Fiction

The buses never ran on time in Lenchworth. Nobody even bothered with them any more, not since that wiry, bespectacled basket-case of a man took over their management. 

It wasn’t his fault - he would say - that his chequerboard-coloured cat had claimed his favourite easy chair as its own, and rigged the gramophone to announce each hour of the day with ear-splitting military anthems, and draped itself in lavish jewellery, and generally established martial law in the household.

The creature’s coat was a genuine chequerboard design, somehow acquired on its night errands the day before it turned authoritarian. Its movements were like athletic clockwork, as if the reflexes and grace of a prize gymnast had found their way into a rare timepiece.

Its eyes were nothing special: green orbs sliced by jet-black pupils.  But behind them lay a soul which knew and wanted so much more than it had yesterday.

There had been no warning of this sudden change in character.  The previous day, the cat had been a skittish tabby by the name of Murphy, and the only wonder it inspired was at the diverse ballistic talents shared by all felines.

The fact that it never came home with a torn body and broken pride was explained away as there being no other animals in the area it could fight with.  Indeed, it had never suffered a scratch in its known lifetime.

The morning the cat changed was never fully understood; it’s never easy to remember exact events when all hell breaks loose.  The tall man who brought the creature meat each day after overseeing the buses had left the house and could not be found anywhere local. His wife had flown into a panic and would not go outside.  Children would make wagers on which hour of the day her screams would be heard.

An unlikely tale was doing the rounds.  The man who brought the milk each morning to that strange house had coaxed some words from the lady, perhaps aided by familiarity. Apparently the cat had calmly padded into her room and asked her where the jewellery was kept, while noisily working a wad of chewing gum in its mouth.  She had darted out and hid behind the shower curtain. 

Frozen still, she could only listen to the sounds coming from her room: the adolescent grumbling the cat somehow managed, the zipping exclamation of a gold chain being snatched by needle teeth through a scant gap in the drawers, the precise skittering and obscene chuckling as it surveyed itself in the dressing table mirror.

This apparent theft is perhaps less criminal when we learn that the dressing table did not belong to the lady, but was an heirloom from that despotic moggy’s deceased mother, Gertrude II.

Back to the buses.  They did not run because the supercat - self-dubbed King Kolin - insisted that all public transport be axed and their funding diverted to Kolin’s swiss-roll house.  The cat had demanded a mansion built from sponge treats and it would rule from its topmost reaches, its jewellery flashing in the sun.

The quiet pensioner laced his fingers at his breast, his woolen pullover furrowing like a fertile pasture. 

If you spied him now amid the porcelain mugs and tattered volumes you’d think him asleep, his workman’s boots anchored on the chair opposite, face at once restful and studious.

The watchman’s cabin huddled beneath the main body of the metalworks, somehow always submerged in its shadow as though protected by a secret charm. 

An autumn downpour gently assailed the hideout, collecting on one side of the corrugated roof and coursing down one starkly painted wall.

Outside, the din of the factory is distant and exotic.  A staccato electronic chime calls across the empty spaces, its echo redoubling its strangeness like spice.  An amplified voice calls out, its message arcane.

The watchman stretches one arm out to clasp a steaming night-time drink, his seat groaning like old houses.  The sight through his window is a liquid assembly of raincloud hues and he liked to stare directly into it, watching as the colours swap and shapes chase one another, knowing he need do nothing to earn such a show.

But he was tugged by the knowledge of his papers before him: they seemed superior, more questions than he could answer tonight yet more would appear tomorrow.  His lips pressed together tightly and his breath became hasty as he wondered if this time his old mind would fail.

Then the mood lifted as the muffled roar of a pallet truck filled the air.  The cabin was washed with an electric glare, followed by magenta as it pulled in ahead.

“Easy night of it then Gus?” the visitor asked in faraway tones through the tiny speaking holes in the window.  This was the Union’s day so fully two-thirds of its members were likely dreaming, drunken or both.

“I dunno mate I’m ‘avin’ an ‘ard time of it ‘ere.  Won’t get this finished tonight will I?  Look ‘ere - " and he recounted the blank areas on his forms in rapid-fire.

The driver whistled and grinned, his face framed by a greasy yellow hood.  “Better leave you to it then guv!” he announced before signalling farewell and climbing back into his cab.

At that moment the downpour grew, and the loud fascia of the receding vehicle washed into the ghoulish midnight textures in the window.

“Well thanks for all yer ‘elp” the watchman reproached, cradling his mug in both hands and easing back into his seat.  “Back around again,” he sighed, peering hawk-like at the paper.  “Five Across: Symphony”.

Man Flu.  Man Cold.  Influenza Masculinus. Every winter, whatever you want to call it, this raging infirmity seizes us like a junkyard dog to the throat, and breathes its dead-fish canine breath in our faces. There’s no known cure, yet it is indelibly scrawled across our winters (some unfortunates have been known to fall in summertime). The following account is written by a bona-fide sufferer of man-flu.

I write this in a childish scrawl. It’s hit my nervous system I see, the end can’t be far off. It takes my best efforts to steady my good hand enough to put the pen to paper at all.

Yesterday I noticed a tickly sensation in my ears and throat.  I thought nothing of it; after all you wouldn’t worry about an unusual lump in a tender place, at least not at first.  “It’s nothing,” I told myself, “just some dust in the sinuses”.  Nothing to be alarmed about.

This morning I woke in a different place: that awful corridor of a slow, rotting end.  I’m down with man-flu. The least I can do is write my memoirs.  Even that is hard, the ink is blotting as my body fatally desiccates itself through nose, eyes and ears.

I occasionally drift into a sleep annotated with delusions cartooning my predicament.  Just now I woke from a dream where I was stood on the battlements of a besieged fort, hurling buckets of boiling lemsip onto the invaders below.  The fort was spongy underfoot like a big bouncy castle of angry flesh.

Freeze-frame mid-sneeze.  See that expression?  A bitter scream, warning fellow men of the contagious peril I present. I have chewed up enough throat lozenges to rot my teeth and I wonder what would happen if I ate too many.  Gastro-intestinal distress of such magnitude the house has to be torn down in fear of a latter-day Chernobyl?  Perhaps they are habit-forming: I will be freebasing with the soothing liquid centres before long. Anyway I will find out, as I throw another wrapper onto the growing pile of papery junk beside my bed. 

I think I should tidy up, but I’m gravely ill, I can feel my heart pounding and my head feels full of filthy steam.  One more throat sweet should - oh no, I’ve run out! I shuffle into the cold outdoors all snug and warm in my duvet.  I can’t think of anyone being arrested for dressing in a duvet, although embarrassing exposes in the local papers are the last of my concerns now.  I make a mental note to burn the blankets later, it’s the least I can do for the remining human race.

Need.  Menthol.  Relief. Several OAPs look the other way as we cross paths; the sight of the half-dead in shrouds evidently touching a raw nerve. Here we are, K & M News and Food, I nearly passed it in my delerium.  I draw a hacking breath to greet the proprietor but he pulls his shirt over his face, exposing a pale hairy belly.  “Take everything you want and go!” he screeched through his polo shirt, backing off into his storeroom.  “Don’t come any closer!” I understood. 

I filled the pockets of my dressing gown under the duvet with 2 of each of the cold remedies on the counter before me.  It seemed important to mix the colours for some reason, kind of like you do with your veg.

Back in the house, faced with my infectious ignonomy I could see only one course of action.  It’s my social responsibility to fellow men that I quarantine myself fully.  I lie restlessly counting the days with only pompous radio plays for company. Outside, children point at the X mark I have placed on my door.  Their fathers silence them and hurry along. 

Perhaps somebody will find this diary entry in another time, an age where men can live free from the scourge of man-flu. The author has since made a full recovery.

Article from Organo Musica (Digital Subscriber Edition), April 2098

It’s notably rare for Organo Musica magazine to receive a hefty parcel with the cheesecake-inspired postmark identifying Bella Industries.

Five winters ago we last heard the silvery refrains of a Bella, darting through our offices like sunny reflections on a choppy lake surface.  Back then, we covered how well Bella Industries have implemented artificial nervous systems in the creation of such musical delights.

It still amazes us how much we can learn about rhythm and melody from fish.

The first reactions as the heavy gun-metal and glass unit shed its waxy autumn wrapping were of stunning build quality.  This sturdy little hobby-box will stand up to years of merciless jamming, either subjected to the dusty trials of studio life, or packed off to distant audiences.

The satchel-sized instrument fits snugly in two hands, its serpentine form reminding the user of its pedigree.  The insulated shell allows it to be held in bare hands, although any uncertainty of the core being at the correct temperature is relieved by a nifty electric-blue status indicator.  A glass window reveals the oil-filled interior for an aesthetic finish.

The instant the current was switched on, the hair-trigger sensors within the Trutta seemed to stalk out every scrap of musical material from the mind of its player, no matter how mundane.  Before full contact was achieved, our efforts at preparation- kicking cables free from our feet, shying away from the afternoon glare – resulted in icy flurries and funereal drones.  These artifacts – though a product of technical limitations – could be argued to augment the performance as they are artfully filtered and blended (unlike the shrill catcalls and belches which betray cheaper models).

Once contact was achieved however, the unit cast its delicate hooks into the imagination of its partner, drawing us all closer to hear the delicate clockwork chatterings we didn’t dare expect.  In fact this is the chief difference in this updated model.  In Bella’s words:

“The emotion in your finest music is driven by the ebb and flow, the call and answer.  The ingredient you need to achieve this is rhythm, or more generally time.  Bella Industries have invested heavily in chronologics to give you the edge of rhythm in your compositions.”

The bewildering synthetic mind at the heart of the Composer Pro is painstakingly modelled on all major cerebral structures in its target species (again, Brown Trout!) which far exceeds the minimalist design of other models in the same price range.  Instead of saving time in the workshop by reducing the model to several key brain areas, Bella have remained loyal to the neurological journals which claim there is no one ‘musical centre’ to isolate.

Although Bella products are modelled on a simple species, the choice of an aquatic organism is a wise one.  Making use of the superior sound propagation properties of their aquatic environment, swimbladder-bearing fish are highly sensitive to auditory stimuli.  This gives rise to interesting properties when the nervous system is studied and kicked into reverse gear to generate playful harmonies or delicate refrains by the sense-impulses of a skilled musician.

Theory aside, how does the Trutta really sound?  Put in the hands of our very own Brendan Synaptik (check out his tutorial on wet and dry scales in this month’s interactive content!) stole the show, winning instant friendship and co-operation with the Trutta.  With an infectious ease he conjoured a seascape of meandering whale-song and seashell percussion, perhaps teasing out archetypes from the mind of the creature at its heart.

However, new users should feel no qualms about diving right in.  Even bread-and-butter studies in concentration evoked unexpected delights.  For example, a steady visualisation of a sycamore tree yielded an ascending series of diabolical tritones, cleverly balanced by a catchy lyrical hook.

With heavy hearts we pack the Bella back into its box for the inevitable return.  If only we could afford one of our own!

Given the constraints of the target species, the Trutta Composer Pro is an aural treat.  Both serious hobbyists and heavyweight performers will see no end to its musical gifts.  We believe this Bella will not be matched, unless by something very special indeed.

Written as a storytelling project, for Toastmasters. I can’t remember if I ever delivered it, though … “Good evening respected esteemed gentlefolk … No that’s not right.” “Lords and Ladies! NO!” Would you envy me my task of being asked to deliver a speech …an inspirational speech … at a wedding … in these Elizabethan times? Where virtually every guest is an actor or playright, and me, a mere meat trader?

This is the script of a speech I delivered - dressed as a mad scientist - for the Toastmasters Humorous Speech Contest. Hence the over-use of exclamation marks, capitals and generally overcooked style. Good Evening Ladies and Gentlemen, I am of course Barney Buggins, eminent Scientist and prominent Motivational Speaker! You may have heard of Tony Robbins, you may have heard of Jim Rohn or Dr Phil … but what they all FAIL to grasp is that the answer to the successful life we are all looking for, what YOU are looking for, is not in affirmations or goals or positive attitudes … it’s in pills and potions, it’s in the writings of Newton, the memoirs of Edison … that’s right, the answer to all our problems Ladies and Gentlemen is Science … and it’s oh, so very complex.