“Backwards with Bert and Nathaniel” – Part Three

Hello once again, my dear readers. I present you with Part Three of Sophie’s Backwards with Bert and Nathaniel – the epic conclusion! … Or at least some kind of conclusion. Call it what you will.

Need to read the last part? Click here. Want to start from the beginning? Here.

We left Bert and Nathaniel as they contemplated the toaster’s origins. And so we continue…

Backwards with Bert and Nathaniel

Nathaniel kept his unblinking gaze locked onto the mystery, every now and again murmuring, “Maybe … No wait, that’s utterly stupid.”

The two men continued to stare, both as still as stone, but for the small movements of their head when they tilted it to a new angle. Finally, Bert heaved a sigh. “Well, I could be wrong, but don’t some countries use white goods in their military? As weaponry, you know?” His old friend quirked a single eyebrow, and Bert continued, somewhat defensively, “I’m sure they do! And if they don’t they should. White goods have proven to be quite dangerous in the wrong circumstances. Remember that time my uncle Michael went to Canada? There he was, enjoying a quiet holiday, and then BAM! Crushed by a two hundred pound refrigerator.”

The blonde-haired man pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. “Is this theory going anywhere, Bert?”

“Well, what I’m saying is …” He looked around conspiratorially, then whispered, “It could have been a trained foreign militant, couldn’t it?”

Nathaniel sighed. “I suppose so. But they have no motive.”

“Ah well.”

“It could have been that Mrs Smith down the street!” Nathaniel cried triumphantly. “You’ve told me how there have been some tensions between her and the other neighbours. And you—she hates you. Motive!”

Bert shook his head, seemingly unbothered by the declaration of Mrs Smith’s loathing for him. “Nah, the Smiths are in Guam.”

“… I won’t ask how you know that.” The older man suddenly clicked his fingers. “I’ve got it! It’s not really a toaster at all! … It’s a metaphor! The toaster is symbolic of your pent-up aggression, as well as your guilt complex and unsatisfactory sex life. It was you, expressing yourself in a non-verbal, metaphorical sense! It’s brilliant—brilliant, I tell you!” He jovially slapped Bert on the shoulder. “Nice one.”

Bert reached around and smoothly removed Nathaniel’s hand. “That’s ridiculous. I was on the other side of the room; how could I possibly have thrown the bloody thing? And anyway, why would I use a toaster of all things to express my aggression and guilt and such?”

“It’s all representative,” Nathaniel explained, enunciating clearly as though he were speaking to a child. “You’re like a toaster, you see. Your feelings are cooking inside you until POP—they are released. That’s why a toaster. But why are you asking me? It was you who did it.”

They looked at each other, pondering the concept, with Nathaniel’s eyes darkened by deep contemplation, and Bert’s depthless in naïve thought.

Together, they flailed their hands in overt denial. “Naaah.”

“Ridiculous,” Bert said.

“Preposterous,” Nathaniel agreed.

“Unimaginable,” Bert enthused.

“But … ” Nathaniel hummed.

“But?” Bert cried. “What but?”

Nathaniel massaged the back of his neck in increasing discomfort. “It’s just that …” he sighed deeply. “Well, Bert, it’s not like this is the first time you’ve created an extensive metaphor to compensate for gaps in your psyche, now is it?”

Bert blinked, all blue-eyed innocence and confusion. “It’s not?”

“No, it’s not,” Nathaniel confirmed, looking suddenly weary. “Bert, hypothetically, and all toasters aside, do you think you could go on alone if the situation called for it?”

Bert smiled tentatively. “Come now, Nathaniel. Why do you say that?”

“Well, I just think we should be prepared, should the situation arise.”

“Oh, I’m sure it won’t.”

“I actually don’t thing you quite get my meaning, Bert.”

“Nonsense, ’course I do!”

“No, really—”

“Hey Nathaniel, do you think I could—”

“BERT! Listen to me!” Nathaniel tugged at his hair like a man gone mad. “For the love of good gravy, just listen.”

Even following this wild display of frustration, Bert seemed vaguely oblivious to his friend’s distress. He turned his back and, upon finding a long forgotten tea cup on the table, proceeded to the kitchen to fix himself a fresh brew. He returned to the dining room, where Nathaniel’s teeth, grinding against one another, emitted a gritty sound that was strangely loud in the empty room.

Bert’s eyes remained caught in a hazy blue hue. Upon reaching the table, he lowered himself to sit, though no chair was beneath him. Startled, Nathaniel rushed forward and crouched on all fours beneath the man. Bert sat, and Nathaniel winced beneath his weight. Only now did that depthlessness of Bert’s eyes fade away; looking down, he finally acknowledged his friend’s presence with a jolly, “Hello Nathaniel! Fancy seeing you here! What are you doing down there? I seem to recall you being taller.”

Nathaniel gasped out a reply, arms trembling from strain. “I’ve been here for the past three hours, Bert. We’ve been discussing the investigation.”

“Really?” Bert said, slurping pleasantly from his tea cup. “Huh. I plum forgot! It’s going well, though, don’t you think?”

“Quite,” Nathaniel sighed. “But I’m afraid I have some rather upsetting news …”

“Yes?” Bert questioned. He crossed his legs contently, appearing to have no intention of rising from his seated position on his friend’s trembling frame. “Well, best be out with it, before the tea wears off and I become grumpy. That will happen in about …”—he checked his watch—“half an hour, give or take a minute. As you know, I tend to take thing better after I’ve had a spot of tea.”

“Well, I don’t think it will take that long,” Nathaniel muttered, shuffling from the increasing pain in his shoulders and knees.

Bert smiled. “Excellent, excellent. Why, upsetting news of that magnitude would be quite horrid. And when combined with the effects of the tea wearing off, well …”

“Please, Bert. This is hard enough already.”

“Yes, well, get on with it then. It’s growing dark—night is approaching.”

Nathaniel shuddered beneath Bert as his muscles screamed for relief. “It’s two in the bloody afternoon, Bert.”

Bert nodded sagely. “Exactly.”

“Okay,” the older man consented, hoping to urge the conversation on. “There is no easy way to say what I’ve got to say, so I’ll just come out with it, shall I?”

“I think that would be best. Should I sit down?”

Nathaniel hung his head, hiding behind the cloak of his blonde hair as he took three steady breaths. “You’re already sitting on me, Bert. But perhaps a chair?”

The young man immediately rose, much to Nathaniel’s relief, and moved to a chair without a word of protest. Gently stretching his tired arms, the fair-haired man remained standing as he confessed, “I haven’t been completely honest with you, Bert.”

Bert’s eyes widened with the wondrous appearance of a little boy. “Why, whatever are you talking about?”

“Bert …” Nathaniel paused, squared his shoulders, and continued with a firm, unyielding voice. “I am not real. I am a figment of your imagination. Well, more accurately, I am a manifestation of all your more assertive qualities.” His announcement finally concluded, Nathaniel fell into the nearest chair, holding his head. “There, I said it.”

Bert, meanwhile, was gaping like a dying fish. Nathaniel waited patiently until the furious splutterings formed actual words. “I beg your pardon?!”

“Try to understand,” his old friend pleaded, but Bert continued to stammer quiet protests. “I’m sorry, Bert, but now that that’s been said, I can’t really stay, can I?”

“But this can’t be …” Bert denied desperately. Those youthful pools of blue met Nathaniel’s gaze once again, but the Imaginary Man would not, and could not, bow to their pleadings. Not anymore.

“Come now, Bert,” he said softly. “I think you knew it all along.”

And then he was gone.

Bert, looking lost and forlorn, spun frantically on the spot. His chest heaved with hysterical gasps of air. “Nathaniel?” Silence. “Nathaniel!”

Bert ran through the house, calling his friend’s name, but found not a trace.

“He’s gone,” Bert realised. “Gone … Gonskies.”

In the suffocating silence that followed, Bert began to sob quite hopelessly, and desperately, fearfully clutched the battered white toaster to his chest. Alone.

- Love The Bad Guy
(Thanks again, Sophie!)

“Backwards with Bert and Nathaniel” – Part Two

Here is the second part to the reimagining of Sophie’s brilliant play, Backwards with Bert and Nathaniel. Third and final part will be up soon.

If you didn’t read the first part, please click here… Trust me, this will make no sense if you don’t!

But now, let us rejoin Bert and Nathaniel as they crouch in fear beneath the table:

Backwards with Bert and Nathaniel

“Well, what do we do?”

Nathaniel turned to stare at his friend, undecipherable brown eyes meeting soulful blue, and, as always, he found that Bert’s utter helplessness gave him strength to continue. “Okay,” he growled. “Let’s make a plan.”

Mere seconds later, he reached an impasse. “I’ve lost my pen.”

“I hardly think that matters at the moment,” Bert drawled.

Nathaniel scowled in response. “How am I supposed to compose a sufficiently detailed plan of our escape route if I can’t write or draw?”

“You should have thought of that before you lost your pen.”

Nathaniel opened his mouth with a ready retort, but paused. “Wait a minute …”

His hand emerged from behind him, clutching a broken pen that was bleeding black ink through his fingers. The two men stared, horrified.

“It’s foiling our plans before we even think of them!” Nathaniel hissed. “It somehow knew we were going to draw up a blueprint of an escape route, and so stole my pen and broke it, as a warning!” He drew a deep, gasping breath. “My God, Bert—it can read minds.”

His young friend shuffled uncomfortably. “Well, actually, about the—”

Nathaniel clenched his hand over Bert’s mouth. “Shhhh!” he scolded. “You must not think, okay? Not at all. But especially not about escaping, or of anything you wish to keep private.”

He pulled his hand away, and immediately Bert continued, “Okay, but Nathaniel …”

“What?” He pointed an accusatory finger. “You better not be thinking.”

Bert snorted and waved his hand dismissively. “No, no. It’s just … Well, I broke the pen. I accidentally sat on it. It wasn’t the toaster.”

Nathaniel stared, incredulous. “But if you broke the pen, why on earth did you look as horrified as I did?”

“I don’t know. I was just doin’ what you were doin’, I guess.”

“Oh, Bert.” He shook his head, his dark eyes full of pity, but Bert was oblivious as his face lit up with a sudden revelation.

“I just had a thought, Nathaniel.” The older man waved a hand in a silent indication for him to continue. “Well, it’s just … Maybe it is just a toaster.”

“Beg pardon?”

Bert shrugged. “It’s my understanding that a toaster is an inanimate object. It can’t think or move or plot our demise or any such thing.”

“And…?”

“Well, it just seems highly unlikely that an object of that nature could be planning the downfall of such a sophisticated race as we humans.”

Nathaniel gestured wildly. “But you saw it launch itself across the room!”

Bert folded his arms stubbornly. “I think it was pushed.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

Nathaniel rubbed his chin musingly, inadvertently giving himself an inky black goatee, as he concluded, “So you’re saying Humpty was pushed!”

Bert nodded, then frowned. “Ye… No. No, I’m saying that someone threw the toaster.”

“I was speaking metaphorically, Bert.”

“Oh.”

“But who?” Nathaniel cried. “Who would do such a thing?”

Bert shrugged once again. “So, if this really is just a toaster …” he gestured loosely above him, his eyes patient and questioning. Nathaniel nodded his agreement, and the pair crept out from the shadow of the table, staring at the appliance. The final dregs of their trepidation trickled away as they stared at the battered, unmoving threat.

Bert slowly lowered himself into the nearest chair and then, even more slowly, slumped forward until his nose was an inch away from the toaster. He remained transfixed for several long moments, before pushing himself back with such force that he balanced on the back legs of his chair before landing safely with a dull thud. “Well, I’m stumped.”

To be concluded…

- Love The Bad Guy

“Backwards With Bert and Nathaniel” – Part One

When I was studying Drama at high school, we were given the assignment of performing a two-person piece. It could be an act from a well-known play; it could be a complete scene written by us; it could be whatever we wanted.

Now, as it turned out, my partner’s sister had just finished writing a short play for her own class. And we loved it. It was quirky; it was funny; it was random. And random is always fantastic. We had a ball performing the piece, and, if memory serves me right, we received a rather decent mark for it, too.

And so it was that when my friend rediscovered this play on her computer years later, and subsequently emailed it to me, it brought to the surface some lovely memories.

And I wanted to make the play mine, in some shape or form.

So, with the kind consent of the original writer, I have turned the play into a short story; her brilliant dialogue is mostly the same, as is the plot (though, for clarity’s sake, I have reordered the scenes — in the original, the acts were in reverse order, hence the title). I have merely changed its form, tweaked the characters and altered the details a little.

Thank you again, Sophie, for allowing me to play in your playground.

Without further ado, I present Part One of…

Backwards with Bert and Nathaniel

     Nathaniel’s eyes, dark with a mysterious wisdom unknown to his companion, clenched closed when Bert’s crowing voice interrupted the silence.

     “I’ve come up with another philosophy! I believe that brings my total up to seven.” The young man swiftly stole the notebook from beneath Nathaniel’s fists and gloated, “Oh look, Nathaniel; you’ve only got five. Such a shame.”

     “Now wait a second,” Nathaniel protested, tousling his hair into an agitated blonde mess.  “You’ve got to share, Bert.  You can’t just give yourself points! Why, you could be thinking of anything—or nothing.”

     “Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Mr Number Two?”

     “Not at all,” Nathaniel gritted. “I was simply stating a rule. Remember, you forced me to divulge my philosophy regarding surrealism.”

     Bert hummed in reluctant agreement. “Very well.” A mere moment later, the man’s blue eyes lit up with a rejuvenated youthfulness as he boasted, “It’s actually quite a good one, so I should be glad of the chance to share it and subsequently bask in your awe.”

     Nathaniel snorted in a very ungentlemanly manner. “Out with it, then. Though I think it’s highly unlikely that you should bask in my awe. Whatever little awe I may or may not feel, I plan to keep entirely to myself.”

     “Well, alright.” Bert cleared his throat dramatically, and then drew his shoulders back into a ridiculous pose to denote the gravity of his announcement. In a deep, rumbling voice, he declared, “I believe that man is incapable of original thought. Everything we think has been thought before. And the environment around us inspires the things that haven’t already been thought of. Nothing that has come from man has ever been completely original.”

     Nathaniel stared blankly. Bert dropped his façade of sincerity and nudged his friend jovially. “What do you think? Pretty nifty theory, hey Nathaniel? You may now proceed in your worship of me.”

     The fair-haired man blinked, stunned for an instant longer, then nearly fell out of his chair under the tremors of his hysteria.

     “Why are you laughing?” Bert demanded.

     “‘Incapable of original thought’, indeed,” Nathaniel chuckled. “Bert, that was my third philosophy, should you care to remember! If not, I have documented evidence right here.” He stole his notebook back from his friend’s slackened, shocked grip and flipped back several pages. “There, see?”

     “Impossible!” Bert protested, but could not deny the words written before him in Nathaniel’s swift, insistent scrawl.

     “Quite possible,” his friend quipped in a proven rebuttal. “So, it looks like you’re still on six. Been there for a while now, haven’t we, Bert?” He chuckled once again as the dark-haired man’s eyes narrowed sulkily. “Well, now seems an appropriate time to announce my sixth philosophy.”

     Whatever glory may have been had in Nathaniel’s revelation was never to be witnessed. In a cacophony of violent noise and clattering destruction, a battered, white toaster was flung through their window, where it proceeded to land boisterously on the table.

     The men jumped fiercely and clung to one another during the raucous event, and, together, turned to observe their dining room’s new appliance.

     “What in the good name of Christmas was that?!” Nathaniel hissed, loosening his hold on Bert. His friend was resistant to such actions and continued to cling to Nathaniel’s shirt with clawed fingers.

     “It appears to be a flying toaster,” Bert said. He attempted to sound nonchalant in his observation, but his voice betrayed him with its warbled uncertainty.

     “Toasters don’t fly,” Nathaniel argued, finally succeeding in dislodging his friend’s hands from his shoulders. He brushed unseen dust from his sleeves, using the seconds of silence to try and slow his hammering heart.

     “…But what if it isn’t really a toaster? What if it’s something … else?”

     Nathaniel froze, hand still hovering over the lapel of his jacket. “Not a toaster?” he quivered. He met Bert’s eyes once more; his friend choked out a frightened plea, and suddenly they were both crouched nervously beneath the table, trembling in silence for several long minutes.

     “Is it gone?” Bert asked. The unexpected voice, though hushed, caused Nathaniel to startle severely. He shoved the younger man in his frustration, but consented to peer out from beneath their cover. With a sharp inhale of breath, he returned.

     “No. It’s still there.”

     “What’s it going to do with us, Nathaniel?” His eyes were petrified blue storms, by this point, and he clutched a baseball bat to his chest with a white-knuckled grip. Nathaniel was unsure from where, and at what point, Bert had actually obtained said bat, but was quietly comforted by its presence.

     “Heavens knows,” he answered. “Probably take us to its leader.”

     “You mean to say there’s more than one?!”

     “Most probably,” the older man nodded sagely.  Though his own hands were quivering with unkempt terror, he found that maintaining a false sense of knowledge about the situation kept him from succumbing to panic, and so he was most content to continue acting in such a manner. “If I am not mistaken, there is probably a whole herd of them, attacking people, raiding houses, taking hostages …”

     A high-pitched squeak of alarm was emitted from Bert’s lips, and Nathaniel nodded even more fervently, causing his blonde locks to fray wildly. “Yes! Why, we’re affectively hostages right now! You know, they’re probably armed.”

     A hint of bravery entered Bert’s eyes as he lifted the baseball bat. “Lucky we are, too.”

     Nathaniel frowned beneath his fringe as he pointed up to the wood of the table, in the general area that he knew the ‘toaster’ to be residing. “I don’t think a baseball bat really compares to an automatic rifle and a chainsaw.”

     “It has an automatic rifle and a chainsaw?!”

     “I assume so,” Nathaniel said coolly. “It’s concealing them rather well in its innards, I believe.”

     Bert pressed closer to his friend, lowering his voice even further. “It’s very clever, isn’t it?”

     “Unfortunately, yes.”

     “Well, what do we do?”

     Nathaniel turned to stare at his friend, undecipherable brown eyes meeting soulful blue, and, as always, he found that Bert’s utter helplessness gave him strength to continue. “Okay,” he growled. “Let’s make a plan.”

To be continued…

- Love The Bad Guy

“Midnight Confessions”

Hello readers!

I offer today a short story in the genre of “murder-mystery”. I hope it is to your liking.

The boom of the clock echoed twelve times in the still, silent room. Detective Charlie Fraud slowly paced the floor like a lion stalking its prey, watchful blue eyes scanning the room’s six other occupants.

“Mr Andrew Black,” Charlie drawled, his voice shattering the quiet of the room. He ran his fingers along the frayed edge of his coat as he circled his audience. “Thirty-two years old. Three point four million dollars to his name. He asked you all here for a simple discussion regarding his will… Yet now he’s been murdered.” He smirked at the absolute stillness around him, as though everyone in the room was holding a simultaneous breath. He brought his arm up and pointed viciously to each person in a sweeping arc. “The murderer is with us, here in this very room!” He paused for dramatic effect, his smirk widening. “And I know who that person is.”

Charlie gazed around the room, a hand running through bristled blonde hair with an airiness that seemed out of place in the tense atmosphere surrounding him. He lowered himself leisurely to kneel beside the chair of his first victim, speaking with the casualness of a man enquiring about the weather.

“It could be you, Miss Lily Diamond,” Charlie said softly, resting a hand on top of her own finely manicured fingers. “You had motive. You loved him. He promised you the whole world, just you and he together… And then he left you for another. Betrayal like that leaves a mark, doesn’t it, Lil? With a burning, festering scar that like, it would have been all too easy to convince yourself to break into his desk drawer, steal his gun… Pull the trigger.” He gently stroked her cheek with the back of his hand; a gesture that, in any other circumstance, would be comforting. Lily, however, remained deathly still, and with a final chuckle, Charlie rose and turned to the opposite side of the room.

“But the same intentions could lie with Ms Rebekah Lee Rose, no?” He skulked closer, pausing for just a moment to admire her quiet beauty; her long black hair covered her delicate face as she slumped in her chair, seemingly trying to make herself as small as possible. “You won the battle with dear Lily, but you lost the war, didn’t you, Bek? You sacrificed it all for him; your house, your friends, your family. You moved to the other end of the country to be with him, but then he grew bored and threw you away like yesterday’s trash. Because of Andy, you became a leper in a town you didn’t know. Couldn’t blame you for wanting a piece of revenge…” Charlie trailed off, his unspoken words undeniably clear: You knew where the spare key was. You knew where the gun was hidden. All it took was one shot, one bullet, one moment…

Rebekah remained wilted in her chair, never once lifting her head. Charlie spun on his heel with shocking precision, bringing him in front of the eldest of his audience. The couple were pressed against each other on a sofa that was far too small, yet they seemed ignorant to the world as they rested greying heads against one another. Charlie towered over them, his manner darkening ever so slightly.

“But perhaps it wasn’t about broken hearts or severed romances. Perhaps it was about a son refusing to do what he was told, hmm?” He lifted his chin but kept his gaze locked on the elderly couple as he announced to the room at large, “Mr Thomas Black, and Mrs Marjorie Black… You loved your son, no? Wanted to protect him from the cruelties of this world; wrap him in cotton wool until the day you died… Or until the day he died.” He smiled winningly as he stepped closer, revelling in the fear upon their faces. Thomas’s eyes were swollen with alarm, though he wasn’t meeting Charlie’s gaze. Marjorie, by comparison, had clenched her eyes closed, hiding in her own cocoon of darkness as Charlie spitefully continued.

“Was it a case of, ‘if I can’t have him, no one can,’ Maggie? You were losing your little boy piece by piece, and you couldn’t stand it, could you? So you put an end to it… Or did Tommy do the deed?” He fixed his piercing blue gaze back to the elderly man’s stony face. “Yes… I think it would be Tommy. Daddy dearest standing up for his family; Andy was tearing you apart, undoing all your carefully tied connections, and apparently a father-son chat just couldn’t hack it.” Charlie clicked his tongue with mocking sympathy. “Such a shame, wouldn’t you say, Barty?”

Charlie leered as he stepped toward his final victim, his shoes clicking loudly against the wooden floor. He took note of the clenched fists and stiff shoulders with a wicked grin. “Mr Bartholomew Tyes. You were dear Andy’s best friend, weren’t you? Childhood mates, and all that. You were like brothers; it takes years to form a bond as close as the one you two had… But you got greedy, huh, Bart? You knew Andy had left a very generous amount of money for you in his will, and you couldn’t wait to get your hands on it. Suddenly, those decades of friendship didn’t mean much, did they? It’s amazing how easily bonds can be broken. How easily people are thrown away…”

His voice broke on the final word; taking a deep, shuddering breath, Charlie once more surveyed his silent, unmoving audience. Sapphire eyes rose to the heavens, and he spoke in a soft whisper. “We call ourselves acquaintances… friends… brothers…” He clenched his fists tightly, vaguely feeling the sticky sensation of blood pooling around his knuckles as his fingernails pierced deeply into the flesh of his palms. “But when it comes right down to it, every friendship, every connection has a limit. Belonging is just an illusion!” he spat fiercely. Heart hammering painfully, he looked back to the motionless crowd around him. Not one had moved an inch. Their breaths had long since stopped. Their hearts had long since fallen still.

Tears threatened to spill from his eyes as he turned to the sixth person in the room. Blood trailed sickeningly from the single bullet wound in his chest and his dull blue eyes stared at nothing from his position on the floor. Charlie knelt beside the prone figure of Andrew Black.

“Everybody had a motive, Andy. Every single one of them.” He glared around him, but no threat remained. Lily was propped deftly in the chair, appearing so at peace that if it weren’t for the slit throat, she’d appear to be sleeping. Rebekah had slumped forward the instant Charlie had placed her on the sofa, black hair dripping red. Thomas’s face was forever frozen in a final portrait of fear, and Marjorie eyes would never open again as she remained unmoving in her husband’s lifeless grip. In death, Bartholomew’s air of superiority was shattered, as the steady drip… drip… drip… of blood began to fill the silence. Charlie looked down upon Andy’s spread-eagled form, eyes staring into nothingness. He reached down and pulled the limp body into his arms.

“I could see it in their eyes, Andy,” Charlie whispered into his ear. “They never cared for you, never loved you. There was only ever me. I had to keep you safe from them. I wasn’t going to let them hurt you like they hurt me.” With a gentle, red-soaked hand, he stroked the blonde hair from Andy’s cold forehead. “You belong to me, Andy. You’re mine… I’m sorry you couldn’t see that.”

Later that night, people around the nation would be horrified as they watched the news: Six people murdered, five stabbed and one shot; they were each killed throughout the home, yet all found in the lounge, positioned as though alive and well… It was like a cruel parody of a family enjoying each other’s company before bed.

The police were now searching for their only suspect: Thirty-two years old; he had a twin brother, but was adopted as a newborn; Detective Charlie Fraud.

Formerly known as Charles Black.

- Love The Bad Guy

DAY 11: Book From Your Favourite Author

Aww, come on! Asking someone to tell you their favourite author is like asking a mother to pick their favourite child — it is an unanswerable question!

Well… Unless the mother only has one child, then the answer is simple… And I suppose some parents do have a favourite, even if they don’t say it out loud… And there are some people out there who do indeed have a single ”favourite author”…

So… Yeah. Not the best analogy to choose. But my point is: I have sooooo many favourite authors. Shakespeare (though technically a playwright) is just fantastic; there’s the old staples, J.K. Rowling, Libby Hathorn, John Heffernan, and then some of those little-known names who came out with some one-hit-wonders…

How about I simply reach into the old noggin’  and just pull out one of my favourites? Make everyone’s life a lot easier.

And the winner is: Double Exposure by Brian Caswell. If you haven’t read it, or any of Caswell’s work, I highly recommend it; he is a fabulous author with plotlines that keep you gripped till the very end.

- Love The Bad Guy

“Into the Darkness”

Hello, potentially non-existent readers! *waves enthusiastically* I am here again to shock and awe with the brilliance of my writing! …Or, I dunno. Give you something to read while you’re bored at work. Whichever. Please enjoy!

Darkness is soothing.

When Penelope Stephens opened her eyes to darkness, she felt content and at peace. Her husband’s quiet snoring and the cool night breeze had nearly lulled her back into a deep and pleasant sleep… Then she felt the solid bump of a foot colliding against the bed frame.

“Ouch! Geez, damn it to hell!”

Penelope jerked back into wakefulness and sat up with a squeak of fear. Beside her, Tom snorted and stirred, but did not wake, leaving Penny to face the stranger alone.

He perfectly embodied the stereotype of ‘tall, dark and handsome’, despite his unwelcome presence. He stared at her silently; his eyes were wide and shadowed, and his expression sheepish. His body was hunched over awkwardly as he held his (now bruised) foot. The tense stillness stretched on for several long seconds before he cleared his throat self-consciously and straightened his posture.

“Please,” Penelope rasped in a strangled voice, finally acknowledging the potential danger she and her husband were in. “Take what you want and go.”

To her surprise and trepidation, the man lowered his gaze and chuckled; his laugh rumbled deeply in his chest like thunder. When he lifted his face, she was strangely captivated by the intensity of his eyes; they were like liquid midnight, mysterious and soulful.

“I’m not a robber,” he told her calmly, but Penny was far from pacified.

“Then what are you?”

He grinned then, like he’d been waiting for her to ask exactly that question. “Why, Penelope,” he crooned, and she shuddered at his unanticipated knowledge of her name. “I’m the one who emerges from the shadows to end the pain of suffering, stop a heart from beating and take a finished life.” His smirk widened across his face like a Cheshire cat. “… I am Death.”

She blinked once, twice, retracing his words in her head. Despite herself, she snorted. “Death? Like the Grim Reaper? Yeah, right.”

Disgruntled, he folded his arms. “I’m sorry, am I not clichéd enough for you? Would you prefer to see me sporting a black robe and scythe? Perhaps I should have entered upon a pale horse, hmm?”

Penny shook her head slightly and drew the blankets protectively around her shoulders. “You’re insane.”

“Yes, maybe a little,” the man conceded. “But nevertheless, I have a job to do.” He turned his shadowy eyes to Tom, who slept on, oblivious. “Poor bastard.”

Penelope, too, looked at Tom for a moment; then she absorbed the meaning behind the stranger’s words. “No!” she cried, leaping out from the covers. “You can’t take him!” She no longer knew, nor cared, if she was speaking to a mad-man or the Angel of Death himself; her words were meant for both.

She made it to the sinister man’s side and gripped his arm to stop him, but he had not moved. For the first time since his foreboding arrival, his eyes eddied with grim sympathy.

“S’okay, Penn,” he whispered. “I’m not here for him.”

Penelope turned to the bed and caught a glimpse of her own body, frail and cold, unmoving beneath the covers.

Then Death took her hand, and there was darkness once more.

- Love The Bad Guy

“Wolf in the ‘Hood”

This is another short story I wrote some time ago - it’s a little bit longer and a little bit darker. Enjoy, and feel free to comment!

The weather was cold, dark and perfect. It was as likened to the atmosphere as if it had been created for a film, where the solemn figures gathered below seem unable to shed more tears than the clouds above. Each member of the dreary scene had their heads bowed low and spoke in hushed voices; their words were nearly lost in the wind, which howled as mournfully as a weeping wife by her husband’s graveside.

            It was something Tala supposed she should be doing—but she didn’t. She just stood silently, distanced from the others who had joined her on this grim day, and stared at the bold words of the tombstone above the soft earth. She didn’t move when she was approached, with obvious caution, and offered hasty condolences; she didn’t move when the heavens finally opened up to allow sheets of icy cold rain to soak the ground, forming muddy puddles around her ankles. She just stared as the rain caused the tombstone’s words to glisten:

JAMES CHRISTOPHER O’CONNOR
LOVING HUSBAND, SON AND FRIEND
MAY HE REST IN PEACE

            The storm raged on, causing the rest of the party to seek cover beneath the nearby canopy. But Tala did not move, and nor did Jacob. She glanced down, allowing a small smile to dance across her lips for just a moment at the sight of her faithful dog sitting beside her. His long coat was hanging limp, weighted down by the rain, but his eyes were bright as he leant comfortingly against her leg.

            The soft slap of footsteps on the muddy earth announced someone’s imminent arrival; moments later, Tala found herself cloaked beneath the unsought for shelter of a large umbrella. She shook her head slightly, sending droplets of water flying from her hair. Jacob crouched closer to her side, accepting what little protection the umbrella offered.

            “Tala,” the voice began. The young woman suppressed a sigh at the sound of her mother’s lecturing tone, but turned obediently towards Sylvie.  “Do you really think it was appropriate to bring the dog, dear?”

            “I told you, Mum,” Tala replied, a bite of impatience entering her voice. “Jacob is… He’s all I have left now. Besides, I organised the damn funeral, I can bring who I want!”

            “I know, dear,” her mother soothed; Tala scowled at the patronising tone. “No one will say anything to you directly—they don’t wish to upset you any further—but everybody has had something or other to say about it. After the way that James was killed, well…”

            “It wasn’t Jacob, Mum,” Tala said firmly, trying to indicate that the conversation was over. But Sylvie was insistent.

            “You say it wasn’t him, Tala, but do you really know? Frankly, you’ve been plain uncooperative with the police; it’s as though you don’t even care,” she concluded with a contemptuous sniff.

            “Excuse me for wanting to forget that my husband’s throat was ripped out by a vicious animal!”  Tala snapped. The murmur of voices coming from the occupants of the covered enclosure halted. She could just imagine them, leaning out into the rain, hoping to hear more of the heated conversation between the newly-made widow and her mother. Tala took a deep breath and scratched Jacob’s head, taking comfort from his warm, steady figure.

            “Oh Tala,” her Mum whispered, her eyes softening for a moment. “It wasn’t fair for James to have been taken from you so soon after your wedding. You two deserved all the happiness in the world.”  Tala nodded, hoping she was finished—but no. Sylvie straightened up and quickly added, “But I wish you’d explain to me your dependence on this animal! If it were me, I’d want nothing more to do with it!”

            “It wasn’t him,” Tala growled through gritted teeth.

             “Yes, so you keep saying, but… well, just look at it!” Sylvie exclaimed; Jacob’s tail wagged at the indirect attention he was receiving. “It’s a wolf! Haven’t you ever read Little Red Riding Hood?”

             “Oh Mum, grow up,” Tala muttered, before adding indignantly, “And he’s not a wolf. He’s a Siberian husky; they’re a very proud and handsome breed.”

            “Very well, say what you like,” Sylvie replied, waving her hand carelessly, “But to me, it’s nothing but a mangy mutt. And as long as it’s under the same roof as you, I’ll be afraid.”

            “Mum, what happened to James was a tragic accident. But it doesn’t mean that every dog owner in the city should start treating their pets like murderous killers.” Jacob gave a small whine beside her, shaking water from his pelt; Tala stroked him absentmindedly as the silence between her and her mother continued. She held back a groan when Sylvie continued.

            “James hated that dog, didn’t he?”  the older woman said, looking slyly over at her daughter.

            “Mum!” Tala shouted, stubbornly stepping away from her. Sylvie tutted as Tala allowed the rain to quickly soak her through. “Look—James was a cat-person, we both know that, but he didn’t hate Jacob. He always said he was a very loyal dog, and that I was lucky to have him.”

            Sylvie’s lips pursed—never a good sign—and she opened her mouth to resume her argument, but Tala, noticing the departing cars of their family and friends, interrupted.

            “I’m tired, Mum; I’m going home. I’ll ring you tomorrow, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, Tala spun on her heel and left; Jacob followed obediently at her heels, his tail wagging softly.

            As Sylvie watched her only daughter being swallowed by the relentless downpour, she heaved a deep sigh that caused her entire body to tremble. She didn’t trust that beast. Her son-in-law’s life had been ripped from him in an instant by a vicious mongrel, and whether it was Tala’s pet or some stray from the streets, Sylvie could not rest easy knowing that Jacob was living with her daughter, sleeping on her bed, alone in that empty house. Tala could defend it all she liked, but Sylvie saw the brutal glint in its eyes, and didn’t trust it one bit.

            Dabbing a tissue along her cheekbones, Sylvie aimed her umbrella against the wind and slopped awkwardly through the mud toward her car.

* * *

            Tala shivered, drawing the blanket tightly around her shoulders. The rain pounded loudly against the windows and each clap of thunder made her jump with fright. She shook herself; she was being silly. She used to love listening to storms, especially when she was safely inside, tucked away from the howling winds and wintry drops of rain.

            She blew gently on her hot tea, gripping it firmly to warm her fingers. Taking a small sip, she closed her eyes and allowed the sounds of the storm to wash over her. Her body slowly relaxed and she stretched her arms out, feeling the joints pop. Maybe she’d sleep here on the couch tonight. The bedroom was so far away…

            A sudden flapping sound caused her to sit upright; her tea mug hit the floor and stained the carpet a murky brown. Tala swore softly, but lay back down into her comfortable position; she’d clean the stain later. By now, she had recognised the fluttering noise; it was just Jacob, coming in through the large doggy-door that she’d insisted James build at the front entrance. Jacob loved it, being able to come and go as he pleased.

            Tala waited, listening for the sound of his claws as they clicked against the wooden floorboards, but his soft steps were being muffled by the storm. She craned her neck, looking for his black and white tufted tail.

            “Jacob?” she called quietly. After a few moments, she raised her voice and crooned, “Come on handsome. Come to Mummy.”

            Finally the wailing winds fell silent, and the downpour eased to a placid shower. Tala sat up straighter, thinking that Jacob had wandered off through the house, and was preparing to fetch him when a new noise rose above the softer sounds of the deadening storm: a long and monotonous growl.

            “Jacob…” Tala murmured, no longer calling, just thinking aloud. She pushed the blanket down to her waist and poked her feet out from its warmth, but she never had the chance to stand up. A startled scream left her lips as she was pushed down by a suffocating weight. Her eyes were blinded by a black and white blur as her voice became muffled by thick fur. Kicking her legs out, she managed to bring her head away from the heavy mass and opened her mouth to shout, but the words died in her throat as Jacob pounced forward…  

            …And licked her roughly on the face, his tongue reaching from her chin to her forehead.

            “Jacob!” Tala exclaimed, her stern words losing impact as she allowed a giggle to escape her lips. “Now isn’t the time for your games. You’re too rough!”  She ran her hands through his long fur, causing his tail to wag in a steady rhythm against the couch with a soft thump, thump, thump.

            Still chuckling quietly, Tala relaxed into her chair, pulling Jacob into a tight embrace, despite his dripping fur. Another low growl reverberated from deep within his throat; startled, she looked down.

            “Exactly what are you growling about, huh?” she whispered to him. Then she saw the small piece of blood-stained cloth hanging from his jaws. She reached out and tugged it gently from his grip. She stared at it for a long moment before realising it was a piece from James’s shirt. The pale blue one which he’d worn to work on the day he’d been killed.

            Tala slowly tore her eyes from the cloth and its vivid red stain, which seemed unusually bright in the darkness of the room, and stared at the solid form of her loyal husky beside her.

            “Oh, Jacob,” she said. His deep, dark eyes looked back into her, giving her the feeling he was looking into her very soul, demonstrating the intensity that labelled the dog as ‘man’s best friend’… or perhaps more appropriately, a woman’s.

            Tala’s eyes narrowed playfully and a smile stretched across her face. “Did I forget to pick this up? Did you collect this for Mummy?” She pulled him forward to kiss him between the ears, laughing as his tail waved happily.

            “Good boy.”

- Love The Bad Guy