Mavis's mistake

Challenge was a pick out of a hat one scenario and one character. I got “Removing wasp nests” and “Mildred the cuddly mallard”.

Once upon a pond,
a long long stream ago,
in a meadow far far away,
there lived a community of field and water creatures,
all of whom were pretty happy with their lot.

In fact they were happy enough so that every year in mid summer they gathered cheerily together and partied in the long grass, eating the ample food the meadow, stream and deep pond provided.
It was such a good place to be that visitors came from afar to stay for months and raise their kids .

Two regular visitors to the pond were Max and Mavis, a pair of migrating mallards. Every year they stopped over, met up with their meadow friends, ate the grass and grubs, laid a couple of eggs, or four, and raised their brood.
There was quite a lot of brooding going on in the meadow at this time of year, not the orgy you may be considering but a zesty thrill did waft enticingly through the meadow and much merriment ensued.

Around the middle of the season when all the kittens, pups, pullets and youngsters were generally getting too big and energetic, the meadow dwellers held a huge party. The badgers set about building mud slides and sand pits to play on, the rabbits dug huge tunnels to explore and there were water challenges, hiding, and chasing games. Play fights and races through the meadow and woods were encouraged. The young animals all loved the fun of the party which went on for ages until they were all tired but had grown much bigger and stronger and found they wanted to fend for themselves. All this activity increased the young appetites and their hunger had an impact on the available food supply and, not unusually, competition for the best spots around the pond grew keen.

This year, Mavis had laid just one egg, a disappointment to Max , and to Mavis who thought she must be getting old. It was a big egg though, so they were very excited when it hatched and a large fluffy girl chirped strongly.

They called her Mildred , meaning gentle strength, or Millie as she immediately became known. They proudly swam round the pond and waddled through the meadow showing off Millie while searching out a meal from the depleted stock of grubs and greens.

It was a few weeks before they noticed that Millie wasn’t feathering, but was becoming downier and fluffier every day. Not the usual thing for a mallard chick. The Canada geese fledglings, sporting their new plumage, started to laugh and snigger at Millie, the badger cubs chuckled and the moles and voles around the pond edge made squeaky jokes and teased her. Millie became very unhappy and began to hide away in the reeds. Max and Mavis tried in vein get her to come out and play.

The reed beds where she hid were dense and broke up the sunlight so there was not much food in there.  Millie had soon eaten out the few grubs and greens that lived in the reeds. She became very hungry and was tempted to stop hiding but she couldn’t stand the teasing and attention she would get out in the open.   To get to the scarce food in the shelter her large beak had become quite hard from hunting in the soil and biting the tough reeds and she had discovered that she could crack beetles and bugs not usually on the mallard menu. One day she found, hung under a matt of reeds, a papery package with what smelt like yummy grubs inside.
She nibbled at the side of it and released a delicious grub, but immediately there was a lot of buzzing noise and many angry bugs flew at Millie and tried to sting her away. The fluff that had caused her so much teasing was so dense that the stings could not get through and, actually, the little flying things were quite delicious too. Millie was a very happy duck as there seemed to be lots of these hanging grub packages and tasty buzzing bugs around.

Away from the reed bed, and as this warm summer played over the meadow, the animals became more and more bothered by the plague of wasps which were making meadow play and hunting very unpleasant. The nests seemed to be everywhere and the stings very painful. Many meadow dwellers began to think that this was no longer a nice place to be. Meadow meetings were held to solve the problem but there seemed to be no answer and the animals were getting scared and hungry, afraid to forage and get stung. The geese had stories of a breed of duck in Africa that hunted wasps but those heroes were far too far away from the meadow to be of any help.

Blissfully unaware, back in her reeds, it wasn’t long before Millie had eaten all the paper packages she could find and had started to waddle around looking for other delicious paper packages.    Millie had put on quite a bit of condition from eating delicious grubs and buzzy bugs. The badgers were the first to notice Millie snapping and eating the worrisome wasps and the word soon spread that the cuddly mallard had special powers over these pests.
In no time at all Millie was treated to the deepest of apologies from all the meadow dwellers and was happily shown to where more delicious grub nests were. Millie became popular and started to grow into a fine duckling.  Max and Mavis were very happy Millie had made new friends and with lots of nuzzling and preening they said farewell as they once again flew off southbound.

With all her new food and friends, Millie grew very fast and started to fledge into a rather superior form of large mallard with slightly strange patterned feathers. Probably just as well then , that Max had left or he would have noticed the feathers matched a lone, dark gander he and Mavis had flown with for a few days on their last migration south to Africa.

AFTERTHOUGHT,
It turns out that the solution to a problem may not always be that far canard.

Island or Shirt or Island shirt, perhaps Island mentality - the 2/11 challenge

Island shirt.

The wind rushed up from the shore, whipped through the grasses and rattled their stems against his legs. The granite outcrop, worn and rounded over millennia provided George a comfortable perch from which to survey his territory and from where he could now see Warwick stumbling towards their meeting.
Behind Warwick, the estuary flowed slowly over its bar, flashing diadems of sunlight and a bit further off, George could hear the clank of the lines and stays as his sea-hardened fleet readied itself for the tide.

Down on the harbour front, Angela’s hi-viz coat strobed between the pickets of the fence as she walked towards the post office, he checked his watch, she was late. A smile creased his face with memories of their encounters. She was an aggressive lover that one, she’ll be a good ally now, not the treacherous conspirator he’d feared. He had decided that the best way to secure her allegiance was to groom her in the deviations she hankered after, and to tease her with the promise of illicit riches. He’d known that the recordings of their private performances, if ever leaked, would shame her and the money would bind her. George was confident the double hook of reward and shame would ensure she’d stay loyal.
Ange was the latest addition to his many and varied allegiances on this island. His web of dominion was cumbersome but with all the hooks in place he maintained a tight control of the Island. Through friendships cultured over years, by generous lending, blackmail and the promise of riches, his grip over the island formed a community linked through him in a matrix of obedience.

For this next play, more than any previous, it was imperative he kept air-tight control. Billions of pounds were at stake, and that was just his share of the mega trillions that would flow globally via this unassuming outcrop of rocks and villagers..

When it came to the mob’s attitude to him and to his grandiose scheme, he had succeeded through dogged determination to quash concerns of  his ‘Island mentality’. In fact he alone had managed to convince the underworld players that introductions to mind-numbing amounts of Mediterranean wealth could only be done safely, quietly and efficiently through the contacts, ports and financial portals of his home territory.

It had taken just a few words on the ears of the Mediterranean magnates to align their greed to his plans. He’d gained their trust over years of wintering and maintaining their super-yachts in his safe ports. Many a time he had made less than legal arrangements on the quiet for them through his enterprises on this Island. It wasn’t any leap of brilliance to see these people had huge assets locked in Greece and Italy that needed to be shipped, sold or re-homed before the Euro was lost to either the drachma and lira or to Euro puppet governments. George’s genius was recognising that with his island’s brokers, dealers, banks, post and constabulary all under his power, and his nautical capacity, he held a unique solution to a massive logistic problem.

By coordinating the collection of goods and bullion from faceless owners, with the covert distribution to unknown buyers, gross profits were assured. All George needed to do was mediate between the underworld heads of the Russian and Asian markets, and his sellers, the superrich Greek and Italian players, politicians and officials.

It was on the high seas using his combination of non descript fishing boats and high speed, armed and protected superyachts where the master plan had its strength. He would arrange the deals with the owners, sell to the best bidder and do the exchange without either party facing off. What he needed was the trust of both sides and the total control of his island structure, and he had juggled these three elements to perfection.

George was all too aware the risks were high in monetary value as well as in longevity. One sour deal, one identity leak, one gap in secrecy, and fortunes would fall. Mob bosses expect success and are practiced at eradicating life-forms that show any chink of ineptitude. It was because of mob expectations that, at every meeting, George had worn his machismo and certainty like an island shirt at a funeral, flashing his confidence in their faces. It was a false confidence but he delivered it wrapped in such huge temptations their greed washed away doubt. He’d done deals before with these guys but never on this scale, never with so much at stake.

“Shit, George” puffed Warwick, “do we have to meet up here?”
“Quit bitching Rick, you just haff ta get fitter. Did you bring it?”
‘Sure, but I gotta tell ya mate, you’re being a bit too paranoid, meeting up here. No one is ever going to eavesdrop on you, even in town.”
“Don’t you believe it. Trust no-one, that’s my motto.”
“Pfft! I thought it was ‘Own everyone’, any way… This here is the master unit. Warwick held up what looked like a fat smart phone. It’s your full scramble encryption, random password, multi-channel communication hub. Each boat is keyed F and its number, the yachts Y, land based contacts - reversed initials. It uses GPS to map every vessel, zoom for global overview or inch-perfect navigation to pick up points. The guys all love ‘em. We’re all tested and we don’t register so much as a blip on frequency monitors. I got clean scans from our FSB, ASS and MI6 moles. This comms system, George, it’s the fuckin duck’s nuts mate, I’ve outdone myself.”
“Ÿeah, well it’s only what I ordered from you Rick, you’ll get your fair share if its proved in action”.
“So when do we kick off for real then? The lads are itchin’, they’re all set to roll any time you want.”
George smirked, “Time is now Rick, we’ve moved the first lot today, first paid up client, first shipment, it’s already on it’s way out of Piraeus”.
The name Papandreou was the first of the clients George had on his list. The next one off the rank was the more scary Cesare Geronzi, he was on his yacht and leaving Trieste tonight. The stream of high profile names from Ionian and Aegean ports were flooding in.

Every cloud has a silver lining and George was ready to gather every gram of silver from this approaching Euro storm. He gloated at the greed of the corrupt and, slapping Warwick’s shoulder, grabbed the handset and made his first billion dollar call.

Undesirable patron - the devil's little helper

In October the Friends of Harrogate Library launched a competition for a Yorkshire ghost story in 800 words.  I re-wrote a longer previous piece to fit the word count and made it about a Harrogate pub.  I am not presuming an Aussie will be considered but the story did retain it's shiver factor despite being reduced from well over 2000 words.   NEWSFLASH!!!  It got selected as one in the top 10, judging for top 3, Dec 8th.

Undesirable Patron.
He wasn’t anyone I knew, just a bloke who spent most nights lingering over his scotch watching the regulars come and go. His name was Nick, always wore the same tattered old coat and he owned the pub's battered old table tucked behind the porch door . The smoke-stained ceiling hung low there casting a shadow.  The spot sort of suited him, his grey face, stained beard and his ruined teeth. The cold darkness of the alcove did not tempt you to join him, even if you'd wanted to.

Sitting where he did put Nick in easy earshot of pub chat but he never joined in or passed comment. I did see him sometimes smiling grimly but in effect he was like a piece of the furniture really, always there, never noticed.

Anyway, today's the anniversary of  the MoD telling me Dad was ‘missing in action’. I was ten at the time but I've never got over the emptiness of those words. Tonight I was again telling the lads everything I knew about Dad’s last mission and they let me talk it out.

As I was leaving, Nick grabbed my arm and said, “I know about your dad”.
The surprise at being gripped so firmly stopped me dead. “Sit down with me , I want to tell you things I know”. His steely grey eyes drilled me into submission.
Nick started to tell me events from my Dad’s mission that only I knew, and he gave bits that were missing from my research. I couldn’t believe how much Nick knew and I demanded to be told.
“I don’t just know about what your dad did, I know that he was not killed, and I know his whereabouts.”
I sat there looking at this dirty creased old man. He was not smiling, not pretending. He was going to tell me about my father.
I wanted to refuse to accept that Dad was alive. But. Of course I wanted to see him. I was angry, I was incredulous, struck dumb, I wanted to reject everything Nick was saying.
I stared back blankly into the steely eyes.
“What do you mean? You know where he's buried?” It was the only rational question my brain would allow.
“No Dave.. I know where he is. Right now”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What would it take for you to believe me?” His pupils coal black and intense.
“I , I don’t know. How can you prove that it’s my dad?”
“Your dad will know of things you did together, things you talked of that only the two of you will remember. It will take no time for you to be certain”
This was crazy. Scary. If dad was alive, why would he have stayed away, left my mum, abandoned us kids? What man who loved his family could do that? Why had Nick never said?
“Your dad was given no choice in his actions; he could not make contact with you. But now, today, I can arrange for you two to meet” I saw a weak smile crack his face, an unnerving, gruesome gape.
“How?”
“Never mind how. What would you do if I could guarantee you could meet your dad again?”
I just stared blankly, silently back at him.
“I need to know how important it is to you and if it is worth my arranging it. The window of opportunity is small, it will pass. I need to know if it is important to you”
“Well of course it’s important, if my dad’s alive. Of course I want to meet him”
“So, what would you do if I could guarantee such a meeting?’ he held that eerie grin.
“I’d do anything” I spat out.
“Great!” He said leaning back and straightening up. He looked much less feeble. “Follow me!”
In a sort of trance I trailed behind him out into the swirling rain beside the heaving traffic on Skipton Road.
Nick’s eyes were sparkling “Come on, just across ‘ road to t‘ social club.”
The traffic careened past in a solid stream of headlights and spray. No sooner had I joined him than with a vice-like hand he pushed me impossibly hard into the path of the speeding bus.
I looked back in horror to see a floating spectral skull with a yawing yellow-toothed grimace where Nick had stood.
“You wanted to meet your maker!” it screeched in hideous laughter at me.

I tried to scramble clear but, even in the slow roll of my demise, the speeding wall of metal would not be escaped.
A world-shattering explosion of pain enveloped my scream of burst existence. I was tumbling, flailing, agony piercing through every part of me.
Then nothing.
Then the merest hint of a tiny spark of light.

Then nothing.

Nick still sits unnoticed at that table in the Skipton, and occasionally people go missing.

create a xmas character in 400 words

Vics, Ste and I decided it would be fun if the savages could describe a new xmas character in a writers challenge and the sketchers could then draw the character from those descriptions....  We will see how this works out,  this is my attempt in 367 words.

The legendary Savage xmas fairy.

The name Crystal just sort of felt right on the countenance of the child.  As is the way with pixies and fairies, it was presumed that Crystal would grow to fit the name,. Problem is, fairies and pixies use nick-names.
Bubble-on-the-Wind will be Bubs, obviously a flying fairy, and Rustle-of-the-Leaves, Russ, will be a boy with pixie magic.
It was much too late when everyone realised that Crys was a unisex name.
By then, Crys had grown to be half pixie and half fairy with a bit of magic and flight, but not much good at either.
This gender blend was very difficult so Crys said she was a fairy, even if that meant a lumpy flying, bad magic, ugly fairy.
Worse, nothing went well for Crys in the build up to Decembers as she had to constantly prove that jobs could be done by her pixie/fairy body.
So, “Look what I’ve done!” and “What can I do now?” was Crys’s constant whine.
She really got on people’s tits.
To ingratiate herself into Santa’s favour, Crys habitually batted her gapped eyelashes, when presenting a toy or asking “Can I help? Can I help?” The eye-batting was to distract attention from her fat nose and tiny fairy mouth with huge pixie teeth. These features rose out of her blotched face and everyone knew, even with her plucked out beard, Crys was the workshop’s worst fairy.
This only made her try harder to please, and so she got more and more on people’s tits. Her time in Santa’s workshop was naturally brief but it may interest you to learn why Crys is immortalised in legend.

In her most annoying way, on the busiest eve, of the busiest December, she decided to decorate a pine tree for the workshop.  She badgered and interrupted everyone, batting her eyes and demanding “Where should I put it?, Where should I put it?, Should I put it here? There? huh?, huh?, huh?”

SO,

In homes every year now The Crystal Fairy gets a pine tree shoved between her legs, as a warning to us all,  not to get ugly and be a pain in the arse at xmas.