A collective of English Gentlemen
| Life in the Lost Lane A collective of English Gentlemen |
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I love to write. Mostly to share with, and to amuse others, but it would be disingenuous of me not to admit that I derive satisfaction from it too. Not only the actual process, but also re-visiting my old words and imagining them as someone else's. The notion that writing is cathartic is not original, nor is it some wonderful insight I've just struck upon, but what I composed was as important to me then, as this is now. And after reading back the words I wrote nearly six years ago, it's possible to surmise that I was an unwitting participant in something yet to come. Consummation. A new appreciation. A startlingly clear sense of time. So wrapped up are we, in the present. So consumed with working toward something, we fail to register our own growth. It's often said that people don't change. I'd like to submit the idea that we all change, all the time. We are different; we are altered, from one second to the next. Every thought and every decision changes us continuously throughout our lives. It took a few minutes reflection for me to understand this, and to accept that I had made achievements where I had previously thought there were none. I'm not the same person I was then. I'm not even the same person I was when I started writing this. And neither are you. posted by B @ 8:03 PM
Thursday, September 7 Sections of doubt - extracts and morsels “There never was room out here for me.” She said as the door slammed. … The sun had risen alone. No one was around to welcome its arrival. The evening before had seen a great feast on the Lower Plane. The people had come out and rejoiced - for a time. At first, small groups had gathered by the benches and tables. Each bought colourful and fragrant foods of many kinds on platters and in ornate vessels, potent and delicious drinks. In time the groups grew and began to merge. Gradually the people began eating, drinking, and talking. Some sang with passion. They told tales from their past: of challenges and massacres, of victory and reward. By the time the sun had set that evening, the people were out. The people were rejoicing. … In the silence, all she could hear was her body pounding. The heat and the adrenaline still charged an unsettling shiver. As soon as she noticed the silence, it was gone, washed away by the noise of her heart and lungs and throat. She tried to calm herself. She tried to listen only to her body’s struggle to cope. She failed. Her mind, clear for half a moment soon filled with the looping din of the conversation she had just had - before the door slammed. She heard his voice and those barbed words and they stung. The wounds were still fresh. The wounds were made deep and fast and wept, before the door slammed. … A short distance from the benches and tables, just beyond the high banners and livery of the feast, foothills marked the edge of the Lower Plane. East of the plane was the wood. Here species of trees unknown on the home world grew to great heights and bore fruit filled with fleshy moist tissue. Amongst the trees lived many species, though no one yet had found a way to observe them, let alone capture them. The science of the people from the Lower Plane had neither concept nor proof of what lived within the great woodland. At the edge of the woodland, at the base of one of the trees, two people crawled around the towering roots. … Getting a grip no longer seemed an option. Any sort of feeling had numbed in the passing moments. She had been running, taking no care for her footing or safety, along the edge of a ravine. Below her rocks fell and collided. Stones hit each other making dust and noise in the ravine. The ravine, silent for millennia, now echoed and roared. A breaking wave of debris fell down the slope behind the moving person, a trail of commotion that never caught up with its cause. She ran as fast as she could. Driven on by fear, knowing she was going out toward nothing. No one would find her where she was going. She was still going as fast as she could. If she stopped, she would have to try and go back, to wrestle with the decision of life or death. Stopping could never be an option. Her grip had slipped long ago. A perspective, firm and almost certainly suicidal, had emerged. Her legs rubbed in the suit as she ran. She carried on. When did her grip to slide? Why had she not seen this coming before the door slammed? posted by E! @ 2:30 PM
MR. SLIPLOWE AND THE CASE OF THE MISSING JUNIPER BERRIES - PART ONE: Mr. Sliplowe eased himself from the passenger seat of Bill Tippin's white delivery van before nodding in thanks and collecting his hat from the dashboard. "Good luck" Bill said through the now closed van door. His voice was muffled and was followed by a brief chuckle, which in turn was accompanied by a manly ripple of his double chin.Mr. Sliplowe turned up the collar on his coat and pushed his hat down firmly on his greying hair as he began to trudge his way through the snow and ice to Mrs. Winford's cottage. The gritting trucks never came this far down the lane as it was so narrow, this made for a treacherous route to the welcoming oak of Mrs. Winford's front door. As he approached, he let a small cough escape him sending a plume of his breath into the night sky. Mr. Sliplowe liked to announce his arrival with a cough. He didn't like to surprise anyone, besides he was expected and Mrs. Winford had the ears of a wolf. He was not more than two strides away from the door when it swung inwards to reveal a rather plump, elderly lady. Standing at approximately five foot one in her slippers, her white/grey hair was tied into a neat bun atop her head and she was wearing a huge apron that completely covered her torso and dangled down below her knees. Mr. Sliplowe could just about make out a floral pattern beneath dustings of flour, castor sugar, and yeast. Small half-moon glasses sat low on her nose and she peered warmly into the winter night with a smile nearly as wide as her face. The glow of firelight beckoned from beyond the hallway. "You're just in time Mr. Sliplowe, I've a cake in the oven!" Mrs. Winford's inviting tone was bubbling with pleasure. She loved to bake. Needing no further encouragement, Mr. Sliplowe stepped from Winter's grip into Winford Cottage for some tea and cake."Where's you car?" Mrs. Winford asked as she scoured the road ahead of her. "I'm afraid she's not quite up to the task in this weather" His voice was as smooth as creamy milk chocolate. "As luck would have it Bill Tippin drove by my place and took pity on an old man" Mr. Sliplowe smiled as he removed his hat and coat and placed them on a stand next to the phone. He was fifty eight, and he liked to think of himself as well seasoned. "Old man?! Pah!" Mrs. Winford waved him away with her right hand as she closed the door with her left. “Go through to the study and have Bernard pour you a sherry” Mrs. Winford waddled off to the left and disappeared through a swinging door to a bright and busy kitchen. As the door swung back, the smell of brewing tea and cinnamon wafted through. Mr. Sliplowe walked towards the study door, which was ajar. The flickering of light from a fireplace danced a hypnotic jig on the oak paneling that lined the hallway. He pushed the door open further and coughed gently. “There you are Mr. Sliplowe!” Bernard exclaimed. He rose from his armchair and moved clumsily over to a decanter and some glasses on a nearby table. “How are you Bernard?” Mr. Sliplowe asked. “Oh, you know.” Bernard replied. “Glass of sherry good man?” The burning logs provided the only light in the room and cast moving shadows across Bernard as he poured a drink without waiting for an answer. The silvery tufts of hair that jutted from above each ear and over each eye had grown wilder since the last time Mr. Sliplowe had been here. “Thank you, thank you” he said as Bernard maneuvered himself with a grunt back into his fireside seat. Bernard was if anything, plumper than Mrs. Winford. His red nose and ruddy complexion would allow even an amateur detective to deduce that not only had he spent a great deal of his life outside, but he had grown to like a drink or two. “Here you are, that’ll warm you up” He said holding out a half full glass in his cumbersome hand. Mr. Sliplowe took the drink, but instead of sitting down he wandered across the room to stand at the window overlooking the back garden. “Magnificent” He said. “ You know Bernard, I think winter is positively my favourite season” Mr. Sliplowe took a sip of his drink and sat in a chair next to his friend. Bernard grunted his approval before gulping down a large mouthful of sherry. “We had those planted this year” said Bernard pointing to three snow dusted conifer trees. Mr. Sliplowe stood again and returned to the window. “What are they? Conifers?” “Juniperus communis” Bernard said proudly. He had always had a keen interest in all things horticultural. Mr. Sliplowe raised his eyebrows and made a small noise in his throat to indicate that he was interested. Bernard went on. “Yes, Mrs. Winford plans on using the fruit for cooking, once Spring arrives. Of course the Juniper berry is not a true berry but a cone with unusually fleshy and merged scales, which give it a berry-like appearance. The cones from a handful of species, especially Juniperus communis, are used as a spice, particularly in European cuisine, and also give gin its distinguishing flavour.” Bernard’s eyes widened a little when he mentioned gin. He laughed a little, swallowed another mouthful of sherry and continued. “All juniper species grow berries, but some are considered too bitter to eat. In addition to Juniperus communis, other edible species include Juniperus drupacea, Juniperus oxycedrus, Juniperus phoenicea, Juniperus deppeana, and Juniperus californica. Some species, for example Juniperus sabina, are toxic and consumption is highly inadvisable” Bernard laughed again before Mrs. Winford entered the study. She backed through the door because she was carrying a tray with a teapot and a freshly baked apple cake on. “He’s not going on about those bloody Juniper trees again is he?” She said with a scornful look in Bernard’s direction. “It’s fine Mrs. Winford, it really is quite interesting” Mr. Sliplowe finished his sherry and placed the empty glass down next to the decanter. Bernard chose to ignore the remarks, clearly focusing all his attention on the arriving apple cake, which for all intents and purposes smelt heavenly. Mrs. Winford had removed her apron and shuffled into the room enthusiastically. Upon placing the tray down on a small table between Bernard and Mr. Sliplowe who was now seated again, she took the chair next to a rather distinguished old grandfather clock and positioned it so that the three of them would be facing one another. Bernard made a grab for the apple cake but had his hand slapped smartly away. “Bernard Miller, will you never learn?” Mrs. Winford nagged. Bernard rubbed the back of his hand and drew his breath in through his teeth. Mr. Sliplowe let a smile play on his face. Mrs. Winford cut three generously sized portions of cake and placed them neatly on small plates. As she poured the tea Mr. Sliplowe said. “It’s lovely to see you both again” His voice of silk commanding total attention. “I suppose you’re both eager to hear my news?” Just then the phone rang. It was an old fashioned sound. Mrs. Winford scurried into the hallway to answer it. Mr. Sliplowe looked at Bernard. “We should wait” he said. “when she gets back” Bernard didn’t touch his cake, but he did finish his glass of sherry in one long swallow. A soft sound of surprise came from behind the door that led to the hall. Then the clunk of the phone being rested on the stand. The door pushed open and Mrs. Winford popped her head in the gap. “It’s for you” she said as she entered the room. Her eyes were fixed on Mr. Sliplowe, there was something in them. Hope? “Oh, I wasn’t expecting…thank you” Mr. Sliplowe rose and passed Mrs. Winford at the door. As he did so she gave his hand a squeeze and smiled. “This is Mr. Sliplowe” he said as he pressed the receiver to his ear. “Yes, Hi…Detective Sliplowe?” A tinny, distant voice asked. An American accent. “I’m not a policeman anymore” Mr. Sliplowe replied as he took a small pad of paper and a pen from the inside pocket of his coat and placed them next to the phone. “Mr. Sliplowe will do just fine” He put emphasis on the word Mr. “Oh, I’m sorry. Mr. Sliplowe. I’m calling from New York. Detective Inspector Bob Shaw gave me this number, said I could reach you here today if I had any further news. My name is David, Sgt. David Moore. I’m with the NYPD” “Well Sgt. Moore you have my undivided attention. What do you have?” “The name came up.” Sgt. Moore stopped talking, expecting a response. For a moment or two there was only the hiss of the long distance phone connection. “How confident are you it’s the man I’m looking for?” “My cousin works immigration at Newark Airport. He checks names for me every week. When the name comes up he pulls the picture they take when you arrive to see if it matches the one you and Bob supplied….” As Sgt. Moore spoke the tone of his voice rose in waves, making his sentences sound like questions. “…it’s him alright. The address he wrote on his visa waiver form was Amsterdam Court Hotel, 226 West 50th Street, New York. That’s real close to Times Square.” Mr. Sliplowe scribbled down the address but before he could say anything Sgt. Moore spoke again. “I’ll try and stop by the hotel to confirm it’s him. Maybe I can get some more information for you. Bob told me why you’re looking for this guy… so if there’s anything else I can do… ” “I’ll contact Bob if I need anything. Thanks for your good work Sgt. Moore.” Mr. Sliplowe put the phone down and sighed heavily before glancing towards the study. Silence. He picked up the receiver again and dialled Bob Shaw’s number. “Do you think this is to do with Marcus?” Mrs. Winford asked Bernard. Her voice sounded small and vulnerable. “I don’t know dear” Bernard said while lightly rubbing her upper arm in an attempt to comfort her. “I’m sure he’ll let us know”. “His tea’s getting cold” Mrs. Winford said absently. There was a click from the hallway. Mr. Sliplowe stepped into the room. “I’m going to New York” He said “Not before you’ve had tea and cake you’re not!” Mrs. Winford replied, the gusto in her voice restored. Mr. Sliplowe laughed heartily. It was a pleasant, reassuring sound. “Of Course” he conceded “Not until morning” He repositioned himself in his chair and looked into the expectant eyes of his hosts. “Now, I suppose you want to know why?” More than three thousand miles away Marcus White sat on the edge of his bed in room 302 flicking through the limited number of local channels the television had to offer. Despite being a regular visitor to the United States, the amount of advertising on TV never failed to amaze him. He sat transfixed while pharmaceutical companies peddled ‘miracle’ drugs that came with a frighteningly long list of side effects. He watched McDonalds, Burger King, Taco Bell, Subway, and various other fast food businesses compete for sales using images of cheap, delicious looking food and young, healthy people flashing across the screen with unnerving regularity. The room was decorated in off-whites and browns, it was small and warm, and had a large, soft double bed positioned against the back wall. In front of the bed was a large dark brown wooden unit that was comprised of four levels. It housed coffee making equipment, magazines and at the top, a small television. In a compartment on the right was an area to hang clothes. To the right of that was a door that led to a small bathroom. Marcus checked his watch and stood up. The floorboards creaked underfoot. He pushed the bathroom door open and turned the light on. He was face to face with himself in a huge mirror that nearly spanned the width of the room. He was tall, good looking, and athletic. His dark hair and large brown eyes made him seem younger than his thirty two years. He slipped a hand through the front of his hair, readjusting the style slightly. He smiled to himself a little as he sprayed some cologne behind each ear. It was approaching rush hour. The mixed up noises of New York City began to drift more purposefully into the darkening sky; people whistling for taxis, horns beeping, the hissing of hydraulics on stopping buses, the low rumble of large trucks, the click of heels on the sidewalks. Marcus turned the sound down on the TV and opened the window. Cold air pushed into the room. He leaned out and breathed in the smells and sounds for a minute, enjoying the moment, savouring the city. He closed the window, turned the television off and took a black coat from it’s hanger before shrugging into it and leaving. As Marcus White stepped off the lift into the narrow and softly lit hotel lobby he stopped at the front desk to arrange a wake up call. Behind him an American couple was having a loud conversation about what time they should leave for the airport in the morning. The only reception clerk on duty was on the phone. He held up a finger and smiled at Marcus to indicate that he would only be a minute. He was American, but of Asian heritage. His voice carried a distinct accent. His name badge read ‘Raman’ “Yes, that would be fine Sir.” He said. “We’ll expect you tomorrow afternoon. You will need to bring photo I.D and valid credit card.” He paused. Someone was speaking on the other end. “OK Mr. Sliplowe. I’ll arrange that for you. We will see you tomorrow.” He hung up and raised his eyebrows at Marcus. “I’d like a wake up call for tomorrow. 6:30am.” Marcus said. His English accent felt prominent. “Certainly Sir. Room number?” “302” Raman tapped his fingers across the keyboard for a minute before looking up. “OK. That’s all set for you Mr. White.” “Thanks” Marcus said already starting to walk away. “Excuse me.” A voice said from behind him. Marcus turned. “Are you from England?” The woman from the loud talking couple asked. “Yes.” “Oh! I just love the accent. Where are you from?” “London” Marcus said. It was a lie, but it was easier than the truth. His voice was tight. Impatient. “Well!” The woman said turning to her companion “We’re going to London tomorrow!” Her voice was shrill and grating. Marcus wondered how the man with her could put up with it. “Any tips on where to go?” She asked. “I haven’t been there for years” Marcus said curtly. “And I’m running late.” He tapped his watch and made a move for the front doors. As he turned he bumped into someone coming the other way. A policeman. “Careful buddy” The policeman growled. Marcus held his hands up in apology and let him pass. As he pushed through the hotel door he heard the American woman remark. “Jeez, I thought the British were meant to be polite.” He stepped outside and into a chilly breeze. Turning the collar up on his jacket Marcus White walked into the New York night. “That guy was British?” Sgt. Moore asked the woman in the hotel lobby. “From London” she replied sheepishly. Sgt. Moore reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a glossy photo of Marcus White. The woman gasped as she saw the picture. Sgt. Moore ignored her and faced Raman. “Was that the guy in the photo?” He asked slapping the picture down on the marble counter and nodding his head in the direction of the door. “Yes Sir. Is he dangerous?” “No. Nothing like that. Please don’t be alarmed. What room is he in?” “302” “OK, and when does he check out?” “Tomorrow. I just set a wake up call for 6:30am. Look if you’re going to arrest him I should really call the manager” There was a pause as Sgt. Moore considered his answer. “We’re not going to arrest him. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He reported a stolen bag at the airport and I wanted to ask him a couple more questions.” The lie felt easy on his tongue. In his experience most people were ready to believe whatever a policeman said. Raman looked relieved. “Why don’t you go after him? He can’t have gotten far” The woman behind him said. “And you are?” Sgt. Moore replied. “Sally Baldwin” she said guardedly. “Well, Miss…” “Mrs.” she said flashing her ring, and a proud smile. The man standing next to her looked mildly embarrassed. “Well, Mrs. Baldwin, I think I’ll do that right now” He turned to Raman. “Thanks for the info.” He turned back to woman and her husband. “Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin” Sgt. David Moore made a show of jogging out the hotel and looking down the street in search of his man. He jogged out of view of the hotel lobby and pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. posted by B @ 12:06 PM
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Hello and welcome from Life in the Lost Lane. L3 as it has become known is a fairly dynamic collection of reflections and meditations from a wide selection of authors. L3 attempts to bring the pain, pleasure and perversion of our individual world (s) to millions. Contributors are carefully vetted for writing style, insight and the ability to spin a rich tale. More than that, it is the drive and focus of the writers, who all push to define their ‘digital-selves’ that makes them and you welcome here. If you dislike/like/react/detest what you read here, or even fancy writing yourself, why not let us know. Clicking the author’s name will get you the email address you need to enter Life in the Lost Lane. |
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