a fabled stable

stories by laura lamb (c) 2015-2017, unless otherwise stated

[a-fabled-stable]

Joe, driving through the night

Joe was tired. He’d been driving all night and he still didn’t seem to be any closer to his destination. He’d taken the weekend off work for this trip but he had to be back on Monday morning for a meeting. At this rate, he’d reach the house and have to turn straight around again to make it back in time.  

He couldn’t figure out if he’d made a wrong turn, or several even, but his navigation system had never told him if he had. Other cars rushed by him on either side, blasting air against the side of his car, causing it to waver a little. 

How long had it been since he last stopped for a break? Time seemed to roll into one continuous drone whenever he was on the road. His eyes were growing ever heavier and his legs ached from controlling the pedals beneath his feet. Perhaps it would be a good time to stop, just for a bit. Focusing on his new goal, he scanned the landscape for a service station, hoping for a strong cup of coffee and a flushable toilet.

He’d left his wife, still sleeping in the bed they shared; he hoped to be back before she next awakened. Sliding the keys off their hook by the front door, he grabbed his prepared bag from the under stairs cupboard and flinging it over his shoulder, he stepped out into the darkness.

***

Finally, in the distance, a sign emerged. Rain began a soft pattering against the windshield as he steered the car off to the left. The sign read: Feeling tired? Why not take a break? Joe rubbed his eyes, uncertain as to whether they were playing tricks on him, but the mirage was real. Behind the sign was a small wooden cabin, porch lights glimmering with promise. As the rain grew heavier, Joe grabbed his bag from the passenger seat and stepped under the shelter of the portico. Another sign, fading painted roses on either side, greeted him: WELCOME BACK. 

The house looked occupied, despite there being nothing for miles in either direction, and no other vehicles in sight. It seemed best to knock first, in case they weren’t expecting visitors at whatever hour of the night this even was. His hands hurt from gripping the wheel for so long in the same position. Flexing them back and forth by his sides, as though playing an imaginary piano, he lifted his left arm and rapped his knuckles against the thin windowpane. It rattled, bouncing back against his skin repeatedly, making him think of the way wrecking balls tangoed with buildings. There was no answer, so he knocked again. This time, he heard shuffling from inside, a door squeaking open and shut somewhere, a chair in a scuffle with the floor.

A face appeared in the window, and the door opened slowly.

“Come in! You’re more than welcome, my friend. Welcome back, welcome back!”

A shaggy-haired old man grinned a gappy smile at him from the doorway. The welcoming glow behind him softened what would have normally been a somewhat unforgiving face, weathered by time and experience, or possibly just rotten weather.

Shaking the damp from his bones, Joe extended an arm to greet the man in a formal manner. The man forewent the seriousness of the situation and pulled him in for a close hug. “Welcome back, welcome back!” he continued to mutter. Joe’s chin rested lightly against the man’s shoulder as they embraced, and he took the opportunity to examine the interior closer, as the rain behind him grew even heavier.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess I’m afraid, it’s been a while since we had visitors and we weren’t expecting you so soon, truth be told!” the man explained, shambling back inside with Joe under his arm.

Joe was confident he had never met this man before, but he didn’t have the heart to explain this to him. The old guy looked so delighted to have company, it would be rude to shatter his joyfulness. An explanation could wait, Joe thought.

Inside, the cabin was wall to wall with frames, some empty, some containing photographs and paintings. The paintings looked strange, as though they had been created by someone using their ‘wrong’ hand. A fire crackled in the corner, and an implausibly comfortable-looking set of chairs faced its warmth gratefully. After driving for so many hours in a cramped condition with nothing but the car’s fans for heat, Joe couldn’t believe how picture-perfect this new setting was. He blinked for longer than a human should normally need to blink for, signaling his fatigue. By the time he opened his eyes again, he was sat in one of the armchairs, his face toasting in the fire’s balmy climate. The man seemed to have been talking to him for some time, though he couldn’t tell just how long. He was in the middle of a very in-depth anecdote about something or other and Joe felt bad that he hadn’t been listening, given his overwhelming hospitality.

The man paused. “You look tired, sir. Let me direct you to your room.” Joe tried to mumble an appreciative response, but only muffled sounds came out. Sleep was winning now. 

***

Joe awoke early to the sounds of macaws screeching from down the hallway. It was such a stark contrast to the usual sounds that filled his mornings that it stirred him in an oddly reassuring way. Standing on two feet, he felt taller than before. He tried to retrace his steps, unable to remember how he had made it into bed. Something had changed about the cabin. Perhaps it was merely the daylight shining through paper-thin curtains, but things felt different altogether.

He tried to play back conversations with the old man from the night before, but his addled brain had been unable to focus long enough to take much in. The next logical step was to head through to the front room, where he had almost fallen asleep by that glorious fire. Hoping to find the man there, he would thank him, get in his car, and be on his way.

There was no sign of the man. The only company was a television set, blaring loudly at him from where he thought the fireplace had been previously. Technicolour feathers flashed from the screen and a voice boomed out into the room, reverberating into the kitchen and bouncing off cupboard doors and hanging saucepans…Although much has been attempted in terms of conservation of the wild macaw, most are now endangered and nearing extinction. Deforestation and illegal trapping has ultimately led to their decline…

With a hazy mind, Joe placed himself in front of the television. Mesmerised by the scenes of nature that flickered before his eyes, his thoughts wandered to a calm and distant place. A delicious smell wafted from the kitchen, saccharine and enticing. Sensing a presence in the room, he turned his head to the doorway, and saw a young woman; apron bunched up around her waist. In her hands, a tray of freshly baked muffins, wispy trails of warmth floating from their centres and up to the ceiling.

“Good morning darling, how did you sleep?” The woman’s voice drifted as sweetly towards him as the smells of baking that now occupied the room.

“Well, I think…thank you”, he replied. He didn’t feel as though he recognised her, and yet she seemed so familiar to him. Resting the baking tray on a side table, she approached him, and gently kissed him on the top of his head. Returning towards the kitchen, she looked back and smiled lovingly at him as he whispered her name: Madeleine. The name toppled out naturally, as though he had been saying it for years. A warm, instinctive feeling in his gut signaled to him his fondness for her. Unfazed, he returned to his nature programme, settling further into the armchair.

***

He must have drifted off to sleep again, because he woke to monochrome credits rolling across the screen, indicating the end of a black and white movie. Stretching his limbs, he walked over to the windows to peer outside at the afternoon sun. The bad weather from the night before was all but imagined now. Light refracted against the intricate glass ornaments on the windowsill, dappling rainbows across the cabin’s timber interior. A welcome breeze filtered through slight gaps in the front door, as though gesturing him outside. Obliging, Joe unhooked the door’s latch and stepped out on to the porch, sun beating down against his skin. There was Madeleine, in a chair, sleeping peacefully. A large brimmed hat was pulled down, sheltering her face from the heat. 

She stirred as he stared out at the endless rows of brilliant yellow flowers surrounding the cabin.

“I had a strange dream”, she muttered drowsily. “You were driving down a long road at night in the worst weather I’ve ever known. I was watching you from somewhere else, though I’m not sure where. I was worried you might fall asleep and crash your car. But you didn’t, you found your way back here to me, unharmed.” She lifted her hat and gazed lovingly into his eyes, her brown flecks meeting his blue and yellow fragments.

“I’m going to stretch my legs. Is the town far from here?” Joe asked, feeling disorientated.

“You always ask me the way to go, Joe. It’s so funny. I honestly don’t know how you don’t get lost between the bedroom and the living room sometimes”, Madeleine replied cheerily, pointing to the horizon on their left. “Can you pick up some fresh fruit for us to eat after dinner?” 

***

“Hi, Joe!”, a stranger exclaimed, waving from across the street. “How’s Madeleine feeling today? Any better?”

“She’s doing fine, thank you”, Joe found himself replying. Well, it wasn’t a lie, she seemed just great. Beautiful, statuesque, and with the kindest of eyes.

“Glad to hear it buddy!”, another passer-by chimed in, overhearing their exchange.

Everywhere he turned, friendly faces grinned at him, or tipped their caps and nodded knowingly. The true surrealness of the day’s events was setting in now and Joe felt exhausted, despite having barely done more than sleep off and on all day. Heading back across the butter-yellow fields, he swung a bag of apples back and forth in time with his pacing. The shoes on his feet looked worn, as though a rogue toe might burst forth any moment.

Wearily, he brushed through the final rows of florae in front of the cabin and settled down on the front stoop. His gaze followed the wind scraping through the flowers before him, and it began to spit with rain. Growing steadily heavier, a sudden orchestra of clouds gathered above. Rapidly and all around him, small puddles formed. And there it was, his own face, on the ground below him. The youthful complexion he remembered owning was gone, a greying tussock of hair rested on top of a confused and wrinkled expression. Wiry eyebrow hairs poked out of his brow in all directions, chaotically. Shocked, he clutched at his aged skin, the mirrored version echoing him. This face that was now his, also belonged to another: the man who had kindly welcomed him the night before, into this sanctuary from the burgeoning storm.

The door behind him swung open, and Madeleine came into view in the expanding puddle at his feet.

“Oh Joseph, you silly old thing! You’ll catch a cold out here in this weather! Come inside and dry off.”

But Joe remained still, staring unflinchingly at the watery scene playing out before him, a kind-eyed old woman miming Madeleine’s words, her salt-and-pepper hair rippling back and forth against her face as the wind grew ever stronger.

© Laura Lamb 2016

This story has been published in On the Water anthology, by Solent Press, available for purchase here: https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/on-the-water-book-poetry#/

[a-fabled-stable]

The Collector

i

Acklyn had an aversion to public speaking. And so, a few days before he was due to make his big presentation to the company, he began to plot ways to get out of it.

There were, of course, all the usual excuses, but he had run that well dry a long time ago now.  

He thought he’d go to the library to see if there was anything on the advertisement board. He didn’t really like technology; he would rather go to a building full of paper and dust to research the things he was looking for. Thankfully, most people were the opposite of him these days, so the place was nice and warm and quiet, a refuge from the harshness of winter.

The noticeboard was tucked away in a small, long-forgotten corner of the library, barely visible to anyone not particularly looking for it. Since the move to virtual reality or clouds, or whatever they called it, most people used their own devices to post notices to each other, so the board was fairly neglected; five messages scrawled across the backs of old library record cards. They used to put them in the front of every book in the library to keep track of who was borrowing what, but not anymore.

Faced with such a graveyard of human connections, Acklyn decided it would be respectful to read through all of the notices. Three cards looked as though they had been written by the same person; all contained memos regarding old furniture they didn’t want anymore. The fourth note was asking if anyone would like to join a dance class that took place on the second Tuesday of every month in the park opposite. The ink was faded, so Acklyn guessed that no one wanted to dance on Tuesdays anymore.

He didn’t know it yet, but the fifth note was Acklyn’s ‘get out of jail free’ card. It contained a telephone number and address, underneath a brief description:

The Collector.

While it didn’t particularly seem like a solution to his current dilemma, he felt drawn to it. He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a small notepad. Clicking a mechanical pencil three times, he scribbled down the address.

ii

 “Come in!”, said a voice from behind the large door, its wood gnarled and cracked along the edges. “It’s a bit stiff so give it a good shove”, the voice mumbled, pre-empting Acklyn’s struggle.

Acklyn leaned his entire body weight against the door and it groaned open. The entranceway opened out onto a much larger space than seemed possible from the exterior. Crumbling plaster walls met with rusty red floor tiles and unsteady mahogany shelves; home to thousands of precariously balanced but perfectly labeled bottles, jars and containers.

Surveying the dimly lit room, he struggled to see where the voice had come from. Acklyn’s eyes began to adjust to the darkness. A small figure shuffled out of the shadows towards him.

“And how can I help you sir?” asked the voice.

“I…saw your advertisement in the library and…”

It was at this point that Acklyn realised he didn’t actually know what had led him here, other than his own curiosity.

The old man detected Acklyn’s uncertainty and quickly lost interest, turning his back and rifling through several stacks of yellowing paper.

Distracted by the sheer volume of vessels surrounding him on every side, Acklyn scanned the shelves nearest to him in the hopes of finding some kind of explanation he could offer up. To his right, containers marked beard trimmings, brown, a-e and sneezes, 1904-1945. To his left, large jars filled with clear liquid, home to what appeared to be chili peppers, but whose labels read: appendixes, children aged 3-14. Acklyn shuddered, feeling a sickness rise up in his throat. The old man, unflustered by Acklyn’s lingering and unexplained presence, continued to shuffle through old files, all covered in writing smaller than it seemed humanly possible to write, or to read.

Before he could even tell it was a voice from inside him, Acklyn blurted out a string of words that jumbled in the air and hurdled clumsily over the man’s left shoulder.

“IhaveaproblemandI’mhopingthatyoumightbeabletohelpme.”

The old man turned, peering distrustfully at Acklyn through misty lenses.

Acklyn cleared his throat. “Please.”

Warming instantly, the man’s entire face took on a new form as it broadened to a smile, revealing two rows of rickety teeth; skyscrapers wedged into a claustrophobic city skyline. He held his hand in front of Acklyn’s face, wiggling it from side to side. Springing abruptly into action, he grabbed a key from his back pocket, and scuttled across the room. Dust danced in the streaks of daylight that peeked through gaps in the endless rows of shelves. Acklyn studied their carefully choreographed routine as he waited for the old man’s return. 

“I have just the thing for you”, the old man gleefully exclaimed from behind Acklyn. Acklyn swiveled round on his heels to find the man very close behind him, clutching a tray containing five seemingly empty mustard jars of different heights and styles.

“I haven’t even…How do you...” Acklyn didn’t have time to begin another half sentence before the old man jumped to respond.

“This place is my world young man! You think I can’t tell what someone needs the moment they step foot under my roof?”

Acklyn shook his head, embarrassed and bewildered, and sheepishly looked down at his shoes. He wondered if the old man also had any jars containing new black shoelaces.

“Take two breaths from each of these jars first thing in the morning before your important meeting, and you should be pleasantly surprised”, explained the old man, gesturing to the tray with a nod of his head. 

“But…there’s nothing…in them, sir…?” 

The old man half-smiled, and tilted his head slightly to examine Acklyn a little further.

“These…very much contain something, young man. Very precious, unique and important contents, actually. They are the nervous hiccups of five of the bravest minds of our time.”

Acklyn looked on, in disbelief. 

“They are all you need to sort your little problem out, I assure you. Now take these, and don’t forget – two sips from each, on the morning of your expected ordeal.”

Skeptical but utterly desperate, Acklyn accepted and handed over several crumpled notes in exchange for the five recycled condiment bottles.

iii 

The day had regrettably arrived. Acklyn rose early, unable to sleep for more than an hour at a time. He had tried everything; he’d relocated from the bed to the sofa, he’d consumed a sea of chamomile tea. Nothing had worked, and when it reached 5.06am, he conceded.

He showered and dressed in solemn quiet. The journey to work felt arduous at the best of times; this morning it was a lifetime of tyres, endlessly rotating and gripping against icy winter roads. Finally pulling up outside the mottled stone building that housed his office, Acklyn reluctantly gathered his belongings and took tentative steps from bus to entrance. The world looked greyer than he remembered, as though it were despondent for him. He had already been warned by his managers that if he failed to make a good impression today, it would be “the end of the line” for him. The pressure was too much to cope with, and Acklyn was already beginning to resign himself to failure and unemployment.

Inside the lift, he pressed the button marked 87 and the small metal box lurched up, floor-by-floor. Why can’t this old thing just break down already? he muttered under his breath. Wedged amidst a crowd of businessmen in dreary monotone suits, no one acknowledged him. Instead, they continued to face forward in silence, all looking up, watching as the floor numbers lit up and went dark again, climbing ever higher.

Finally, the lift reached the 87th floor. Several anonymous suits filed out ahead, still staring upwards, as though their necks had stiffened and they had no choice but to continue.

“Your turn next, Atwood”, boomed a voice to his right. Acklyn’s eyes met with Charles Spievack, a small, rotund man. They had worked opposite each other for years in an office where everyone addressed each other by surname, and Charles had never bothered to learn his first name. A clock ticked loudly in the noiseless foyer, and an adjacent tannoy crackled to life: “Atwood, we’re ready for you now.”

Two sets of doors in front of Acklyn swung open on automatic hinges, beckoning him to proceed. Fumbling in his briefcase, Acklyn grasped the five miniature bottles, one by one, unscrewing their caps and swigging on their ‘empty’ contents. Spievack looked on nosily but soon lost interest, returning his attention to the scab above his brow that had occupied him for the last fifteen minutes.

The invisible contents of the bottles left a strange aftertaste in Acklyn’s mouth as he walked towards the boardroom.

Holding his breath, Acklyn entered the room and turned to face his audience. Another sea of grey; this time disinterested faces numbed from years of tedious work. Clearing his throat and willing the ceiling to collapse in on him, Acklyn opened his mouth. Only, words didn’t exactly follow. Instead, he let out an almighty hiccup, bursting the bubble of monotony in the room. Composing himself, he thumbed nervously through his notes. As he looked down at the creased sheets of paper in his hands, a gasp rippled across the room. Startled, Acklyn looked up. A string of words had followed his hiccup, and now they hovered before him in the air, silent but formidable:

“Human life

                         for us is sacred,

   but we say if any life is to

                                                              be sacrificed, it shall be ours…

          we will put the                  enemy in the

position where they have to choose  

                                         between giving us freedom or giving us death.” 1

Stunned, Acklyn surveyed the reaction of his spectators. These words had nothing to do with his presentation, and he was fairly certain he had never even heard them before. He couldn’t deliberate for long; as he tried to restart, second and third hiccups rolled up from the depths of his digestive system and tumbled out into the room.

“Books are for use,

            not for show; you should own no book

that you are afraid to mark up, or

afraid to

place on the table,

wide open and face down.” 2

 Monumental successions of words hung in mid air, their suspended letters rotating slowly like a paper mobile circling a playpen of grown men.

 “Courage is doing     what you’re afraid

to do.    There can be no

 courage unless you’re scared.”3

 Trying to reclaim what little chance he still had of keeping his job, Acklyn attempted to herd the letters into the corner behind him. They wouldn’t budge. Finally able to speak for the first time since entering the room, Acklyn mustered, “I’m so sorry about this, I really don’t know what to…” Before he could finish however, out burst a further hiccup, rather violently.

 You have brains in your head.

You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself,  

any direction you choose. 4

 Mortified, Acklyn shook his head. He was doomed. And yet, the board members were fixated. None of them broke their gaze to look at him for an explanation. Acklyn felt a final, resounding hiccup lurch forth.

 “Well George, we

                                  knocked                 the bastard off.” 5

 Suddenly and without warning, the silence broke. Bemused chatter filled the room as the letters fell like bricks to the floor, disappearing into the carpet. As though under a spell, the board members stood up in unison and broke into an ovation. 

Acklyn rode the swell of applause out the door. He took the lift down, appreciation still resonating in his ears. He decided to skip the bus for a few stops and take a walk. Icy pavement crunched against the tread of his shoes and the empty jars clattered against each other in his briefcase. And oh, what a glorious sound.

__________________________________

Quotes:

1 Emmeline Pankhurst

2 William Lyon Phelps

3 Eddie Rickenbacker

4 Dr Seuss

5 Edmund Hilary

__________________________________

(c) Laura Lamb 2015

This short story won second place in Shooter Magazine’s Short Story Competition: https://shooterlitmag.com/2016/08/19/read-winning-stories-online/

You can find it published on their website here: https://shooterlitmag.com/2016-story-runner-up/comment-page-1/#comment-358

[a-fabled-stable]

The Salted Tail: The Year In Books {March}

a little plug from an excellent human being

Some lovely kind words from my bestie Eleanor Rae <3 Check out her blog here, she’s very good at making very pretty things.

Since finishing the second draft of my novel, Rut, I have done the terrifying thing of sharing it with other humans - hoping for constructive feedback as well as their wonderful support (which, lucky for me, they already give me without question). Ele is one of the ‘chosen’ people who currently has a copy of it to make her way through! 

Watch this space for more updates and stuff. Hoping to sit down to write something new soon but currently, I am doing lots of reading and research on markets and so on. 

Happy almost bank holiday everyone ^_^