Jess was the first to find her voice. “What?”

“Strawberry moon,” Holly said. “It says here that the full moon in June is called the Strawberry Moon.”

Jess rubbed her right temple with the tips of her fingers. “How does that help us?”

Holly sighed. “I guess it doesn’t. It just… I thought it sounded nice. Strawberry Moon. It’s not threatening at all, is it? It’s much nicer to think of strawberries.”

Luke slammed his book onto the table and stood up, almost knocking his chair over. “What difference does that make? We need helpful facts, not… not fluff!”

Holly shrank down in her chair a little bit. “I… I just…”

“It could be called the Cute Fluffy Bunnies With Snuffly Noses Moon, for all I care!” He leaned on the table, looming over Holly as his voice got progressively louder. “That doesn’t change what it means. Do you think it’s okay if we all die so long as the portent of our doom has got a cute name? I don’t!”

Jess stood up and put her hand on Luke’s shoulder.

“Don’t shout at Holly,” she said.

“I’ll shout if I goddamn want to,” he yelled, slapping her hand away and storming out of the room.

Jess looked at the others. Their eyes were wide, and their resolve shaken.

“He’s stressed,” she said simply.

“Yeah,” Mack said quietly, turning a page and running his finger down it as he scanned the words. “The end of the world will do that to you.”

© Kari Fay

“Woah! Woah! Woaaaaah!”

He waved his hands in the air as Patti Labelle’s voice rang out once more from the radio, adding his own slightly off-key counterpoint.

“Dee-dee dee dee-dee silky smooth,” he sang, his head wobbling from side to side as he ran a hand down his body, “Lala la café au lait!”

With an overly extravagant gesture, he squirted far too much washing up liquid into the bowl, continuing to dance and sing along despite not knowing half the words. Before the verse was over, soap suds were flying through the air.

“Gitchi gitch yaya dada,” he bellowed with glee, scrubbing a plate with his eyes closed.

The door behind him opened, but he continued to sing and dance, apparently unaware.

“Mocca chocolata ya ya!”

He span around and threw his arms in the air. “Creole Lady Marmalaaa-aaa-aa-aade!!”

His wife burst out laughing. Unfazed, he grinned, and danced towards her.

“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir,” he sang, reaching out and dabbing a blob of soap bubbles on her nose, “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”

She laughed more, and he grabbed her and span her around the kitchen.

“Quit it,” she gasped through her giggles. “Let me go! Come on, you have to finish the dishes.”

He pouted. “Aw. I thought I could seduce you with my sexy moves and get out of the housework forevermore.”

She slipped from his arms and grabbed a teatowel.

“Clever plan,” she said, flicking the towel at his backside. “Nearly worked. You wash, I’ll dry.”

© Kari Fay

(Author’s Note: Three Word Wednesday‘s prompts this week were Clever, Finish and Silky – I really struggled with this one, though.)

“What?” He stood still for a moment and stared, baffled. “I thought he was supposed to have been the best detective ever. In fiction, at least.”

She laughed briefly. “Yes, they want you to think he was fictional. No, he was an idiot. For a start, his method of reasoning was in fact induction, not deduction. Taking specific details and observations and from those observations moving to the underlying principles or processes which explain them. Induction.”

“Right,” he said, looking around somewhat helplessly. “So. Um. What do you… Induce from this, then?”

She stopped and turned around, her sharp green eyes taking in everything.

“She was killed elsewhere and brought here,” she said. “Carried by two men, neither of whom were the actual murderer. Something of a Laurel and Hardy shaped duo, by the footprints. They’re both afraid of the killer, something you’ll be able to use to your advantage when you arrest them. They split up afterwards, one will be found in the nearest chain coffee shop drinking something overblown and complicated, you know, venti skinny café latte extra shot no foam, that sort of thing, the other went to catch a train, probably from Waterloo, and is travelling south. I’d go for the man in Starbucks, personally, much nearer.”

He blinked. “I’m not even going to ask you to explain all that,” he said with a sigh. “How do we recognise this coffee guy, aside from his drink?”

She steepled her fingers in front of her chin and smiled. “He’ll be the one in the damp raincoat.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A damp raincoat? That’s not very specific!”

“It is when it hasn’t been raining.”

With a wink, she brushed past him and out of the door.

© Kari Fay

(Author’s Note: I couldn’t get the thought of Sherlock Holmes out of my head this evening (aided by finding the first episode of the very excellent Sherlock series on TV) so I wanted to do something along those lines. Unfortunately, a splitting headache meant I couldn’t think through the details properly, so I cheated on the explanation!)

Some thought it strange that so many would stay in the face of such inevitability, and indeed as the hour approached some citizens sent their children and loved ones away to stay with distant relatives in the next town over, that they might not have to witness what was to come.

Still, those that remained were not helpless. Having known of their fate for so long, they had no intention of standing still that the instrument of their doom might simply trample them; they had no plan to go quietly into the night.

Watchers stood vigilant as the day faded into dusk, and at the first sign horns blew, fires were lit and every man, woman and child ran to their positions.

They had practiced night after night until their actions were second nature; a well-oiled machine, an entire community that worked together as one body.

Cannon fired. Guns blazed. Men, women and children joined together to fight their doom.

And their destiny was rewritten.

© Kari Fay

(Author’s Note: The Three Word Wednesday prompts this week are Helpless, Trample and Vigilant.)

I used to love sleeping outside when I was a child. I spent many summer nights out on the lawn, falling asleep under the slowly spiralling constellations and waking up with the dawn. I thought that was natural.

We all did.

But it’s 22:45 on the 10th May, which means that Doctor Parten was right.

Twenty five days. That’s all it took to prove the theory. Twenty five days awake, and I feel like a superman. My mind is more alive now than it has ever been, and I can see so many things so clearly. The established scientific records, the common assumption that a man can go no more than a couple of weeks without sleep or face certain death, it’s all a part of their plan.

For centuries they have told us that we needed regular rest, that eight hours sleep a night was natural and that insomnia was something to be treated, and for centuries we have believed them.

We have allowed them to hold us back.

Sleep, in fact, is an addiction. Like any addiction it generates a certain high, a pleasant feeling that tempts you to indulge, over and over again, and like every addiction it has crippling side effects that we have taught ourselves to ignore. As a race, we have been sold the lie, and as a race we have indulged, and as a race we have been crippled.

I am crippled no more.

Breaking my addiction to sleep has been the most painful experience of my life. I ached. I hallucinated. My body tried, repeatedly, to betray me. If I had not set up this room to prevent it, I would have slept.

The Flowerpot, I call it. Early sleep deprivation experiments on animals used a rat in a flowerpot, with water rising up to a small pedestal upon which the poor creature stood. If the rat slept, it would fall in or dip its nose into the water. Either would wake it up. My flowerpot is a little more advanced, but it has served its purpose well.

In one hour, the door will open and I will step out into a night that holds no more temptation to sleep. I will step out into the world with all the faculties that they have denied me.

And I will not be alone.

In one hour, a hundred flowerpots will bear their fruit, and together we will claim what is rightfully ours.

Everything.

© Kari Fay

(Author’s Note: I have slept badly all week, and in my weary state I remembered an idea I had a long time ago which I never got around to writing before; it would be nice if I was on the way to becoming a superior human being, but… I think I’ll just make my way to bed instead!)

It was signed THE LORDS OF DESTRUCTION.

She wanted to obey, unquestioningly, to do anything they asked if it brought her baby home. He was more sceptical. They argued, but in the end he overruled his wife as he always did, and called the police.

Valuable time had been lost, but it soon became evident that they were dealing with anything but a criminal mastermind, and less than eight hours later the detective in charge was sitting across the table from a sullen, lanky teenager and his lawyer.

“Why, Larry?” He looked honestly confused. The teenager didn’t look up and the lawyer kept his face blank. “Why kidnap and ransom?”

The teenager shrugged. “Figured we’d show him what it was like,” he muttered. “Gettin’ a stupid ultimatum, y’know?”

The detective was baffled. “Ultimatum?”

“Yeah,” Larry said. “Well, that’s what Jess said it were. ‘E told Jess that she ‘ad to stop seein’ me or e’d cut her out of the will and shit, and not give ‘er the car ‘e promised for ‘er birthday and that.”

The lawyer looked slightly pained.

“So, we figured, a kidnapping like, and ‘e’d ‘ave ‘is own ultimatum, pay up or not see ‘er again. An’ we signed it as the Lords of Destruction to make it look like we were, I dunno, a terrorist group or summat.”

“I… see.” The detective stroked his chin, trying to comprehend the boy’s stupidity. “And where is Jess now?”

Larry slumped in his chair. “I dunno,” he said. “She done a runner as soon as she picked up the cash.”

© Kari Fay

(Author’s Note: The Three Word Wednesday words this week are Destruction, Lanky and Ultimatum.

“Something’s wrong,” she whispered.

The gargoyle slowly drew its thumb out of its mouth, sighed and turned to regard her.

“We should do something,” she said in a more urgent tone.

The gargoyle shrugged and stretched its wings. Aline took the gesture as agreement, and pulled a bag out from under her bed.

“I’ve got everything we’ll need, ” she said, rummaging through the contents to perform a double check, “I’ve even packed an extra thick jumper, in case it’s cold.”

She looked up to see the gargoyle standing on her desk looking rather pointedly down at the pen and paper at its feet. She stared at it blankly for a moment, then slapped her head and rushed over.

“Dear Mum,” she said slowly, trying to write neatly, “I have gone to get your Book back. Don’t worry, I took a thick jumper. Love, Aline.”

The gargoyle turned to Aline with a rather pained expression, but she wasn’t paying attention any more. Instead, she had dived head and shoulders into a pile of clothes at the foot of her bed. Just when it seemed she must have suffocated under the weight, she emerged clutching a T-shirt, combat trousers, and a pair of sturdy boots.

She dressed quickly, slung the bag over one shoulder, picked up the gargoyle and plonked it on the other shoulder.

“OK. Let’s go.”

© Kari Fay

(Author’s Note: I have wound up a little pressed for time today, so here’s something I wrote quite a long time ago, a beginning that I’ve been planning to give a “rest-of-the-story” to for far too long. Maybe putting it here will push it along a bit in my head, who knows?)

“See the penitent sinners line up for my forgiveness,” he crowed. “Look at them!”

She looked. Beaten down, miserable, hopeless, they trudged forwards. She was reminded of her childhood on the farm, watching the sheep being herded away to the slaughterhouse.

His gleeful expression dropped suddenly. “They don’t look sorry enough,” he said. “Make them crawl.”

She clenched her fist, digging her nails into the palm of her hand, her own morals fighting with her vow to serve, but then she turned and issued his order.

The guards forced the meek, sheep-like people to their knees, hitting the backs of their legs with their polearms if they moved too slowly. Still they came forward, their defeated, hopeless eyes fixed on the Emperor’s feet as they crawled towards his throne.

She watched them in silence. It was hard to believe that these people had, just hours before, risen up against the Emperor, had taken the steps she dared not, and had attempted to overthrow him.

They reached the Emperor, and the first of them lowered his head to kiss the imperial feet.

“You shall be forgiven,” the Emperor said. She started, staring at him wide eyed. Had he found his senses at last? The man at his feet was already weeping in gratitude.

“I ask only a small tribute from you in return.”

Another door in the hall opened, and two or three dozen children were shepherded in. There were gasps as the kneelers recognised their children.

“Yes,” the Emperor said, smiling. “I think they are small enough.”

© Kari Fay

(Author’s Note: The Three Word Wednesday prompt words this week are Believe, Penitent and Tribute.)

It seemed like only yesterday he had been safe and warm at home, toes toasting before the fire with a nice hot pie for supper and a glass of ale to hand.

But that wasn’t yesterday, nor even the day before. It had been days, weeks, even months – he had lost count somewhere along the way. And what a way it had been! Valleys and mountains and fields and plains and caves… an impossible journey that had taken him far beyond the furthest reaches of his imagination, and very far indeed from his warm and cosy home.

He sighed and poked at the meagre little fire he had built, trying to encourage it enough to push the chill away.

He had come a remarkably long way, but he had further to go yet. After all, his quest was far from over. The shivers running down his spine and the chill that cloaked his bones were testament to that. His eyes narrowed and he gritted his teeth. He would catch up to the sneaky little thief. He had to. He would catch up to him, take back what was his and wreak his revenge.

After all, his granny had knitted that poncho.

© Kari Fay

Anger, however, is a tiring emotion, and it soon gave way to despair. He staggered away from the door, reeled against the dank walls, and sank into the dirty, damp straw which he had glimpsed upon his entrance. It had disgusted him then; it welcomed him now. He begged for forgiveness, from his gaolers, from his ancestors, from his god, and finally he sank into a fitful sleep.

When he awoke in the darkness, he could not tell how long he had slept. There was no light here, even on the brightest day, unless a gaoler brought it, and the only sounds he could hear were the squeaks of rats and the constant drip drip drip of water in some corner of his cell. His throat responded to that drip; he became aware of how thirsty he was, and hard on the heels of his thirst came hunger. He cried out again, begging for water, for food even if it be stale bread.

Nobody came.

The thirst drove him to grope across the walls in the dark, searching for the source of that drip drip drip, for the respite which it promised and which even the strongest man must crave. On finding it, he pressed his lips desperately to it and swallowed. The water, if it could be called such, gave off a putrid smell and tasted so foul it made him gag. With a shudder, he held it down and crawled back to his pile of filthy straw.

He slept and woke by turns, never knowing how long for, wondering if it had been mere hours that he had languished there or days, even months. In the darkness there was no way to tell. He tapped on the floor, when he was awake, and when his fingers bled from tapping he rocked with arms around his knees, counting in a futile attempt to prove that time was still passing, that he was still alive.

Finally, the bolts were drawn once more and the door opened. He was blinded by a glare that seemed brighter than the sun, unaware that it came from a smoky lantern, and threw his arms over his eyes to protect them.

The door closed again, but the light remained. Blinking, squinting, he lowered his arms and saw that it came from a stump of a candle, set on the floor next to a tankard brimming with clear water and a plate bearing some unidentified and half-rotten meat and half a loaf of burnt bread.

In his despair, this meagre offering was more than the greatest feast he could crave, and he fell upon it with as much joy. He gloried in that tiny, flickering light until the candle burnt to its end and plunged him once more into the deep, foul and unforgiving darkness.

© Kari Fay

(Author’s Note: Three Word Wednesday time once more, and the words were Crave, Putrid, and Shudder. I actually had the most trouble with Crave – it would have been easier to work it in as “craving” or “craved” but I regard that as a bit of a cheeky cheat!)