MULTIPLY Writing Prompt #23: Lost in Cyberspace

I am a little virus
as happy as can be,
sitting on the hard drive
with lots of things to see.

Now here we have a programme
which has not long to live,
but first I will explore
so many things to sieve.
I can alter all the codes
that one and one make five,
play havoc with the tables
then excel won’t survive.
You want to write a poem?
The words are looking strange.
What happened to the grammar?
The letters lost their range.
They are falling one by one
are alone, have lost their part.
I can do my job so well,
just don’t know where to start.

The best is in the e-mail,
now that is really fun,
I get into the address book,
have only just begun.
Once I find a place
I am waiting for a chance,
I spread to all the others
just like a square dance

So now I think I'll start,
I don’t cost, am even free,
but help! I feel so sick,
it’s the dreaded McAfee.
Or is it the Kapersky,
might be Norton, what’s the name?
They are coming very close,
they want to spoil my game.
The only chance I have
is to find a space to let,
so now I will depart
and enter Internet.
I can bide my time
and find another pool,
just click the wrong http
and you will be the fool.

I am a little virus
as happy as can be,
sitting on the hard drive

with lots of things to see.

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MULTIPLY Writing Prompt #23: the Giant Mouse

“I caught a mouse, it was 10 paws high
Well perhaps not quite, I will tell you why
My sister Tabby cat, she caught them all
So I decided to beat her call”
“What do I hear, you Nera cat
A mouse 10 paws high I don’t believe that”
“It is true cross my paws and hope to die
You are just jealous, it fell from the sky”
“Now Nera you know that mice live in a hole
I just don’t believe that you saw it roll
down from the heaven and fall in your paw
You are just showing off, it is just not the law”
“I saw it Tabby really I did,
it had enormous ears and a bushy eyelid”
“Fluffy you cat, what do you know about mice
You are lying for Nera, now that is not nice.”
“Oh Tabby, it’s the truth it knocked me out
When it fell from the clouds it fell on its snout”
“Nera and Fluffy, so show me this mouse
I cannot see it here, it must be as big as a house.”
“Well you see Tabby” said Nera, “it was still alive”
“Yes” said Fluffy, “it wanted to survive”
“You are making it up as my name is Tabby cat
If you ate the mouse you would be very fat”
“We did not kill it” said Nera and Fluffy
“Mrs Human took a photo, it looked very scruffy”
“Look Tabby” said Nera “here’s the picture tiptop”
“but Fluffy don’t tell Tabby it was done in photo shop”

So Tabby went her way was a little bit jealous
That the other two cats were somewhat zealous
They caught such a giant mouse that fell from the sky
“I just don’t believe it, they ate catnip, were high”

But as Tabby pawed on and walked past her house
She turned her head upwards, looking for a mouse
There is no real moral, don’t believe all the facts
Especially when they come from two very sly cats.

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MULTIPLY Writing Prompt #22: Independence

It was one of those hot sultry days in midsummer. “Sour cucumber time”, she thought, adopting an term she remembered from her school days. It was basically a German expression, but she thought when translated into the English language it expressed exactly how it was. Nothing happening, and if something did, then you really had to pull yourself together to react. Sally brushed a curl of her black hair back to its rightful position. In this heat even the dreaded curls would curl more, one of those things she probably inherited from her father; “probably” because she never actually knew him. Now that would make a story for the newspaper where she worked as journalist for local affairs. Those headlines might wake the town up in the sleepy days of summer. Based on a DNA analysis the father of our star reporter, Sally Bridger, has been found. His body was discovered in a long forgotten coal mine. She had only known her mother who had died some years ago with cancer. Her father was a chance meeting on a moonlit night, so her mother would tell her and thus Sally grew up without a father, but a wonderful mother who had been disowned by her family for the shame she had brought on them.

“No, no, definitely not” she thought, “That sort of excitement does not happen, not to me and a father who does not even know he is a father is the last thing I need at the moment. The only excitement around here is trying to swot that dammed fly that keeps buzzing around the last dregs of my coffee” and then she was suddenly startled by her telephone which began to ring.

“At last” she thought, but her hopes were soon destroyed when she noticed it was an internal call, probably from her boss telling her to call up the weather station and asked if a storm might be approaching. Such were the boring stories on a typical summer day in a newspaper office.

“Sally Bridger”

“Sally, I have a story for you.”

“Tom what sort of a story would you have. I thought you had nothing better to do than see if anything criminal had happened in town.”

“Yes, well I was listening to the police radio and they just brought news of a corpse they have discovered.”

“Tom, murder is not my business, give that to one of the chief editors. I only do local stuff, and I am too hot and bothered to jump into the middle of a full scale homicide at the moment.”

She put the telephone back on the hook. She was just about to wipe some beads of perspiration from the end of her nose when the telephone rang again.

“Tom please just leave me alone, I am glad when the afternoon is over and I can go home and take a cold shower.”

“Well here is the cold shower. Jeff said you should immediately go and see what this corpse is all about.”

“Ok, if Jeff said so, then I don’t have a choice, do I?” Jeff being the editor responsible for the news of the day, she knew she would have to start moving.

She again replaced the telephone and dragged herself to her feet, deciding that if she wanted to keep her job she should see what Jeff wanted from her. She knocked at his office door and entered. She hated his office. Jeff was a chain smoker and took absolutely no consideration whether others smoked or not and this combined with the heat of the day did not exactly improve her temper.

“Sally, I have work for you. Tom told me a corpse has been discovered in an apartment down by the park on Oak Avenue. The police are investigating and it would be a good idea if a member of our staff would take a look. Might develop into a good story.”

“OK, Jeff, shall I take a photographer with me?

“No, definitely not, we don’t want our public shocked with photos of a decaying corpse for breakfast tomorrow morning, just see if you can make a story for us; not too spectacular, just something to fill up the third page.”

She left the office just a little bit angry. “Third page, just third page, and I have to drive down town in a car on roads melting under temperatures of 30° centigrade for the third page. At least I had air conditioning in the office.”

However, work was work, and so she climbed into the car and drove off. At least she was bound for a quiet part of town and the trees from the park cast some shade on the buildings on Oak Avenue. She was thinking it being strange that a corpse had been found in a building in one of the better parts of town. Usually they were drugged up victims of the underworld found somewhere in a cellar, with no name or history. Just another unwanted person that no-one cared for.

She arrived at Oak Avenue and saw the police car and a van for the transportation of deceased persons. She entered the building, and began to climb the stairs. There were many apartments and it seemed the neighbours had nothing better to do than stand at their doorways and keep an eye on the scene of the crime. Eventually she reached an apartment on the top floor where the police were gathered at the entrance.

“Now that is all we need, Sally Bridger from the local Telegraph” spoke Inspector Holmes.

“It’s my job Sherlock” Sally said.

“Ok, now don’t be cheeky, otherwise I will call the Daily Post and then your story won’t be so exclusive any more. By the way, my first name is Sam.”

“Well it’s not my fault if your police greeting card says Detective S. Holmes. Can you give me some information on the corpse Sherlock, sorry Sam?”

Sally knew Sam Holmes quite well; he was always present when she was called out on police business for the newspaper. They were both in the same situation. She was left with the news on page three and he seemed to be eternally taking care of the corpses that were nothing special.”

“The victim is Miss Joan Carpenter, now aged 90 years old and she seems to have died five years ago, but nobody noticed.”

“What! Are you having me on. Tell me more.”

“That’s all there is to say; just someone that knew no-body. She was wealthy, never been married and owned the apartment where she lived. Her electricity and water bills were paid automatically from her bank account promptly once a month. If you want to know more, ask the neighbours. They are just waiting to have a mention in the newspaper. Start with the family downstairs.”

So Sally went down the stairs to the apartment below. There was a lady standing at the door on her own. Sally thought to herself, “on her own, because there was no room left to stand next to her.” She had never seen a woman with so many chins. She was small and had folded her arms over her apron. Sally knew the sort, just waiting to be asked something.

“Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”

“Of course not, are you from the local newspaper?”

“Yes”

“Oh, that’s lovely, my name is Mrs. Gallow, with a “w” at the end. I was the one who called the police.”

“Why?”

“Something seemed wrong. Since the heat wave, every time I left my place there was a funny smell around from the top floor. Well I mean it has been there for a few years, but it is really now quite strong. I knocked on Mrs. Carpenter’s door but no-one answered. I then started thinking it was funny actually, but I hadn’t seen her, you know Mrs. Carpenter, for some time, so I decided to call the police. You know we all have bought apartments here, no riff-raff, so you have to organise things yourself.”

“Oh, I see, so you waited five years until you decided to do something.”

“Now, just a minute, I mind my own business. I am not one of those prying busybodies, and I was just doing my duty like any citizen would.”

Sally decided to ask a few more neighbours, but the story seemed to be the same. Mrs. Carpenter was a wealthy independent lady. She had very little to do with her neighbours and liked to keep herself to herself.

She left the building with mixed feelings. Could something like that happen in this day and time? It seemed so. Could it happen to me, or anyone I know? She remembered when her mother died, She was not completely alone at the funeral, another lady was there who had laid a wreath on the coffin saying “Goodbye daughter”. She suddenly realised that perhaps she too was not so alone in the world, so this other lady at the funeral must be her grandmother.

Sally returned to the office and wrote her story for the newspaper, dropping it into Jeff’s office on the way home. When she arrived home, the story of Mrs. Carpenter was still in her mind. “This should not happen, a woman lying undiscovered for five years because she was proud to be independent. No, this is wrong. Was my mother like that, I think so. She gave me a good education, looked after me, and never refused my wishes. She loved me, but then she also had someone that loved her. Who was the strange lady at the funeral? No, this is silly, why do I start thinking about things like this; must be the hot weather.”

That night Sally did not sleep so well. Thoughts went through her head and the next morning before making breakfast she opened the suitcase where her mother kept all the private papers she had. Sally had never really gone through the documents because she felt she was prying into her mother’s private life. Her mother never said very much about her origins, although she knew she came from somewhere north of the town where she lived. What was the name of the place? Grangeville; yes that was it. So she went through the documents looking for something with the name Grangeville and an unopened letter fell into her hands, the sender being a Mrs. Bridger, address 3 Ceder Walk, Grangeville. She read the letter

“Dear Sandra (Sally’s mother’s name)

Please forgive me for the harsh words spoken on our last meeting. When you told me that you were expecting a child it was at first a shock. My sister also had an illegitimate child and I remember how she had been treated. She left our family and we never heard from her again. I don’t want this to happen to us. Please come home again and bring your daughter with you. There will always be room for you and your daughter with me.

Please forgive the stupid angry words I spoke when I told you to leave and please come back again.

With all my love

You ever loving mother.

Sally saw the date on the letter and realised it was at the time when her mother had discovered she had cancer and knowing her mother realised that she just could not burden her family with such a responsibility. No, her own mother was so independent that she would have refused any help.

Sally drank a cup of strong coffee after reading the letter. She jumped into her car, and drove non-stop for two hours to Grangeville It was a small town and she asked at the local post office where Ceder Walk was. She arrived at house No. 3, her heart beating in her mouth. She was all the more astonished to find the door being opened by a woman of her own age, one child hanging on her dress and another on the way.

“Sorry to bother you, but I am looking for a Mrs. Bridger. I believe she lives here.”

“Oh no, not any more, we bought the house from Mrs. Bridger a few years ago. She was a widow, her husband died some years ago, and she decided to retire to the old people’s home in Grangeville. I still see her from time to time when she takes a walk.”

“Thank you very much. Where can I find the home?”

“It is not very far, just drive to the end of this road and turn right . It is three streets down, a very large house standing in a park.”

“Thank you very much” answered Sally.

“Do you know Mrs. Bridger” asked the lady at the house.

“Oh yes, she is my grandmother.”

and Sally drove to the senior home.

Her heart was beating in her mouth when she entered the reception and asked if a Mrs. Bridger was one of the residents.

“Yes, dear” the receptionist answered “do you know her?”.

“She is my grandmother.”

“Then you must be Sally” was the answer “Mrs. Bridger will be so happy to see you. She is sitting on the bench under the large oak tree in the garden.”

When Sally heard those last words, her eyes filled with tears as she walked towards her grandmother.

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MULTIPLY Writing Prompt #21: Memories of Childhood: The Birdman

Once upon a time there was a street.
Not just concrete, lamp posts and houses.
The street had a living soul
In the days gone bye in London
When electricity was just an idea waiting to be discovered
The houses were not dark
Their gas lamps showed the quivering flames
Shadows of past lives
Men on their way to work
Women tending to their household
Children left in the street to play
Under the watchful eyes of their mothers from a distance
Nothing to fear, doors were unlocked
What was there to take from these people of time gone bye
Nothing, they had nothing, but were happy
No worries of the house being contaminated
By intervention from a foreign source
All was safe, all was secure

People grew together in the street
A respectful distance was kept
But all knew everyone
Time passed, the gas replaced by electricity
People dying, being born, moving away, moving in
The development of man’s nature

Then the birdman arrived, keeper of the pigeons
No-one knew where from
He was just there, arrived one day with his wife
He was not young, he was never old
He was Harry, no, he was ‘Arry
He was from there where the others came
Using the language without the “h”
Those Londoners knew the language
and accepted the language

Oh how I remember the days with neighbour 'Arry
We had sparrows, we had pigeons
Others never survived in the dirt and fumes of the London streets
'Arry had his own pigeons
They were trained pigeons
In his small yard at the back of his house
The pigeons were kept
Twenty, Thirty, Fifty
Who knows how many
But the birds knew home
The slept in their little cages
They had no wishes, but to fly
And ‘Arry let them fly
Released into the London skies every day
The cages were opened and they left the safety of their homes
They flew in circles, flew in lines, flew far
Did they return?

‘Arry’s wife had a dog, a little dog
She loved her little dog
Early mornings she would leave the home
Arose from her bed
A bite to eat, a cup of tea
And she departed with the dog
In the quiet streets of London
Still dressed in her nightdress
Covered with her dressing gown
Just roaming the streets with her little dog
The neighbours saw her
Some others saw her, but she did not care
Her dog went walking and she proudly by his side
And everyone knew it was 'Arry’s wife
Did she have a name, of course
All creatures have names, be it dog or bird
But she had a particular name, it was Rose

So Rose and ‘Arry lived happily together
In their little attached house in the row of houses
In the little square of houses
with their pigeons and dog.

Did the pigeons come home
'Arry would take the bag of bird food in his old and weathered hands
He would shake the bag
A noise of seeds crashing against seeds in a paper bag
And ‘Arry said Come’on, come’on
The pigeons heard the call from afar
“Feeding time” they sensed
And they winged their way over the London rooftops
Over the small green patches of backyards
Overtaking the automobiles and buses
on the crowded London roads
Until they were home
Each one arrived and 'Arry counted them
Proud of his brood of pigeons
They were racers, homing pigeons
Won many competitions
But ‘Arry got old and so did Rose
Then one day in that quiet little old street
with the very old houses in London
There were no pigeons
'Arry was no longer there with his Rose
The house was no longer there
And the pigeons had left
Time passes on, childhood vanishes into oblivion
But a few memories remain
Mine being the Birdman of the street where I lived
And his wife Rose

Writing Prompt #21

MULTIPLY Writing Prompt #20: Once More, with Feeling

They took me away to another place
But inside my head,things are on fire
I hated my mum and also my dad
They were the ones that made me go haywire
Ok, now dad was a man who liked his drink
And mum, well she loved lines of cocaine
I watched and waited until the chance came
And it did again and again
It was an accident that the house burnt down
Amazing what some matches can do
Little children should not play with fire
And now they say my mind is cuckoo
Who cares what I hate I push on one side
That’s the way to come through life
In the school had no friends, I hated all
But I got my revenge with a knife
It was all her fault, she laughed at my hair
So I enjoyed a physical push
They found her in time, I couldn’t care less
She was the victim of an ambush
After school things got better, I worked in a shop
We were selling freshly killed meat
I just loved the work, it suited my likes
Oh yes, it was really up my street
But soon my hatred again started growing
Then the day came when I met Bill
He was rich, and good looking, had all what I wanted
It was inevitable that he would be a good kill
First of all we got married, now that was a gag
I hate sharing things all the way
So I started with poison, little by little
I knew he was not here to stay
After the poison he got very weak
So I gave him a push down the stair
The police got suspicious, they didn’t believe me
Perhaps because I was the heir
They tried me for murder, but could not decide
I was sent to the funny farm
I decided I hated all doctors and nurses
‘Twas then that I caused an alarm
They found out the truth of my somewhat dark life
They said I was not very sane
I am now put away and kept all alone
Seems something is wrong with my brain
Or course this is wrong, am misunderstood
But I think they will just have to wait
I have planned to use dynamite, made it myself
Oh yes, it’s a thing with this hate

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MULTIPLY Writing Prompt #19: What to do, what to do?

Charles left the doctor’s surgery with mixed feelings. The final results of the tests, after months of treatment for his cancer brought no good results. The illness was on an uncontrollable walk in his body. As soon as one part looked like it was healing, it had spread to another. He told the doctor he wanted to know the truth. His body and mind were finished with talks around the truth, hiding the real facts in meaningless words, and trying a new treatment that might work. He knew that there was no way out any more and when the doctor came with another suggestion, Charles told him to tell him the truth.

“We could perhaps try.......”

“No doctor, we are not trying anything more and if we do what is the result. I want to know the truth. Is it just life prolonging for a few months more or could it be a cure.”

“Mr. French, there is no cure for the sort of cancer you have. I am sorry.”

“Thank you doctor; that is all I wanted to know. Now please tell me what I can do for the last few months of my life to perhaps help with the pain.”

Mr. French, you have perhaps another four weeks to live without any further assistance.”

“And with assistance?”

“A few months at the most. Please continue taking the tablets, it will help with the pain.”

“On the walk home, many thoughts went through his head. How can I say it to Mary, shall I tell Mary? She has been giving me all her time and energy to help. The sleepless nights she has suffered, and now this. The end will not be nice and I just don’t want her to suffer any more. What can I do?”

With these thoughts circling in his mind he arrived home. Mary was waiting for him.

“How did it go Charles?”

Charles had a knot in his stomach, thinking what would be the right answer. “Shall I tell her, or not?”

“Oh, you know, the usual answers, the same old routine. The doctor said I can leave the therapy for a time. Just take the tablets if I get any pain, and in a couple of months I have to go back.”

Charles did not like lying to his wife, but he just could not tell her the truth at the moment. He had to think things over himself. He knew Mary would be relieved to hear that the therapy would be put on one side for a while. He never felt very good during the days when he had to undergo chemotherapy and it was a stress for her. The next day Mary went shopping and he stayed at home. It was then that he made a decision. A decision that was not easy.

He went to the attic and found the old rucksack he used when he and Mary went on holiday. They loved to go hiking in the mountains in summer. Usually they would rent a mountain hut somewhere and go on tours together, savouring the country air. He opened the rucksack and packed a few items of clothes, just for rough living. His old blue jeans, two or three shirts and underwear, although he asked for what he needed so much underwear, it really does not matter. He packed a few items of food, mostly preserves or tinned and left the house. He needed no water, there would be fresh water from a mountain stream somewhere. Before going he sat down at the dinner table and wrote a letter for Mary.

Dear Mary

I love you with all my heart and have always loved you and it hurts me so to write this letter, but I cannot lie to you after all we have gone through together. I lied to you yesterday when I returned from the doctor. Please forgive me, it was cowardly, but I just could not look you in the face and tell you the truth. I have only a short time to live and I do not want you to suffer any more than you already have watching me waste away day for day. I know you say this is rubbish, and we have always found a way together, but there is no way left. I have made a decision, not an easy one, and I can only ask you to please respect the decision I have made.

When you find this letter, I will no longer be at home. I have decided to spend the little time I have left in our beloved mountains amongst the trees and green slopes where we shared so many happy memories. I will think of you every day. Please be strong. There is no point in trying to find me; I don’t know myself yet which direction I will take.

Please hold me in your thoughts and your mind. Your ever loving Charles.

My love for you will never die.”


Charles looked back on his home with a heavy heart one last time and loaded with his rucksack made his way to the local railway station, taking the train heading north to the mountains.


The Daily News, 16^th August, 2008

Man found in Mountain hut
The remains of the missing Charles French have now been found after a one month search. His wife alarmed the police a day after his disappearance. He died under normal circumstances and there was no foul play involved. He was suffering from an incurable illness and it was his wish to die alone in the mountains. We would convey our deepest sympathies to his wife and family on this grevious loss.


Extract from last page of diary written by Charles French
My time is getting short, the pains are getting worse and the medicine I took with me no longer helps. Mary I have thought of you every day, please forgive me, but it is better this way. I can no longer take any walks, but the view from the window of the hut where I am is beautiful. I see the sun setting every evening on the mountains, and I could not think of a better way to say goodbye to the world.

Writing Prompt #19: What to do, What to do?

MULTIPLY Writing Prompt #18A: Progressive Story

FLOWERCHILD3:

Alicia Reynolds looked down at the note, double- and triple-checking the address. 555 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY. That was where she was, in front of one of those understated apartment buildings where the very rich lived. From the outside, the only thing that tipped off the casual observer that the locale was upscale was the presence of a doorman in full regalia. He did not stand in front of the building, but he could easily be seen just inside the front door, which featured a large, elegantly designed insert of beveled glass.

Alicia had found the advertisement about two weeks before. That afternoon, she had rushed out from her job as copy editor at a large publishing company to the newsstand just across the street from the publishing house, eager to buy a copy of her favorite literary journal. It was published quarterly, and the wait between issues was agonizing. She always skimmed the contents page and then, if none of the articles appealed to her immediately, she turned straight to the classifieds, looking for a better job.

This time, an ad caught her eye right away: “Well-published author seeks research assistant with copy editing skills. Must be willing to travel, detailed-oriented, and persistent. Send resume and cover letter to P. O. Box 555, care of this magazine.”

She stood staring at the advertisement, her heart pounding, until finally the newsstand owner’s voice got through to her. “Hey, you! Pay for that magazine!”

She mumbled an apology and thrust a five-dollar bill into the man’s hand. At home, she pulled up her resume on the computer and began editing and polishing it, tailoring it specifically for the requirements outlined in the ad. When she was finally satisfied, she printed out a copy on the special parchment paper she kept specifically for this purpose, then began composing her cover letter. It took until almost midnight for her to make it as perfect as she could. She put all the documents into a matching envelope and mailed it on her way to work the next morning.

She had included her email address with her resume, and five days later she had an email – not from the author, she noted with a tinge of disappointment, but from his agent. The agent said the author preferred to remain anonymous until he interviewed the candidates. That way, if they were not familiar with him or his work, they would not have a chance to read up on him. The agent very carefully avoided any indication of whether familiarity with the author’s work would be a plus or a minus when it came to the interview.

In any case, that was a week ago, and now Alicia was loitering outside the author’s residence. As usual, she was early; she was also nervous. She had to wait at least five more minutes before ascending the steps to the building. Hopefully that would give her time to calm her nerves, so she could present herself to her best advantage.

VIRGINIA 1948:

To Alicia’s consternation, she felt no better when she entered the author’s building and announced herself to the doorman. There was a stiffness to his demeanor that seemed to go beyond exclusivity. He was foreboding. Reminding herself that she was there at the author’s invitation, she announced herself.

“Mr. Longridge is expecting you,” the doorman replied after checking the day’s list of expected callers. “Take the third elevator on your right. It will take you directly to the penthouse.”

“Longridge?” Alicia asked in surprise. “Peter Longridge?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Alicia struggled to maintain her composure. Why, Peter Longridge wrote the Drew Anderson mysteries! Author’s Review called him “the author America has long needed to compete with England’s top mystery writers.” And he wanted to interview her? She knew she was a good copy editor and writer, but if Peter Longridge thought she could write and edit, then she must be among the best!

Remembering where she was and why she was there, Alicia turned and walked toward the elevator lobby. There, she saw that five elevators served all floors but the top one, while the sixth elevator served only the penthouse. Even as Alicia drew near, its door opened. She peered in but found no one else on board. Hesitantly, she stepped onto the elevator. As soon as she boarded, the doors closed, and the elevator began to rise – all without her having pressed any buttons.

It was a slow elevator, and the ride to the top floor seemed endless. Alicia wished it would speed up. She had a touch of claustrophobia, and being closed in this old, slow cage with no way out until she reached the top was grating on her nerves. She wondered whether, if she wanted to, she could stop the elevator and return to the lobby. Well, yes. There was a “stop” button, and there was a button to command the elevator to return to the first floor. A third button commanded the elevator to go to the penthouse. Alicia did not depress any of the buttons. Just knowing that she had control over this self-operating conveyance bolstered her self-confidence and allowed her to continued her slow, but steady, rise to the top floor.

Presently, the elevator came to a halt, and the doors opened. As she stepped out, she found herself within an environment unlike any she ever had seen before. It was as far from the reclusive writer’s small den of books and papers, where she had imagined she would be going, as it possibly could have been. Alicia found herself standing in a wide-open space of post-modern architecture and mid-century modern furnishings. Beyond, glass walls looked out over a rooftop terrace with raised planting beds framed in redwood. As she stood, trying to take it all in, a male voice penetrated her thoughts.

“Welcome, Ms. Reynolds! It’s good of you to come.”

VICKIECOLLINS:

"Oh, Mr. Longridge, it is my pleasure" Alicia stammered while extending her hand for a hand shake.

"Oh no, my dear Ms. Reynolds. One thing that you must know immediately about me, is that I never shake hands. I just find the world, and all the people in it, are just too prone to be just covered with all sorts of little buggies. I find that I stay healthier if I don't come into direct contact with people, or the things that they all put their hands on. The world, sadly, is just such a dirty place. Nothing personal, you understand."

"Of course Mr. Longridge. But just let me tell you that I have read several of your Drew Anderson mysteries and found them all fascinating."

"Oh really, Alicia...may I call you Alicia?"

"Certainly, Mr. Longridge."

"Ok, Alicia. Would you mind my asking what your favorite mystery was?"

"Oh wow, I am not sure. Maybe the Case of the Locked Room. I just love how Drew uses science and mathematics to deduct that the secret door had to be just in the precise spot. That story, and just about all the others of yours I have read, just seem to built on the tiniest details."

"Right, Alicia. And that is part of what your job would be. Oh, I know that you were probably thinking that it was a proofreading type job. But you see, I use real mysteries as inspiration for my books. For example, the Case of the Locked Room was based on a real life crime that happened in England a few years before the book was written. Real research was conducted to get those tiny nuances that made the story what it was. You would be doing some of that type of research."

Suddenly they heard the dinging sound as the elevator arrived again. Turning around, Alicia saw the doorman step off the elevator and into the room..

"Oh meet Max. He is not actually the doorman for the building, you know.. He works directly for me. He...er, well, he helps me get things done."

"Oh, hi, Max."

Alicia tried, unsuccessfully to suppress an involuntary shudder. Now, what was it about Max that made her so nervous?. Surely Mr. Longridge was entitled to an assistant. especially with his unwillingness to touch people or things. There were lots of things somebody would have to do for him, such as opening doors. Yes, surely that was a reasonable explanation. So why was she still shivering nervously?

TABBYNERA:

“Pleased to meet you Miss Reynolds.” answered Max.

Alicia noticed that his voice was deep and slow. He was very tall and almost as wide. She decided she would not like to meet him on a dark night. Max was not wearing gloves but Alicia would not have minded if he had. It was one of those clammy loose handshakes which transformed her shiver into a shudder.

“Have you heard anything new in the Santini case Max?”

“He is still amongst the missing Mr. Longridge.”

Alicia started to listen. She remembered reading the story in the newspaper. Johnny Santini was a well known heavyweight boxer. He had won all the fights he had participated in up to now and had now been challenged by the best Cuban heavyweight, José Garcias. The problem was that Johnny Santini, went for an evening walk with his poodle, Jango, a week ago, and has not been seen since. The area around his villa in Palm Beach had been searched but with no result. So possibly the new Drew Anderson mystery might be based on this disappearance.

“Alicia what do you know about the boxing world?”

This was not exactly the question Alicia expected from Peter Longridge, so she decided to tell the truth.

“Nothing Mr. Longridge, I have never interested myself for the sport.”

“Now that is ideal Alicia. You have a nice neutral point of view. How would you like to spend a few days in Florida, Palm Beach? It seems that Max found no new ideas to help with my story, so I think it would be a good idea if you would have a look around at the scene of the crime. A lady’s eye on the situation might see something more. Of course Max will accompany you. I am sure he can be of help.”

Alicia decided that she would not turn this one down, in spite of the fact that a slow talking deep voiced Frankenstein lookalike would be going with her. “You should not always judge people by their looks, he might have a heart of gold. Perhaps he has a sweet little wife and children at home” she thought to herself, although she to admit after a second look at Max she decided this would not be the case.

“Alicia do you want the job or not?” went through her mind. She made her decision.

“Mr. Longridge I would love to go to Palm Beach to research for your new book. I am sure Max will be a good help.”

It was then that Max laughed, not a normal laugh, one of those monotonous deep throated laughs that seem to come from more from the stomach than the brain.

“Max, not everyone shares your sense of humour” said Peter Longridge. “Please organise the flight and hotel for yourself and Alicia. I would say for tomorrow morning. Will this suit you Alicia?”

“That’s fine Mr. Longridge” answered Alice with a sort of uneasy feeling inside thinking Palm Beach is ok, but Max?

MRLAF:

Mr. Longridge supplied Alicia with some information to get started; Johnny Sanitini’s home address, the name of Santini’s agent, and the location of a park where Santini was known to walk Jango.

The flight to Palm Beach was arduous owed mostly to the fact that Max was not an ideal traveling companion. Alicia’s attempts at conversation were met with monosyllabic responses. It was like traveling with Lurch from The Addam’s Family.

Alicia thought Palm Beach would bolster her spirits but when they stepped out of the airport the Florida humidity was oppressive. Instantly her hair went limp and sweat soaked her underarms and panty liner.

“Let’s find some air conditioning,” she said. Max grunted.

After checking into the hotel and having a bite to eat Max uttered his first full sentence since they left. “Where’re we starting?” His voice was gruff and implied that no matter where she chose it would be the wrong answer. She decided to turn the tables.

“Where would you suggest?”

“Santini’s house.”

His answer was quick and sounded premeditated, and his smile held no comfort.

Santini’s house was at 5 Pentagram Circle in a subdivision of overpriced mini-mansions meant to evoke the Mediterranean. Alicia tried the doorknob. It was locked. She turned to Max saying, “Now what, Sherlock? We’re here but we can’t get in.”

She strolled away from Max and in a moment she heard a click and the squeak of hinges. She turned to see the door was open and Max disappearing inside. With a deep breath, she followed. She wondered if she would get arrested for breaking and entering and, if so, could she blame it on Max.

From the foyer she peeked into the room on the right. It was a living room that looked like it was decorated by a magazine; impeccable taste but nothing to suggest the owner‘s personality. She looked into the room on the left. It appeared to be Santini’s personal study. The walls were decorated with posters from Santini’s prize fights. A poodle sized bed sat on the floor beside a computer desk.

She moved into the room looking at Santini’s face gazing at her from the posters. On the last poster something caught her eye; “Presented by Longridge Promotions.” Was Peter Longridge, wealthy mystery writer, also a fight promoter? He certainly hadn’t seemed the type. She looked at the other posters again. Santini’s last five bouts had been the work of Longridge Promotions.

She moved to the computer desk. It was extremely neat except for the corner of a small white envelope sticking out from under an old fashioned desk blotter. She picked up the envelope. It was made of fine linen paper and embossed with a cursive L inside a wreath. It was addressed to Santini. The return address was Peter Longridge‘s. The envelope was empty. As she studied the envelope she felt the flow of hot breath on the back of her neck and knew that Max had walked up behind her.

MEIRAV:

“Calm down,” she told herself firmly, “you know he is here to help you find Santini.” But her hands, holding the envelope, were shaking.

She dropped the envelope on the floor when the woman walked in.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” the woman said in a tone of contempt, then called out, “hey, Victor, we’ve got company!”

The next moment Alicia found herself staring at the wrong end of a gun, and thinking, what’s the point of having mister muscle with her when these people have guns! And who were these people? What were they doing in Santini’s house?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Max’s gruff voice from behind her. “Come on, Monica, stop that nonsense. You know what happened last time...”

“Ha,” said the woman, “last time you had the element of surprise. This time... we are prepared. Aren’t we, Victor, darling?”

Alicia swallowed. She could feel the sweat dripping down her, despite the air con – she had never felt so scared in her whole life. Why hadn’t she just stayed in her boring old copy-editing job... why on earth had she gone looking for new challenges and excitement... why did she have to come all the way to Palm Beach to die in some boxer’s house... she was too young to die...

When the woman whistled and the dogs came into the room, Alicia fainted.

LOSTVISIONS:

Alicia was awakened by the dogs licking her face. Startled, she looked around the room while she jumped a little. She noticed that Max was sitting in a chair bound and gagged. The view of this sight didn’t help her fear in the slightest. As Alicia started to get up, she felt a firm grip on her arm. Looking around, Alicia saw a man that she assumed to be Victor helping her up. Victor was a two-bit thug that looked like a cross between crash test dummy and Goodfella reject. All the way down to the patented slicked back hair with a toothpick hanging from his mouth.

Once she was on her feet, Victor placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her. The smell of cheap cologne and stale beer was rancid. She backed away holding up her hand and nodding her head, signaling that she was okay. Alicia noticed a chair next to Max walked over to it. As Alicia sat down noticed the look in Max’s eyes, it was somewhere between anger and fear. Victor walked over and handed her a glass of water. She took a drink then placed the glass down the table next to her.

Monica sat across the room with her legs crossed holding the gun. She had a devilishly grin on her face as her eye were watching Alicia’s every movement. Wondering what this obviously young inexperienced girl was doing here in “The Palms”. Monica began stroking the dogs’ neck still studying Alicia movements.

Still crippled with fear Alicia realized that she needed to make a move quickly if she didn’t want to die here. The look on Monica’s face told Alicia she didn’t have much time. Alicia began remembering a lesson had taught her about fear as a child. She had previously used to conquer speaking in front of the class and such. Teleporting her mind into character of one those ultra cool film actresses, she swallowed hard and said.

“Now Monica, there is no need for all of this.” Alicia’s finger pointed at the dogs and the gun. Then she gingerly pointed at her bound and gagged muscle.

Monica sat silently, now stone-faced. It took everything she had, but Alicia stood up and began taking off Max’s gag. Victor started to move towards her, but Monica raised her hand to stop him.

“Max here won’t move a muscle without me saying so.” Alicia said, as removed the rest of the gag and Max took a deep breath.

“Isn’t that right, Max” Alicia said, in an assertive tone as she squeezed Max shoulder letting him know to play along.

Alicia, now deep into her character she gracefully sat back down and crossed her legs looked deep into the eyes of Monica. Monica motioned for Victor to release Max. Everything was going quite well Alicia thought.

DEBBYDOES:

Monica sat directly across from them, the gun pointed at them, all the while. "I have a few questions for you", she said, "and then I will let you go. First of all, I need to know who you're working for, and why you are in this house."

Alicia said, "I don't care to divulge my resources, however I can assure you that my employer has an interest in Mr. Santini's whereabouts, and we are here to investigate his disappearance."

You are not with the police, then? asked Victor. "No, most assuredly not," said Alicia.

Monica had sat quietly listening, and then suddenly there were tears in her eyes, and she started sobbing. Johnny Santini is my boyfriend. He disappeared a few days ago while he was out walking the beach, as he does early every morning. He was supposed to meet me at the Casa Grandview for lunch, but he never showed up.

Jango was found wandering the beach by himself, and he had a man's wristwatch in his mouth, but it was not Johnny's. The police have it in their possession now.There was an engraving on the back of the watch that said C.H. I think that is my fiance's best friend Carl, who is a mystery writer, and it seems that he has disappeared, also.

Carl was to be Johnny's best man. We are to be married in two weeks. I am heiress to the family fortune, and if I am not married by June 1st, my 21st birthday, the money reverts back to the estate, and everything goes to my step mother.

She never liked Victor, nor myself. She did everything she could to turn our father against us, and she succeeded with Victor. Daddy had threatened to write him out of the will, if he persisted with his boxing career. My father always considered it ungentlemanly behavior, and wanted Victor to follow in his footsteps, and study law. He tried it for a few years, and found that it wasn't to his liking. I think he went into boxing as a means of rebellion, to show dad that he was his own man. He had been very good at boxing in high school, and always dreamed of fighting in the big league.

As a result of that, my father supposedly wrote him out of his will, and said that I had to settle down and live the life of a proper lady. My father was murdered less than a year ago, and I suspect that his wife, the lovely Veronica, has something to do with it. It was a boating accident. They were out sailing and were caught in a storm. She said the boat capsized. His body was never found.

I am positive that she tampered with the will, but I haven't found proof. My dad had a secret vault, that is hidden in his study, and even Veronica does not know about that. I sent Johnny to do some snooping ...

SANCTUARYROSE:

…last night in my fathers house, unfortunately Veronica came home early and nearly caught Victor before he had a chance to grab this” Monica handed her a piece of paper that read:

C.H. 1:30 Spirit

“What does it mean?”

“I am hoping you can help me figure that out. C. H. is obviously Carl, but there is no am or pm on the time. My fiancé disappeared at around 11:30 pm close to midnight and I think maybe she met with Carl. I pray that Carl wasn’t in on the disappearance of Johnny because if he is, I’m gonna kill him!”
A fierce look came upon Monica’s face as she held the gun close to her and Alicia could see she was dead serious about killing Carl.

“So you think that your stepmother had something to do with the disappearance of your fiancé than?”

“It makes sense to me, I got wind of Veronica being buddy, buddy with Carl from the maid, Sherry Ann. She spilled it all to me and Victor two days ago when I went to retrieve a painting of me and my fiancé we left in the library for safe keeping. It was painted by a famous artist named Georgio from Manhattan.”

“And you believe this Sherry Ann and what she said?”

“Yes, of course, Sherry Ann hates Veronica as much as anyone who has every worked for her, she is a real ball buster when it comes to getting things done perfectly and when she wants it done and in what time.”

The strange smell of cherry tobacco wafted into the room and a knock on the door made everyone jump.

HONOR74:

Victor lurched to the door to answer it. Alicia heard a muffled muttering and almost a growl before a petite woman stepped into the room. She was regal in the way of queens, an arrogance in her demeanor. Her silver hair was coiled tightly at the back of her head, her pale blue suit crisp in every detail. The only odd part was the smoking cigarillo she held clasped in an ivory holder between her perfectly manicured fingers.

“I see we’re having a tea party and I was invited,” the woman said, her purring voice holding menace.

Monica nearly leapt out of her chair, her face twisted into a mask of hate. “You aren’t welcome here, Veronica.”

“And soon, neither shall you, if your dear fiancee doesn’t show back up. Whatever shall you do then?”

“Did you come over here just to gloat?”

“Of course not, I could have easily done that over the phone, if I felt the need. No, I’m here on Carl’s behalf.”

Monica’s forehead furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Veronica took a long drag from her cigarette. “I just had lunch with Carl. He said he’s terribly sorry not to have contacted you, but he’s been quite ill. Food poisoning, you see.”

“That makes no sense whatsoever! The police have been looking for him as well and he says he’s had some tummy troubles?”

“He’s been convalescing out of town and shall return there shortly. He wanted me to pass on his sympathies to you and to inform you that he will be in touch very, very soon. I, too, sympathize with your situation. I know what it’s like to lose a loved one.”

She sounds very trite, Alicia thought to herself, watching the strange, haughty woman turn on her heel and walk back out of the house. Victor was fairly vibrating suppressed anger as he turned to his sister.

“She’s got something to do with it, I know it in my gut. We follow her,” Monica said.

Max startled them all when he broke his long silence. “I suggest we use our car, it’s less recognizable to her,” he suggested.

In the drive, they all piled into the sedate black sedan, which was unremarkable for everything other than its price tag. Max had obviously done this before, tailing Veronica’s Mercedes from a few cars behind, always keeping steady and never doing anything to call attention to themselves.

“That’s strange,” Monica murmured.

“What?” asked Alicia.

“Veronica is driving herself. She rarely, if ever, does that; she prefers the show of wealth that having a chauffeur brings.”

An hour later and they had followed away from the city and into lush greenery, swampy land with mourning trees draped with shrouds of moss. The road had dropped from a two lane highway to a narrow road lined with mudholes. The car bumped and swayed along, ever deeper. As though the conversation had never ended, Alicia mused out loud.

“Perhaps Veronica doesn’t want a witness.”

My ending

Veronica turns off the path into an even narrower country trail and comes to a halt. Not wanting to be seen the others park at the beginning of the trail and go by foot. It was then that an old wooden hut came into sight, Veronica’s car parked outside.

“What to do now?” asked Monica

“We sneak up to the hut and see if we hear anything suspicious. There is a window, quite high up but I am sure Max will oblige, won’t you Max.”, Alicia looking at Max with a determined look. She had gone through so much in this adventure that she did not really care if Max was the grandson of the Boston murderer; she just wanted to bring this thing to an end.

“No problem” said Max and stretched to look through the window. It was then that the door opened and a man came out.

“Looks like we are having a real party.”

Alicia was astonished, it was Peter Longridge, even without his white gloves.

“Well it looks like you have all arrived, so come on in. You, too Alicia, you are the main figure in this mystery.”

“You know Peter, she was almost too good, I nearly gave up, but I think you should introduce her to the gang” said Veronica.

"Yes, I suppose I should be fair, now that the job is done.”

“Can someone tell me what is going on, it looks like a meeting of the Peter Longridge fan club here, and I am no longer a fan, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Sorry Alicia” said Peter, “but I interviewed at least ten girls until I found someone to do the job; but let’s not waste any more time. Let me introduce you to my brother, Johnny Santini. It’s not his real name, but he is the one with the muscle in the family, and I am the one with the brains.” And the two brothers laughed at the family joke. It was just Alicia that did not feel in a laughing mood.

“You mean this is all a hoax.”

“Well it was all for a good cause. I cannot just let anyone play around with my story lines. They have to be researched seriously. I don’t want any law suits on my shoulders if I start having stories printed that doesn’t rhyme with the reality. Now Max, he is one of Johnny’s colleagues. He used to be a boxing trainer. Tell her yourself Max.”

“Yes Miss Alicia. I was one of the best. In my younger days I was quite a well known name as a boxer, but then I started training the others. Now I am more in an advising capacity to Johnny and of course I look after our Peter and his stories, but an old giant like me cannot go everywhere. There are even people that are frightened of me, can’t understand it really. Anyhow, that’s me in a nutshell. So what about it Alicia, do you think you can put up with me.”

“Yes Alicia, the job is yours, all you have to do is say yes.”

“But who is Monica, Victor and Veronica? I though Monica was going to marry Johnny Santini.”

“No way Alicia, Monica is my cousin, as well as Johnny’s. Victor is Monica’s brother.”

“And Veronica?”

“Three guesses Alicia, I am Peter’s wife. Have to keep my eye on him now and again.”

“Just a minute, what about the “C.H.”. Who is he, I thought that was someone called Carl.”

“Do you remember it was the watch that had C.H. on it in the beginning? Now where are most watches made, and what is the official abbreviation for that country. If you can answer that one then you are really the ideal person for the job.”

“Switzerland is well known for the watch making industry and, of course, the official abbreviation for that country is CH Confedratio Helvetia.”

“Well done Alicia. So now to business. Max did you get the meat from the butchers this morning and Veronica, have you got the vegetable. I am really hungry. Johnny has set up a nice b-b-q in the garden so I think we all deserve a bite to eat. Alicia, not hungry?”

“Well, yes I am, but I am speechless. At least someone likes me.” Jango decided that Alicia was his flavour and was licking her hand all the time.

My Finale

MULTIPLY Writing Prompt #17: What a Character

The doorbell rung and Mrs. Smith opened to see a policeman standing there, in full uniform complete with pistol.
“Can I help you officer?” she asked with a worried voice, after all it is not every day that the law is at the door.
“Perhaps madam, we have had a complaint and have to ask all the inhabitants of the apartment house. You have a balcony overlooking the road?”
“Yes officer, all the apartments in this house have their main balcony on this side of the street. It is a bit of a nuisance as the traffic lights are also there and we have a continuous stream of traffic stopping and starting.”
“We have had a complaint. It seems that this morning a car was waiting at the stop light and suddenly his front car window was covered with egg.”
“With egg?”
“Yes raw eggs to be exact, and from the count of the yokes, it was three eggs exactly. The eggs seem to have been thrown over one of the balconies. The driver was very annoyed and was probably lucky that an accident did not occur. He managed to be able to wipe the egg away with the windscreen wipers before driving off. We are now trying to find the source of the egg attack.”
Mrs. Smith was not exactly fully surprised, but told the police officer she knew nothing of this attack. He thanked her and went on further business, although she noticed a slight smile on his face.
“Digby” she shouted in the voice she reserved for annoying occasions and an eight year old boy appeared.
“Do you know anything about throwing eggs over the balcony?”
“Throwing eggs over the balcony” was the answer
“Yes, Digby, they were in the fridge.”
“Yes, in the fridge” answered Digby.
As usual Mrs. Smith was getting no concrete answers from Digby, but that is one of the problems she had with Digby. He was autistic.
She was used to things happening unexpectedly with Digby. She remembered his love for ice cubes. Just eating them was a delight, but then one day he decided to lick the ice off the ice box in the fridge. What happened? Well Digby’s tongue got stuck to the ice box and with presence of mind she poured water over the ice box which released the grip on his tongue. This time it was more serious than a tongue stuck to an ice box. She went to the fridge and had a quick look at the egg container. Yes, of course, three eggs were missing.
“Digby did you throw three eggs over the balcony?”
“Throw three eggs over the balcony” he answered with a smile on his face, avoiding looking at his mother in the eyes. That was no surprise; he never looked direct in the eyes.

It seemed that the problem was now solved. It was definitely Digby that threw the eggs. Did Mrs. Smith do something more about it? Not really, she just crossed her fingers and hoped that the nice police officer would not return. He did not and probably had more important things to do. There was an aftermath when Mrs. Smith’s elder son returned after training with the local junior football team telling the story of the trainer that was parked with his car and someone threw eggs on the car while waiting at the traffic lights in the road. “Coincidences just happen” thought Mrs. Smith.

Yes life was not easy with Digby. She had got used to him not eating anything green, which more or less excluded all healthy food such as salad and vegetable. She never really found out whether it was the taste or the colour, but Digby was not able to give a clear answer. Mrs. Smith went to the doctor with Digby as she was worried about a vitamin deficiency. Funnily enough, Digby was completely healthy, his blood tests were perfect, although the doctor found he should eat more salad. Mrs. Smith decided to use some psychology.
“Eat your salad first of all Digby, then you have it behind you and you can eat the rest of the food.”
Somehow it worked. Although Digby is today almost forty years old, he still eats his salad first.

Of course there was the holiday spent in London with the grandparents. Digby did not like his routine being changed, but Mrs. Smith had given up asking Digby what he wanted. A clear answer never came anyhow. So the day came when they arrived in London and were staying with gran and grandad. They knew of Digby’s problems, but grandmother always had the feeling that everything would turn out all right eventually. Mrs. Smith no longer bothered explaining to her parents that with Digby nothing would probably turn out all right. Digby soon got used to living in another house, although he stopped eating. He had his plate of food put in front of him every day, but just left it. All his favourite foods were provided, but of no avail. Of course grandmother started imagining Digby dying of malnutrition and did not sleep for at least three nights. Mrs. Smith just gave up and decided as long as he was drinking he would at least not dehydrate and they would soon be at home again.

One day Digby’s parents went out in London on their own and left Digby with the grandparents. When they returned grandmother told Mrs. Smith with tears in her eyes how Digby started eating again. They gave him the food on the plate and left him alone in the room, but of course grandmother was peeping around the door now and again. First of all Digby looked around to make sure no-one was there and then started eating. This seemed to have been a breakthrough as from then on Digby ate.

Then came the day when the excursion was made to Buckingham Palace, where the Queen of England lived. Of course, Digby knew that the Queen lived in this big house, but his expectations were not met with and he actually wanted to see the Queen in the palace. Digby screamed from one end of the Mall to the other. It was a very embarrassed Mr. and Mrs. Smith that decided the visit to Buckingham Palace was not a good idea. Even the promised ice cream and hamburger showed no result. Digby wanted to see the Queen.

Digby also went to school. Of course it was a special school. Not all children were autistic, but each had a learning problem. The children were picked up by a taxi in the morning and brought home for lunch and after afternoon school. This was quite a good arrangement, and it seemed to work with Digby, although his mother found the eternal backwards and forwards was not so ideal. One day it happened. The taxi driver was on his way to deliver Digby and noticed there was no Digby in the taxi. All the other children were there, but not Digby. The school called Mrs. Smith, whether Digby had arrived home alone and then the alarm was set. Where was Digby? In the meanwhile Mrs. Smith’s other two children had arrived home and departed again immediately on their bikes to see if Digby was anywhere in the area. He was not. It was then that Mrs. Smith received a call from a bus driver.
“Do you have a son called Digby?
”Yes, I do, but he is missing at the moment.”
“Well he is in my bus. I thought it was strange as he was sitting in the seat and travelled to the bus destination and then stayed in the bus and now we are in the garage. I noticed he had a small bag with him with his name, address and telephone number. You can come and pick him up at the garage.”
In the meanwhile the police had been alarmed and Mrs. Smith called the police to tell them where Digby was. They said not to fetch him, they would do it. So Digby was a proud little boy when he arrived home in the company of two policemen.

Yes Mrs.Smith went through a lot during the childhood years of Digby. As he got older, he got more manageable. After spending five years in a weekly school where he stayed during the week and came home at the week-ends, life did get easier with Digby. He became quite independent, although he still had his “strange” habits, but who are we to say what is strange.

Digby now works for his living, a simple job in a factory. He has a collection of more than one thousand records, pop music of the sixties and seventies. They are all carefully sorted in his cupboard. He knows where each one is, who is singing and when they were recorded. After all if Rainman could play poker so well, then Digby also has his talents. Another part time job is roadie to various local pop music groups in the town where he lives. He just loves pop music and everything to do with it. The musicians like him as well and they take good care of him, bring him home to Mrs. Smith’s house in the evenings/early mornings when the “gigs” are finished.

There have been many theories set up about autismus. When Digby was born it was not such a well known illness, today it is something everyone seems to know. Whether a cure will be found is doubtful. There are all sorts of investigations being carried out. Is it to do with certain foods, could it be in the genes, does it already exist in the womb etc. etc. but Mrs. Smith is just happy when her son is happy. Of course, she keeps up with the latest discoveries, but has little hope that a breakthrough will be achieved. Mrs. Smith found that even as important as her son being looked after, she too had to look after herself. If she was ill then would be of no help to her son.

Writing Prompt #17: What a Character

MULTIPLY Writing Prompt #15: Point of View

Hi everyone, no don’t scream or make a face with the expression of disgust. You humans don’t look so good either from down here, especially the sole of your feet when they might squash one of my relatives or colleagues. Of course, we know how inconsiderate the species homo sapiens can be, especially if you are an insect. Ants have no chance, but they are a bit stupid plodding all over the place and swarming onto human food.

Now we armadillidum vulgare are a different kettle of fish. What?? Well some know us as wood lice, pill bug, sow bug and at the bottom of the scale rolly pollie although that is just a plain insult. If you saw a monster coming and nowhere to escape, you would roll up as well. We are not fat, just have a suit of armour for protection, but even that gets a bit tight a couple of times in life, so we just get rid of it for a larger size. We do not mean any harm and are satisfied with a nice damp place, a few plant roots and some dead material. It does not matter what, as long as it is dead, disintegrating and we like it to be a bit damp. We love everything that is damp.

Me and the wife live under a nice heavy stone on the path through a garden. Really could not be better. Our own food supplies nearby and no preying insects to make a meal of us. My wife, Mabel, just loves it here, but that was until Boris moved in. By the way I am known as Bonzo by most of my friends. As I was saying the wife and I were living nice and peaceful under our stone; I don’t even think others realised it, except of course for a few other members of our tribe, but they had their own stones and left us in peace. Mabel had just laid a batch of eggs and was carrying them on her tummy, waiting for them to hatch. No great problem, it makes things easier when the kids hatch as you know where they are.

Back to Boris: I was having a quiet afternoon’s sleep with the missus – no hanky panky, after all she had just laid some eggs and then the stone got lifted. I thought it was the ignorant humans, but they usually leave us in peace. I know Mrs. Human does not like lifting those stones as she never knows what is underneath. Can’t understand it really, after all Mabel is one of the prettiest of our type around, I really had to fight for her attention. Anyhow a black colleague crawled into our little nest and told me to move over: me, the chief of the family.
“Who do you think you are?” was my question.
“Bonzo it's drafty here and there is too much light, what is going on?” That was the wife.
“Good morning all, I have decided this place would be suitable for me and the family, so either move over or move out” and that was the first time I saw Boris.
“Just who do you think you are? We have been here since we paired up and are going nowhere. Go back to where you came from.”
“Sorry, but that’s not possible. I was living in a nice cold damp cellar with the family. Ideal really, had everything that a armadillidium vulgare could wish for. It was damp, temperature was just right and plenty of deal food laying around. There were even some mushrooms growing out of the wall, but then it happened. The humans got working on it and in two days there was nothing left, just a hole in the ground, so we had to move. One of my kids from last year said there was a path in a garden near bye. Of course it was a long march for us along the ditch but here we are. The only problem is that everything seems to be occupied around here, so we decided to move in with someone else, unless you are thinking of leaving.”
“No Boris, we are not thinking of leaving, and we do not intend to share our place with you and your family. You smell rather strongly and we have enough work keeping our own place neat and tidy. I do not intend to start cleaning up behind two strangers. Go and find another cellar. You cellar creatures are all the same, no respect for the garden tribes. You just spread out and take everything over.”

“Hi dad, having problems” it was one of our children from the last brood, who lived under the next garden tile.
“Hello son, we have an intruder. One of those cellar tribes has decided to move in.”
“Does not come into the question dad; come on brothers, we are being invaded” and then the communal feelings developed and 20 of our kids from the last breed arrived to support us and the family.
“Clear out, you are not welcome” said my oldest and was already sharpening his feelers for an attack. It was then that the invader’s wife started to shed some tears.
“What shall we do Boris, first of all our house was destroyed, I am expecting babies and now we have nowhere to live. These garden tribes are so thoughtless and selfish. How would you feel in my position” I could see Mabel already feeling sorry for the intruders. Women are the same everywhere I suppose.
“Bonzo I can understand her problem. Admittedly she smells different to us, but she is one of us and cannot help her background. We should really help.”
What did I say, women. I just had to tell her that not in our place. We have enough problems removing our body waste all day long and now there will be twice as much. Apart from that what are we going to do when their brood arrives and ours. There will just be no room. Not to mention the discarded armour laying around when we all get to big for our bodies.
“I have an idea dad.” Typical kids, they always support their mothers, but I listened to what he said.
“Just down the path there is an old discarded brick. It is quite heavy, but if we all get together, I am sure we can move it to suitable place, perhaps next to the house wall. Then they will be far enough away from us, but they won’t feel as homesick because it will be near the cellar of the house. Perhaps they might even be able to dig a corridor into the cellar and then they will be happy.”

One thing I must say, I do have clever, intelligent offspring, suppose they take after their father. As we creatures usually like to sleep during the day, we postponed the action until the evening and had to put up with a stinky cellar guy and his missus until then, sleeping at our place. As soon as evening came we had a meeting. I must say, you can always rely on us for group work. I think the complete population of the garden path arrived. Good job the humans were sleeping, otherwise there would have been screams and feet stamping around. I never really did understand why they don’t like us. Eventually we all got working. We managed to shift the brick to the window and Boris and his wife crawled underneath. They were more than happy. I must say they turned out to be very nice neighbours. Just shows you how you can be wrong about your species. Now and again Boris’s wife would bring us a couple of mushrooms over from her lodgings. Her kids arrived about the same time as ours so they sort of grew up together. Very nice bunch they were as well. They even married into our family and I suppose we are now sort of related to Boris and his wife. Sometimes we even go hunting together with the grandchildren.

The life of a armadillidium vulgare can be really satisfying some times. We just have to keep out of the way of the human feet. There is a certain spider that also likes to make a meal of us, but that is another story, and thank goodness they don’t live around here.

Writing Prompt#15: Point of View

MULTIPLY Writing Prompt #14: The Horror of it all

La Traviata by Verdi was an opera always worth a visit and Doreen had seen it at least twice. Living in the eastern part of London the Sadlers Wells Opera company’s theatre was not far by underground, although she had to change trains at the Bank station from the central line onto the northern line to arrive. It was very late on a Friday evening when the opera was finished and she made her way to the Angel station in the London area of Islington. Usually her friend came with her but on this particular evening she was alone, her colleague being in hospital after an unexpected appendix operation, so she decided to go on her own. Doreen had often visited the opera house and she really did not want to miss this performance, as it was one of the last in the theatre. It was 1968 and the Sadlers Wells opera company were moving.

She arrived at the Angel station and took the lift down to the platform. The Northern Line was the first to be built in the darker ages of Victorian London and also the deepest underground line so there were not many escalators on this section of the London underground. A story is told that there is a haunting between the stations of Angel and Old Street, but Doreen put this out of her mind. She had never actually seen this mysterious ghost, and no-one really knew why it should be there. The platform was empty when she eventually arrived and the train rumbled into the station accompanied by the screeching of brakes when it stopped. The doors opened automatically and she was glad to be in a compartment that was empty. She made herself comfortable on the first available seat she saw, as it would be a short journey, just a few stations, before she arrived at the Bank where she could change onto the central line. The train moved on and Doreen was accompanied by the rocking movement of the train as it swung around the curves in the tunnel. After a few minutes she had arrived at Old Street station where a group of young men entered the train. They were very loud, one of them emptied the contents of his stomach on the wooden floor and the smell of beer was very strong. Doreen was not feeling very comfortable but decided to keep quiet and hoped they would not notice her. Unfortunately this was not the case.

“Look a young lady, all on her own” said one of the men rather loudly He seemed to be the leader of the pack.
“Let’s keep her company” and he sat on the empty seat next to Doreen and lit a cigarette, although there were signs on the windows with the words “No Smoking”. Doreen was frightened of these men in their leather jackets and strange piercings on their noses and lips, especially as her seat neighbour had already put his arm around her and was getting very near with his stinking breath.
“What have we got here” he said “look boys, this young lady was at the opera this evening, she’s clutching her programme, must be an intelligent one this one” and him and his cronies found this very amusing, laughing and leering at Doreen. It was then that the train pulled into Moorgate station. Doreen was preparing herself for an escape, but was still being held firmly by the drunken seat neighbour. She breathed a sign of relief when a railway worker entered the carriage.
“What is going on here? Leave that young lady alone, otherwise you will have dealings with me and the railway.”
The man that had entered walked over to Doreen’s seat neighbour, took him by the neck of his shirt and threw him out onto the platform.
“Now are you going to leave voluntarily or do I have to help” said the man.
The remaining members of the gang of boys decided it would perhaps be better to leave. If they attacked a railway man and injured him, it would not be a good idea and they all left the compartment as fast as they could.
“All right Miss?” asked the man.
“I am now thank you” Doreen answered.
“Do you have far to go?” he asked
“No, it’s just one station more. I have to change trains at the Bank for the Central Line.”
“So do I, Miss. Perhaps I can accompany you until you get on the next train. There is no telling what a rough pack hangs out on these trains late in the evening. If you don’t mind me mentioning it, but you seem familiar. Have we met before?”
Doreen looked at the railway man dressed in his dark blue uniform. He must have been approaching retirement age with his grey hair which was thinning in the middle. He also seemed to have developed a middle age spread around the waist.
“Perhaps” answered Doreen “although I cannot remember exactly. Have you been on this train before at this time in the evening?”
“No, I don’t think so. I am only on the Northern Line train this evening as my colleague did not arrive to work today. He had an accident. I am just representing him this evening; otherwise I have been working on the District Line for the past forty years. Is that a programme you are carrying from the opera” he asked “I thought Sadlers Wells moved away from the Angel about forty years ago.”
“That might be” answered Doreen “I just happened to find this programme on the seat where I am sitting.”
This seemed a strange answer to the railway man and it did make him a little nervous.
The train pulled into the Bank station and Doreen and her protector left the train.
“Excuse me Miss” he said “I think you are taking the wrong direction. We have to climb the spiral staircase, the lifts are no longer working in the evening.”
“I know, but I am on the spiral staircase.”
“But you are walking downwards, and down there in the darkness is nothing, just a pit with a metal cover to stop people falling further. When they built the line in the nineteenth century they had to make all sorts of places to dump the earth they had scooped out; being a railway man I know a lot about these old parts of the stations.”
“I thought you might” said Doreen and gave the railway worker a strong push. He tumbled down the stairs and landed at the bottom, weakened by the fall.
“What do you think you are doing? I could have got killed. Is this the thanks I get for helping and protecting.”
“Yes” answered Doreen “and you are familiar, although now at least forty years older. Think back in time forty years ago when you were a young man and were working on the Northern Line and look at me closely. On that unforgettable evening for me, it was probably the last journey you made on this route before requesting the transfer and what was the reason for the transfer? Are the memories coming back? Just take a good look at me.”
The railway man turned pale and looked at Doreen. He was shocked by a memory that crept into his mind. Something he would rather have forgotten, but Doreen was also looking a bit different. Her eyes were staring ahead, dead eyes and no movement. They resembled the eyes of a corpse.
“Do you remember entering the railway carriage and seeing me alone after my visit to the opera, clutching a programme of La Traviata. You also took the seat next to me, as the drunken pack that you threw out of the train. It was your arm that I felt around me on that evening, but I was on my own and had no chance to defend myself. Do you remember touching me everywhere and telling me to be quiet and then do you remember raping me? I am sure you do, or perhaps I was just the first of many. Do you know what, I don’t care. The moment when you put your hands around my neck and squeezed the last breath out of my body I was looking at you and swore to get revenge one day. When the train stopped at the Bank station you dragged my lifeless body down these spiral steps, took the lid off the pit and threw my dead body into the darkness. I suppose you went home afterwards feeling proud of your conquest. You don’t have to be shocked. Yes, I am dead, open the lid and look in, you will see my bones. Since that evening I have been waiting and watching to see you again on the last Northern Line train in the evening from the Angel; a suitable name for the station, don’t you think? You see I want peace and want to join my mother and father in their eternal resting place, but first of all I had a job to do. I think my work is now done.”

There was the sound of metal scraping and the lid lifted from the pit on its own. The last thing the railway worker saw was the bottom on the pit, although it took a couple of days until he died, but he never left the pit again.

Doreen was happy, she had won her freedom and decided to leave the dreary railway of the Northern Line and walked upwards into the light and to her waiting family.

Writing Prompt #14: The Horror of it all