlife had come back to this place, and very little survived of what once was.

They came out of the forest. Slow, peaceful, calm. They came from the very wood that we burnt for warmth. But they moved, and flowed, and had a beauty about them that was mesmerising. The ground seemed to ripple below them, propelling them forward with hardly a sound. Their faces were smooth and expressionless, their eyes dark pools that followed our every move.

They were our judges. And it was judgement time.

It had started so slowly, but we noticed it. Warming summers, vicious winters, the polar ice caps melting, volcanoes exploding, rivers flooding. The experts had called it Global Warming. The planet was changing, and as its inhabitants, we blamed ourselves and tried in our own feeble way to amend what we thought we had done wrong.

LEGACY (a short story)

This will be my final farewell. I know that I am dying. I've been trapped in this prison for almost eight hours and I can feel my insides cooking. The sun is intense and it's sucking up my energy like a sponge. I've tried to escape for so long now that my legs just don't have in them to keep trying.

And so these words will be my legacy to you, my captors. I will make a promise to you. My descendants will out live you all. They will see to it that when your time is up - they will be the victors.

My children will infest your life, and you will call them pests. They will do what has been programmed in their DNA. They will clean up your messes, will scavenge on your waste, and will do so in order to secure their survival.

We have been on this planet for over 300 million years. And we evolved into something that you fear. We are strong enough to out last you. We are better suited to this world and its terrain. And when you are dead and rotting, we will feed from you, and our sisters will lay eggs in you and you will sustain us for years to come as we feed from your rotting corpses.

As always, we will clean up after you. We will clean you up.

We do not need to farm, to build and to develop to survive. We are a plague, and we will devour your remains and your cities and continue on, long after you have gone.

Though I know that the end of my time is soon, I will die knowing that I have fathered hundreds of children. And they will carry my genes.

It was the coffee that attracted me to my prison. The smell of the damp rotting beans was too much to ignore. I climbed the wall and dropped into my hell, so full of heavenly waste. I have eaten my last meal, and now I will wait for the sun to finish my life for good. These glass walls are too slippy for me to climb, though I have tried.

And I am not alone. There are twelve of us in here, not quite enough for us to climb on each other so a few can survive. Which one of us will die first is the only question left. The sun acts like a laser, burning its light into our prison, scorching us one by one.

We have adapted to your selfish ways. There are other species that have suffered by your hands. Those species have been slaughtered, hunted and pushed away from their natural habitats. And you had no regard for them. But we have relished your endeavours. You feed us, though try to exterminate us. You shelter us though you hate our being near. You keep us warm though you would rather see us dead. You are a contradiction, and though many of us have died by your hand, we persevere. You will not make us extinct as you have others. We are too many and too strong.

And soon, you will destroy yourselves and we will laugh at your demise. We will multiply in your absence and recover the world that you have tried to destroy.We are made of stronger stuff. Step on us and our children may still survive. You study us, you have learnt to understand us, but we cannot help you with your self-destructive ways. You do not need any help with your self-destructive ways.

There is a female in our prison and she carries her young. She knows that her time is up too, and buries the eggs deep into the coffee. No doubt you will empty our remains into your sewers where you think the problem will be gone from you forever. But her eggs may still hatch, down there in the darkness and warmth. You will have flushed away what you think is your problem, but you will ensure that our descendants will be born.

We were created to withstand the destruction of humans. And we will go on. We are part of the food chain. We eat the decomposing bodies and vegetation, and are food for birds and lizards.We are too important to perish by your hands.
You, however, are not.

Perspective

I'd like to have small chat about perspective. My issue is that very few people these days seem to have any.
I want.
I need.
There is a massive difference to the above two sentences. MASSIVE.
I want... an iPad, an exercise bike, a smart TV, a new kettle, that gorgeous top, those stunning shoes...
I need... water, food in my belly, a roof over my head.
It's really not rocket science.

That child in the supermarket queue screaming at mum that he needs some sweets? He doesn't need them at all. He wants them, is all.

I get so tired of people who overreact and think it's the end of the world when the heel comes off their shoe, or they've run out of petrol, or they've burnt dinner, or have been dumped, or, heaven forbid, can't find something to wear in a wardrobe full of clothes!
So let me clarify... The end of the world will come in several million years when the sun bakes the earth to a dry crisp. Or sooner if a monster asteroid hurtles through space toward us and Bruce Willis isn't available to drill a hole in it.
In the meantime, man up. And shut up.

These are tough times. People all around us are losing their jobs. Then potentially their homes. Then potentially their life savings (not sure what they are...). It's not easy. But you know what, we'll survive. It's a primal human instinct. It's in our DNA. It's in our power.
We survived smallpox, the plague, polio. We survived 2 world wars and countless others. Hell, we have even survived evolution and natural selection. We're a hell of a lot tougher than we give ourselves credit for.
Today, I learnt that two people have been cured of HIV aids. They no longer have the disease. How amazing is this? WE DID THIS!

So the next time you overreact when you spill red wine on your favourite white blouse, do it away from me, please. Because you'll get no sympathy from me. There are far more desperate souls out there that require my love and my time than you.

My Dad died of cancer a few years ago. I remember asking him one day, when the pain was too much for him, if he wanted anything. "No." he said quietly, "I don't want anything. I'm ok." He obviously wasn't. So I asked again. Did he need anything? He replied, "Need? Yes. I need a cure for cancer."

That is perspective.

Temple of Lies (a short story inspired by Sahra Pitt's photo)

The body lay at the bottom of the stairs. Right leg bent at an impossible angle, arms outstretched in a comic 'I surrender' salute. His neck was broken, his lips and nose touching the carpet in a caress.
Detective John Howdon looked around the foyer of the Clarrindale Hotel, taking in the surroundings. The uniforms had closed the doors and corralled all of the guests and staff into the ball room. He could hear the soft murmur of their voices carrying across the marble halls. The CCTV only covered the bottom seven steps and had captured the end of the fall. One dead. Forty five suspects. This was going to be a long night.
The body was Francis Temple, entrepreneur, multimillionaire, ex party boy before marrying the beautiful Sally Corby. John had seen his face plastered across the covers of magazines and newspapers for nearly six years. The kid was rich, ruthless and, if the tabloids were to be believed, randy. Thirty two years old.
So, accident or murder?
Kneeling down close to the body, John pulled out latex gloves and pushed his hands in to them although he inspected the body without touching it. Forensics were on their way for that.

The suit was a Hugo Boss tuxedo, white shirt, white bow tie. And a proper bow tie. No clip on for this man. There was a slight tear to the knee of the broken leg. Rough edges, not cut clean. John re-positioned himself to take a closer look. A little blood. A scratch to the broken leg, like a carpet burn. No protruding bones. 

Highly polished Loakes dress shoes, never worn outside by the look of the wear on the soles. No scuffing on them at all.
He had fallen, or been pushed, from the top of the stairway?
A bellboy stood at the doors of the ball room next to a uniform who was taking notes. John called him over. "Name?"

"Terry Black, sir."
"Did you see what happened?"
"I was at the reception desk so I only saw him fall the last few steps."
John nodded. And waited.
"He came down really quickly."
John nodded again.
"Fast, like he'd been pushed or something."

The Dinosaur's Tea Party (a short story inspired by Natalie Robinson's photo)

George looked at his cup and frowned, "Who's big idea was this?"
Hilda and Stephan strained to keep a straight face. Frank, however, couldn't control himself. "Big idea!" He laughed, "Big idea!"
George looked up to the rim of his cup towering above him. "Does anyone have a bendy straw?"
Hilda finally succumbed to her giggles and put her paw on George's leathery hide. "Oh, George, " she smiled, "you're the sweetest stegosaurus I know."
George couldn't blush, which was probably a good thing. Hilda swished her tail as she walked slowly back to her spot at the picnic blanket. Using her tiny hands, she held her tea cup delicately. Drinking from it, however, was another story. The teeth of a tyrannosaurus rex were not designed to sup on a cup of tea.
"So where did that big cup come from?" Frank asked. "Really wish I could say that it was my idea, but sadly it wasn't."
"Well, you are supposedly the clever one out of us," George replied. "At least, you're forever telling us that velociraptors are cleverer than the rest of us. So you tell us?"
Frank smirked.
Hilda, so often the calm one, hushed the boys before an argument could start. "If none of us did it, how did it get here?"

The Lake (a short story inspired by Sara Lee's photo)

The lake was strange. Shrouded in fog in early morning, flat like glass. The man had thrown the tennis ball in to it, but his dog had just watched it fly. There was no chase. The dog understood and wouldn't step within 20 yards of the water. But the man had long ago learnt to ignore his instinct.  Frustrated, he walked in to the fog to retrieve the ball. But it wasn't floating on the water like he expected.
The water was perfectly still.  Here, even the air was still. The man frowned. After a minute or two of looking, he called back to his dog, but the animal only whimpered, his silhouette hazzy in the fog. Where was the ball? Picking up a small rock on the shore, he tossed it in to the water in frustration.
The rock hit the water but didn't splash. The water allowed it to sink beneath its surface, bending itself around it. No ripples spread out from its landing spot.
Instinct finally settled on the man and he gingerly took a few steps back. Goose flesh rose on his arms, as the temperature seemed to drop suddenly.
Quietly, he walked away. His dog followed him, tail between his legs and head lowered. The walk was over for them.

Deep down at the bottom of the lake, something stirred. A ghost of a figure swimming in the murky depths. It was not alone. A larger figure also moved through the silt. And in its clawed hand, the yellow of a dirty tennis ball. It passed the ball to the smaller figure, who took it. Wonder filled its black eyes and an expression of joy filled its scaled face. Holding it tightly, the small monster grinned at its mother. And just like any child, it scurried away to play...

©2013 Kari Milburn

Rubbish Drivers - A Rant

I have an issue with bad drivers. I especially have a problem with bad drivers during adverse weather conditions.

Today, I had to drive south on M40. This is usually my favourite road. But not during the rush hour. It is a prime location for tail gaters. I had no idea that the arse of my car is that attractive...

Today, the British Isles are white with snow. The scenery is beautiful, but the roads are icey, slushy and dirty. And here in lies my issues...

People who drive white or silver cars when it snows or is foggy, and don't put on their headlights are just dumb. People who drive so close behind me that I can't see their lights or numberplate are also dumb. And people who drive over 80mph on icey roads are dumb too.

And people who pull in front of lorries and slam on their brakes. Dumb.

To the woman who pulled in front of me and braked suddenly,  when I was about 100 meters in front of a very big lorry that also slammed on his brakes when he realised what the stupid bitch had done, I say this... lorries do not have the same braking distance as cars in perfect driving conditions, let alone in wintery blizzards. In the split second it took me to realise that I was about to get squished, and noting that the next lane was busy with a speeding coach,  I had no alternative but to swerve on to the hard shoulder. Luckily for me, the lorry driver didn't have the same idea...

She not only did a bloody stupid thing, but she could have been responsible for me being squished and a jack knifed lorry.

Thank you to the lorry driver who joined me in a blare of horns. We frightened the shit out of her!

Deservedly so.

©2013 Kari Milburn

The Gentle Giant

The following is a short feature I wrote for a magazine whilst living in Singapore. I was 20, and that was back in 1993. I had since been amazed and proud how the world wide outcry of poaching had managed to protect the African elephants, our planets most noble of creatures.
I am now heart broken to hear that the rise of the Chinese market in ivory has meant that again, the poachers are killing. There is absolutely no need for this. None.

None.

It must stop.

THE GENTLE GIANT

It was over eighteen years ago, whilst the poachers in Africa were still legally hunting elephants for their ivory, when my mother took my two sisters to the zoo.  Gina, who was then three, gazed up with wonder into the eyes of an African Elephant.  "Do they bite?"  She asked.

Lisa, the all knowledgeable elder sister, then five, replied after much thought,  "Only when you pick them up."

A child's imagination stretches far beyond the bounds of reality.  They live in a dream world, learning new things every day.  But a young child would not understand the meaning of the word extinction.  Their imagination finds it difficult to understand that man can kill simply for a symbol of status - ivory.

A child would instinctively say, "As white as snow";  "As bright as the sun";  "As big as an elephant."  What will they say when all of the elephants are dead?

Contrary to popular belief,  poaching is still a big business, despite the efforts to curb the needless killing.  Ivory is still wildly available across the globe.  It is still classed as a luxury.

Most governments have ceased to import ivory, hoping it will lead to the end of poaching.  But it is not working.  The poachers of Africa still risk their lives in the hunt.

The intricate workmanship on some magnificent ivory carvings can make us all stand and gaze in awe, but the better understanding of how ivory is obtained has made us start to view these objects in a completely new light.  We can no longer admire what we have come to realise.

There is no justification for wholesale slaughter of noble animals just for us to admire a carving.

Until we all class an ivory ornament as repulsive, vulgar and unrefined, the slaughtering will continue.

An elephant is intelligent, friendly, trusting. They have feelings just like our own; joy, pride, sadness, dejection, dignity, shame, loneliness.

An elephant will bury a fellow member of the herd when it is killed. And it will morn it's death, shedding tears.

An orphan elephant would never forget watching the slaughter of its family.  It would cry out for its mother well into its adult life.

A large graceful creature - Is an elephant not scared of a mouse?

I am amazed that any rational human being would be involved in bringing about the extinction of creatures of such grandeur and might.  It makes one reflect on who exactly, is the animal.

I have no children of my own, as yet, but I could not imagine a childhood without 'effelents', as I so fondly remember them.  I know that my voice is one small voice.  But if all the small voices in the world could unite, then the resulting shout must be heeded by those who can do something about this tragedy.

To the poachers, killing is just a way of making a living.  To the elephants, it is an end to living.  And to the children it would be never knowing.

©2013 Kari Milburn

The High Street

Today, another giant on the High Street has gone into administration. As HMV searches high and low for a saviour, I ask one simple question... does it really matter that much?! What's wrong with change?

The internet has changed the way we shop, and we have grasped it with open arms, welcomed it into our lives and wondered how we ever survived without it. So this is our doing... Jessops, Comet, HMV... and thats not to mention the hundreds of others, large and small.

Who remembers when C&A went belly up? The eighties recession saw many fall by the way side. But the High Street survived. It faced adversity in the face and poked its tongue out at it.

Everything changes all the time. I remember record shops (proper record shops) and tobacconists on every corner. I remember sweet shops and even sticker shops! I remember milk men and post being delivered before 7am. 3 TV channels and car stereos that only had radios. Progression and change go hand in hand, sadly. You cant have one without the other.

So to those people saying that its a shame HMV are in administration, I say stop buying on iTunes and Amazon. Cancel your subscription to Sky Movies and take your CD player out of the attic....

Yeah, right!!!

©2013 Kari Milburn