Destiny's doorstep

Only 160 words today, short, sharp, and succinct. Like last Tuesday's snippet, this brief is the intro to a longer-running story I've had running in the background for 2+ years.

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   Carp is unconscious upon his dragon. Eldeth, on the ground, alive although barely, speaks with her mount Otaaryliakkarnos, who has assumed the human form of Elisia momentarily to aid the cleric of Bahamut.

    Now, if ever was a time for you to gather as a party, devise ways to overcome the challenge, and play to your strengths.

    Mounted combat may not be the way to go about achieving this, or maybe it is; Moby and his mount did just take down one of the enemy dragons.

    Two days have passed, and the ceremony to raise Tiamat can’t be long away. The game shadows real life tonight, Wednesday night, and Thursday night. Literally, like three nights.

    The only problem, though, is will the party survive to see it. Do Dragons flee anymore? Or have they joined the battle to fight to the death, or are they simply trying to soften you up.

    What will happen? Will you die at destiny’s doorstep? 

You are what you write

  'Look at this guy!' Harry elbowed Rob, nodding towards the fellow walking out the front of parliament house.

Surrounded by the Supreme court on one side, parliament house across the road, and many specialists swarmed around Sydney Hospital. Having just ducked out of the office, they ordered a coffee and took a seat at their usual table. It was a table that allowed them to watch all the goings-on from the high street.

It was a great place. You'd get protests and marches on parliament. High fa looting barristers in their wigs and gown, followed by the odd villain or two that you see spread over your screen on the evening news.

Today though, Harry, a writer at heart, was affixed on the fellow wearing a billboard front and back that read 'You are what you eat on one side, the flip side, 'As it is with what you write.'

Looking in the direction, Rob scanned the area momentarily, trying to spy what was Mitchell pointing out, lawyer, villain, or otherwise. Landing his eye on and reading the billboard, 'What do you think that means?'

'Spooky, isn't it.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, you know I write for a bit of a hobby. You know, get, keep work out of my head.'

'Yeah'

'Well, I've written two bits I'm none too proud of. The first one was about a bike race I was doing once. Actually, the truth is it was a ride, nothing more. I wrote a race report for want of a better word. Narrative observations about the person I was racing, unfair, and all for many reasons.  

Namely, they didn't know they were in a race, and also they were new to riding.'

'So?'

'Well then, there was another piece. I was at a funeral for a friend's mum. Late in the day, you know, after the service and burial, this fellow turns up at the wake. Huge guy wearing nothing but shorts, a singlet, and thongs. I didn't recognise him at first, then did after a while.  

I wrote an observational piece on him, nothing wrong or otherwise, simply a piece of writing. He'd come from a person, tall and robust in the past to the poor fellow who looked particularly unwell.

He passed away a year later.'

'So?'

'Well,' Harry paused.

'I think there's something in that 'You are what you write.' Look at me, multiple pushbike accidents later, a few bad life decisions, and look at me. I've become that fellow in the singlet.'

'Rubbish!'

'No, I have. Seriously, I wish I could unwrite it, unwrite anything like that. Never write an observation on the life or performance of another. I'm going to stick with Science fiction and fantasy now. Surely that will be safe.'

'You reckon? You looked about you lately. We're living science fiction today.'

'So.' Harry looked at his friend, still thinking about the realisation he'd just come to.

'Well, don't go writing anything drastic about science fiction cause with what you've just said, it'll bloody well come true.'

As slow as molasses in January

         ‘What did you just say, Tom?’

        ‘As slow as Molasses in January’

        ‘What? Do you have any idea what you’re rabbiting on about?’

        The three of them, Tom, Dinga, and Bluey, had been sitting at the front bar of the Beachfront hotel, watching the world go by. It was a beautiful day as they always are in Darwin. It was even better in that it was the Dry season. They’d been sitting under the shade of an umbrella enjoying their beers and reveling in the storytelling that only three old codgers could. 

        ‘Mate, do you even know what Molasses is?’

        ‘Seriously, Blue, how runny would that shit be here in January?’

        ‘Okay, hold a tic. Tom’

        ‘Yeah’

        ‘So. You’re trying to tell us that your four ‘b four was stuck in mud so thick it was running as slow as Molasses in January’

        ‘Yup, that’s what I’m saying.’

        ‘Shit, Molasses in January would be like driving through a puddle of water. It would run off your car like water, or maybe not like water, like hot cooking oil.’

‘So what turn of phrase would you use?’ the stuff was so thick and clingy it filled the wheel arches, filled them so much I couldn’t steer the bloody thing.’

‘Umm, like.’

‘Well?’

‘All right, how about freshly poured tar hardening in the snowies in winter.’

‘Nup, nothing like it. This mud was black, thick stuff.’

‘So how’d you drive into it anyway? Any moron would know better than to drive into something like that.’

‘That’s the thing, this stuff had been undisturbed for so long that leaves and branches had fallen on it, making it look like solid ground. Shit, it even had some plants growing out of it.’

‘Right, how about like driving through chocolate pudding. That’s it. The mud was so thick it was like driving through chocolate pudding.’

‘MMM, pudding with cream?’

‘Yeah, pudding with cream.’

‘Dinga mans not a camel. It’s your shout.’

‘ Yeah, yeah. You two are talking as much shite like the stuff Tom was stuck in.’ Dinga got up and walked from the table.       

            

Jelex Sprint (Day 7 - unfinished and uploaded late due to camping)

             Jelex stood, sword drawn, pointing to the ground as she leant against the tree panting. Quickly glancing down, Felicity lay unconscious in an improvised hammock slung over her shoulder. 

Jelex was thankful that Felicity was unconscious. Her left wing was bent unnaturally due to the blow she took from the Ogre's mace. Seriously, Felicity, I wish you had not done that. You're a fairy, not a fighter.

        A snap of a branch and guttural cursing from behind reminds Jelex that she is not in the clear yet. Taking a deep breath, staggering forward in what now constitutes running, it's all she can manage after hours of fleeing the Ogres.

        They'd have to tire soon. There was no telling how much longer she could keep up this pace. Sheathing her sword, not needing it anymore as the Forest in front of her had started to thin out. 

No longer were the Letcher vines grasping at her clothes, putting insurmountable walls of the intertwined and meshed vine in front of her.

        The Forest was turning to something more familiar, which felt almost homely, as homely as a darkened pine forest can be. The trees, decades-old, stood one to two meters apart, the canopy of thick pine above matched by a floor of brown needles below.

        Veering to her right, Jelex jogged on. The going was much more comfortable now. Hopefully, the ogres would miss the diversion and continue on. Slowing into a brisk walk, stopping and looking behind her, she could see her footprints pronounced in the earth as divots of broken pine needles. This would not do.

        Jelex Continued forward, knowing that her footprints would be apparent to even the dumbest of Ogres, Ogres not known for their tracking prowess. Slowing, keeping herself composed, concentrating on her footfall, working to leave fewer divots for those who followed.

After several minutes of walking in this manner, Jelex cautiously veered to the right again. Walking on for several meters before doubling back the way she had come, running parallel to the path she had left for those following.                             

        Jelex quickly ducked behind an old Pine tree, its trunk so vast it quickly hid her from sight. Guttural voices burst from the Forest to her right. Three oversized hulking dark silhouettes stopped facing each other, arguing. Poking her head around, she spotted them.

'This way, Gurgle, there, see the footprints'

        'No, Dorkus, she's been running this way for hours. Why would she change direction?'

        It was the two Ogres, Gurgle and Dorkus, arguing. Their arms flailing, insults flying. A third Ogre stood silently, his large spiked mace, the mace that had hit Felicity, resting on his shoulder. That truly worried Jelex, as he was Krackus, the Ogre chief.

        Krackus was dangerous. He had risen to the rank of chief through sheer brute force and cunning. Jelex knew of his reputation and was serious if he was on the hunt. He was not going to give up easily, he would hunt her to the ends of the world, and she could only hope that her ruse ahead would give them some time. 

If only Felicity was conscious, they could fly out of here together. Krackus would not be able to track them. That was not the case, though, so she would simply rely on her bushcraft and cunning. Lowering herself to the ground and resting her back on the tree, as long as those two kept arguing, she would know where they were. There was no use risking movement just now.

After several minutes of the argument escalating and nearing blows between Gurgle and Dorkus. Krackus boomed. 'Enough! We go the way Dorkus points.'

All conversation stopped. Jelex listened as their heavy footfalls moved away, following her track. 

Not waiting, knowing they would not look behind, Jelex rose. Checked on her patient and headed north again, crossing where the ogres had been arguing moments ago. 

Her destination was set in her mind. She needed to go to the one place that would be able to help Felicity. She would find the FairyOak. She did not know how; that was a problem for later. Now she had to lose these Ogres.

'Thwack! Thunk!' The head of a double-bladed battle ax suddenly appears immediately before Jelex.  Wedging itself into the tree before her, at face level.  

'Crunch!' blinding searing pain.

She was staggering backward, putting her hands to her face, the pain-causing her eyes to water. Reflectively, ducking low, springing forward beneath the stuck ax head into a roll.

The rattle of her brain subsided enough to realise the dumb Ogres or, more likely, Krackus had deceived her. He was onto her. The sound of her running towards her, towards his ax.  

Panicked, she sprinted forward blindly, the tears in her blurring her way ahead.

Through the blur, the pain a

Acrostic Prose

Today's writing prompt was to produce acrostic prose of something you come across in your everyday life.  I was packing for a bush camp, filling my porta potty for the first time, and thought, why not.

 

Pooping in public

Or private, which would you rather

Royalty, you are not

Though this does not mean

All you’re left with is the public scene

Private pooping is all for you.

Others will stare at you

The envy in their eyes as you sit upon

The throne of repute hidden within your en-suit (sic)

Inside you’ll delight all out of sight

Resplendent

The Emperor, standing upon his dressing dias admired himself in the mirror. He looked mighty fine for a man in his 70s. No wonder he was the Emperor of all the lands.

'Rotate me.'

His steward pushed the base of the dias, turning Emperor Ronald to reveal his profile to himself. Breathing in through his nose, inflating his chest, he sucked his belly in. He cut a mighty fine figure.

'Father, won't the people realise you're naked.' It was his daughter Aknavi from the back of the room who spoke.

Doing a little wiggle, his member and everything else jiggling just a little, he managed to spin the dias, unaided another 90 degrees. Now he was facing the back of the room, facing his daughter.

'Honey, of course, they won't. You've seen them. They adore me. I can do, say nothing wrong in their eyes. I am their Emperor.'

Aknavi knew what he said was true. She couldn't help but wonder at such a thing. It had been going on for months, no years. His life and hers had been based upon one big lie, his greatness. He is only human and becoming more and more vulnerable as the years move on. Yet it seemed his public could not see it. Bewildering.

She pondered, 'Is he taking it too far this time?' Watching as he stepped down from the Dias, resplendent in his nakedness.  

Come my darling, we've work to do; the convention awaits.  

Exiting into the halls of his private residency, descending the stairs to the foyer and through the double doors. Aknavi looked on, observing all they passed, secretaries, chief of staff, maids, butlers, and advisors. All of them, no more like none of them flinched, stared, or even looked surprised at his attire.

'Molly!' exclaimed the Emperor, 'Molly! Molly, look at me, Molly. Look at my fine clothes. What do you think, my dear?'

'Why Ronald, dear, you look resplendent. Where? No, when did you come up with this idea?' 

The Emperor smiled, turning back to Aknavi, 'See.'

Aknavi's jaw hit the flaw. Surely Molly would say something. Her sense of presence, her desire to be seen and not embarrassed, would cause her to say something, but no, nothing.

On the trip to the colosseum, Aknavi, her stepmother, and father sat in the stretch limo. The Emperor and his queen faced forwards while princess Aknavi sat facing them both. Her mind moved on from her father's nudity, accepting it for what it was.

The crowds and traffic start to build as the car moves on. Always keeping a distance, the Chauffeur knows to avoid this chaos and approach the colosseum from the rear. Out of sight of the milling masses, the Emperor to remain cloistered until he chooses to reveal himself.

The door before Aknavi opens, the cold air of the autumn evening jarring her from her reverie. Climbing from the vehicle, she stands and looks back to watch first Molly then her father climb from the car. A chill in the air, a fleeting thought, maybe shrinkage will cause him to pause.  

Nothing, no hesitation. The Emporer stands upright and looks even more confident. Not waiting for Molly or Aknavi, he strides forward barefooted. Walking up the long ramp, rising imperceptibly from the car to the platform before his people.

Aknavi looked to Molly, hoping to engage her in something, some sort of recognition of the insanity that was her father proceeding before her. There was nothing, a blank stare, Molly's vision passing Aknavi as if she did not exist.

To speak so enthusiastically and with such passion. It was the best of the best he had done in some time. His energy levels were up; maybe it was a cool breeze across his skin; his extremities causing him to move so.

He rocked out all the classics, The evil media, the fake news, his disdain for the senate, for the house of representatives. The success of his time as president, of the goodness he bought to the land. Of his court, the high court and their decisions, oh their decisions.

Nothing!! Here stood Aknavi's father in all his glory. An old wrinkly man naked as the day he was born, speaking railing at the crowd. The crowd, for their part, cheered, clapped, whooped, and chanted.

Can't they see? Can't they see him standing before them, ridiculing them? Hear him, hear what he is saying. Feel the effects of what he has done and what he will do?

She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, ' Fools, Fools! Can't you see, don't you understand? He is frail, old. He is losing his way.'

Aknavi knew better, though; whatever it was, this performance had to happen. Her father gestured for her to join him. Knowing her part, she walked forward, putting her arm around her father, smiled at him, and turned to wave at the crowd.

A cheer went up! He had just declared her his successor.  

She was to be their Empress. Would they want to see her naked?

Return from Thay (Day 3 posted late)

Having departed Thay early morning with Nyh Ilmich in tow, you arrived upon the citadel tower as you have numerous times before. Greeted once again by the tower guard, the sergeant at arms, as per their practice, escorts you below through the library halls to return you to Leosin Erlanthar’s halls.

As you exit from the towers into the forecourt of Castle Waterdeep, you are somewhat taken aback by four adult dragons standing regally. Their gold, brass, copper, and bronze eyes turn towards you, staring unblinkingly.

Turning from beneath these majestic beasts and walking towards you are none other than Elisa, the silver Dragon Otaaryliakkarnos, consult to the council of water deep and Leosin Erlanthar of the harpers.

Elia speaks first, ‘Well met friends, I see, or I observe that your mission to Thay has been a success.’ Thank you for joining our cause.’ with this, Elia bow’s towards Nih Illmich ‘Welcome old one, it’s odd the bedfellows we gather in time of need.

Nah, to his credit, he simply acknowledges Elia with a nod.

Turning back to you, Elia states, ‘Friends, we must take flight. A day has expired since the war council, our time is getting shorter, yet the well does not get any closer.’  

Leosin steps forward, placing a hand upon Elia’s forearm. She turns her Silvered eyes upon him, a look of concern on her face, then turns and walks back towards the four dragons.

As her human form wavers, like a mirage upon a dessert, you watch in bewilderment. Her human shape drops away and grows as she transforms into the Silver Dragon Otaaryliakkarnos right before your eyes.

‘She is right.’ Leosin speaks, ‘the five dragons here are to bear you towards the well of dragons where our forces amass. It’s many days flight, you have everything you need, and your supplies as requested have been refreshed. I wish you luck, friends. May you succeed, and may your success be the savior of our realm.’

And with that, he moves towards Nih Ilmich, acknowledging him and engaging him in discrete conversation to not distract you from your task.

The five Dragon simply stare at you, expectantly waiting to see which of the party they will have to carry to the fate of the realm.

Escape Gone Wrong

      I remember, I do! I'm sure of it, aren't I? Yes, the lower lid is on. I can feel the water rising. It's bloody cold. 

    What is it then? What have I forgotten? I left a note tagged to Bluey. "Bluey, the submarine is lost. You are the last survivor. Drain down the escape tower and carry out the last man routine. We will have a brew waiting for you when you get to the surface. Read any good books lately?'

I wrote that on the plastic cover of a book titled 'Few Survived - a history of Submarine Disasters.' Good book, pretty morbid reading at 400 feet. They did say to use a chinagraph pencil on plastic as it is waterproof.

He was still breathing when I entered the tower. If he doesn't come about, the built-in breathing system will run out of air in the next couple of hours. At least he won't feel it.

I'm amazed that some of the bigger blokes fit through here on their way out. Bloody tight. The water is at my knees. Am I thinking fast, or is the water rising slowly? Shit, there must be something I have forgotten.

My mum always said I forgot something whenever I went back to work after being on leave, usually a toothbrush.

The Tower drain is obviously shut because the water is still rising.

Oh God, NO! The upper lid?

No, it's not that. I remember putting it to the idle position because I nearly busted my thumb trying to do that.

It has to be something. I know it's not my toothbrush.

I wonder if I will get my six-month survival leave, or is that simply an old matelots story. What about wearing an earring? If you survived a shipwreck in the old days, you were allowed to wear an earring. No more fishing line shoved in my earlobe to keep the hole open.

Bloody hell, this water is rising slowly. The old saying 'My life rushed before my eyes!' it's true. The only thing is I have not reviewed much of my life.

What is it I have forgotten?

Ah! Shit, that hurt. Burst your eardrums, they say. It feels more like getting an icepick shoved in each ear and having it twisted around. Free flood head, what a bonus.

I definitely don't think they pay us enough.

The upper lid should be opening soon.

Drowning, what a way to go. I've almost done it once in my life. I was a bit more relaxed the first time. I remember this big old Murray Cod swimming by just before my uncle pulled me from the water. I must not have been there long because I did not need resuscitation. I stood for about fifteen seconds before a turtle got my attention.

Why am I thinking about this stuff? What's happening with the water?

Bloody vent cap! Someone has taken the bloody vent cap!

I could stand in this tower for hours sucking on this hood inflation system before I slowly suffocated. I have to find something to stick in it.

I once heard of a bloke losing his thumb by using it to block the vent. It was ripped off when the tower equalised, and the upper lid flew open. Actually, I read that in 'Few Survived.'

Shit! Shit! Think stupid, think. Else you will die.

Glove!

Where are my bloody gloves? They always said to use it if the vent cap was missing. 

I should have grabbed the spare cap from the escape locker. Too late for that, and Bluey may need it.

Found It!

Here we go, then.

Good, the water is rising again.

Ok, keep hold of the inflation system; breathe normally. Any second now.

I wonder how many of the others made it to the surface.

God, I will get the bends for sure with the amount of time I have spent in this tower.

It's open! You beauty, now the easy part.

Simply breath normal and look to the surface.

What a ride! I always liked this part of the training. I always wanted to ascend more than 60 feet. Suppose I got my wish.

It's getting lighter.

This water is definitely clear. I can make out the sun.

Shit, I must be moving.

Maybe it's not the sun, and it's that bright light people see in near-death experiences.

No, it's the sun. I can make out shadows on the surface.

I'll be on the surface and out of the water straight away on a boat, you ripper.

It's bloody moving. Where's the sun gone? It's directly above me. 

'Get out of the way, you fuckers! Oh, God! Moooove!'

'Yes, Sir, We picked up 17 bodies. All of them ok except for one bloke who apparently supervised the whole escape.'

'What happened? Did he make it to the surface at all?'

'Yes, Sir. Snapped his neck; died instantly.' unfortunately, he smashed into the bottom of one of the rescue boats.

'Anyone else left?'

'One more, one of the early survivors said he was unconscious when he escaped. If the guy who snapped his neck coordinated the escape, it means the last fellow is still unconscious.'

'Ok, what about down aft?'

'I think we may have lost them as well, sir. We haven't heard anything from them for the last 20 minutes. The banging stopped.'

'Seriously. Out of a crew of 69, we save 16. They don't get paid enough.'

'No, Sir, they don't.'

'Right Davis but a buoy in the water, and we will hang around until the salvage ships arrive.'

‘Roger Sir.’

‘Davis.’

‘Sir?’

'The recompression unit will be here in twenty minutes. Is anyone in need of it?'

'Not yet; we are keeping an eye on them.'

Aphorism Inspired (100 words)

'I'm doing this writing challenge, right?'

'You know, write a story a day.'

'They give you writing prompts and stuff like.'

'You know, snippets of inspiration.'

'Well, Today's, Today's! was write an aphorism-inspired story.'

'Fair dinkum, aphorism!'

'What's that you say? Well, I didn't bloody know, did I.'

'So I googled it.'

'A pithy observation with a truth.'

'What the, I said. Well, I did even if it was to myself.'

'Who do they think I am, Mark Twain.'

'You know, the guy who apologised or sumptin for not having enough time to write sumptin short.'

'Well I did it.'

-----

Mark Twain once said, “I didn't have time to write you a short letter, so I wrote you a long one.”

Element of a Memoire

Shit, that hurt.

The sky, grey, pierces the canopy of the sparse Australian bush above me. Rolling onto my side, I push to stand up. Oww! That's not going to work. I move back onto my back, pulling my left leg up, pointing my knee to that same gray sky above. It hurt less that way.

Noel appears before me, then Chris, followed by Matt. 'You ok? he asks.

The rugged granite rocks of the road dig into my lower back, my backpack, and my helmet protecting the rest of my body from this discomfort.

I'm in a bit of a predicament. Having led many friends down the spur track, none of them knew where we were or even where we were going; I was leading this ride.

I should not have been racing like a lunatic. Hitting the last cross-bank sent me arse over tit.

Flying through the air headfirst, my helmet taking the bulk of the impact, rolling head to toe. I managed to bend my right leg so that the inside of my right ankle touched my left bum cheek. 

I snapped my right fibula, tore all the tendons and facia down the outside of my right leg, and shifted my knee cap south, making it a shin cap.

'I've stuffed my leg; I can't get up.' This would be the understatement of the day. My T-12 vertebrae fractured, and the middle finger dislocated on the right hand in a lightning strike. 'You're going to have to look.'

'What 'a ya mean?'

'Well, I can't sit up and look myself, so you're going to have to look.' I was surprising myself a little; here I was lying on the side of a mountain in the high country of North East Victoria.  

It's good to know all those years in the military, though, and working as a lifeguard through uni were definitely coming in handy.

'We need to work out the damage, then we'll work out what to do., so I need you to look.'

'I'm not fookin lookin.'

'I need you to just start at my ankle, wrap your hands around my leg and slowly run your hands up my leg, simply feeling for something.'

Kneeling, Noel locks eye contact, the most intense eye contact I've ever had with a man in my 35 years. No words pass between the two of us. He starts moving his hand up my leg.

I'd have to think the solid Irishman that he is has never played with a fella's leg in such a way.

'Going good, mate, keep going.' He has moved his hands up over my calf and heading towards the knee. I can't remember the pain. I know it was there. 

The ambo's would give me a green whistle, a large green tube holding an analgesic to interrupt pain. 

However, I had Noel's hands wrapped around my leg just now. 

 His hands pass over my knee and start to head down my thigh towards my groin. Suddenly he stops.

'Fook!'

'What!?'

'I feel sumptin; it's hard.'

Taking a deep breath, I pause. 'Right, you're going to have to look.'

Noels' stare is piercing as he looks me in the eye. 

Cautiously, with a good dose of anxiousness, he breaks the intense stare we'd been holding for minutes. Doing the brave thing, not knowing what he is going to see, fearing he will see a bone protruding from my leg, or worse.

He looks down, releasing one hand to pull my short's leg away from the skin. 'Fook! It's ya bloody cyclin nicks, you daft bastard!' 

Walks

Ooooh, the tickle, that feeling at the edge of my mouth. I remember that sensation from when I was a kid. I've not lost it; at 51, I'm still as quick as a housefly.

My mouth shut, sliding my hand down, and the tickle stops; I can feel it balled up in the gap between my index and middle finger.

Now's the tricky part. I slide my thumb under, pulling sideways, catching it between my thumb and forefingers. I don't want to kill it. Killing it would mean failure.

The competition in those days was tough. I was up again, the 'walk' king of the classroom.

Conditions were perfect. The oppressive heat of the summer was all around. The ceiling fan wafting above is useless, so useless you can see the blowflies sitting on it as it spins.

The walks before us accumulate. From what I could count, Johnie has already caught and converted four.

I maneuver the critter, allowing a single wing to pop free. The next fun part is holding it by its wing. Releasing its body, it buzzes and vibrates against my fingertips, frantically trying to escape.

I grab its other wing and pull. One done, then the other, dropping the newly crated walk to the tabletop.

4:2

I let the flies buzz around my face again, not swatting them away, waiting, letting 1, then two, then three gather at the corner of my mouth.

SLAP!

Maybe today I'll beat Johnie.

Snippets 1 - warm up to story a day '22

He watched as his mother crossed the car park, knowing she would spy him shortly. Or if she has, it will register what he is doing soon.

He started to stop, to pull his finger away, but he couldn't; he was so close, almost there. tantalising close.

Mum's pace quickens her free hand, the hand with the keys, waving frantically in his direction, mouthing the word stop as she approaches.

Finally, he snags it he starts to pull. It moves a little, enough that he can feel the beast's tail pull free. The sensation, oh the feeling when you get a big one.

The driver's door is flung open.

'Get your finger out of your nose!!' screams his mother at the top of her voice. 'It's Disgusting.'

He knows it's not disgusting. His mother loves him, and she doesn't want him to pull his brains out.

But oh, the sensation, when you capture a snot slug and pull it free of the cavernous depths of your nose, the tickle as it slides out. The pleasure of its head hooked on the nail.

Oh well, it will wait, grow, and maybe dry out a little; ooh, the pleasure if it dries out a little.

Mum's calm now; she's moved on.

Johnnie smiles to himself. Like any good hunter or fisherman, he knows he will get to try again.