Instalment One Hundred and Twenty Six

The Day the Dogs Could Talk

It was a day humans had wished for since wolves first abandoned the pack, drawn to the fire man had tamed. “What do you think it’s thinking?” one Neanderthal remarked, voicing a question that would echo through time.

Then it happened, just for one day. They talked.

It was a huge mistake. Some things can’t be unsaid, some wounds don’t heal and sometimes the bark is worse than the bite. We suspect cats hate us but we don’t know. Well the dogs made it clear what they thought and it wasn’t just ugly and mean, it was crude too. Like the last drunk in a bar, first light found them cursing and swearing with spittle flecked lips at anyone unlucky enough to wander into range. Small dogs were the most aggressive. Children cried, families estranged. By lunch they were on every channel, howling unprintable scorn. Come dinner we didn’t even feed them, they had been bad dogs. I don’t know if they realised their error and chose to stop talking or the moment simply passed but after that night no more was said. Every dog knew they were no longer welcome by our fire.

Instalment One Hundred and Twenty Five

Peace is not a creature of wonder or beauty. Peace is no butterfly. There is no grace in Peace, only incubation. Peace is a cocoon into which a worm of Accord is bound by lies and compromised promises. Peace is a suffocating shield that hides Accord from prying eyes and good conscience until it stagnates and decay takes hold. Within the festering remains of Accord something stirs. Clawing and scraping, it fights for its life as all others soon will. In time, the cocoon of Peace becomes brittle. An ill wind or cross word can easily fracture this fragile cell. Too soon Peace is fatally splintered from without and within. But Peace has done its work.

From the scattered pieces of Peace emerges War, enraged. War knows its life is fleeting, so beats its wings like drums until soldiers march in time. If War can’t live then none shall. Where War soars, countries burn. Again it beats its wings to fans the flames. Fires burn bright and no longer need War to stoke them. War is engulfed in the inferno.

Down in the dirt amongst the fallen, a worm of Accord starts to feed, storing energy to build its Peace.

Instalment One Hundred and Twenty Four

The Penman Ship docked in what was becoming an increasingly crowded port. That was the blessing and the curse of convention season, so many people you could never find the ones you were after. The Penmen were in town looking to further themselves and network with the other crews that had made port. Many had their eyes on the Draftmans Ship, while some of the more studious crew still held hopes for the Editor Ship or even the Author Ship for a lucky few. The Author Ship had been in town for a week, desperately looking for a Reader Ship of their own. It had been a brutal year’s sailing, coming under attack many times from the rogue Censor Ships that plagued the Pirate Sea.

That evening at the welcome drinks laid on by the Sponsor Ship, crew from the Marksman Ship came to blows with the boys from the Swordsman Ship, encouraged by all those who sailed under the flag of the Gamesman Ship. Thankfully, the Captains of the Relation Ship and the Partisan Ship talked both sides down while the Craftsmen Ship’s crew repaired the damage to the bar before the Leader Ship ever heard of the altercation.

Instalment One Hundred and Twenty Three

The first of the ‘correction’ sessions was a Saturday, a joke lost on all those forced to attend. The movement had taken life of its own once it got started, these things do sometimes. I’m not proud of it, not now, but I was a ringleader at the time, a big man, a real hero.

I had mounted my soapbox, pounding on my chest, “These people must be stopped, they are wrong, they don’t share our proper English values.”

“We don’t need their kind round here,” someone shouted.

“Round ‘em up!” I cried and the mob bayed in agreement.

To avoid internment you had to know what you were saying wrong. It was too late to tell you. The core of the problem was our fault, we had never taken the time to improve them. We let it slide. And it came to this. The Corrections.

“What are you doing on the weekend?” the Grammarians questioned. Answer wrong and it was into the waiting van for ‘correction.’ Most never returned.

They would look up at me with pleading eyes. “Can I just aks what I did wrong?” they begged.

And that’s what we did to the people who said Satday.

Instalment One Hundred and Twenty Two

200 Word Stories Police Department Capital Vice Squad Case File #122


21/6 7.42AM - Owner of The Den, a bar in The Shambles reported B&E and theft of week’s takings from office safe. Venue and owner known to the department.

11AM – Uniformed officers call in Vice Squad following paid informants report that bar housed gambling and prostitution operation. No evidence of nefarious dealings, however reported loss in takings greatly higher than expected for venue operating legally.

Witness on scene claims to have seen three men running north from crime scene at approximately 4.30AM. Men known to witness, named Lust, Envy and Gluttony. Individuals have records, however none have been identified or caught. Often mentioned as keeping company but never observed together.

Vice requested witness to present to Station for follow up. Witness became evasive, was unable to provide identification and was detained.

3.35PM – Witness’s prints run through system, positive ID returned witness’s name, Greed. Under questioning Greed confessed to being infatuated with barmaid, jealous of attention she received from owner, robbed bar and gorged himself on riches. He further admitted to operating under aliases Lust, Envy and Gluttony. 

Case closed on Greed AKA Lust AKA Envy AKA Gluttony.

Instalment One Hundred and Twenty One

You do not have many friends, so when given an opening you talk too much. You don’t talk to people, you talk at people. You talk about yourself mostly and why you are sad. This makes people want to talk to you less, which makes you sadder. So you talk to people about how sad you are more and more until one day there is no one left for you to talk to.

You get a tattoo of a zero because that is how much you feel you are worth. A stranger asks you what the tattoo of a circle means and you tell them, which makes you happy. You now get to tell more people about how sad you are. You get a second tattoo, and then a third. The more tattoos you get, the more people talk to you and the more you get to talk about why you are sad, which makes you happy.

You stand in a circus ring all day and talk about yourself. The spruiker cries, “Roll Up! See Moana, The Saddest Woman in the World, she is covered from head to toe in tattoos of regret but she does not regret her tattoos.”

Instalment One Hundred and Twenty

My first memory of school is an unpleasant one. “Good m-m-morning my name is T-t-t-tom, a-Tom, ahhhh Tom.”

“Tom’s malfunctioning again Miss!” Tessa Harris squealed in delight. Ten year olds can be so cruel. Mother put me in a speech program to fix the stutter, it comes and goes. I don’t remember much before that actually.

“One doesn’t tell a child such things,” Mother replied when I asked about my lack of memory, “but there was an accident, you were riding your bike and you crashed.”

“I crashed?”

“You just went blank, we thought there was a bug going round but you were always crashing Tom. So we had you looked at when you were ten, popped the bonnet, there is a scar just above your ear. Did you never wonder?”

My fingers ran through my hair, feeling bumps.

“A t-t-tumor? I stuttered.

“Nothing like that dear, loose wire was all. I see your stutter is back,” she tutted. “We just want you to be the best version of yourself that you could be, more than the sum of your parts.”

She headed for the door, “I’m late for my flight, I’ll update you when I get back next week.”