Just another Wednesday

“Back in minute, got to make my bladder gladder.” proclaimed Harry, half rising to awkwardly shuffle along the cushioned bench and out into the near-empty pub. James nodded, only half listening. His lunch hour was nearly over and he would need to be back soon or he'd be in for an earful. He swirled the last dregs of his pint around the glass and glanced around the deserted lounge. Rachael, the usual barmaid, was nowhere to be seen. They had been coming to The Peacock for lunch every Wednesday for the last 8 months, give or take a week, and were counted among the regulars at this stage. The food wasn't bad, the pints were a little cheaper than the other pubs nearby and the floor was generally only sticky over near the dartboard. James drained his glass and was in the middle of collecting his belongings when he heard the cumbersome oak door creak open. There were a couple of other regulars who frequented the Peacock during the day, but James didn't recognise the man now entering. He was a short, older gentleman. He wore brown suede trousers, a faded yellow bowler hat and a scruffy green coat which reminded James of something his grandfather had used to wear while gardening. James realised that the man was looking at him and gave a hurried nod of greeting, immediately averting his eyes. He shoved his wallet and keys into his pockets and was leaning forward to rise when the man spoke.

“Are you Mr. James Taylor?” a soft voice slowly, purposefully inquired. James looked up to find the old man standing at the edge of the table, staring down at him intently.

“Urrr....Yeah, that's me.” James hesitated, something about this stranger felt familiar, but he was certain he'd never met him before. “And you are?”

The man reached up and slowly removed his hat. His eyes held unwavering contact with James as he gave a sympathetic half-smile. “I'm sorry about this, but needs must.”

Time seemed to stretch before him, everything happening impossibly slowly. The old man reached inside his coat and drew out an ornate pistol, the kind James remembered seeing in pirate movies when he was a child. The barrel was made from a dark brown wood and intricately carved with fine silver lines curling down its length that glittered even under the pubs dull lights. He brought it down in a single fluid motion to aim precisely between James' eyes. He tried desperately to recoil but it was too late. The hammer slammed down as the muzzle thundered into life. But instead of a bullet, a bubble emerged. Everything was suddenly silent and still, the world around him mutely scrambling away to hide in his peripheries. James stared, hypnotised by the absurdity of the slowly rising bubble. Inside he could see smoke shifting and shapes forming, a tiny world coming into being. Billions of people scurried across its surface, their lives flickering by in a rush of overwhelming colour and sound. He could see it all, feel it all, their private fears and secret triumphs. He could hear their hurried cries and whispered confessions as the scent of a trillion lovers embracing and a million forests burning rolled over him like a heavy fog, clinging to every fibre. He watched them strive and rage as the bubble slowly rose, heard their panicked screams echo throughout his body as they fought to change their fates. Then the bubbles burst and where there had been silence before, now there was absence pressing in around him. As the pub lounge pulsed back into focus the smell of ash lingered in his nostrils, the tiny world's only epitaph. Knuckles white, James' fingers clenched the edge of the table to keep him anchored to something, anything. It was hard to breath. It was too much. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, desperately trying to quiet his mind.

Having returned the pistol within his coat, the old man addressed James once more, his voice carried more weight than it had moments before “James Anthony Taylor, I have hear-by carried out the ordained preventative sentence upon you. May your future be fa-”

“Andrew.” James coughed, violently biting his lip to keep himself from weeping.

“Pardon?”

James tried to reply but only a sob escaped his lips. He bit down harder. “...Andrew” he finally whimpered.

The old man was quiet. James glanced up and saw through tear-filled eyes that he was hurriedly rummaging through deep pockets. Finally he pulled out a chain of crumpled green and yellow sticky notes, which appeared to be barely hanging together, his eyes frantically darting over them.

“James Andrew Taylor.... Andrew Taylor.... Andr-” He suddenly froze, breath hissing between clenched teeth. His eyes looked up and scanned over the pitiful, barely contained mess that James had become. “Bollocks.” He sighed. “I'm ever so sorry. This hardly ever happens.” Stuffing the chain of post-it notes back inside a pocket he reached into another and withdrew something James couldn't make out. “Can't take it back unfortunately” He gave James a small, sad smile “Just not how it works.” He slid a Polaroid photo across the table and delicately placed two pills next to it. “Take these now and stare at the picture for 3 minutes every 3 hours for the next 3 days.” On the photo was a blurry ginger kitten laid on its back, clawing at a dishevelled ball of string. “You can stroke it too if you like, might help.” He replaced his hat and brushed himself down. “Once again, very sorry for the mistake.” Turning to leave he added “Remember, 3 minutes every 3 hours for the next 3 days. Very important.” With that he hurriedly walked to the door, head down.

He had been gone for only a few moments when Harry returned from the bathroom. Weaving through the empty tables he called out “Much better! Fancy another before you have to get back mate?” James didn't hear him, his entire focus was on a tiny blurry kitten in a Polaroid he held, his fingers frantically tracing its outline.

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Sensory details - Starry night

The gnarled husk of the great tree stood apart from the village which had sprung up around it. Bereft of crown, its dark, once majestic frame now frozen in its final squirming moments. Broken branches outstretched skyward like a hundred paupers pleading hands. The air lay heavy with smoke from logs rushed too hastily to hearth. A faint hiss could be heard upon the wind by any who strained to listen, buried beneath a haggard aeolian whistle. The pervasive odour of must rising from fervent bark through scattered chimneys like censers, was being collected by the churning breeze. Its smoke wreathed tendrils twisting amongst the shards of ever-shifting moonlight, revealing fleeting fragments of forgotten tales upon the distant hills. A smooth grey stone church stood proudly beyond the reach of the slain colossus' shadow, its unblemished steeple defiant amongst the mismatched rooves. Far above them the stars' light pulsed, inviting cold embrace. Beneath them the warmth of flickering fires were collapsing into embers, staving off the inevitable through the offering of another splintered branch. The remaining trees huddled at the edges of the village, their shivering leaves whispering a rustled dirge for their murdered king.

Mark S

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