Plenipotentiary (aka “Sowing The Seed”)

King Jafarus took in the early morning warmth and allowed his gaze to fall upon the Royal Gardens below.  The gardeners were hard at work amongst the rows of berry bushes and fruit trees. This year’s harvest was promising to be the best ever and the King allowed a satisfied smile to spread across his ageing face. A fruitful harvest ensured a fruitful flow of revenue into his already sizeable coffers.  King Jafarus took immense pride in the prosperous wealth of his Kingdom and the inheritance his long dominion would leave behind.

Suddenly his smile dissolved. If only his loins were as fertile as those soils.  After all these years and a long succession of increasingly younger Queens he had still not been blessed with a child to whom he could leave the fruits of his sovereignty. 

His eye was caught by the half naked torso of one of the gardeners. Stripped to the waist, the man’s well defined body and broad shoulders worked tirelessly amongst the shrubbery of the gardens, the sweat glistening upon his darkening skin as he worked the soil like a lover pawing tenderly at the flesh of his beloved.  The King had often noticed the latest Queen’s eye fall upon and linger awhile on this same man’s body.  He was not so foolish as not to realise what thoughts were running through his young wife’s mind.

The King turned to his manservant. “Have that man brought to me immediately.”

When the man stood nervously before him the King dismissed all his other staff.

“Tell me,” asked the King, once they were alone. “Do you have any children?”

“Yes, your majesty, I have three sons and two daughters.”

The King nodded thoughtfully. “So many mouths to feed upon a gardeners wage cannot be easy?”

The gardener looked uneasily at the King. “Your majesty rewards his staff well.”

The King laughed. “Do not worry man, I do not attempt to trick you. But I have a proposition for you. A deal which means your children would never whimper for anything from you again.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to father me a child. I am unable to sow my Queen a seed.”

“But with all respect, your majesty, this is not right.”

The King bristled. “I am ruler of these lands so I will decide what is right and what is not. I have seen how my wife looks upon you and admires your flesh.  And as King I can invest in you plenipotentiary licence. You will, to all intents and purposes, be sowing the seed on my behalf.”

“And what do I get from this?”

“Your family will be rewarded a fine house, lands and wealth for the rest of their lives,” smiled the King. “But, of course, I must have you executed afterwards to keep this arrangement secret.”

The gardener thought a while and then nodded. “If your Majesty demands this then I will obey and, of course, I do this for the good of my family.”

The King smiled and patted the gardener upon the shoulder. “Good, you are worthy of my seed indeed. Now go to my queen, through the door to your left.”

After much cries of passion and what seemed a carnal eternity for the King, the gardener finally emerged from the Queen’s bed chamber.

“How did it go?” asked the King.

“I think the Queen enjoyed it,” replied the gardener breathlessly. “She said it was true after all what they said of dark skinned men like me.”

Suddenly the colour drained from the Kings already pale face.

Odium (aka ‘Lex Talionis’)

Reverend Puckridge took a deep breath and adjusted his collar in the reflection of the vestry mirror. Today’s service would be one of the most difficult he had ever had to deliver.  Tensions in the village were running high and Kelly Loasby had been a much loved member of the congregation. It was his duty to bring some peace back to the village. Taking one final lung-full of air, the Reverend pulled back the Vestry curtain and stepped up to the pulpit.

Kelly had just turned fifteen and was the most beautiful young girl in the village. Her parents were devout churchgoers and as soon as she was old enough Kelly had become a member of the church choir.  The fact that anyone could repeatedly rape, mutilate and murder such a beautiful and innocent young girl tested even the Reverend’s faith in God.

The pews fell uneasily silent as Reverend Puckridge cleared his throat and opened the bible.  “We are gathered here today to remember and pay tribute to the passing of Kelly Loasby, so cruelly taken from us a week ago.

It is understandable that there is much anger and resentment in the village. But let me remind you what Jesus Christ urged his followers in the Sermon on the Mount.  He said: You have heard that it was said, “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth”. But I say to you, do not resist an evildoer. If anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.

So yes it will be easy to hate the culprit of this terrible deed when he is caught, and I have no doubt he will be eventually caught but…”

“What do you mean when he’s caught?” shouted someone suddenly. “The police arrested and charged Lex Bacchus earlier today!”

Revered Puckride looked nervously at the congregration.  “Lex?  Lex did this?”

An angry murmur went around the pews and the Reverend was shocked by the odium being directed towards him.

He had known Lex Bacchus all his life. Les’s mother had died giving birth to him and his father, a drunk and a brawler, had abused young Lex through most of his childhood. Eventually an 18 year old Lex had snapped and strangled his father to death. Despite the Reverends attempts to ask the court’s leniency, Lex was imprisoned indefinitely.

“It’s your fault Revered,” screamed Kelly’s father. “If it wasn’t for you Kelly would still be here today!”

The congregation murmured angrily.

“No, that’s not true,” the Revered stammered nervously as someone at the back stood and locked the church door.

“He’d still be in prison if it wasn’t for you!” yelled another of the flock. “You recommended his parole to the Governor!”

“But he had found God in prison and had repented!” the Reverend tried to explain as someone grabbed hold of him.

“You’re as guilty as he!” sobbed Kelly’s father slipping a makeshift noose over the Reverend’s head. “Make your excuses to God instead…”

Bombinate (aka ‘The Humming’)

I was twelve when I first became aware of the Hum. Things were starting to happen to my body, strange things I didn’t understand.

“You’re changing,” Ma had said, stripping those first blood stained sheets from my bed. “My little flower is blossoming. It’s natural. You’re just coming of age Jess, that’s all.”

But despite her words I knew Ma was worried about something. She started to watch me more closely around the camp, especially when the older boys were around.

“They might be fellow travellers Jess,” she finally said to me one evening. “But don’t you go believing what they tell you. You can’t be trusting boys no more.”

Of course, I never told her I used to tingle in strange ways when I looked at some of them, especially the handsome ones. And I thought the Hum was part of that. Each night it would come, reverberating through my body and bombinating in my mind; an unbearable drone that pulsed in time with my heart, forcing my hand down to play between my thighs.

Eventually I had to tell Ma. I couldn’t sleep anymore, the Hum driving me into hysterical tantrums.

A local doctor came to examine me.”It’s combination of hormonal changes to her body and the fact your trailer is pitched directly beneath a huge electricity pylon. Her brain seems acutely sensitive to the electromagnetic waves. She can literally hear the electricity pulsing through the cables.”

So we moved, packing up the camp overnight. The locals were delighted. After all, they had been petitioning to have us removed for months. The land we occupied was old consecrated ground.

But the Hum continued, no matter where we went.  Other doctors suggested it was a problem with my ears, an extreme form of tinnitus.  The operation was a disaster and I was left deaf. Completely deaf, that was, to everything except the constant Hum. But now it was mutating, the low drone becoming strange distant voices. No one would believe me. How could a deaf girl hear voices? So I’d get angry and violent, striking out viciously.  Once as my mother tried to restrain me, I stabbed her in the throat with a pair of scissors. When I blamed it on the Hum they took me away.

For months the men in white coats ran countless tests on me. Eventually they said that the fillings in my teeth were acting as receivers to radio frequencies – my brain somehow deciphering radio shows inside my head.  It was some kind of strange mutation caused by living beneath the electricity pylon as a young girl menstruating for the first time.

So they removed all my teeth and fitted me with brand new plastic ones. It was the only solution.

That night, as I lay recovering in my bed, it came as usual.

“What have they done?” growled the Hum, as my fingers were forced angrily inside myself. “You used to be such a pretty girl.”

Affectation (aka ‘The Job Announcement’)

Today’s the day we’ve all been waiting for. The office is thick with a tense anticipation, though no one will admit it. I glance over at Marie. She’s tapping away at her keyboard, her face concentrated and confident. That’s Marie for you. Always confident. Always self-assured. But every once in a while I see her risk a quick glance towards Alex’s office, her eyes flitting from screen to door and back again.  And that’s enough for me. I know she’s as tense as everybody else.

Most people expect Marie to get the job. She’s the company’s best Account Manager if sales are anything to go by. Determined and aggressive she’s a real go-getter. She’ll do anything to land a contract. Of course, it is all an act, an affectation she’s honed over years of laughing, giggling, smiling and shagging her way to where she is now.

No one really likes her. Especially not me. She’s made my life hell ever since I’ve started. She’s the only one though. I get on really well with everyone else and I’ve really started to deliver the goods. Even Alex has complimented my output on more than one occasion.

With Alex moving on, Marie is the one everyone expects to be the next Account Director.

Suddenly the door opens and Alex emerges with Mr Rathbone, the company’s Chief Executive. The office falls silent. Marie glances over at me, contempt and arrogance holding her make-up in place.

“If I can have everyone’s attention for a moment,” announces Alex, lighthousing his all encompassing smile. “Mr Rathbone has an announcement to make regarding the new Account Director’s position.”

Mr Rathbone clears his throat and steps forward. “It’s been a difficult decision. There were so many well qualified applicants.” He looks around the office, his gaze hovering over me momentarily. I hold my breath. “But we can only appoint one Account Director. And I am delighted to say…”

I look at Marie. She’s straightening her skirt and a smile is starting to spread across her face.

“…that the person we’ve chosen will lead us forward from the excellent position Alex leaves us in. And that person is…”

Again he holds for dramatic effect. Hurry up for Christ’s sake, I think, I’ve got money to make and this hardly the bloody Oscars!

“…Marie Kingsella.”

Mr Rathbone begins clapping and begrudgingly everybody else joins in. Marie jumps up, the biggest fake smile cracking her liberally applied foundation.  “Thank you so much, Mr Rathbone, I am truly flattered and humbled.”

At that moment I would love to take the Tuna Baguette in my hand and shove it in her gob.  I’m not jealous, honest. I just dislike her, that’s all. What? You thought I was going to get the job? You thought that was the twist? Don’t be silly! I’m just the sandwich delivery lady. I’m sorry.  But I make great baps if that helps?

“Who ordered the tuna baguette?” I ask as the clapping dies down.

Adulterate (aka ‘The End Of The World As We Know It’)

It had been in the news for months.  At first there were just short columns hidden way inside specialist science periodicals before, eventually, primetime news bulletins were running it every half hour and tabloid headlines were screaming “doomsday” or “Armageddon”.  Curiosity became intrigue, which finally gave way to mass fear and panic.

Families began packing up and moving out of the impact zone. Mass migration spread around the globe sending economies into meltdown.  Civilised societies fast became anarchic states. Humanity teetered on the brink of hysteria induced extinction. Survival of the fittest quickly became endurance of the craziest.

For the first time in living memory all the great superpowers came together to work out joint action on saving the planet. Military research and development, which had once been dedicated to eliminating the other, was pooled together whilst anxious American, Russian and Chinese scientific think tanks developed theories and strategies on dealing with the threat.

The meteorite was said to be larger than the Earth’s moon and was travelling at such velocity that impact upon the planet’s surface would wipe out at least three quarters of the world’s population.  A few attempts were made to knock it off its intended trajectory, but all failed spectacularly. Finally, with it bearing down on the Earth’s atmosphere, one final desperate attempt was made.

When the missile hit, the explosion was bigger than a hundred thousand Hiroshima’s.  Millions died from the fallout that followed but, despite this, there was great global joy and celebration that humanity had been saved. The people of the world finally seeing the benefit of unity and being as one. Never again, they vowed, would humanity destroy itself.

But then the rains came. Thick, black acidic rain that deluged the entire planet beneath great clouds of meteoritic dust and debris.  Buildings began to crumble beneath it, concrete devoured in minutes, and the planet’s water supplies adulterated by the alien liquid. The lucky ones died immediately, the unlucky ones were driven to insanity and a malaise that forced them, quite literally, to eat themselves to death.

When finally the rains stopped, months later, survivors emerged from underground bunkers, blinking and starving wretches – like those liberated from the Nazi concentration camps.

The planet, though, was barren – stripped of both man and nature.  Great sands drifted where once vegetation flourished, great mountains of twisted metal where cities once stood.

And then, without warning, they came; thousands upon thousands of them, emerging from the skies. They came in peace they said, the annihilation of man necessary for the survival of the universe.  And gratefully the survivors bowed down before them.

The planet of Eden was born that day.

Adduce (aka ‘Just One Drink’)

“It’s just one drink, just one glass of red to help me relax that’s all,” said Alan half concealing the glass behind his back. “It’s no big deal.”

Kay shook her head, disappointment etched across her face like that of a teacher finding her best pupil smoking behind the bike sheds. “If it’s not a big deal, why are you trying to hide it?”

“I’m not. I wasn’t. I mean,” blathered Alan. “It’s just that you startled me.”

“You promised me Alan. You said this time would be different. We agreed. Total abstention,” she kept her tone calm, level – as if to underscore her discontent.

“It has been. It is, different that is. I’ve not touched a drop in months.”

“So why now?”

He looked from the glass in his hand, to her and back again. “It’s because, well, you know, it’s his birthday isn’t it.”

Kay took a deep breath, her fingernails digging into the palms of her clenched fists. He was a selfish bastard, always had been. She couldn’t believe now, not after all that had happened, he would try and adduce having a drink on it being Liam’s birthday.

Or rather, it would have been. If he were still there with them.

“Do you think he’d want to see you drinking, Alan. Really?”

He looked down at his feet and shifted uncomfortably. “He wouldn’t mind. He’d understand.”

“And what about me, Alan? Do you think I’ll understand?” She could no longer keep the anger from her voice.

“It’s just one drink, love. That’s all. Just to help me get through today.”

Kay knew there was never such a thing as just one drink for an alcoholic. It was a doorway, an entry into the first level of self-inflicted oblivion.

She tried to recompose herself, knowing that he would use her anger as another excuse to take that first fateful sip. “I thought we agreed, Alan, that if there’s not a first drink then there’ll never be two, five or even ten more?”

He shrugged. “If only it were that easy, Kay.”

“You think any of this is easy for me, Alan?” she sighed, choking back tears. “Every day I have to urge myself to get up, to get on with life. Every day Alan. So I promise you, you take one sip from that glass, and I’ll walk straight out the door.”

She looked down at herself, her legs motionless in the wheelchair.

“As well as I can of course.”

“Please love, it’s just one drink, honest,” he whimpered, his voice cracking under the strain.

“That’s what you said that night, isn’t it?” she snapped, no longer able to control the venom she’d been bottling up for months. “The night you smashed our car into the back of a lorry. Just one more drink, you said, after all they were free weren’t they? It’d be rude not to. Unless, of course, you consider the life of our son to be much of a cost?”

Frowzy (aka ‘Causing A Stink’)

Ruth wasn’t sure which she hated most: the daily commute into the city or the servitude of being a corporate whore? But what could she do? She was young and ambitious and determined to prove herself within the male dominated world of hedge fund investments. One day she hoped she would make enough so that she no longer had to do either.

So she was surprised when that morning she found an empty seat next to a scruffy old man. It wasn’t until she had sat down next to him did she realise the real reason for her fellow commuter’s unusual generosity.

The old guy stank; really stank.

He was wearing a threadbare, frowzy suit, which had string tied around the waist to keep his trousers held up, and kept stroking at an unkempt white beard that looked as if wildlife would emerge from it at any moment.

As she sat down he turned and smile warmly, exposing a mouth of yellowing twisted stumps that might have once been teeth.

“People normally don’t sit next to me,” he said, his breath smelling of stale whisky. “So it must be my lucky day to get such a pretty thing sat here.”

Ruth nodded, whilst trying to hold her breath, and took her Blackberry out of her bag. Hopefully if she pretended to be busy he would shut up and go back to grooming his matted facial hair.

“What do you do then, young lady?” he continued.

“I’m a hedge fund manager,” she replied, matter-of-factly, whilst pretending to read an email. If she was short and sharp enough he might get the message.

He laughed, or rather smiled and burped. “I sometimes sleep in hedges.”

“That’s nice,” she said, feeling the amused glances of other commuters, relieved it was her rather than them. She made a mental never to take a seat on the morning commute again.

“Are you taking the piss?” said the old man, suddenly getting angry.

“Sorry?”

“You think it’s nice having to sleep rough, do you?”

“That’s not what I meant,” started Ruth.

But the old guy wasn’t listening.

“All the same, the lot of you! Think just ‘cause I sleep rough and have a drink problem you can all look down your noses at me, that I have no feelings.”

“No, not at all…”

“I was like you all once,” he said, his voice rising so the whole of the carriage could hear. “Job in the city, nice home in the suburbs, a beautiful wife. Then Black Wednesday hit in the 80s and I lost it all. So fuck the lot of you! I curse you all for your inhumanity.”

Ruth was relieved when they pulled into London Bridge station. She quickly hurried from the train and made for the Jubilee Line. She would have to think about moving closer to the office. It would be more expensive sure, but she could afford it now.

Now she had landed a job with Lehman Brothers.

Gloaming (aka ‘The Gloaming Bride’)

“I don’t want to go out,” sobbed Jemima tearfully. “It’s cold and dark and I haven’t eaten all day! You can’t make me!”

Her parents, Wilf and Elizabet, exchanged anxious glances. They both knew the dire consequences they would bring on the village if their daughter refused to go through with all that had been arranged.

“Honey, we’ve been through this already,” said Wilf smiling as best he could. “It’s the greatest honour any girl can have to become the Gloaming Bride.”

“But I am only thirteen. I’m too young to be a bride!”

Elizabet choked back her own tears and finished tying the red ribbon in her daughter’s hair. “But only the most special girl becomes a Gloaming Bride, dear. The village elders chose you this year, you should feel very proud of yourself. It’s a great honour for our family.”

“But why does there have to be a Gloaming Bride? I still don’t understand.”

Wilf sat down beside his daughter and took her hand in his. “I told you earlier, honey. Each Halloween the Gloaming King comes seeking a bride from the village. If we do not offer him the most beautiful girl from the village, then the whole village will suffer a terrible winter and many will die. By being his Gloaming Bride you will save so many of the villager’s lives. Isn’t that worth it?”

Jemima sniffled and wiped away her tears. “I guess so. But who is the Gloaming King?”

“No one really knows, darling, so think how lucky you will be. You will get to actually find out all about him over the Gloaming Feast,” said Elizabet, straightening Jemima’s flowing white dress. “So, no more of this silliness, okay?”

Jemima stepped towards the door and smiled weakly. “Ok, I understand. Do I look nice?”

Both Wilf and Elizabet smiled with pride at their beautiful young daughter.

“You look beautiful,” said Elizabet.

“A bride fit for a King,” added Wilf.

Slowly Jemima pulled the cottage door open. Outside a heavy twilight had descended upon the village, black and oppressive, like death itself. Nothing stirred or moved. Jemima turned and looked back at her parents.

“Will I be happy?”

Wilf looked down guiltily at the floor.

“Of course you will be, darling,” said Elizabet forcing a grin.

Jemima smiled, turned and stepped out into the gloaming.

The moment the door closed behind her, Elizabet slumped to the floor, sobbing hysterically. “My poor, poor darling daughter! What have we done?”

Wilf knelt beside her and took her in his arms. “Ssssh, Elizabet, it will soon be over. It’s for the best.”

Suddenly Jemima’s terrified screams filled the night air. Elizabet clasped her hands to her ears, whilst Wilf looked desperately up at the ceiling. Eventually the screaming stopped and silence fell again.

“Do promise me one thing, Wilf,” Elizabet said, turning to her husband.

“Anything,”

She looked down and lightly patted her pregnant bulge. “If this one is a girl too, then we drown her at birth…”

Verbiage (aka ‘Sex, Drugs and Politics’)

“I hate the party conference,” she says stroking my chest hair, her face blushed with the afterglow of our long but frantic session of love making. “This pledge, that pledge. Headlines, spin, bullshit. No wonder the public don’t believe in us anymore. It’s all just words, an overabundance of meaningless words…”

“Verbiage,” I say, drawing on our shared post-coitus smoke.

She looks up at me, her eyes as brown as sweetest chocolate. She might be old enough to be my mother, but she’s still very attractive for an older woman. “What?”

“Verbiage,” I repeat. “It means an overabundance of words.”

She smiles. “You’re just showing off, aren’t you? You might be an Oxford graduate, but I’m still the Shadow Home Secretary remember!”

“But according to the Daily Telegraph I’m the young back bencher to watch!” I tease her. “They even predicted I could get your job in a reshuffle.”

“Never,” she snorts. “Our illustrious leader realises the tabloids love me. The sexiest Tory ever I think The Sun called me. They’d crucify him if he ever sacked me.”

I kiss her. “Maybe, but don’t forget how fickle the media are. All it’d take is for a slight whiff of scandal and they’d be onto you quicker than an illegal fox hunt!”

She lies back and takes the joint from me. “Still, I guess the party conference does allow us an opportunity to spend some time together.”

“What’s your husband doing this week?” I ask.

“No doubt out shooting some pheasant or other,” she sighs. “And then shagging the stable lad up the arse.”

I laugh. “Not an act you’re too averse to if the last hour is anything to go by.”

I feel her hand grasp my cock. “You do bring out the naughty girl in me.”

The blood surges through and I begin to harden in her hand.

“Oooh,” she purrs. “The honourable member is rising again. Oral questions this time?”

I smile. “You just know how much I adore the lip service you pay to us lowly back benchers.”

She looks up at me. “I need a snort of something first. Have you brought anything?”

I nod. “Only some of the finest available this side of Bogota.”

“Where on earth do you get it from?”

I shrug. “Let’s just say I have a good contact in the Treasury who has access to the Queen’s Warehouse. It’s over on the dressing table.”

I watch as she leaps from the bed, her naked body curvaceous and soft.

“Want a line too?” she asks, laying out a strip of white powder.

“No,” I reply. “But you fill your boots.”

She rolls up a twenty pound note and snorts the line straight up. I look over at my briefcase and smile, knowing the camera inside is filming her right now. This time tomorrow and The Sun will be running the naked drug shame story of Tory beauty.

Me? I guess I’ll just be waiting for the call to the Shadow Cabinet.

Edify (aka ‘Down In The Garden’)

“Mummy, where did baby come from?”

Jessica smiled. She had been wondering, ever since she had fallen pregnant again, when Troy would start to ask these kind of questions. He had always been an inquisitive young boy and, even though he had only just turned six, she considered now was as good a time as any to start talking to him about the birds and the bees. After all, she preferred the idea of him learning such matters through some considered parental edification, than some juvenile playground talk.

“Well, you know that Mummy loves Daddy very much, and that Daddy loves Mummy too?”

Troy nodded.

“Well, because Daddy loves Mummy he sometimes plants seeds in Mummy’s lady garden.”

Troy wrinkled his nose. “What’s a lady garden?”

“It’s a special place between Mummy’s legs.”

“Oh you mean that place with all the fluff?” sniggered Troy. “You mean your fanny?”

“That’s not a nice word, darling. Lady garden is so much nicer. After all it’s a place of rosebuds and earthly delights,” continued Jessica.

“But how does Daddy get his seeds in your fa…ahhh…lady garden?”

Jessica thought for a moment. “Daddy has a special, ahem, well, a special shaker…”

“You mean his willy?” sniggered Troy again.

“Really, Troy, that’s another word I’d rather you did not use!”

“But that’s what daddy calls it.”

“Let’s not worry about that,” said Jessica trying to move the lesson swiftly on. “So, Daddy plants a seed inside Mummy with his special shaker. And then slowly a seed grows deep inside Mummy’s lady garden, just like my bump is growing now. Eventually, the seed becomes a baby and pops out of Mummy’s garden, like a flower blooming into the world.”

“Uggh, you mean baby will have petals?” exclaimed Troy, screwing up his face.

“No, baby won’t be a flower, baby will just grow like a flower from Mummy’s lady garden.”

“So our baby won’t be a carrot or a turnip then, like what grows in our garden?”

Jessica smiled. “No, Mummy’s garden is different to our garden. Only a beautiful baby will grow out from Mummy’s garden.”

Troy thought for a moment and then said, “And Daddy won’t try and eat our baby then?”

“Goodness no, Troy, of course Daddy won’t eat our baby, whatever gave you a silly idea like that?”

Troy looked up ashamed. “Yesterday I saw Daddy go round to Mrs Miller’s house next door. So I followed him and when I peeped through the window he was trying to eat her baby!”

“Don’t be silly, darling, Mrs Miller doesn’t have a baby,” gasped Jessica looking horrified.

Troy shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, but I think she has one growing inside her. Why else would daddy be trying to eat her lady garden?”