The image is public domain from clipart

I belong to a writers’ group on Dreamwidth and every October they run a ‘Monsterfest’ with prompts to inspire ficlets. A recent prompt was ‘dragons’ and Scratch’s voice from my fantasy detective series was very insistent in my head. This is the result. It will lack something if you aren’t familiar with the novels, but to some extent I hope it stands alone. I have also put a link to it on the relevant page (see the tabs at the top of the blog). There is a better illustration on the linked document, also from clipart.

The Treatment of Prisoners

Scratch surveyed the chaos. Elves were really quite stupid at times. Why had the criminals thought they could outrun a dragon and hide their stash of drugs? They must have realised he was a registered and qualified Skilled Investigator from the Guild. He proudly wore a lanyard announcing his status and he had shouted to them on his public broadcast wavelength, suggesting fairly forcibly that they should surrender.

However, they had run instead, and now they were scattered around the field where he had caught up with them, all lying on their backs staring up at the angry dragon, their packages strewn around them. There was a small firepit in the centre of the field. He had merely wanted to frighten them into submission but it seemed he had terrified them so that they all collapsed, just as though they were theatrical puppets and their strings had been suddenly cut. He sighed and reminded himself to see the farmer later to compensate for the field damage. He called for back-up. He had a new partner, someone he was learning to communicate with privately. Alvon evidently heard his mental message and was soon with him. Alvon carried handcuffs and made short work of restraining the drug dealers. Scratch carried cuffs too but was still nervous about injuring someone if he tried to cuff them and they resisted. He gave Alvon his cuffs – neither carried enough for this group.

They really were puppets, Scratch reflected. The puppeteer was still a shadowy figure and he hoped they would be able to get one of this crop of villains to tell them enough to work out who was ultimately responsible and where they could be found. He suspected, however, that the mastermind was human and comparatively safe in the human realm.

The dragon, like his fellow investigators, felt angry about drugs. They were a human thing, not an elvish one, but they had recently crossed the border into The Kingdom, no doubt lining the pockets of those who manipulated the dealers who themselves were greedy and uncaring about the distress they sold. The users were elves who wanted release from grief or depression and did not understand that human drugs would provide neither. The usual effects on elves were a worsening of either or both but by then the dealers were long gone.

Scratch wished he had Genef by his side but she was off with her new husband, Vikor, enjoying what both humans and elves called a meadseason. Why mead was involved he couldn’t imagine but he hoped there would be eggs. He half understood the explanation given frequently and patiently that elves and humans did not lay eggs as dragons did, but surely eggs must be involved somehow. Otherwise, how could there possibly be baby elves? In any case, Genef was unavailable and Rath, who had been a superb mentor to both of them, was abroad doing something complex and dangerous whilst his husband was desolate and lonely at home. So Alvon had volunteered to work with Scratch and although they got along well, Alvon was not Genef and Scratch felt somehow adrift.

He created a cage with his talons and Alvon ushered their captives into it. He would take them back to the Guild House and get others involved in interrogating them. He couldn’t be expected to question a dozen of them all by himself and Alvon was not experienced enough yet to conduct an interview without his mentor present. In some ways Scratch wished he could be that mentor. Then he would have more control over Alvon’s training and time management. But he knew he wasn’t yet at a stage where he could mentor anyone, and he supposed he should just be glad someone had offered to take Genef’s place temporarily and that their mentor had liked the idea.

He delivered his load of prisoners to the Guild House quite roughly, simply opening his talon cage and tumbling them out onto the central courtyard. He didn’t much care if they were bruised or shaken. They had caused a great deal of distress and deserved a little bit of misery in return.

He messaged Fel to say he’d soon be back at the apartment he shared with Fel and Rath. At least, he occupied the roof. First he would stop for some of those delicious pebbles on the shore. He needed to recharge his fire, after all. He could also catch some fish for supper though he would keep his own share back. Fel would only ruin them with cooking. Why elves liked burnt food was beyond him.

“One consignment of drug dealers,” he told the elf on duty at the Guild House doors. “They’ll all need to be interrogated and I just hope we can find their overall leader.”

“Could be human,” responded the elf and Alvon, who had also arrived, nodded. Scratch had already come to that conclusion but he nodded too, noticing that the prisoners shivered when they saw his great head bobbing.

“I could find him, her, them,” he said. “I could snatch them and bring them here.”

“Maybe,” said Alvon, “but wait till you have permission.”

Scratch sighed. Once upon a time he would have gone ahead and done whatever his dragon soul deemed appropriate to people who hurt other people whether the victims were elf, human or dragonkind. But he knew he must stick to the rules of the Guild. After all, he was a fully accredited Investigator now.  

The link to the PDF is now live at the very bottom on the page on The Skilled Investigators. It took me days to work out how to do it…

Statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus, London.

In our current climate of increasing poverty, abuse in care homes, and problems accessing medical help, I was reminded of a story I wrote for a prompt in a writers’ group some years ago. So I dusted it off and edited it. I thought about submitting it to a zine I contribute to but it’s very sad and dark so I don’t think they’d like it. I don’t suppose you’ll ‘like‘ it, but I think it sums up some of the issues faced by today’s youth. Consider it my political rant of the week…

In the interests of readability the punctuation and spelling are not perfect for the narrator’s speech patterns, but should give a ‘flavour’. Non-Brit readers might have problems though. In order to present the dialect in some kind of sensible fashion I had to replace smart quotes with straight ones and that was quite a learning curve… If I’ve missed anything, let me know!

Johnny and Me, or Money can’t buy me love.

Warning. This is on a very dark theme with no HEA. 900 words

Us ‘angin’ round Piccadilly ain’t never bin much fun. Not when what yer really there for ain’t the company so much as the possible company if yer take me meanin’. Sometimes I pretend I’m on one of them slave blocks in the olden days – Romans or somefin’ – couldn’ a bin much worse, could it? An’ the buyers. Jeez! Talk about the dirty mac brigade. Still, they pay well, and if yer lucky it’s down the nearest alley, a quick suck or fuck, an’ money in yer pocket. Course, if yer ain’t lucky, it could be a knife, but us lot try not to fink about that, cos we’re trying to make a livin’ ‘ere, see? An’ it doesn’ do to get too scared or depressed about it, like. Puts the punters off if yer ain’t mostly smilin’.

Johnny an’ me run off togevver from the ‘ome, didn’ we? Bin ‘ere ever since. Not much fun, like I said, but plenty of punters. Good at avoidin’ the Social – can smell ’em a mile off. An’ arter wot ol’ ‘ammond did, well, we wasn’ going back not nohow. If I gotta get fucked by a creepy old man I’d sooner be paid for it, wouldn’ I? Offerin’ special privileges don’ really cut it, know what I mean? Johnny thought the same. We usually thought the same – ever since we was nippers an’ new to the ‘ome at the same time. Course, since I turned sixteen they probly couldn’ take me back anyroad, but no sense courtin’ trouble; it finds yer soon enough as they say. An’ Johnny was a year younger than me anyway so still at risk.

We did start to make a livin’, I supppose. Enough to doss down in this squat one of the uvvers found, an’ get enough to eat to get by. Though Johnny got awful thin lately and kept ever’body awake with ‘is coughin’, nights. Wanted to ‘old ‘im and make it better, didn’ I? Or mebbe keep ‘im warm. Okay, just warm, right? Though I’d’ve liked … But when I tried ‘e said ‘e couldn’ breave and ‘e didn’ like bein’ ‘eld – reminded ‘im of the guys in the alleyways, some’ow. So I just listened an’ wished.

Last Saturday I tried to kiss ‘im; just ‘cos I really, really care, yer know? An’ even too thin, well, ‘e were always sort of gorgeous an’ I always got well ‘ard when we touched, even by accident. But ‘e turned ‘is ‘ead away and wiped ‘is mouth.

One day …. Dreams… Always did get in trouble for daydreamin’, specially at school.

But I wished I could make enough to take ‘im on ‘oliday somewhere, fer a real rest. Somewhere nice, wiv clean sheets an coffee any time wivout ‘avin’ to count ‘ow much change yer got. Only there was never enough to be worth savin’, an if there ‘ad of bin it’d all ‘ave ‘ad to go on drugs an’ such. I don’ mean drugs like drugs. That ain’t never bin me scene, nor Johnny’s neiver. I mean cough medicine an’ maybe tissues or them sweets wiv runny stuff in the middle. Only I ‘ated it that ‘e ‘ad to wipe ‘is nose an’ mouth on ‘is sleeve. An’ I wished I could buy ‘im somefin’ nice to wear, nothin’ fancy, just… nice. Maybe one of them warm sweaters off the market.

Then one night there was this feller an’ ‘e goes can ‘e take me back to ‘is hotel for the whole night. The whole night! If ‘e’d said ‘is place, I might’ve thought twice. But a hotel. Seemed safe. An’ it was; ‘e only ‘urt me a little bit, just by bein’ impatient an’ wantin’ it often an’ kind of twistin’ me arms, like. I didn’ care much; I knew ‘e’d pay well ‘an if I was good ‘e might be back fer more.

So I walked out wiv me ‘ead in the clouds an’ me pockets full of money. Not just money, eiver; I ‘ad them little packets of coffee an’ sugar yer get in hotel rooms. Johnny were going to be so freakin’ pleased! We could go away fer a couple of days. For real! I looked in an ‘oliday shop where they book coaches and that; there were trips advertised to the south coast, travel an’ accommodation all in. Brighton. I could afford it. It would ‘elp. Sea air ‘ad to ‘elp, didn’ it? An’ it’d be better than savin’ it; a kind of investment, really.

I was singin’ a tune when I got to the squat, somefin’ I’d ‘eard on somebody’s phone on the steps round the statue. Catchy, even though it annoyed me at times. But then I saw ‘im and ‘e were quite still. There were a smear of blood on ‘is face; ‘is beautiful face. I went to wipe it away fer ‘im, then it dawned.

I phoned the Social. At least that way ‘e’d get a proper burial. Then I scarpered, like. No sense gettin’ caught;  knew ‘e wouldn’ ‘ave wanted that. An’ now I can’t go back there, cos they’ll look fer me an’ make some sort of trouble, make no mistake. An’ there’s an ‘undred quid burning a ruddy great ‘ole in me pocket. No idea what to spend it on, not now, but I know it can’t buy me love.

Steve had suggested a day walking in the Peak District and had hoped against hope that Matt would agree. They had parked near Lord’s Seat and wandered upwards, leaving Mam Tor, with its carefully engineered steps, to the tourists. They were tourists here too, of course, but they knew the area well and considered themselves locals even though they lived and worked some miles north on the outskirts of Manchester. There were no hang-gliders or paragliders today; although the sun was glorious the wind was wild and cruel. Matt’s hair danced in the gusts and the grass whispered beneath their feet.

He had offered to bring a picnic. A flurry of shopping in Tesco’s followed by a session in his small kitchen had produced a mini-feast of delicate smoked salmon sandwiches, asparagus spears with a mayonnaise dip, tiny, bite-sized quiches and some chocolate truffles to go with the flask of coffee. There was wine, too, a South African Chardonnay that he knew was good but had chosen mainly for its easy screw top. All luxuries. He knew Matt probably expected ham salad muffins and a couple of cans of beer. The actual contents of his rucksack should help to give a message if he lost his nerve. He had brought plastic wine glasses as well and had made sure that there was plenty of food. Quantity as well as quality would be needed to sustain them. He hoped they would stay all day; that Matt would not leave when he realised what Steve wanted.

They sat at the top, looking out over Edale, listening to the sheep. There were early lambs, calling constantly for their mothers to watch their games. If you knew where to look,the start of the Pennine Way was visible. Maybe another time. He hoped there would be another time.

They were silent, tired from the climb but content. Would the content last when Matt understood what lay behind the invitation? Recently Steve had thought his overtures might be accepted but maybe it was all wishful thinking.

He unpacked the food, concentrating on what he hoped would be a calming task. He was supposed to have psyched himself up for this, but now that the moment had come his nerves were back in full force.

Matt opened the wine, a strange look, almost a query, on his face as he filled the glasses. He sipped slowly, watching Steve lay out the food on the lid of the container he had brought.

Steve opened the pack of asparagus and the mayonaisse. He dipped a pale green spear in the sauce and held it towards Matt with a questioning half-smile.

Matt’s answering smile was broad and seemed to light up the hillside. He accepted the offering and their fingers touched briefly, sending a spark flickering across Steve’s hand. Matt brought the spear to his mouth, still smiling, and licked the creaminess from the tip with slow, careful movements then let the tip of his tongue linger on his lips.