A Glove, a carriage, and a mystery

To Geoffrey Madison, London had become home. Victorian London fancied itself the capital of the world. Any Londoner would agree at the notion. Everyone else, including New York born and bred Geoffrey, would laugh and shake their heads.

The population had expanded, and the streets were teeming. The weather was perpetually foul. Sunny days were as regular as a blue moon, and the drizzle that had become the norm fell through clouds of smog from the factories.

Citizens were advised not to let too much rain touch their skin. Despite its hardships, Geoffrey had become fond of London.

Today, he was running to catch the coach. It was just after nine, and he was late. He didn’t mean to be. He never did. His mother and father often joked that he was even late to be born, with the family doctor waiting two days after the predicted date before Mrs Madison went into labour.

27 years later, and he was still running late. Today it was for a meeting with the shipping company dealing with his family business. Realising he’d missed his usual stagecoach, he made the choice to run to the next stop and try to get the next one there. The young American huffed and puffed, his briefcase under one arm, his umbrella in the other. His scrawny frame ducked and weaved through the crowds, earning the ire of more than a few. Ignoring the abuse hurled at his back, Geoffrey made it in view of the next stop for the coach. He was still a long way from it and there was already a coach filling up. Geoffrey sprinted towards it, avoiding the crowd as best he could.
As he drew closer, suddenly his legs stopped moving. His lungs were fit to burst. His heartbeat, already quick after his exertion, became vigorous and urgent. Trying to catch his breath, Geoffrey could do nothing but stare. Then, she turned. It was almost as though she knew he was there.
She had brown hair, tied up but she hadn’t bothered with a hat. His view was blocked for a moment, jolting him out of his reverie. Breaking into a run again he tore towards the carriage. Already, he could see her climbing the step into the carriage. She turned again. Her eyes were crinkled around the corners and a smile played around her lips. Her mouth moved. Geoffrey couldn’t hear it, but It was unmistakeable.


The carriage jolted as the driver whipped the reins, spurring the horses into action. No! Stop! The thoughts thundered through his mind as he lost sight of her as the carriage door closed. When he made it to the stop, he bent double, wheezing. As he did, he saw something. A glove. A woman’s glove, not two feet from where the carriage had stopped. Geoffrey picked it up, appraising it as he caught his breath and stood up straight. It couldn’t have been there long. It was still clean, a miracle given the muck and mire coating the road it had fallen on. Geoffrey turned it over in his hands, and found an ornate “M. L” monogrammed on it. The young American laughed, turning to look in the direction the carriage had gone.
He had a mystery to unravel.



The Chart

It started with a frown, a bespectacled man peering at my chart.

The first casualties, my hairline and appetite. The Chemotherapy proved unsuccessful.

“Inoperable”. “Six months at most”. Someone change the record. This one’s on repeat.

Kept the chart.

Makes a great story for the grandkids.


via Daily Prompt: Tenacious


The Dark Victors

Wild crimsons, royal blues, and evergreens flew high as the afternoon breeze caught the banners. The heat from the sun only added to the anticipation and tension hanging thick in the air. Horns and battle drums blended and battled in a deafening cacophony over the chosen ground.

At the edge of the fray, the trees grew ever more crowded. Beady eyes, set above jet black plumage and beaks watched, and waited.

As each side rallied, their leaders orating and driving their faithful, they waited. They were secure in the knowledge that they would stand the victors on that day, without ever lifting any weapon. Today, they were the ones with the foresight for victory.

As man’s ambition and reach for power overwhelmed reason, the two sides clashed. Drums and horns were replaced with the screams of terror and pain only war and strife could motivate.

Still, they anticipated, and stood patiently, their numbers growing into an army of their own.

Today, on the day of battle, the only true victors waited on the edge of the battlefield. As the clashing of sword and spear ceased, only then did they make their move. As victory cries died down and the songs honouring the fallen faded, only then did they begin to circle. The spoils theirs, and theirs alone.

They lost precious few in number, if any. Man, in his romanticist fantasies credits the owl as the wisest of birds. Yet today, the crows were the true victors.


“So, where to today, Nick?”

“Back into the city. Want anything?”

“Just make it back” Felix chuckled. Nick and Felix embraced briefly. It might be the last time they ever saw each other. Nick climbed the ladder, heaved the trapdoor open, and went out into the world.

Nick always timed his outings for early morning. That would leave him a good 72 hours between the first light of the sun peeping over the horizon and the last glimpses of it disappearing. Hunters were more active during the night.

Nick checked his rifle and compass one last time before beginning his journey across the desert. Felix seemed to have been excited when he found it and presented in excitedly to the phlegmatic twenty- year old. It had grown on Nick, especially after one of the books he’d found had a grainy black and white photo of a boy no older than sixteen, crouching in what looked like a trench with a new one the spitting image of the one Nick was carrying.

As Nick ran, he checked off landmarks he’d mapped in his mind and on the old manuscript he carried with him. The gigantic arm with its torch lay in the dunes at the same place it had yesterday, and the day before that. His Geiger counter began clicking into life if he headed too far East. The coastline in the distance to the South had chunks torn out of it that looked a little too mechanical to have been carved by the ocean.

No sign of any Hunters. Repetition on Nick’s part had left him familiar with their ships’ search patterns, and how best to avoid them. Felix had offered Nick some stolen Hunter tech he’d manage to reverse engineer, but Nick didn’t trust it. What little came over Felix’s old HAM Radio painted a grim picture of Hunters descending on other settlements as if they knew exactly where to look.

After a few hours, Nick made it to the ruined city. Nick still marvelled at it. He’d gone back to the bunker with stories of it, only to be brushed aside as crazy. Others seemed to believe him but were terrified to hear about it. Felix had explained. Most of the hundreds of people who lived in the bunker had been born there, when the air above was still toxic, and most would die there.

Most who’d ventured outside never returned. Nick often wondered, out loud to Felix or to himself, what life must have been like before they descended from the sky. Were they the ones responsible for all of this destruction? Is that why they were so afraid of these Hunters? Felix had cautioned Nick to curb his insatiable curiosity and had tried to teach him what he could, from the few dusty old books he’d stopped the others from burning to keep warm. What few the old man had had only left Nick with more questions. Even as Nick walked, rifle raised, through the dust and tarmac of the ancient city, they echoed loud in his head. Who had lived here? How had they managed to build such an amazing place? What happened to the city? The people who’d lived there? Everyone else?

Nick made his way through the streets as quietly and cautiously as he could. He knew exactly where he was going. Down the first street he usually made it to from the desert, halfway down this one, through this alley, and down the stairs. That place, so chock-full of books Nick couldn’t have read all of them if he sat in that room for years upon years. How the albeit tattered books had survived whatever had happened to the city was a mystery, its answer likely hidden amongst their pages.

He froze. Something was out of place. He fixed his eyes on the far side of the street. A shimmer. Stealth tech. Dropping quickly behind one of the rusted hulks dotting the street, Nick caught his breath, looking above him. No airborne scanners? Must not be a scout, then. Nick sat against the old rusted car, his hands tight on his rifle. The street was quiet as a tomb, leaving Nick’s heart the only sound in his ears. No movement. They must not have spotted him. He got up slowly. Something was off. Nick looked down again. It couldn’t be. Clear as day in the centuries of dust at his feet. Two sets. Two sets of footprints. Hunters walked on 2 feet? The tracks looked human, as if left by someone with large feet, and a slight limp on the right. They appeared where the shimmer started and going…straight down the stairs. Nick cursed inwardly. He always made sure to cover his tracks leading away, but realised he’d never bothered to do the same inside, with all of the sand that had blown in.

With each step muffled by the layer of sand in the street, Nick followed the tracks, careful not to let his boot scrape and give away what little element of surprise he had left. Nick fought to control his breathing as he inched painstakingly slowly down the stairs. He made it into the room with no sign of the Hunter. Its tracks intermingled with his, endlessly crisscrossing the room. It must have been here for a while, and was surely lying in wait for him. Nick swallowed. This would be the closest anyone in the bunker had come to seeing a Hunter and living to tell about it.

Nick didn’t exactly have to share the space like his room in the bunker so he saw little point on returning anything to its previous position, so books were strewn across the shelves, tables, and floor. Nick looked to his left. The book of poems he’d been reading the last time he was here was gone. The one about paradise, how a snake tricked a man and a woman into betraying some ancient deity’s trust. It was, gone, vanished.

As the panic gripped Nick he heard the hum of an electromagnet and his rifle, his precious rifle sprang to life and wrested itself from his grasp as if turning against him. After the hum, Nick heard a series of clicks right behind him. Afraid to turn, he listened as the clicks quickened, then slowed, almost as a radio being tuned, then….

“Hello. I have been waiting for you”.