Rain at Rainbow Beach

Malloren Landis Justice sighed as she looked out of her kitchen into the back yard.

Rain ran down the window pane.

Malloren hated rain more than she hated being cooped up inside. But she had no choice; she would have to wait until it cleared up.

There was so much she had to do. The shopping list she had meticulously written lay on the kitchen table, a large black pot sat empty on the stove top, the clock on the kitchen wall ticked, its hands steadily counting the seconds away as the rain continued to fall.

She was sure this recipe would work. The children loved apples, why they ate enough of the things from her orchard. Her trees were in danger of being picked bare.

Yes, apple cakes would be sure to do the trick. She had all the necessary ingredients in her well stocked pantry. All she was missing was flour, butter and a few eggs.

If she could just get out to the Rainbow Beach Market she would be able to put everything together and have a plate ready for when the children were walking past on their way home from school. She was sure the cakes were the way to stop them. To stop them stealing her precious apples; kicking their balls in her yard; knocking on her door then running away; throwing stones at her windows; pestering her cat; spreading rumours that her house was haunted and calling her names. Yes, it could all be stopped with a little plate of apple cakes.

Malloren mused for a while, imagining how happy the children would be to find her cakes at the gate. The look on their faces as they bit into the delicious morsels. When she looked up from her reverie she found the rain had cleared. She giggled to herself, bid goodbye to her cat and pushed her shopping list into her pocket.

In her excitement she swung the front door, stepped outside and slammed the door shut behind her. At the same moment the vibrations from the slamming door shook loose a shower of rainwater from the eaves overhanging the door.

Malloren looked up and froze in terror. There was an agonising scream as the water splashed upon her upturned face.

“Nooooooooo!” she howled as her skin burned and sizzled, “Nooooooooo!”

Two small boys stood behind a large tree that grew beyond Malloren Justice’s front gate. Their mouths gaped wide in horror and astonishment as they watched the screaming woman on the doorstep writhe, shrink and, finally, disappear.

The boys stood silently for a moment longer then one spoke,

“See, I told you she was a witch! Just wait til Jesse gets home from school and we can tell him!”

“Yeah,” replied his brother, they stood still again, watching the empty step in silence. After a moment the younger one shifted impatiently.

”Let’s go get some apples.”

Rainbow Beach Awakes

There is a taste of something new in the air. After months of quiet and stillness the residents of Rainbow Beach are stirring, whispers spread wings and flutter from mouth to mouth. Excitement unfurls like the bunting being hung from the shops and houses along the beach-front.

“They are returning!”

Windows are washed, doorsteps swept. In the evenings music is heard in the cafes and the tantalising aroma of delicious carnival food fills the air.

The visitors are returning and the town is showing her colour and warmth again.

 

 

Down at the wharf crates are being unloaded from boats. Crates full of bottles with a strange green liquid are stacked ready to be carted to the nearest hotel. 

“Now we’re in for some fun,” murmurs one deckhand to another, ” Guess who’s back in town?”

The Continuing Story of Captain Dirty Martini (or Don’t Call Me Olive) IV

Don’t be bringing bad luck aboard me ship or it’s back to shore for you!

“Captain, the new recruits are ready for your inspection.”

Mr. Blaze stood at the door of his captain’s quarters. As always his face was an impassive mask. He addressed the Captain’s desk, which sat, as was usual for midmorning, unattended.

“Excellent Mr. Blaze,” Martini mumbled from a dark corner of her quarters, obscured by bamboo screens and a light cloud of cigar smoke, “Let them stand to attention a while longer Blaze whilst I get my head around being vertical this early in the morning.”

“Yes Captain, anything else?” Blaze replied.

“Have Piecemeal send over eggs and whatever else it is you buffoons eat when you insist on rising before the suns over the yard-arm.”

Martini emerged from her quarters, puffing slowly on a large cigar, an hour and a half later.

“Jolly good victuals Blaze!” she crowed, “The eggs were damned inedible but the rum was tip-top.”

Blaze nodded his head to indicate the small rowing boat moored alongside the port side of Maelstrom. A bedraggled group of men occupied the boat; the same boat that they had rowed the half mile from shore and had been standing in, waiting by the Maelstrom, for Martini, for 2 hours. The trip and the waiting had taken its toll.

Martini strode across to the balustrade, leaned over, saw the boat’s occupants and burst into fits of laughter.

“I thought I would take the liberty of testing their sea legs Captain,” Mr. Blaze explained.

“Excellent idea Blaze.” Martini chuckled.

Two of the men had already succumbed to the relentless pitch and roll of the waves beneath their craft and were sprawled over the sides of the boat gagging and retching pitifully. Of the remaining three, one swayed conspicuously.

“Bring the uprights aboard Blaze.” Martini directed.

When the recruits were on deck Martini began her scrutiny. The first volunteer who had been swaying in the row-boat was now a nasty shade of green.

“Well men!” Martini began, “Tell me why you wish to sail on my ship! What good are you going to do me?”

She paused in front of the swaying man and puffed a large cloud of cigar smoke towards him. The man’s countenance grew greener as he vomited then passed out at Martini’s boot clad feet.

“Throw him in the boat with those other feather dusters,” she muttered as she stepped delicately over the unconscious figure.

“Well boy,” she growled at the next recruit, “What’s your name?”

The boy in question began to shake and stammer a quaking reply.

“Speak up boy!” Martini yelled impatiently, “This isn’t a bloomin’ tea-party! Give me your name!”

The nervous youngster removed his hat, revealing a shock of red hair,

“Gillibrand sir, er Captain,” he managed to whisper.

Martini stood stock still, glaring at Gillibrand.

“Mr. Blaze!” she hissed,” What, in the name of Capricorn, is this?”

“A mistake Captain” Mr. Blaze replied smoothly.

Gillibrand wrung his hat between his hands, apparently trying to render it even more lifeless than it already was.

“If you please, sir, Captain, sir, what mistake do you mean sir? Captain?” he muttered miserably.

“Gillibrand,” Martini spoke calmly and unbuttoned her black velvet jacket, “You have the reddest mop I have ever had the misfortune to set eyes on.”

“Yes sir, Captain”

Martini removed her jacket and passed it to Blaze who folded it gently over his arm.

“You, my lad, and your damned red hair have brought bad luck aboard my ship.”

“Oh! Sir, Captain, I am sorry!” Gillibrand spluttered, giving his now formless hat a renewed wringing, “What can I do to stop it?”

“Excellent question Gillibrand,” Martini replied, cigar clenched between her teeth as she carefully rolled back her shirt sleeves, “What I need you to do is stand perfectly still and close your eyes.”

“Stand still and close my eyes,” Gillibrand repeated slowly, his face brightened and he smiled, “Yes Captain!”

He held his forlorn hat tightly between his hands and shut his eyes.

Martini drew back her right fist and punched Gillibrand swiftly on the nose. He dropped, soundlessly, onto the deck.

“Thank-you,” Martini said to the heap at her feet.

“It’s a shame about his hair,” Martini mused aloud as she buttoned her shirt cuffs, “That Gillibrand had a good head for orders. Get him off my ship Blaze.”

“Right you are, Captain,” Blaze replied as he gestured to the crew to remove the inert form of Gillibrand, “Right you are.”

Dark Thoughts.

Inspired by Soul Food Writing Prompt Delphic Oracle

Word of the Day :  Tactile

 

 

Delicate tips graze embossed ridges.

With fingers deft and silent I pick and brush my way into your story.

I know you. Letter by letter I feel you.

Words rich in depth and texture.

Fingers linger over your thoughts.

 

Feeling

I visited the Oracle again.

The word of the day was tactile.

This got me thinking about  things, mainly a bad joke which , at the risking of losing my audience, I’m going to get out of my system.

Did you hear about the blind man who picked up a cheesegrater?

He claimed it was the most violent book he had ever read.

And off to the back of the bus I go…….

Room Service

 

Suite 10. Coffee with two sugars.

 It’s 2am. My first night on the job. I’ve been here for 5 hours, I have one hour to go, and I’ve had about enough from my supervisor; Lanie, a whining, moaning woman, 10 years my senior. All I’ve heard since 9 pm is how hard it is to keep staff and how no one sticks it out for more than a night or two.

Frankly I’m not surprised, how anyone could bear to be around this woman for more than 5 minutes, let alone hours on end, night after night, is beyond me. I make a mental note to check the classifieds tomorrow.

Getting out of the office into the kitchen is a welcome break from Lanie. I get everything prepared for the order.

Why I thought getting back into hospitality was a good idea eludes me now. I hate working nights, I resent having to prepare food and drinks for people I don’t know, let alone at 2 in the morning.

The coffee complete, I grab a tray. I tut in disgust; it is grimy and finger-marked. I take it to the sinks and as I stack it to wash I notice words printed into the grime.

Stay away.

“I intend to do that buddy,” I reply to my anonymous penfriend, “As soon as I finish this shift.”

I find a clean tray for the coffee and head up to the lifts. Even at two in the morning euphemistic muzak filters through the speakers. The Girl From Ipanema invades my ear canals. I grimace at the lift mirrors and roll my eyes. 1 more hour I tell myself. The lift is far from clean. As I reach to swipe the button for floor 10 I read the graffiti scrawled across the doors.

Stay away.

“You’re singing my song” I think to myself.

The doors glide apart at floor 10 and I head down the corridor to the Suite. The blue white flicker of TV light blinks under the door. I knock,

“Room service” I call cheerfully.

My own voice speaks urgently and clearly in my head,

“Put the tray at the door and walk away. Don’t go in there. Stay away.”

I hesitate; maybe I should just dump it and go. It’s not like Lanie would be surprised. I start setting the tray down when a frail voice calls from the other side of the door,

“Please come in, it’ll take too long for me to get to the door.”

I sigh, straighten up and open the door.

The room is dark, illuminated only by the television screen. A frail figure sits hunched in the couch wrapped in a blanket.

“Coffee sir?”

“Here son, bring it here, put it on the table.” His voice is barely audible over the show he is watching. His gaunt face reflects the blue white flashes of the screen. I put the tray gently on the table.

“Here boy, sit, sit. Rest for a moment.” A thin, long fingered hand pats the space on the couch next to him. I hesitate, thinking of the hour left until I knock off, Lanie waiting downstairs with her litany of loss. I sit on the couch.

“Please son, pass me my coffee.”

Ice cold fingers brush my own as he takes the cup from my hand. His eyes look into mine,

“Thankyou son.”

My eyes return to watch the television screen, only to find empty space. A clock ticks loudly on the opposite wall. I feel confused. Where is the television? Was there a television?

“Read to me,” the old man rasps, “my eyes aren’t what they were. My book’s on the table.”

I look down at the table, where the tray was. Tray? It is no longer there. If it ever was. A thin, leather bound book is in its place.

I pick up the book, open it and look around to ask what page to turn to.

The couch is empty, a blanket is around my shoulders. The clock ticks loudly on the wall. I am so cold, so lonely. I’ve been up here so long. A coffee will warm me up. Maybe someone will be kind enough to sit and read to me. I reach out slowly for the phone.

 

Word of the Day

I need to see a doctor. Instead I went to the Oracle. And she gave me a word. And the word was my condition.

Inenarrable.

I am suffering from inenarrability. Truly.

I have all these great stories in my head. Fantastic stories. I have four stories in various journals that I have started. Wonderful stories, funny stories, strange stories. Unfinished stories. I get about a third or half way through the story and I get stuck. I can see the story in my head, the whole thing, unfolding, in all its glory. But can I write it? Can I make that leap from imagination to paper? No. I try, I write, I stop, I try again, I stop. It is stuck. My story ia untellable, indescribable, unreachable…inenarrable.