Ninety-nine

“Noli me tangere,” she thought as her lady-in-waiting came to cup her elbow. Touch me not. It was impudent of her to have interrupted the dance, anyway. Just when the violins had begun to swell and the harpsichord rippled out those fine arpeggios she adored. How could one’s feet stay still then? Waving away her servant, she pursed her lips and resigned herself to food.

Ah, what a day to be Queen. There were so many papers to sign, crowds of footmen in their stark white suits. She realised that she needed her court; as a child monarch she could hardly act independently, but their constant presence at her shoulder was a bore.

She giggled, suddenly. It must have seemed startling to those around her, but she couldn’t help herself. A thought: queens are good at dancing, and nodding their approval to the court musicians, but not that suitable for serious things like wars, treaties, that sort of thing. At least not she, Queen Beatrice, Child Queen of the Territories. She wasn’t even sure what the territories were, but they sounded dreadfully rough.

What hurt most about being this reluctant monarch was that her parents must have died when she was very young. So young, in fact, that not one recollection did she have of nursing at her mother’s breast or of being cast in the air and caught again by her father, the King. Imagine! Having to trust her instincts when it came to etiquette meant she often let her people down. She could tell – the disappointment would flicker across their faces.

They tried their best, though, poor, loyal courtiers. She smiled at them as she gathered her gown around her knees to sit in the Great Hall for the feast. She could still hear the music playing. It was gentle and it soothed her while her maid servant cut up her food for her. Music. Art. Those pleased her.

The art in the Great Hall wasn’t impressive. It looked like it had been filched from an infant's classroom somewhere in those primitive territories. Beatrice made a decision to commission better art after the, the, the eating was over.

Dinner seemed to come earlier and earlier these days, and she was glad of it. Living life exclusively in the castle had made her fret more about the unknown, the things outside. Long, grey shapes swooped down in the evenings and brought with them fears of dragons and bigs with teeth. Bigs. There must be another word, but Beatrice couldn’t pluck it out of the air. It was frustrating being only a child. She knew that the people wanted to help her but she felt reluctant to give in to them.

The tall helper in the white robes gave Beatrice a mouthful of eat. It was… it was… it was… soft. Smelled like old day. That one when FALLINGFALLINGFALLINGDON'TTOUCHME!

The orderlies looked up, startled at the sudden whimpering across the canteen. They sat back, relieved. “Don’t worry”, one shrugged at the other, “it’s just Bea again; poor old soul forgets she’s ninety-nine, some days”.

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This post was written as part of a tandem blogging experiment. EIGHT other bloggers have used the same title as a prompt, and their work will go live at the same time as this. None of us have seen anyone else's posts yet, so each will take a unique angle on their blogs. Take a look at their creative efforts at blogging “Ninety-nine” and like, share and comment if you've enjoyed what you read!

Click away on the names below:

Kerry

James 

Megan  

 

Sarah 

Dave

Nick

Brett

Cath

The Art of Boredom

I hadn’t noticed how Harry’s garden had filled up with so many guests - shouldn’t have been there at all, actually, but had chosen today to return a borrowed book which had haunted my conscience for over a year. That wasn’t a good idea at all, as I was about to learn.

The book was called The Art of Boredom. It was a dull volume of secrets; the literary equivalent of a vibracrete pyramid. It claimed that by lending people things, you’d rapidly increase your circle of friends and avoid boredom, but it lacked any convincing argument that the reader would not be bored to tears while attempting this devious method of social sculpturing.

I couldn’t see what Harry had enjoyed about it in the first place. He was a quick-minded man with a restless edge to him that I liked but he could be exhausting to be around. Although he was often smiling, he seemed to exude violence, as if his daydreams included rope, duct tape and rusty razor blades.

That was one of the reasons I was anxious to return his book.

He didn’t seem to be anywhere nearby, so I dipped my hand into the aluminium bath filled with beer bottles and grabbed two. The book was in my pocket, and I had hoped to surprise him by just leaving it in his bathroom next to the copies of Samurai Monthly and the collection of animal skulls he’d gathered after wildfires where he’d find them, white exclamation marks among the blackened vegetation.

I wandered around the garden. Spoke to a woman I recognised but whose name I’d forgotten on both previous occasions I had met her. She laughed and touched my shoulder, called me Mickey. The beer started to weigh on my bladder, so it seemed like the right time to head for the toilet.

At every party I have ever been to this has happened: I go to the toilet, wash my hands and discover that there’s only one towel hanging up. Not a hand towel, but the towel which is very clearly used for drying off after a shower. There’s an element of guilt to drying your hands on that towel, but then you notice that everyone else seems to have used it, too.

At Harry’s, the towel wasn’t looking too good. It was a black towel, but it seemed blacker in the middle. I didn’t want to wet the book so I used the towel anyway. My fingertips came away smeared in redness. The coppery smell was unmistakeable. Blood.

I looked down. On a table next to the bath was a book. I felt the volume in my jacket pocket weigh heavier as I read the title of the one on the table:

Bored to Death: The Art of Boredom, Volume Two.

Forgetting my bloodied fingers, I picked it up. Sat down on the toilet. Chapter One, it read:

“How to alleviate boredom by committing the perfect murder.”

The words swam a little as I read them, but I felt compelled to carry on.

“Invite everyone you know to a party. Especially the ones who have borrowed your books, DVDs and favourite Tupperware. Stock up on dark towels for cleaning purposes.”

The key in the bathroom door rattled and a shadow fell across the page.

“Hello, Michael”, Harry whispered.

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This post was written as part of a tandem blogging experiment. EIGHT other bloggers have used the same title as a prompt, and their work will go live at the same time as this. None of us have seen anyone else's posts yet, so each will take a unique angle on their blogs. Take a look at their creative efforts at blogging 'The Art of Boredom' and like, share and comment if you've enjoyed what you read!

Click away on the names below:

Kerry

James 

Megan  

 

Sarah 

Dave


Nick

Brett

Cath

Magic Words

Brian held Hammy in both hands. Hammy was cold, unusually still. He wasn’t always active- during the day he’d roll into the sawdust shavings in the cage on the opposite side from where he’d leave the looped droppings. At night his rustling was quiet enough for Brian to get some sleep, as long as the wheel was kept oiled. But today he hadn’t emerged for his slice of apple, Hammy was dead.

It was quite cold in Brian’s room, and he nudged Hammy’s grey fur with his knuckle. Made the psp-pssp-psp noise which sometimes coaxed him out of the toilet rolls he’d hide in. Still nothing.

It upset him. Even though his mum had told him hamsters don’t live very long, he’d grown up with the familiar smells of the cage. Two whole years. He’d been only seven when he’d asked her what “dead” is, and had been rather confused with her talk of golden roads and clouds and angels and something about lovely feasts with roast beef and apple pie. He didn’t like beef. The chewy gristle gave him the chills.

Apple pie, though, that was something he could get into. The little family always had some leftovers after Sunday lunch, but he wasn’t allowed to have seconds. It would be put in the fridge for tomorrow’s supper, and he’d have to ask very nicely to get some. “What’s the magic word, Brian?” his mum would ask. “Abracadabra!” he’d reply as part of their ritual, and they’d all laugh.

Please. He knew the magic word was really supposed to be please, but he hardly ever saw his mum smile anymore, so the laughter was welcome. Ever since he’d gone to camp last year and his dad had moved out by the time Brian had come home (even though he’d moved back a week later), the house had become like his local library; whispered conversations that he couldn’t hear.

The camp had been awful. It had been his first time away from home, and the constant noise of the other kids had seemed intimidating. Then, on the last night, the teacher had told ghost stories. He hadn’t slept at all. He shuddered as he remembered one in particular, The Monkey’s Paw. How the old couple had used the mystical paw to wish their dead son back to life. And regretted it.

He shuddered again. Then paused. His mouth was open in surprise at a sudden thought.

He didn’t have a monkey’s paw but he did have another trick.

“Please” he whispered into Hammy’s ear.

Nothing happened.

“Please!” he called out, as if magic is made more so by volume.

Even less happened.

Brian shrugged. He’d go back to the pet man on his next birthday and get a tortoise. Tortoises can live a thousand years, he guessed.

He placed Hammy back in the safety of his cage and turned to pick up the library book he’d borrowed. It was quite a difficult one, but his mum had said that he should read out loud to help get the hang of new words.

“Taxidermy for beginners”, he read, and imagined himself wearing a magician’s cape.

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This post was written as part of a tandem blogging exercise/experiment. Five other bloggers have used the same title as a prompt, and their work will go live at the same time as this. None of us have seen anyone else's posts yet, so each will take a unique angle on their blogs. Please take a look at their creative efforts at blogging 'Magic Words' and like, share and comment if you've enjoyed what you read, too!

Mandy Collins 

Dave Luis

Nick Frost 

Brett 'Fish' Anderson

Cath Jenkin