When he told her that he was married to the sea, she thought he meant it figuratively. Sadly, Captain Brevard was not a figurative man. He was married to the sea quite literally.
It had happened by accident, not by design. He'd taken his boat, The Red Lord, out for one of his regular cruises. He offered a run around the harbor and down to Monday Island, so called because the townsfolk had long ago decided that life was too short to give descriptive names to everything. The day they decided was a Monday, and to celebrate they renamed Elm Island, which had been named back when the town was founded by a man who had no idea what elm trees looked like. There wasn't a single elm on Elm Island, and it had stuck in the townsfolk's craws.
Captain Brevard had taken this particular cruise to Monday Island at the behest of a couple who, unbeknownst to him, were eloping. They knew that the town charter forbade any captain, boat or ship, from performing marriage ceremonies in the harbor, but through an odd quirk allowed those ceremonies and sanctified them within 100 yards of Monday Island. The town charter was a mess.
However, while marriages could be legally performed by captains within 100 yards of Monday Island, the captains of the town refused on principle. It was a union thing, some agreement with the union of marriage officiants or something, its reasons lost to the mists of time. So the couple had had to be circumspect when hiring Captain Brevard.
They hired Captain Brevard specifically because he was an inveterate drunk and a gambler and it was said he'd do anything for money. Once The Red Lord was within the 100 yard boundary, the couple plied Captain Brevard with spiced rum and promises of cash and found him a willing conspirator in their elopement. So willing was he, once plied with the aforementioned spiced rum, of which there was a dangerous amount, that upon marrying the couple, he promptly declared his intention to marry everything on the boat to some other thing. The life jackets were married to a coil of rope. The bilge pump was married to a seagull which happened to land on the bow. And so forth.
It must be said that the eloping couple had consumed several celebratory portions of spiced rum upon completion of the original ceremony, and that led to several more, and while Captain Brevard consumed far more, he was as has been said an inveterate drunk and so had built up a tolerance unmatched by the young eloped couple. Suffice it to say that they were willing participants and even encouraged Captain Brevard in his rash pronouncements of marriage upon all and sundry.
At a certain point, so the legend says, The Red Lord ran aground on Monday Island itself, whereupon Captain Brevard commenced marrying rocks and trees, none of them elm. The young couple were to the point of inebriation where one can no longer cause one's legs to support one's weight, but they carried on cheering the various ceremonies for a while before lapsing into blissful unconsciousness. And thus it was only Captain Brevard who was witness when he finally ran out of things to marry to other things, sobered up slightly, and realized that he was unbearably lonely.
Several days later, after returning to the dock and calling the still-slumbering newlyweds a cab, Captain Brevard swore off drink and declared his undying love for the sea. They had a small ceremony, just him, the sea, The Red Lord, a random seagull, and the random seagull's plus-one. It's said that it was quite beautiful, if slightly bittersweet.
So if you see a man, haggard from years of loneliness, sitting at a bar drinking lemonade and wearing a captain's hat – if you see that man, no matter how attractive you might find him, know that he's taken. He's married to the sea.
Also, there are a lot of trees on Monday Island which are cheating on one another.
A Missing Family Photo Involving Ugly Sweaters
Gordon Chancery Farquhar Cavendish Thorne IV, Esq. was not the sort of man one kept waiting. Lord Simon knew this, just as he knew that Thorne was likely to sew him up into a burlap sack and dump him into the Thames for this insult. But Lord Simon didn't quicken his pace. He strolled through the late afternoon sun, tipping his hat to passers-by, remarking on the pleasantness of the weather with the doorman, even going so far as to take the lift rather than hustling up the stairs, though it would add several minutes to his travel time.
Lord Simon had just discovered Gordon Chancery Farquhar Cavendish Thorne IV, Esq.'s secret, and he reveled in it. The man was a boor, an upstart of the lowest water, and Lord Simon, with his centuries of landed breeding and the power that only old money could bring, couldn't stand commoners who rose above their appointed station in life. Thorne was one of those, and now Lord Simon had him in the palm of his hand.
Lord Simon was thinking these thoughts, relishing each and every anticipated moment, when his choice to take the lift rather than the stairs, product both of carefree stubbornness and sloth, came crashing down on him like the roof of a device used to transport passengers between the floors of a building without recourse to stairs when said conveyance has dropped from a great height. Ironically, the roof of the lift did the same thing moments later as the cable snapped and sent the car plummeting to the bottom of the shaft.
That's where I come in. The name's Jack Dawson, and I'm the Chancellor of Detection for Her Majesty the Queen. Whenever a toff snuffs it under mysterious circumstances, Her Nibs calls me. When it's too delicate for the bobbies, I'm first on the scene. When Scotland Yard's blood isn't blue enough, I get a jingle.
Unfortunately in this case it turned out to lack of safety inspections and a poor maintenance record. And to top it off, Lord Simon hadn't departed this mortal coil alone. I had to tell the wife of the poor lift operator that he wasn't ever coming home again. Two young kids. It really got to me.
I took a few days off to wash the taste of splattered gentility out of my mouth with a lot of cheap gin. I wound up down the docks at a joint which could only be charitably described as a pub. And it was there that I met Baron Tristan von Deckler, inventor of the transmemrograph, a steam-powered device which allows one to transfer the conscious thoughts of a corpse to paper. Which I promptly used on Lord Simon to complete my report to HRH. She likes dotted eyes and crossed tees. And I then used Thorne's secret to help HRH settle some business with him, though I'm not at liberty to say exactly how.
Anyway, an experience like that makes a man realize that life is fleeting and death is no reprieve from the ills of the world, so the Baron and I destroyed the device, realizing that it was tampering in places man dare not tread. And then we fell in love and got married and adopted two Lithuanian orphans, and we're all doing just smashingly. You really should stop by if you're in the neighborhood. We'd love to see you.
Merry Christmas from the Dawson-Decklers!
Lord Simon had just discovered Gordon Chancery Farquhar Cavendish Thorne IV, Esq.'s secret, and he reveled in it. The man was a boor, an upstart of the lowest water, and Lord Simon, with his centuries of landed breeding and the power that only old money could bring, couldn't stand commoners who rose above their appointed station in life. Thorne was one of those, and now Lord Simon had him in the palm of his hand.
Lord Simon was thinking these thoughts, relishing each and every anticipated moment, when his choice to take the lift rather than the stairs, product both of carefree stubbornness and sloth, came crashing down on him like the roof of a device used to transport passengers between the floors of a building without recourse to stairs when said conveyance has dropped from a great height. Ironically, the roof of the lift did the same thing moments later as the cable snapped and sent the car plummeting to the bottom of the shaft.
That's where I come in. The name's Jack Dawson, and I'm the Chancellor of Detection for Her Majesty the Queen. Whenever a toff snuffs it under mysterious circumstances, Her Nibs calls me. When it's too delicate for the bobbies, I'm first on the scene. When Scotland Yard's blood isn't blue enough, I get a jingle.
Unfortunately in this case it turned out to lack of safety inspections and a poor maintenance record. And to top it off, Lord Simon hadn't departed this mortal coil alone. I had to tell the wife of the poor lift operator that he wasn't ever coming home again. Two young kids. It really got to me.
I took a few days off to wash the taste of splattered gentility out of my mouth with a lot of cheap gin. I wound up down the docks at a joint which could only be charitably described as a pub. And it was there that I met Baron Tristan von Deckler, inventor of the transmemrograph, a steam-powered device which allows one to transfer the conscious thoughts of a corpse to paper. Which I promptly used on Lord Simon to complete my report to HRH. She likes dotted eyes and crossed tees. And I then used Thorne's secret to help HRH settle some business with him, though I'm not at liberty to say exactly how.
Anyway, an experience like that makes a man realize that life is fleeting and death is no reprieve from the ills of the world, so the Baron and I destroyed the device, realizing that it was tampering in places man dare not tread. And then we fell in love and got married and adopted two Lithuanian orphans, and we're all doing just smashingly. You really should stop by if you're in the neighborhood. We'd love to see you.
Merry Christmas from the Dawson-Decklers!
A Series of Oceanic Misunderstandings
I don't know what happened, but at some point the crew of the streamship of which I was Acting Captain mutinied and threw me overboard. They had legitimate grievances, but I never expected them to throw me overboard like that. I probably shouldn't have insulted them, though in my defense my Portuguese is pretty bad, so some of the insults were unintentional.
How I came to be Acting Captain of a steamship is a story I might tell sometime, after certain statutory limitations have expired. Not for me, you understand, but Siggurdsen wasn't blameless in those events. He was a good companion to me and I'd hate to get him into trouble.
But Siggurdsen wasn't present at the time of my abrupt aerial departure from the deck of the steamship. Had he been, things might have gone differently. If nothing else, he would have found himself in the water with the same abrupt finality either shortly prior to me or, more likely, shortly after. Maybe he would have dived off the boat in attempt to rescue me. Siggurdsen was that sort of friend and companion.
It's pointless to dwell on hypotheticals. Siggurdsen wasn't there, he was in Havana attempting to secure funding for things which can't be mentioned for the next few years. And I was in the water watching the rapidly-disappearing stern of the steamship. They really do move much faster than sailing vessels. Definitely the transport of choice when it comes to maritime travel.
I'd like to say that I maintained a stiff upper lip, but I'd be lying. I was panicking. I'm a reasonably strong swimmer, but this was the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and unlike a steamship, the human body was not made for long, ocean-going voyages. It was a tight spot. A tighter spot you're unlikely to find, unless of course you should happen to find yourself stranded in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean as a weak swimmer.
As luck would have it, however, I was discovered by a sailing vessel before my strength gave out. This didn't cause me to reassess my opinions on the relative quality of sails to steam, but it did make me realize that yachts are much easier to command than steamships. They have fewer crew members. It's a simple calculus.
After commandeering the yacht which had rescued me, I sailed in hot pursuit of my mutinous crew. This may seem like madness because, as previously stated, the steamship is faster than the sail. As it turned out, it was madness. I think the terrific strain of my ordeal had gotten to me. They easily outpaced me and when I finally located them, the coast guard were there. After a prolonged series of questions in Portuguese where the word "piracy" came up frequently, it was established that I couldn't really understand them and they locked me up here.
As dungeons go, Portuguese ones aren't the worst. That would be one thing this adventure has taught me. But the main takeaway from all of this is that investment in a steamship company is definitely a plan for success.
Love's All-Consuming Maw
One afternoon, several years after I met Jennifer, her body washed up on shore. To be more accurate, half her body washed up on one shore and what was left of the other half washed up on a different shore. This story involves a shark, in case you were wondering.
Jennifer was a princess in exile. Her family had ruled portions of what had then become a republic in the former Soviet Union, although being overrun by the Reds hadn't had anything to do with her family ceasing to rule. It didn't matter anyway. She only told me bits of the story, which didn't involve a shark. This story does. Hers didn't.
We weren't in love, exactly. With each other, I mean. Jennifer and I, I mean. The shark may have loved one or both of us, though the fact that Jennifer's body hadn't been digested suggests that if the shark loved her, it didn't care for her taste. But Jennifer and I weren't in love. Still, we moved in the same social circles and her family were modern enough to believe that I made a good match for her. So they encouraged our relationship.
My parents didn't care for her. "She's a nice enough girl," my father said, "but she isn't very interesting company." My other father didn't say anything because he was dead, but the chill in the air whenever Jennifer entered the house spoke volumes. Still, my fathers might not have liked her that much, but they knew I'd do what I was going to do and were more supportive than that time I got the tattoo of Marlon Wayans on my left thigh. It was a phase.
But Jennifer and I were in no rush to get married. Her family was champing at the bit a little, wanting grandchildren to continue the royal line, but we were still young. There was time. And anyway, her older brother was married to a countess and had the heir and the spare, so they didn't champ too hard.
And then a shark killed Jennifer's brother and his entire family. It was tragic. And suddenly the pressure was on. I started getting bridal magazines in the mail every day. Jennifer claimed it was coincidence, but I knew. And I realized, more and more, that while she was nice enough, she wasn't that interesting company and I didn't love her.
So I paid a warlock to curse her. Nothing major. But I guess he made a mistake and she wound up being brutally sawed in half during a failed magic show on a boat which exploded, sending the halves of her corpse flying into shark-infested waters.
Several days later, as previously related, her body washed into several shores. I was sad, certainly. She had been important to me. But I moved on, probably a bit too quickly for propriety. There was gossip all around our quaint seaside community. The warlock went into hiding. I think he works for a defense contractor now.
Sometimes I think of Jennifer when I see really bad magic acts. I don't think about sharks though. I really ought to, given that I live by the shore. Maybe I'm just waiting for my shark to show up. Maybe the taste it wants is me.
Jennifer was a princess in exile. Her family had ruled portions of what had then become a republic in the former Soviet Union, although being overrun by the Reds hadn't had anything to do with her family ceasing to rule. It didn't matter anyway. She only told me bits of the story, which didn't involve a shark. This story does. Hers didn't.
We weren't in love, exactly. With each other, I mean. Jennifer and I, I mean. The shark may have loved one or both of us, though the fact that Jennifer's body hadn't been digested suggests that if the shark loved her, it didn't care for her taste. But Jennifer and I weren't in love. Still, we moved in the same social circles and her family were modern enough to believe that I made a good match for her. So they encouraged our relationship.
My parents didn't care for her. "She's a nice enough girl," my father said, "but she isn't very interesting company." My other father didn't say anything because he was dead, but the chill in the air whenever Jennifer entered the house spoke volumes. Still, my fathers might not have liked her that much, but they knew I'd do what I was going to do and were more supportive than that time I got the tattoo of Marlon Wayans on my left thigh. It was a phase.
But Jennifer and I were in no rush to get married. Her family was champing at the bit a little, wanting grandchildren to continue the royal line, but we were still young. There was time. And anyway, her older brother was married to a countess and had the heir and the spare, so they didn't champ too hard.
And then a shark killed Jennifer's brother and his entire family. It was tragic. And suddenly the pressure was on. I started getting bridal magazines in the mail every day. Jennifer claimed it was coincidence, but I knew. And I realized, more and more, that while she was nice enough, she wasn't that interesting company and I didn't love her.
So I paid a warlock to curse her. Nothing major. But I guess he made a mistake and she wound up being brutally sawed in half during a failed magic show on a boat which exploded, sending the halves of her corpse flying into shark-infested waters.
Several days later, as previously related, her body washed into several shores. I was sad, certainly. She had been important to me. But I moved on, probably a bit too quickly for propriety. There was gossip all around our quaint seaside community. The warlock went into hiding. I think he works for a defense contractor now.
Sometimes I think of Jennifer when I see really bad magic acts. I don't think about sharks though. I really ought to, given that I live by the shore. Maybe I'm just waiting for my shark to show up. Maybe the taste it wants is me.
Jelly
For my birthday, my grandmother sent me a jar of persimmon jelly which she said had been harvested by monks from an island monastery where the persimmon trees were watered exclusively with champagne. The monks may also have been forbidden to speak or bathe or something similarly esoteric, but my grandmother was pretty old at this point and the phone connection to her mausoleum was bad. Come to think of it, she might have been dead. But she sent the persimmon jelly and we were all grateful.
My father insisted that jelly this special could only be eaten for a special occasion. I argued, rather convincingly I feel, that there was no occasion more special than my birthday, but my father had something grander in mind. Discussion produced no resolution. If I remember correctly, it was my mother's idea to set up the tontine.
A tontine, for those unfamiliar with the term, is an easy term to look up on the Internet.
The reason I don't remember whether the tontine was my mother's idea is that the discussion was fairly heated when it was suggested, and it might have sprung from my general insistence that I would see everyone dead before I let them decide when I got to eat my jelly. What can I say? I'm not proud, but as my mother was threatening my father with a broken bottle at the time, I was not the only one to regret their actions that day. My family takes their jams and jellies seriously.
At any rate, after looking up "tontine" on the Internet (which I cannot stress too highly as an option) the pact was sealed, and we all set about preparing to kill one another. In retrospect, perhaps a three-person tontine isn't the best way to solve anything, particularly if all participants live in the same house.
I suspected that my mother and father would collude, at least long enough to get me out of the way. When they tried to get me to ride on the roof of the car, I wasn't fooled. In any case, I had stockpiled canned goods in case of emergency, as I obviously couldn't trust my mother's cooking.
I hired an assassin, one Godfrey Poltroon, or so his business card stated. He tried to make it look like an accident at first, but they kept on surviving. In the end, after even poison darts and shotguns failed, he gave me my money back. I didn't blame him. My parents are wily people.
In the end, we sort of forgot about the jelly. Then my Aunt Gladys ate it when she was house sitting for us while we were on vacation to Borneo. Anyway, the following year my grandmother sent me a zebra for my birthday, which was far more interesting than persimmon jam, though far less responsible. Where a dead woman got a zebra in this economy I'll never know.
My father insisted that jelly this special could only be eaten for a special occasion. I argued, rather convincingly I feel, that there was no occasion more special than my birthday, but my father had something grander in mind. Discussion produced no resolution. If I remember correctly, it was my mother's idea to set up the tontine.
A tontine, for those unfamiliar with the term, is an easy term to look up on the Internet.
The reason I don't remember whether the tontine was my mother's idea is that the discussion was fairly heated when it was suggested, and it might have sprung from my general insistence that I would see everyone dead before I let them decide when I got to eat my jelly. What can I say? I'm not proud, but as my mother was threatening my father with a broken bottle at the time, I was not the only one to regret their actions that day. My family takes their jams and jellies seriously.
At any rate, after looking up "tontine" on the Internet (which I cannot stress too highly as an option) the pact was sealed, and we all set about preparing to kill one another. In retrospect, perhaps a three-person tontine isn't the best way to solve anything, particularly if all participants live in the same house.
I suspected that my mother and father would collude, at least long enough to get me out of the way. When they tried to get me to ride on the roof of the car, I wasn't fooled. In any case, I had stockpiled canned goods in case of emergency, as I obviously couldn't trust my mother's cooking.
I hired an assassin, one Godfrey Poltroon, or so his business card stated. He tried to make it look like an accident at first, but they kept on surviving. In the end, after even poison darts and shotguns failed, he gave me my money back. I didn't blame him. My parents are wily people.
In the end, we sort of forgot about the jelly. Then my Aunt Gladys ate it when she was house sitting for us while we were on vacation to Borneo. Anyway, the following year my grandmother sent me a zebra for my birthday, which was far more interesting than persimmon jam, though far less responsible. Where a dead woman got a zebra in this economy I'll never know.
Local Politics
The townsfolk weren't sure what to make of the giant obelisk which Mr. Falketo was building in his yard. He had the proper permits, or so the police said when asked. Even half-completed, the black stone stump seemed ominous, but then Mr. Falketo had always been something of an eccentric, where lawn decorations were concerned.
His next-door neighbors, the Gormans, reported strange humming noises from the direction of his yard in the wee hours. Whenever they approached him about this, he claimed to have no idea what they were talking about. Since they couldn't prove that it was the obelisk itself which was making the humming noises, they couldn't call the police, who wouldn't have been much help anyway, since, as they said, he had the proper permits.
Mrs. Gorman's hair fell out and little Susy Gorman took all her toys and burned them, but that was viewed as natural selection by those in favor of the obelisk. Their numbers swelled daily, as more and more people arrived outside Mr. Falketo's front gate, staring wordlessly into the sky and mumbling softly. The news media interviewed them and found them surprisingly erudite on the subject of the obelisk and all the wonderful things it would bring to the community, though some intrepid newscasters did report that it was quite unnerving to interview people who wouldn't make eye contact. No one thought to mention that natural selection doesn't tend to cause children to go insane or people's hair to fall out.
Then Mr. Falketo's obelisk burned down mysteriously. Little Susy Gorman was the most likely suspect, but it turned out to have been a group of hobos who had mistaken it for a trash can. The townsfolk all agreed that it was an unfortunate accident, but the hobos were very apologetic and made everyone Brunswick Stew by way of compensation, and Mrs. Gorman's hair didn't grow back even after the obelisk was gone, so it seemed like maybe the tourist dollars were the only real casualty.
Mr. Falketo refused to press charges. He began work on a deck out back, and everyone in town forgot all about that brief period where they had been so foolish as to believe that an obelisk was something worth worrying about.
Little Susy Gorman grew up and married a local politician. And that's why the town has an ordinance banning black stone obelisks within city limits. They tried to repeal it last year, but there was something in there which gave tax credits to poultry farmers and the whole thing was just messy.
His next-door neighbors, the Gormans, reported strange humming noises from the direction of his yard in the wee hours. Whenever they approached him about this, he claimed to have no idea what they were talking about. Since they couldn't prove that it was the obelisk itself which was making the humming noises, they couldn't call the police, who wouldn't have been much help anyway, since, as they said, he had the proper permits.
Mrs. Gorman's hair fell out and little Susy Gorman took all her toys and burned them, but that was viewed as natural selection by those in favor of the obelisk. Their numbers swelled daily, as more and more people arrived outside Mr. Falketo's front gate, staring wordlessly into the sky and mumbling softly. The news media interviewed them and found them surprisingly erudite on the subject of the obelisk and all the wonderful things it would bring to the community, though some intrepid newscasters did report that it was quite unnerving to interview people who wouldn't make eye contact. No one thought to mention that natural selection doesn't tend to cause children to go insane or people's hair to fall out.
Then Mr. Falketo's obelisk burned down mysteriously. Little Susy Gorman was the most likely suspect, but it turned out to have been a group of hobos who had mistaken it for a trash can. The townsfolk all agreed that it was an unfortunate accident, but the hobos were very apologetic and made everyone Brunswick Stew by way of compensation, and Mrs. Gorman's hair didn't grow back even after the obelisk was gone, so it seemed like maybe the tourist dollars were the only real casualty.
Mr. Falketo refused to press charges. He began work on a deck out back, and everyone in town forgot all about that brief period where they had been so foolish as to believe that an obelisk was something worth worrying about.
Little Susy Gorman grew up and married a local politician. And that's why the town has an ordinance banning black stone obelisks within city limits. They tried to repeal it last year, but there was something in there which gave tax credits to poultry farmers and the whole thing was just messy.
Camping
We were on Day Five of our camping trip when the first mysterious death occurred. It was Reginald, the butler. We figured he'd killed himself ironically and moved on. Frankly, I think we were all surprised the trip had gone five days without a mysterious death.
I was sharing a tent with Sir Nigel Simsbury, of an old family with no money but landed out the wazoo. They owned estates all over the countryside, all of which had been cursed. The northern ones had all been done in one go by a belligerent tribe of Picts sometime in the early centuries of the first millennium. No one knew why.
The southern estates were more varied. A great uncle of Sir Nigel's had angered a hedge wizard, who had in turn hexed Sir Nigel's ancestor, resulting in a patch of the estate where the anger had taken place being forever shrouded in gloom. The family rented it to thrill-seekers with migraines. Another estate was cursed by some divine being or other. Just what heresy or act of blasphemy had occurred was kept secret by the family, but the whole place was lousy with fleas.
At any rate, all of the Simsbury estates were cursed, and Sir Nigel didn't like to spend time in or on them, hence the camping trip. When Lord Warman Viscount De Moline invited him, he'd jumped at the chance. And we all figured he'd be the one to die mysteriously. No one bet on Reginald in the pool.
After that, people kept dying off. The cook bought it falling down a flight of stairs, and as you may be aware, stairs are in pretty short supply in the woods on camping trips. Lord Warman Viscount De Moline accidentally cut off his own head with a tent stake. Our guide, Peter, a pleasant peasant, was brutally disemboweled by a bar of soap while bathing in a stream. At that point, we would have gone home but we were totally lost.
Soon enough it was just me and Sir Nigel, and I was getting pretty tired of his stories about estate curses. When he died in a parachuting accident one afternoon as he was coming out of the tent, I knew I was for it. Alone in the wilderness, no food (it had all been burned when Matron spontaneously combusted), no map (ditto), and no hope at all. I sat down in the tent and waited for the inevitable.
I had made my peace with my maker and was right with the world when I was rescued in the nick of time by a party of wood cutters from a nearby estate who had heard my frantic pleas for mercy from the divine as part of my maker-peace-making. I'm sad to say that when I exploded competely unexpectedly, some of them may have been injured.
Now I'm in little pieces, spread out through the foliage and seeping slowly into the loam. I think you could probably get an estate from Sir Nigel's heirs at a bargain-basement price. I'd recommend the northern ones. Ancient Picts were fierce warriors, but they didn't curse land terribly effectively. For that, you've really got to use human viscera.
I was sharing a tent with Sir Nigel Simsbury, of an old family with no money but landed out the wazoo. They owned estates all over the countryside, all of which had been cursed. The northern ones had all been done in one go by a belligerent tribe of Picts sometime in the early centuries of the first millennium. No one knew why.
The southern estates were more varied. A great uncle of Sir Nigel's had angered a hedge wizard, who had in turn hexed Sir Nigel's ancestor, resulting in a patch of the estate where the anger had taken place being forever shrouded in gloom. The family rented it to thrill-seekers with migraines. Another estate was cursed by some divine being or other. Just what heresy or act of blasphemy had occurred was kept secret by the family, but the whole place was lousy with fleas.
At any rate, all of the Simsbury estates were cursed, and Sir Nigel didn't like to spend time in or on them, hence the camping trip. When Lord Warman Viscount De Moline invited him, he'd jumped at the chance. And we all figured he'd be the one to die mysteriously. No one bet on Reginald in the pool.
After that, people kept dying off. The cook bought it falling down a flight of stairs, and as you may be aware, stairs are in pretty short supply in the woods on camping trips. Lord Warman Viscount De Moline accidentally cut off his own head with a tent stake. Our guide, Peter, a pleasant peasant, was brutally disemboweled by a bar of soap while bathing in a stream. At that point, we would have gone home but we were totally lost.
Soon enough it was just me and Sir Nigel, and I was getting pretty tired of his stories about estate curses. When he died in a parachuting accident one afternoon as he was coming out of the tent, I knew I was for it. Alone in the wilderness, no food (it had all been burned when Matron spontaneously combusted), no map (ditto), and no hope at all. I sat down in the tent and waited for the inevitable.
I had made my peace with my maker and was right with the world when I was rescued in the nick of time by a party of wood cutters from a nearby estate who had heard my frantic pleas for mercy from the divine as part of my maker-peace-making. I'm sad to say that when I exploded competely unexpectedly, some of them may have been injured.
Now I'm in little pieces, spread out through the foliage and seeping slowly into the loam. I think you could probably get an estate from Sir Nigel's heirs at a bargain-basement price. I'd recommend the northern ones. Ancient Picts were fierce warriors, but they didn't curse land terribly effectively. For that, you've really got to use human viscera.
Emergency Response
I called 911 about an existential crisis. It went about as well as you'd expect. The upshot was that they told me my ego was fabricating my existence as a ploy to seize control from my id, and then they sent the Philosophy Police around to arrest my consciousness. I let them lead me away while still remaining in my kitchen. I don't believe in the duality of mental constructs.
I called 911 because I thought my grandfather's ghost was going to burn my house down. He'd never liked the curtains and threatened to set them on fire in numerous occasions when he was alive. They sent an exorcist who informed my grandfather's restless spirit that he was not welcome here and told him to leave open flames alone. Then I ran out of holy water during a particularly hard winter and was glad when the curtains caught fire. He was right. They were ugly.
I called 911 because my phone was trying to kill me. It hadn't planned for that eventuality, had it? Foolish phone. The cops showed up and smashed it with a sledge hammer, and I got a free phone courtesy of the government. Try it sometime.
I called 911 because I thought I smelled gas. Then I had to wait on my underwear on the front lawn in full view of my neighbors while the utilities people investigated and determined that my house was situated over the richest deposit of natural gas in the county. They could never figure out how I'd smelled it though, given that natural gas is naturally odorless. But with the money I made I bought myself a new nose, and now I smell urine everywhere.
I called 911 because I had a headache. They weren't thrilled. Then my head exploded and thousands of winged monsters issued forth from it and rained terror on the countryside, so who's laughing now?
I called 911 because I thought my grandfather's ghost was going to burn my house down. He'd never liked the curtains and threatened to set them on fire in numerous occasions when he was alive. They sent an exorcist who informed my grandfather's restless spirit that he was not welcome here and told him to leave open flames alone. Then I ran out of holy water during a particularly hard winter and was glad when the curtains caught fire. He was right. They were ugly.
I called 911 because my phone was trying to kill me. It hadn't planned for that eventuality, had it? Foolish phone. The cops showed up and smashed it with a sledge hammer, and I got a free phone courtesy of the government. Try it sometime.
I called 911 because I thought I smelled gas. Then I had to wait on my underwear on the front lawn in full view of my neighbors while the utilities people investigated and determined that my house was situated over the richest deposit of natural gas in the county. They could never figure out how I'd smelled it though, given that natural gas is naturally odorless. But with the money I made I bought myself a new nose, and now I smell urine everywhere.
I called 911 because I had a headache. They weren't thrilled. Then my head exploded and thousands of winged monsters issued forth from it and rained terror on the countryside, so who's laughing now?
The Great Explorer
Science said that faster-than-light travel was impossible, but Professor Gideon Sphinx found a way. It involved artificial sweetener and lasers, but he wouldn't reveal exactly how.
Thus it was that on July 10th, the first man on Mars was Professor Gideon Sphinx. He covered the remaining locations in the Solar System where one could actually land pretty quickly, and he even became the first man to throw a rock from Mars at the Great Red Spot of Jupiter, though he conceded that this was slightly less impressive than landing. Way out in the Oort Cloud he discovered three new planets and landed on those too.
Everyone was in awe of Professor Gideon Sphinx. Everyone wanted to be him, and many people wanted to have his children. It was to be expected.
The only problem was that Professor Gideon Sphinx was really a figment of everyone's imagination. The collective imagination of the world's population, including some of the smarter primates, had caused him to spring forth into existence from nothingness.
We found out about it from the dolphins after Professor Gideon Sphinx invented a machine which could translate their speech. "Look, we've been trying to tell you this for years, but you couldn't understand us," said the dolphin ambassador on her first meeting with the President. "He's not real. Complete fiction."
The President ordered all dolphin translation devices to be destroyed on the advice of his new Chief of Science, Professor Gideon Sphinx. But one of the reporters who had been there at the historic meeting was having doubts, and word got out anyway.
Now we're stuck with an imaginary dictator. And the dolphins laugh at us all the time. But the uranium mines on Sphinxia II won't dig themselves, so we've learned to pretend.
Thus it was that on July 10th, the first man on Mars was Professor Gideon Sphinx. He covered the remaining locations in the Solar System where one could actually land pretty quickly, and he even became the first man to throw a rock from Mars at the Great Red Spot of Jupiter, though he conceded that this was slightly less impressive than landing. Way out in the Oort Cloud he discovered three new planets and landed on those too.
Everyone was in awe of Professor Gideon Sphinx. Everyone wanted to be him, and many people wanted to have his children. It was to be expected.
The only problem was that Professor Gideon Sphinx was really a figment of everyone's imagination. The collective imagination of the world's population, including some of the smarter primates, had caused him to spring forth into existence from nothingness.
We found out about it from the dolphins after Professor Gideon Sphinx invented a machine which could translate their speech. "Look, we've been trying to tell you this for years, but you couldn't understand us," said the dolphin ambassador on her first meeting with the President. "He's not real. Complete fiction."
The President ordered all dolphin translation devices to be destroyed on the advice of his new Chief of Science, Professor Gideon Sphinx. But one of the reporters who had been there at the historic meeting was having doubts, and word got out anyway.
Now we're stuck with an imaginary dictator. And the dolphins laugh at us all the time. But the uranium mines on Sphinxia II won't dig themselves, so we've learned to pretend.
Scathing Social Commentary
I interviewed a man who ate disused orphanages for the government.
"So, what's your favorite part to eat?" I asked him, after the initial pleasantries were concluded.
He looked at me like I had just asked him whether I could insert my finger into his nose. "It's a job, man," he said, like this was self-evident.
After that, I tried to get assigned to fewer puff pieces, but I was the newest hire so I got stuck with them. My editor told me I was good at it. "They really open up to you," he said. "You get good quotes and no one has mauled you yet."
I didn't have to ask what he meant. Everyone remembered Trevor.
So I interviewed the woman who lived in a giant shoe because a witch told her it would cure her infertility. She was nice. Offered me tea, told me all about her bunions. She seemed a little old to be worried about infertility, but I'm not a witch so I try not to judge.
What convinced me to quit the journalism racket was when I was sent out to interview a bear. My editor called me Trevor by mistake in the email. I grabbed my "World's Best Figure Skater" coffee mug and my copy of Robert's Rules and got the hell out.
The bear had some very cogent views on the energy crisis, according to the next week's paper. But I didn't read them. Print is dead anyway.
"So, what's your favorite part to eat?" I asked him, after the initial pleasantries were concluded.
He looked at me like I had just asked him whether I could insert my finger into his nose. "It's a job, man," he said, like this was self-evident.
After that, I tried to get assigned to fewer puff pieces, but I was the newest hire so I got stuck with them. My editor told me I was good at it. "They really open up to you," he said. "You get good quotes and no one has mauled you yet."
I didn't have to ask what he meant. Everyone remembered Trevor.
So I interviewed the woman who lived in a giant shoe because a witch told her it would cure her infertility. She was nice. Offered me tea, told me all about her bunions. She seemed a little old to be worried about infertility, but I'm not a witch so I try not to judge.
What convinced me to quit the journalism racket was when I was sent out to interview a bear. My editor called me Trevor by mistake in the email. I grabbed my "World's Best Figure Skater" coffee mug and my copy of Robert's Rules and got the hell out.
The bear had some very cogent views on the energy crisis, according to the next week's paper. But I didn't read them. Print is dead anyway.
A Happy Story
We met in an alley, and she was nice, and I was nice, and things went about as well as one could expect from a meeting in a random alley behind a shop which sold beads. We exchanged numbers. Had a conversation about geckos. That kind of thing.
When I called her several days later, nervous and slightly incoherent, she invited me to a picnic at what she called her church, which turned out to be a cult worshipping an ancient god of plumbing. The whole building was done up with Schedule 40 pipe, with charming figurines made of copper tube soldered together. Very tasteful. All the priests had long-handled plungers.
We wound up getting married there. The service was nice. I didn't convert, but she didn't care, as long as I agreed that the kids would be taught her faith as well as mine. Since I had been raised by wolves, there was a lot of howling. The neighbor's dogs were confused for a while, but they got over it.
We're very happy. Sorry you can't be here.
Love,
Andrea
When I called her several days later, nervous and slightly incoherent, she invited me to a picnic at what she called her church, which turned out to be a cult worshipping an ancient god of plumbing. The whole building was done up with Schedule 40 pipe, with charming figurines made of copper tube soldered together. Very tasteful. All the priests had long-handled plungers.
We wound up getting married there. The service was nice. I didn't convert, but she didn't care, as long as I agreed that the kids would be taught her faith as well as mine. Since I had been raised by wolves, there was a lot of howling. The neighbor's dogs were confused for a while, but they got over it.
We're very happy. Sorry you can't be here.
Love,
Andrea
From the Sky
They came from the sky, just as they'd said they would, and everyone was impressed because of course you would be if someone arrived from outer space in a brightly-colored rocket ship covered in messages of peace and hope.
They'd said they would several days prior, via text message to the mayor. "Coming from the sky on Thursday, weather permitting. Please assemble in the town square to witness." At any rate, that's what the PR flack from city hall said the text said. It wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that it had mostly been emojis, or that the, "weather permitting," part had been standard CYA by the mayor's office in case they didn't show up and we all had to stand there in the rain looking stupid and getting wet.
But as it happened, the weather was lovely, a bit cool for that time of year but clear and sunny. Not a cloud in the sky. If I'd been the mayor and I'd had something inserted about, "weather permitting," I would have been sweating as the minutes ticked by, wondering if there was any hope of convincing people that good weather interfered with the operation of brightly-colored rocket ships.
We all came. It wasn't every day you got to see them come from the sky. Sure, it wasn't exactly news, not anymore, after the big reveal in the capital with the governor and all, but still, it was unlikely to happen again in our town. And they were heroic, in their own way. So we wanted to see them arrive, even if arrival wasn't exactly the right word. It was an arrival for us.
The rocket ship touched down and they got out and shook hands with the mayor and posed for a few photos next to the podium which had looked brightly-colored until their rocket ship showed up and made it seem rather dingy by comparison. And we cheered and tried to take our own photos and, in the case of a few heartier citizens, tried to force our way through the throng and the barrier of police to touch them as they passed on their way to city hall. A few lucky and wealthy citizens got to join the mayor and get their own handshakes and pictures.
At that point no one knew what the visitors ate, so the appetizers and drinks were nixed by someone in the chain of command. The visitors hadn't eaten anything at any of their other appearances, and anyway they were wearing those bubble helmets which would make eating difficult. So, while I didn't see it, I like to imagine the mayor and his rich, lucky guests entertaining the visitors while secretly wishing they had something, anything to eat or drink. Imagine a fancy party with no booze or finger food.
After precisely two hours, the visitors politely excused themselves. They had another engagement and had to dash. They were very polite. And the assembled crowd, smaller at this point because of attrition due to their own hunger or thirst, got to cheer again as the visitors returned to their brightly-colored rocket ship, waving as they went, and then sealed the hatch and departed. And we all stood for a moment staring at the sky and thinking grand things about the promise of a new age, of friendship between worlds, of a brighter tomorrow when maybe one day we too could come from the sky to other places, in our own brightly-colored rocket ships covered with messages of peace and hope.
And we never saw them again. And life remained basically the same for a while, and then got steadily worse, until we all had bigger problems to worry about than visitors coming from the sky. And in the end, we all forgot about them, mostly, and stopped looking up and wondering when they'd be back. And the sky remained empty of brightly-colored rocket ships, just as the world remained empty of peace and hope.
They'd said they would several days prior, via text message to the mayor. "Coming from the sky on Thursday, weather permitting. Please assemble in the town square to witness." At any rate, that's what the PR flack from city hall said the text said. It wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that it had mostly been emojis, or that the, "weather permitting," part had been standard CYA by the mayor's office in case they didn't show up and we all had to stand there in the rain looking stupid and getting wet.
But as it happened, the weather was lovely, a bit cool for that time of year but clear and sunny. Not a cloud in the sky. If I'd been the mayor and I'd had something inserted about, "weather permitting," I would have been sweating as the minutes ticked by, wondering if there was any hope of convincing people that good weather interfered with the operation of brightly-colored rocket ships.
We all came. It wasn't every day you got to see them come from the sky. Sure, it wasn't exactly news, not anymore, after the big reveal in the capital with the governor and all, but still, it was unlikely to happen again in our town. And they were heroic, in their own way. So we wanted to see them arrive, even if arrival wasn't exactly the right word. It was an arrival for us.
The rocket ship touched down and they got out and shook hands with the mayor and posed for a few photos next to the podium which had looked brightly-colored until their rocket ship showed up and made it seem rather dingy by comparison. And we cheered and tried to take our own photos and, in the case of a few heartier citizens, tried to force our way through the throng and the barrier of police to touch them as they passed on their way to city hall. A few lucky and wealthy citizens got to join the mayor and get their own handshakes and pictures.
At that point no one knew what the visitors ate, so the appetizers and drinks were nixed by someone in the chain of command. The visitors hadn't eaten anything at any of their other appearances, and anyway they were wearing those bubble helmets which would make eating difficult. So, while I didn't see it, I like to imagine the mayor and his rich, lucky guests entertaining the visitors while secretly wishing they had something, anything to eat or drink. Imagine a fancy party with no booze or finger food.
After precisely two hours, the visitors politely excused themselves. They had another engagement and had to dash. They were very polite. And the assembled crowd, smaller at this point because of attrition due to their own hunger or thirst, got to cheer again as the visitors returned to their brightly-colored rocket ship, waving as they went, and then sealed the hatch and departed. And we all stood for a moment staring at the sky and thinking grand things about the promise of a new age, of friendship between worlds, of a brighter tomorrow when maybe one day we too could come from the sky to other places, in our own brightly-colored rocket ships covered with messages of peace and hope.
And we never saw them again. And life remained basically the same for a while, and then got steadily worse, until we all had bigger problems to worry about than visitors coming from the sky. And in the end, we all forgot about them, mostly, and stopped looking up and wondering when they'd be back. And the sky remained empty of brightly-colored rocket ships, just as the world remained empty of peace and hope.
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