And post to my POETRY PAGE.
Click HERE to have a look ...
My aim is to write a poem in a different style every week.
And post to my POETRY PAGE. Click HERE to have a look ...
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Thrumps drew back the curtains and watched through the window as the world exploded into fragments of the past, shattering midnight into new stars. The Black moon obscured all but the tiny specks of light now scattered across the sky.
This is new he thought, wondering if it really was, or if this was the way The Emporium usually travelled. He couldn’t remember. The coaster on his desk sported a steaming mug of coffee so he automatically sat down. Idly he turned the draw key and The Book of Un-Reality crept out, carefully avoiding the newspaper sulking on the blotter, which having no intention of being anywhere near anything slid down into the wooden magazine rack to hide. Thrumps watched them and shook his head. Who’d have thought the printed word could be so complex? He shrugged, surely the whole premise of literature regardless of the format was not to be … he struggled for the right word. Instantly a beautiful leather-bound thesaurus plonked itself in his hand and flipped to the right page. Vexing (adjective) - annoying, troublesome, puzzling, frustrating … he continued to look down the list. Perplexing, that was a better word. He was sure that between them they had the answers, if only he could get them to work together, mind you he thought, maybe I need to know what I want the answers to be before I seek their help. He flicked through the pages. Black Moon … a month in which there are no new full ones. An event that is only possible in the second month of the year because it has fewer days. I wonder what happened to Christmas, he thought. Words jumbled about in his brain, might be that it had come and gone without his knowledge, lets face it most things do, he mused. Time had absolutely no pattern now. He plucked the newspaper from the rack, the headline had changed, as had the date. Wild Stuff is Going on in the Sky! Is the moon okay … someone should check. It is just barely the start of the year and there has already been an unprecedented two full moons in January. A Blood Moon and a Super Blue one occurring at the same time. Many claim the strange astrological activity has already had noticeable effects on the supernatural aspects of their lives. He read on … So what can be expected this month? February is the time of The Dark moon, when it is positioned between the Earth and sun, with the bright side facing away. Lilith, the ancient goddess of this Dark Moon is deemed by some as more of a demon than for bringing fertility and love. Some are claiming the strange occurrences as a harbinger of war. According to Dark Astrology … Thrumps tutted. It was a publication he was very sceptical about at the best of times, but one that the tabloids loved to quote from for dramatic impact but despite his scepticism he kept reading, curiosity now having gotten the better of him. According to Dark Astrology symbolically the Dark Moon and Lilith represent a lunar apogee that does not exist physically in space but describes a distant empty focus point. “Apogee,” he said aloud. It was not a word Thrumps was familiar with so he tapped the cover of the thesaurus, which obligingly opened automatically to the correct page. * (noun) the highest point in the development of something; a climax or culmination. The newspaper article concluded … Beware, the world may well be drawn towards mixed passions with people unable to resist the urge to shelve all responsibilities and succumb to wanton ways. Sensational as ever, he thought as he slid the newspaper back into the rack. The Encyclopaedia section at the back of the thesaurus fanned its pages and plonked itself in front of Thrumps. “Okay,” he laughed. “And what is it you want me to know now?” The book jumped with such force that it tipped the coffee mug over as it landed. The coaster spun angrily on one corner as Thrumps mopped up the spilt coffee. Once the coaster was soothed enough to lay flat he put the mug back in place and smiled a grateful thanks as it was replenished. The Encyclopaedia fluttered its pages to remind Thrumps that what it had to say was important. Paganism … that was not what Thrumps had expected. The black moon is considered to be a special time when any rituals, spells, or other workings are more powerful and effective. It slammed itself shut, obviously annoyed. “May I?” A strange voice asked gently, hand extended. Standing the other side of the desk was what Thrumps first considered to be a tramp, but on closer inspection decided that he must be some kind of a druid. He handed over the book, which sparkled with red flames as soon as it was in the strangers hand. “Now-now,” he laughed. “We’ll have less of the tantrums,” he said tucking the book into the folds of his robe. Too temperamental these ancient ones,” he said with a shrug as if that would explain everything. From a deep pocket he produced a small round slate placemat and carefully set it on the desk. Instantly a glass goblet appeared full of something that steamed. Thrump’s coaster was mesmerised and shuffled closer. “Ahh,” the druid said as he took a sip. “Nothing better than something warm on a cold night.” Thrumps nodded. “But I digress.” The Druid continued. “This Black Moon is very special,” he began. “It has a ring of manifestation about it. A very powerful omen for not only change but for bringing hidden truths to the surface of existence.” Thrumps didn’t like to interrupt but he had absolutely no idea what he was going on about and frowned. “You are perplexed?” he asked. Thrumps held his gaze expecting an explanation but the druid merely shrugged. “As is to be expected.” He stated. “You are not meant to understand yet, it is not your time, but it will be very soon and then all will be clear.” He clicked his fingers and the goblet in his hand disappeared. Smiling he gazed down at the coasters nuzzling up to each other. “Now then you, two break it up. We have to go.” “Young love.” The Druid said shaking his head. Thrumps looked down at them and when he looked up on his desk was a blue leather-bound journal, decorated in intricate patterns of ice-cold fire, engraved with his name and the Druid was gone. He was the golden boy that all the girls wanted and all the boys wanted to be. Not the typical boy-next-door type but a loveable scoundrel that could get away with almost anything with charm and a winning smile. He used people for his own gains, often without them ever being aware of it and thought nothing of walking all over those that he no longer had a need for.
One day though he would meet his match … and lose. To say that Alice was the quiet type was the understatement of any decade. The typically mousy demeanour, not to mention plain looks didn’t blend in so much as disappear even when in full sight. She was dependable, gullible, and put-upon and no one really took her seriously, especially the boys. Having said that the girls were worse, they ridiculed everything about her, but as a teenager she ached to fit in, so took all the insults just to be able to hang-out with the in-crowd. She was however an accomplished scholar and as such a valuable asset, easily conned into doing homework assignments, and projects on time and to the highest of standards that always merited good grades. She was sure that the teachers must know what was going on but the school prided itself on reputation and grade stats, so turned a blind eye. It seemed a win-win situation with everyone getting out of it what they wanted, but nothing no matter how lucrative lasts forever. The downhill slope all started when they got to an age where sex was the main element to their existence. They changed partners so rapidly that it was hard to keep track. The only one of the gang that wasn’t in the running was Alice. Her position remained the same, well almost but she now had to remember who was with who, who had just been jilted, who was flavour of the month and who was not to be mentioned. Gradually by process of elimination they all managed to cop-off with everyone but inevitable rifts broke the gang up leaving Alice having to choose her so-called friends carefully. The end all started as a dare. The boys, having exhausted all possible conquests started to see Alice in a new light. She, they decided was fair game and desperate enough to put-out for the first one that could win enough confidence in her to trust them. They started spending more time with her, asking questions about the assignment she had completed for them and individually inviting her for coffee or lunch, some even walked her home. She was not used to this much intimacy, the touch of her hand, the eye contact that was held for just a few seconds longer than was comfortable, or the impromptu hugs, but although she was flattered to some extent, she had been with them for long enough to know that she was somehow being played. Then when he started in on her she found herself ostracised by everyone. The girls resented the amount of attention he was lavishing on her and the boys were equally unimpressed by the way he made sure that they no longer stood a chance. The Christmas dance should have been the high-light of the winter calendar, but that accolade was soon to change. Granted that it would forever be unforgettable, it would be for all the wrong reasons. Alice had finally decided to take a chance. He had slowly worn her defences down and she had agreed to go with him as his date. He was to collect her at 6pm in a limo which would give them time for a romantic drive before arriving in full view of everyone. True to his word he was there. He poured her a drink and pointed to the sprig of mistletoe hanging above them. She shrugged, but he took that as a sign that he had won, that she was now his to do with as he’d always intended. Spilled champagne stained both their outfits as he fumbled to get his hands under her skirt and inside her knickers. She had never been kissed before, let alone anything else. She screamed. The driver watched in the rear-view mirror smiling and it dawned on her that this had always been the plan, the black shutters slid down leaving them too it. He yanked her hair back for another onslaught but as he lunged towards her, she grabbed the first thing that came to hand and shoved the mistletoe in his face. He reeled back but too late. The berries splattered all over him as she pushed harder, the juice filling his mouth forced him to swallow. Almost instantly the skin erupted where the sap touched, then he started choking, but the more he gagged the more berries she forced in. He fell backwards and for a long time he just lay there, slumped against the door, not moving, then the seizures started and it went from too soon to too late too quickly, leaving no right time in between to make it stop. The driver oblivious to what was actually happening assumed the struggles he heard were the throws of passion, or unrequited conquest, but didn’t really care which and once all was quiet, he pulled the car up to the front steps of the prom hall. They certainly made a grand entrance with Alice bursting out the rear door screaming for help. Her ripped dress and general state elicited a few giggles, obviously her humiliation had been the intended outcome all along but panic soon took over. People scabbled to drag her date out and laid him on the ground unsure what to do next. He was still shaking and vomiting uncontrollably when the ambulance arrived. By the time they reached the hospital, he was dead. Alice was questioned by the police, but the verdict was that she acted in self-defence and that she had no idea the plant was so poisonous. No one who knew her brought that for a minute. She’d been branded a witch long ago, and as an ace student, especially in horticulture they were sure she understood the dangers of using some common plants. Some cultures see a kiss under the mistletoe as a promise to marry, while according to ancient myths, anyone thus kissed would be blessed by love. This time neither of them got either. Although cleared of any misdemeanours, Alice found herself banished by the whole community. Leaving only one place left to go, one place where she would be safe, where she would fit in. She knocked on the door of The Emporium but feared that she may have to wait until midnight before they would open. “Pickles!” She screamed. “Get out the flippin’ way.”
“Pardon Sir,” she said bobbing a curtsy as she clattered past, head down, her arms laden with goodies. Thrumps plonked himself down behind his desk, grateful for the never-ending mugs of hot coffee. He mentally thanked the coaster and it flipped on one corner in response. The cat, having evaded being trampled settled on his lap. “Pickles, I presume,” he said giving it a stroke. The rumbling purr evidenced its approval. He didn’t have a cat, well he didn’t when he went to bed that is, come to think about it he didn’t have a rather plump housekeeper either, but apparently, he did now. Idly fingering the bible laying on the blotter he sighed. “So, what is it tonight?” The question was directed at the Book of Un-Reality and it jumped about fanning pages as if it couldn’t quite find the right one, before thumping itself down, open at an event notice. Yuletide Celebrations Christmas Carols followed by a Midnight Mass 24th December – 11.30pm onwards There was no address but then he knew that those that needed to know, would know. “Here?” He asked. The book tutted and slammed itself shut. With mug in one hand and the bible in the other Thrumps drew the velvet curtain back. He’d not been expecting The Emporium to be a church complete with stained-glass windows, an alter and rows of wooden pews but that’s what it was. “Ahhh professor,” said a familiar voice. “We were wondering just when you would be joining us.” The vicar was from a long time ago in his past and someone that had been dead longer than Thrumps could remember. “Reverend …” he paused hoping for some divine intervention, he’d never been any good at names. “Skills, my boy … Reverend Skills.” He laughed. “Nothings changed then. You were always terrible at remembering everything.” He cuffed Thrumps on the chin playfully. “Must get on,” he said over his shoulder. “Lots to do.” Thrumps remembered this church. Many a time he had sought refuge behind the last pew, tucked up against the font. Thankfully he couldn’t remember details, his childhood had been a challenge but all that angst was lost when The Emporium became his sanctuary. The church bells chimed and as the front doors slid themselves open a steady stream of people entered. Thrumps didn’t recognise anyone but they were mostly advanced in years. By 11.30 the place had filled up nicely. From a door at the back, that wasn’t usually there, the procession began. A warden carrying, a simple cross is followed by the elders of the choir and then the children wearing blue and white robes and arranged in height order. As they take their places the organ sparks up a lively intro to Hark the Herald Angels Sing. All rise and join in with gusto although the musical interpretation of some leaves a lot to be desired. The reverend addresses them as the last notes fade away. “The grace of your god be with you. Please be seated.” Thrumps realises he hadn’t stood and dearly hoped that no one else had noticed. “Midnight mass is a tradition,” the reverend continued. “A time to gather at Christmas Eve. The purpose of celebrating is said to be a personally important time of forgiving,” he looked around at the upturned faces. “… and remembering.” There was a murmur of agreement. “Although marked every year this joyous occasion is special.” More murmurs. “Please remain seated while the girls and boys of the Christmas Mice choir entertain us with a few well-known carols, and of-course feel free to join in, I’m sure you’ll all know the words.” There was a ripple of laughter as the children scrambled to their feet and once dropped song sheet had been retrieved, they began their beautiful renditions, some haunting, some merry and some that had everyone in tears, including Thrumps. At the stroke of midnight final blessings were bestowed along with mulled wine and mince pies. The older generation sort the new to impart words of wisdom, and for this night alone the congregation the kids of the choir now grown old, met up once again with long lost families. “A reunion with those now long dead,” the reverend told Thrumps as they watched. “Anyone you’d care to reunite with?” Thrumps shook his head. “Not even me?” A quiet voice whispered behind them. The housekeeper grinned at him. “Mum!” She nodded. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this day my little church mouse.” Thrumps stroked his cat and suddenly it all began to make sense. The Emporium was cold, I mean really cold. Thrumps hunched himself further down under the duvet.
“A bit of heating would be nice,” he shouted sarcastically. Nothing seemed to happen. He sighed and dragged himself into his dressing gown and gratefully reached for the mug of hot coffee that had appeared on the desk coaster. “What now?” he asked The Book of Un-Reality. It was as if it actually shivered before reluctantly opening just a little to let a plastic circle actually covered in real snow fall out. Thrumps ran his finger through it leaving a trail and magically where his finger had stopped a little house appeared, then some pine trees and finally a snowman, complete with a bobble hat and carrot nose. “You look like a snow globe,” Thrumps said laughing. Instantly a glass dome covered the scene. As soon as it was encased, the room got warmer. “Well that’s something,” he said picking it up and shaking it before setting it down again. The contents was transformed into a winter wonderland. The door to the house opened and two children ran out, happily shouting to each other but because of the glass Thrumps couldn’t hear what they said. Thrumps was fascinated. They obviously couldn’t see him, or if they could they didn’t care, they were having far too much fun throwing snowballs. As one hit the girl straight in the face and knocked her over the woman watching from the doorway ran to scoop her up and dust her off. The boy was unperturbed and threw more until it was a full-on three-way fight. Thrumps peered closer. The boy looked familiar and a kind of memory he didn’t know he had, flooded back. It was a happy time, one of those rare occasions when he’d been at home for Christmas with his mum and his sister. The cottage in the middle of nowhere wasn’t quite right though, as far as he could make out and he didn’t think he had a sister or did he and just couldn’t remember her. Since arriving at The Emporium his past life, or maybe lives were a bit messed up and to be honest he no longer trusted his memory. It could just as easily be a wished-for experience, one that as a child he had longed for. As the snow settled the family went back inside and shut the door. He tried shaking it but it didn’t bring them out again, it was now just an ordinary toy. Sadly he placed it on the top of some paperwork and went to get dressed. He never had any say in what he would wear. The Emporium simply attired him in the most fitting clothing for whatever was to be occurring that night. Today he was Father Christmas. Very apt, he thought given the time of the year. The Emporium was once more an old-fashioned toy shop but this time with a yuletide theme. It looked for all the world like the inside of his snow globe. The floor was covered in artificial snow, well he presumed it was fake anyway, with a winding path lined with candy cane lanterns leading up to the door of a little cottage that hugged the far corner. “Greetings!” An elf said as it scurried past. “SANTA!” Another one shouted. “Hurry-up or you’ll be late and we don’t want to upset the boys and girls now do we.” It threw open the cottage door to reveal a white room crammed full of empty snow globes and indicated to the wooden throne he was expecting Thrumps to occupy. As soon as his bum hit the seat the main doors threw themselves open. Peeping out he could see a long line of children eagerly waiting. “What do I do?” he asked. The elf that had been waiting for him inside the cottage smiled. “As each child enters just listen to their story and the Christmas magic will do the rest.” Santa welcomed the first customer and was amazed that as the story unfolded the memory came to life within the empty snow globe he had been handed. As he presented it to the adult now standing before him, they grasped it as if it was the most precious thing they had ever owned and left almost in a trance. “What just happened?” he asked as the next child was ushered in. The elf bent down and whispered in his ear. “They are recalling a time when they were happy. Unfortunately, many are now on their own and Christmas is anything but nice. These are the ones that find themselves on their own and struggling to get through the season.” “And the snow globes …” he asked. “They capture the memory so once home all they have to do is shake it and they are right back in the moment. They can step inside and be transported back to the best wintertime adventure they’d ever had and be happy once again.” The elf paused. “I know it’s not a lot but apparently is does help,” she reassured Thrumps when he frowned. “So, as everyone has their own memory that’s why they are all slightly different?” She nodded and handed him the next globe. Thrumps heard so many wonderful stories that night that he wished he could have something to remember them all by, but they were not his and so they drifted away as each person left. On leaving they were given an instruction card … Your memory is trapped inside the snow globe, take them home and when you shake them it’ll come to life in the dome as if you are really there. “What happens if someone else shakes them?” Thrumps asked. “Nothing, they will just be simple snow globes.” Thinking about it, that made perfect sense, he’d shaken a lot over the years and never once been transported anywhere else. Once back at his desk the coaster offered him a glass of mulled wine, he nodded his approval and picking up his snow globe he shook it. When he set it down the family scene replayed just like the first time but this time he was actually the one having the snowball fight, but once the snow settled he was back at his desk. He wasn’t too sure if this was an actual memory or something he’d wished for but he didn’t care, it made him smile and that was good enough for him. Thrumps missed getting mail, even the scams and promotional stuff never came, I mean why would it, it wasn’t even that The Emporium had a viable address or stayed in one place long enough for anyone to know it was there. That said, Thrumps still missed getting random stuff land through the letterbox.
This morning that all changed. As Thrumps sipped at his second cup of coffee, pondering just why he was wide awake at such an early hour, a blast from the past softly landed on the doormat. He stared at it, expecting it to disappear, but it didn’t. He went for a better look. This was too strange not to be some kind of trap, or deception but it appeared genuine, well sort of. The writing on the front boasted, Postcard from HELL … wish you were here and ended with a question mark looking for all the world as if it were smouldering. Carefully he tried to flip it over with his foot. It wouldn’t budge. Holding his breath, he picked it up, expecting it to be hot, but it wasn’t, and it certainly didn’t look like the proverbial image that was to be expected. It actually looked rather inviting, a typical tropical island, immaculate white-sand beaches with crystal clear turquoise waters. The postscript at the bottom read Cayman Islands. Thrumps turned it over. Dear Professor Thrumpas, I know that you don’t know me, but I know you, well sort of and anyway I can’t think of anyone else that could possibly GET ME OUT OF HERE!! Alice. PS: Please meet me in Hell. She was right, he didn’t know an Alice, let alone one that needed to be freed from the underworld. He reached for his coffee only to find it had been replaced by an ice-cold metal drinks bottle. The Book of Un-Reality flipped open. Visiting Hell in Grand Cayman The largest island in the Cayman Islands has all the qualities typical of the area, but Hell was created by salt and lime deposits millions of years ago when chemicals interacted with attacking algae and created the spiky black formations. Thrumps noticed the dull hum as the air conditioning, which he didn’t know he had, kicked itself into life and he realised that he was sweating. He didn’t need to be told where he was. Clicking his fingers he was instantly attired in a white linen suit complete with a wide brimmed straw boater. Better he thought but he was not too sure on the open sandals, wondering if there were creatures out there that might just take a fancy to his bare toes. The heat suffocated him as he stepped out. The Emporium doors automatically slammed shut and barred themselves with a cross of wood, as if protecting against unknown evil. He took a deep breath, well actually a very shallow one as it was too difficult to do anything else and set off down the dirt track. The scrubby forest soon gave way to lush greenery and finally a main road. There were no signs but he instinctively knew he had to turn left. His destination was just a few paces along the aptly named Hell Road. It was quiet, maybe too quiet but what did he know. Apparently when the cruise ships call, as they do in their multitudes it was unbearable chaos, but for now there were just a few people kicking about, mostly around the petrol station. As soon as she spotted him, she waved, it was too hot to run or he rather suspected she would have done just that, she looked so delighted that he was there. No he corrected himself, she looked relieved. He tentatively extended one hand, she ignored it and gave him a big hug. When they finally parted, she just blurted the whole story out in such a jumbled mess that he had to laugh. “I’m sorry,” she panted. “But you really do have no idea how pleased I am to see you.” He smiled, took her hand and gestured to the gift shop. “Is there perchance a café?” She shook her head. “Good job you have a flask.” He nodded. “Let’s go sit on the picnic benches in the shade and you can start all that again … slowly.” She smiled. “Ever baited a fallen angel?” she asked. Thrumps hadn’t. “It’s not a good idea,” she said earnestly. “I was kind of messing about, you know as you do at Halloween and well what we expected was a bit of light conversation with a ghost or at the very least a disgruntled spirit, but …” she paused trying hard to frame things in a more favourable light. “But … what we got was a kind of warlock, a very pissed off one at that. The others legged it but somehow, I was kind of trapped with my finger firmly welded to the glass on the board. Message after message spelt out curse upon curse until it finally realised that I was far from the great mystical communicator that he’d taken me for.” She shook her head. “That was his first mistake, I mean thinking that just because I’m not that good at all the witchcraft stuff, and that I was a push-over. What he wanted was for me to give him free reign to walk the earth regardless of the time of year, well I tell you even if I’d been able to have done it, I wouldn’t, I mean that’s just not right, he was, well just not very nice.” Thrumps took another sip of water, grateful that The Emporium magic was holding fast and replenishing his bottle regularly. He nodded for her to go on. “Well, he let up a bit and I screamed at him to go to hell.” She looked around. “And that’s what we did, the both of us. We came to Hell.” “The warlock is here as well?” Thrumps asked. “Yeah, didn’t I say that?” He nervously looked about him. “Don’t worry he’s not here, not yet but he will be as soon as the tourists start coming. He walks about dressed as the devil and greets people with How the hell are you? They all think it’s hilarious but what he’s really doing is casting for a likely victim, me to transport him … well I don’t know where do I. It’s not as if we sit and have cosy chats or anything is it. If he’s here, then I make sure I’m not.” She folded her arms as if expecting Thrumps to argue. He didn’t. “So, he’s stuck here, looking for you.” Alice nodded. “You need a rabbit hole.” “A what?” It was clear she was not a bookworm. “A way out that he cannot follow.” That she agreed with. “His immortal charms don’t work here,” she said. “Which is why he cannot leave on his own.” Thrumps was beginning to understand, well a little anyway. “Sooo, Prof are you going to be my saviour?” He wasn’t sure, but to stand any chance they needed to get back inside The Emporium. “How hot is hell?” said a strange voice behind them. “It can be 90+ degrees in the summer. Okay, that’s not fire-and-brimstone, but enough to make you plead-for-mercy and to get away from the heat.” It continued without waiting for a reply. A man dressed head-to-toe in a red bodysuit, hung his forked tail over his arm and slid himself down next to Alice. “Found you!” He breathed hotly. Now, sometimes fortune is on your side, not often maybe but it was in this instance. The carpark was suddenly inundated with coach after coach, each spilling its load of eager people desperate for that one photo that they could dine out on for years, and the sight of a real devil just sitting there was obviously too good an opportunity to miss out on. “I hate tourists,” he hissed as they crowded around, each jostling for the best shot. Thrumps surreptitiously took Alice by the hand and lead her away from the melee. “Shhh …” He put his finger to his lips. If they were missed it would not be until much later. Once safely on the road back to where Thrumps hoped The Emporium would still be Alice relaxed, a little. “Do you know why they call this place Hell” she asked quietly. Thrumps didn’t. “It’s the eerie and rather sinister look what gave it its infamous name.” She had obviously looked into this, she sounded like a tour guide. Maybe that’s how she got by Thrumps mused. “If a pebble is thrown out into the formation,” she continued. “… it echoes among the limestone peaks and valleys and sounds as if the pebble is falling all the way down to … well Hell." He smiled, not only because she did but more importantly because right at the end of the dirt track The Emporium stood, almost hidden in the undergrowth. Once sitting in the comfort of his favourite chair he asked Alice how she knew what to do. “It’s a popular activity here to send a postcard marked from Hell.” She grinned. “So thought it was worth a go.” Well he didn’t know how it worked but it did. The warlock was still stuck in Hell and she was safe. What he didn’t know thought was how she knew where to send it to. Halloween, always a time of mayhem and magic, ghosts, ghouls, spooks and spectres and the one time of the year The Emporium really lived up to its reputation. Usually when mere mortals visit at the midnight events, they leave feeling a little more content with their lot, but not when the midnight in question was the witching hour.
Thrumps had seen many years of this but it still troubled him as to the lengths that were taken in the name of fun. Fun for who he wondered, certainly not those unsuspecting visitors that were lured to attend with no say in the matter. He thought that this year would be different after helping the little ghost girl find her way home, but apparently not. The automatic calendar found its voice and loudly announced that it was one hours until midnight on the 31st of October … Thrumps didn’t catch the year. Here we go again he thought frowning. The Emporium was for want of any other description, decked out as a non-descript front room kind of a place. An old fashioned fireplaced blazed with what should have been warming the room but was obviously just a prop, there were a few armchairs scattered about with a battered old couch pushed up against the wall. It all looked rather shabby and disused. The kind you get in a haunted house, Thrumps mused. He was sat behind his desk clutching a mug of hot coffee between both hands. Leaning back waiting for something to happen or for someone to arrive to take control. Nothing did so he tapped The Book of Un-Reality. “Any ideas?” He asked. The book remained stubbornly shut. “Well you’re no help,” he said pushing it to one side. When he looked up the room was crowded with sad, silent people. A few sitting but most were just milling about as if waiting for … for what he didn’t know. Thrumps tried to catch an eye, to make some kind of contact, but all were oblivious to his presence so he had no choice but to keep watching. There didn’t seem to be anyone in charge, which was strange in itself, but then nothing seemed to be happening. Or was it …? Beside the door, on a small table lay a box of white daisies. At midnight each person collected one flowers and left but they didn’t look any happier, which worried Thrumps. As the doors closed The Book of Un-Reality gently flipped itself open. People will not remember visiting but when they awake, they will know once again the deep sorrow of losing a loved child. Thrumps read it again and again. He didn’t understand why The Emporium would do something like this. Surely it would have been kinder to show them that their loved ones were safe and happy, not to re-open old wounds. The ink pen scribbled … their dreams will be of a time as if they are still together. They will be able to touch, they will hear their voice, hold them, feel the kisses and just for a brief moment will sleep peacefully. “How?” Thrumps asked. The pen hesitated, almost uncertain how to explain. An old Celtic legend proclaims that whenever an infant dies, daisies are sprinkled over the earth to cheer the parents up. They are the connection between the worlds. “Why would The Emporium want to be part of all this?” Because it is what the dead children wished for. Thrumps had not thought about it from the ghost’s point of view, all he could relate to, was the pain that was being felt by the living. Those that are left behind, the pen continued, want nothing more than for things to be different, well so do those that leave. They never asked to go and are just as upset and lost. On the night of Halloween they have a chance to slip through the veil, to watch their loved ones, to see the hurt and what they want more than anything is to, just for a few short hours make that reality go away. Thrumps could see their point but … “Isn’t it cruel,” he said to the pen. “That when they awake, they realise that it was all just an illusion?” The pen slowly scribbled one word …YES! There was an almighty clatter as The Emporium settled itself down at the next destination of its choice. Straightening the few scant items that lurked on his desk, Thrumps sighed, this was not going to be good, he just knew it.
He gazed out of the window. It was just getting dark, but there were no streetlights, no houses and no visible signs of any kind of civilisation. Not the usual landing place to be sure, after-all the whole point always seemed to be centred around people for the inbuilt chemistry of the place to ensue. “This was weird,” he said aloud, then corrected himself. “No, this is weirder than normal”. It’s funny how the strange life he leads now seems well, normal. There was a time when he would have scoffed at anyone that related some of the things he’d witnessed of late, he’d have smirked and called them mad, or at the very least pitied them for their gullibility, but not now. Now all things bizarre, peculiar, or even just a little odd did not even manage to raise an eyebrow. He stood on the doorstep watching as the day faded and tiny solar lights flickered on, illuminating a road sign that pointed across the street. Texas State Veterans Cemetary at Abilene, he read it again slowly and glanced at his watch. Running back inside he scanned the pages of the automatic calendar. It was All Saints Day, and he was stuck by a graveyard in the depths of Texas, what could possibly be wrong with that? He laughed. The shop was a pub. All the usual stuff of spirits and spirits came to mind, I mean military personnel were know for a liking for the hard stuff but that must be nonsense after death … right? There were beginning to be too many questions associated with this storyline running through his brain, so taking a deep breath he donned his favourite overcoat and bowler hat, grabbed his cane and strode boldly across the road and through the cemetery entrance. The gates, that were not there before slammed shut behind him. Too late to worry about that now he thought. It was a beautiful place, covered structures for open-air services, a visitor’s centre, assembly areas and a memorial walkway with an avenue of flags, all lit by subdued lighting. Thrumps stood beside the wall of interned ashes in silent awe at the number of pristine white gravestones that ranged in all directions for what seemed to be forever. As he turned, a gentleman in full military attire jumped to attention and saluted. “Professor Thrumpus?” He enquired. Thrumps nodded. “Pleased to meet you sir,” he said. “I’d shake your hand, but well that’s not possible.” “Why am I here?” He asked as the soldier relaxed. “We have lost one of our own and you are the only one that can get her back.” “Is she dead?” “You could say that …” he began tentatively. “But it’s more like she was never really alive.” He took a deep breath and indicated to the bench seating. Thrumps sat, sensing he might be there a while. “It’s a strange kind of thing really,” the young man began. “It all started back in the 1980’s when they kind of migrated here hoping they would be safe.” He shook his head. “Paranormal investigators, that’s what the scum that are after them are know as, but if you ask me, they are nothing more than trophy hunters. They are not happy with just recording events, no they want to capture and control. That’s what happened to her. She was abducted.” “She, as in an undead person?” Thrumps asked. “Yes.” The soldier shouted, pleased that Thrumps understood. He didn’t but hoped he would soon or this was going to be a long night. “How did it happen?” He asked. “We don’t know. One minute she was here with the rest of the children watching the investigation and the next she was gone. They had a kind of paranormal wave type contraction and after long discussions we believe she was sucked into it and trapped.” “We?” Thrumps ask. The soldier indicated behind him. He could hardly control the shock at seeing not only vast rows of people from all ranks and walks of the armed forces standing to attention as if on a parade ground, but also a gaggle of young people aged between six and early teens that stood before them. Their pale skin was almost iridescent under the moonlight but it was their eyes that fascinated him. They were jet black. “Who are they?” “They are just known as Black-eyed kids. They’d been seen hitchhiking and begging but as they were not real, it scared people into persecution and so they came here for our protection.” He waved his hand at the throng, including the kids and they were no longer there. “You have to get her back.” He said as if was the most natural request in the world. Although he thought this ridiculous, Thrumps played along. “Do you know where she was taken?” “The monsters that were here came from England,” the soldier said. “A place called Hampshire.” “Are you certain of that? “Yeah,” he sighed. “It was plastered all over the cases and boxes they brought with them. The Hamp Ghost Hunters with Hampshire UK stamps on them.” “And you think that’s where she is?” The soldier nodded. “Tonight on Halloween, the veil between the worlds is thin enough for spirits to cross over, that will be the easiest time for you to rescue her.” Thrumps looked down thinking. There was obviously no doubt in his mind that this could be possible, but for the life of him, he had no idea how to even start. When he looked up, he was alone and he was back on the doorstep. The sign outside swung gently before settling. The Starr, and there was a poster in the window bragging of a paranormal event to rival all others. Apparently the afore mentioned ghost hunters were going to make direct contact with the departed soul of a little girl that was said to be causing havoc in not just the pub but the whole village. “Tea!” Thrumps shouted as he stormed through the doors. “I need a good, strong cup of …” The Emporium shuddered and the lights flickered to life as the tea materialised on the bar. He took a sip and picked up the newspaper. The headlines announced the upcoming event, reporting that the hauntings had all begun when the group returned from a trip to Texas and had called in for a pint before heading their separate ways. The landlord’s son being one of them. The equipment was stored in the basement and it said that the spirit of a girl they’d unwittingly captured had managed to escape. There had, apparently been several sightings. It was compelling reading, especially as it was so close to Halloween. A so-called witness had reported. ‘There was crying in one of the ladies’ toilets but when we saw the little girl, she had no eyes. They were just black and as we ran out, she was gone.’ Later that evening the place was heaving. The paranormal crew were set-up on the stage and obviously ready to begin. After the usual banter about letting them know if anyone saw anything or even felt something unusual, like a draft or if they saw orbs etc. etc. etc. they got under way. There was nothing remotely remarkable that was happening, in fact it was all rather boring as far as Thrumps was concerned but the audience was loving it. There had been several professed experiences, the gadgets and gizmos were in full swing recording goodness-knows-what, and the medium was so convincing that some idiots actually fainted when she announced a connection to someone they knew. It took a while for Thrumps to notice the child standing beside him. She slid her hand in his and whispered. “Take me home?” Naturally he knew instantly who she was and as the clock struck the last chimes of the witching hour, they stepped out together and were back in the Texas cemetary. At first glance The Emporium looked once again like an old-fashioned library, but on closer inspection Thrumps realised that it resembled more of a gentleman’s reading room. The rich mahogany-clad walls, crackling fire, plush emerald-green leather chair and towering bookcases gave it a plush, sophisticated air. The exclusive desk, full of character and charm holding centre stage sported an old brass light, giving the room a cosy feel, while an inviting chaise lounge graced the bay window.
Thrumps wandered over, mug in hand, feeling decisively underdressed for such a lavish setting. The Emporium had dressed him suitably, as it always did but his attire paled in comparison to the gentleman seated behind the desk. The fine quality of his dark grey frock coat, the hand embroidered silk waistcoat and the high stiff collared shirt with exquisite attention obviously paid to every detail alluded to an opulence now rarely seen. “Good evening,” he said without looking up from the embossed leather-bound notebook he was writing in. “Please sit.” Thrumps sat himself down in the chair opposite and waited. Eventually the platinum fountain pen was capped and then crossing his arms he languidly leaned back making the chair creak and he smiled. “Have you come for a binding …” he drawled, “or a chat?” Thrumps matched his smile with as much confidence as he could muster. “Information,” he said. “Fire away.” “I wish to know the nature of this evening’s event.” Thrumps had no idea why he needed to know, he didn’t usually have a clue as to what was happening until it unravelled around him, but something told him this was different, that this time he needed to be on his guard. “I am Doctor Bell,” he announced watching Thrumps intensely. “My discipline is the study of the mind, behaviour and experiences.” “A psychologist?” Thrumps asked. “In a way,” he said. “There have been many philosophical discussions greatly revolved around the belief that the mind and the body are two distinct entities, but I believe that it goes much further than that.” Thrumps was intrigued and nodded for him to go on. “Many years ago I learnt, albeit by accident that memories were distinct parts of the human psyche and as such the suffering that they caused could easily be contained, the big question was how to do it.” He nodded as if Thrumps should understand. He didn’t but opted to say nothing so Bell continued. “Storybooks,” he announced. “Storybooks …?” Thrumps repeated cautiously. Bell laughed and swept a hand towards the shelves of journals behind him. Each spine was embossed with a name, date and title. “These are memories,” he said. “Everyone has something someone needed to give some relief to.” He sighed. “I know it’s difficult to comprehend, so let me show you.” Thrumps settled himself on the couch to watch. As the grandfather clock struck the last chimes of midnight the front door opened and a lady of advancing years strode through and plonked herself on the chair Thrumps had just vacated. Bell smiled, opened a small notebook and took up his pen. Without any introductions the lady blurted out her story. Bell scribbled furiously never once asking a question or ascertaining the validity of the tale. Once she was done, she slumped down with a huge sigh and handed over an envelope. In turn Bell wrote her name on the spine, which incidentally she had never volunteered, plus the date and year the event had taken place, slipped the envelope between the pages and filed it on the shelf behind. She thanked him and left. “That’s all there is to it,” he told Thrumps. “So you simply write it down and they forget it?” “No, no, no, my dear fellow. They never forget, what I do is take the sting from it. As the saying goes, time heals, well this is just a bit quicker. It is as if the unwelcome memory is contained and therefore easier to deal with.” “So all these books are unpleasant memories.” Bell nodded. “The most recent ones anyway.” “And the envelope?” Thrumps asked. Bill smiled. “That is contact information. Once they die the books automatically materialise within their possessions for their next of kin.” Person after person came and talked and left obviously more at peace. Bell was clearly a man of high rank as justified by his superiority and quiet command, but he was gracious and courteous and well-mannered and regardless of the status of the person before him he automatically knew what approach was appropriate. People were instantly at ease with him, but he still somehow unnerved Thrumps. When the last person left Bell leaned back and poured himself a brandy and tipped the decanter toward Thrumps, but he declined. “You want to know if any of these journals are yours,” he said. Thrumps nodded but it was a long time before Bell said anything else. The silence was unsettling. Once he’d drained his glass Bell rose and scrutinised the spines, carefully reading each. “Here,” he said holding one out. Thrumps didn’t move. “Be warned though,” he said. “If you read it, all the memories in there will be fresh, and I will not be able to relieve you of them again.” Thrumps shook his head. “There must have been a good reason they are bound, let’s leave them there shall we.” Bell inclined his head in acknowledgment and slid the book back into place on the shelf. “Maybe, one day,” he said and laughed. Thrumps woke with a start. Falling asleep in the chair by the fire had become a bit of a habit of late.
He stretched stiff limbs and got to his feet, cursing as the pins and needles in his toes made him stumble. I’m getting too old for this he thought, even though he had no idea exactly how old he really was. The Emporium was a kind of waiting room, with people sat in booths facing rows of vacant chairs, on the wall was a huge electronic screen displaying the number of the next to be seen. At midnight a steady stream of people started to come through the unlocked doors, they took a ticket from the machine on the wall and quietly sat down, no one spoke. Eventually when their number was called, they reported to the allotted desk and were told which floor to select in the elevator. A lady in a crisp white suit walked between the desks constantly checking details on the paperwork before the numbers were called. She smiled at Thrumps as he took his place behind his own desk and tapped the coaster for a coffee. Good evening, sir ... all is on track.” He nodded. “Are these people dead?” “Yes,” she said with a sad smile. “But that is not why they are here. They have been summoned as the escorts for someone they loved when they were alive. They are waiting here for when that person's number is up.” An old lady walked away from one of the desks. “My grandson,” she said shaking her head. “Such a lovely boy.” “How will they recognise them?” Thrumps asked. “These are the ones that volunteered to be the watchers and have been waiting for this day. They see them grow and if it is allowed, they are able to guide them in their life choices. Not that many listen,” she laughed. “They should pay more heed to what humans call gut instinct, it’s always a good sign.” “Where do they go?” Thrumps asked pointing towards the elevator. “Each floor represents a different religion or faith. These people are the ones selected as guides in the afterlife,” she said. “Although …,” she paused to listen to the announcement. “As you just heard sometimes there’s a problem. Tonight a train running nine minutes late managed to avoid the upcoming crash. As a result no one actually died and so the greeters are no longer required.” They watched as the relevant people left. “Arrangements will be rescheduled for another time.” She laughed, “humans put this down to fate, or a lucky escape, but now you know that things like this are always just a matter of logistical errors, but shhhhh … don’t tell anyone.” There was a steady flow of traffic for the next few hours, not as busy as Thrumps would have expected, but then what did he know. “Does this happen somewhere every night? He asked the supervisor. She nodded. “Yes, there are many other establishments that we frequent.” Just before three in the morning it seemed that everything had been concluded. Thrumps counted the strikes from the grandfather clock. One, two, three, but it continued to eleven, twelve and thirteen, Thirteen? Thrumps looked around. The lights had dimmed leaving just one booth illuminated. The supervisor took the seat behind the desk, linked her hands in front of her and waited. Eventually the display clicked to the number 333. A man in a dark suit, that Thrumps had not noticed approached from the darkness. Her hands shook as she handed over the paperwork. “Take the lift all the way down,” she said nervously. The shadow man grinned. Standing he doffed his hat and bid her goodnight. The lift took ages to arrive as if reluctant to do so. Once inside the dark figure turned and caught Thrumps eye, lingering just a little too long for comfort before making his selection. Although he’d said nothing, Thrumps shivered and as the lift doors closed the lights came back on. “Who or what was that?” he asked, taking the seat opposite the supervisor. She let out a sigh. “It is not very often we get that kind pass through,” she said quietly. “Which is why you were chosen tonight. It was hoped that The Emporium magic would be strong enough to deal with anything nasty that might have occurred.” Thrumps didn’t like the sound of that. “So …” he began not really sure where his thoughts were going. “So, down is … ‘hell’? She nodded. “You see sometimes there is a soul so evil that no amount of redemption is ever going to be enough.” He indicated for her to go on. “People like Jack the Ripper, Adolf Hitler, and Pol Potts to name but a few, but also child abusers and serial killers …” she took a deep breath. “They are the ones that can see nothing wrong in what they have done and so there is no other option but to send then below.” “The paperwork lists every detail,” she said with a shudder. “Thankfully, it happens only rarely. Thrumps took her hand. This was obviously part of her job, but one she really had no stomach for. “So,” she said sounding brighter. “Hopefully that’s it for now and we’ll not have to meet again anytime soon.” She gave him such a radiant smile, that Thrumps was somehow kind of sorry about that. |
2023 - edit The Emporium
Add drawings for each weekly chapter ready for publication this year. Update ... this is ongoing. 2022 - The Emporium
A place of magic. Post one story every week about the adventures of Professor Edward Urvaine Thrumpus. (Unedited first drafts) 2021 - Flash Fiction
Post a story or reflection written in exactly 100 words every day to a list of prompts. 2020
The goal is to write and post a new poem every day. 2018 - A Year to clear what is holding you back (online course)
2016/17
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