Undercover Policing and its Drawbacks

Of course, those that first met PC Splank Horology off-duty, knew little of his secret life as an undercover policeman. The persona he adopted, of Hotwire Treehugger, was part of an attempt by the police to infiltrate one of the UK’s most notorious extremist environmentalist organisations. The first such operation since PC ‘Stan’ Nark had posed as a dandelion to gain entry to the nascent underground Free Festival scene back in the early 1970s.

As the police eventually realised, many extreme environmentalist movements are far from being the benign force for good that a naïve glance at what they claims to be true would suggest.

Therefore the decision was taken to insert an undercover police agent into one of the more extreme sects of this proto-religion. A group then known as the Eco-Taliban. An extremest sect that even refused to walk on the ground in case they traumatised an earthworm. Only making an exception – of course – for their compulsory treks to the dole office.

Many of the sect’s activists attempted to overcome the crisis of conscience caused by the walk to the dole office by attempting to master the art of levitation. Something that even their shaky grasp of science and/or reality should have told them was doomed. Especially when one of their leading lights, Daisy Birchkisser, failed to levitate off the White Cliffs of Dover. Thus becoming a substantial source of nourishment for those very imperilled earthworms she’d sought to save.

This irony was not entirely lost on her followers. Two of whom also lost their lives whilst trying to erect a sustainable shrine to her in the very spot - just a few feet from the cliffs - where she’d failed to levitate above. They and their shrine did the same as Birchkisser, also failing to levitate. All much to the delight of all the - now morbidly-obese - earthworms in the vicinity of the area they plummeted to.

It was at this point that Hotwire Treehugger appeared on the scene. Arriving just as the Eco-Taliban were about to stage their most spectacular protest. They wanted to attempt to stop several local gardeners from mulching their allotments and thus – they believed - upset the karma of the local earthworms.

Treehugger warned against this action, knowing, though his experience as a local bobby, how handy several of the allotment-holders could be with a well-aimed dibber.

However, Treehugger’s reluctance was put down to cowardice and he was sent for re-education with one of the group’s wise philosophers and activists, Geoff Monobrow. Monobrow explained to Treehugger just why bunnies were so fluffy. Also explaining how everything would be eternal summer and wonderfulness as soon as the group assassinated every Briton with a car. Then they would turn the motorways back into ley-lines. Every motorway services would then become a place of sanctuary for local wildlife. A place where the birds and earthworms, the foxes and the newly-liberated domestic fowl could all live together in universal peace and harmony.

As this vision of bucolic nature living in harmony unfolded before him Treehugger broke down. He confessed that he was really PC Splank Horology and he would be resigning from the force the very next day to become a member of the Eco-Taliban as soon as possible. Thus enabling the worldwide eco-revolution to take the western capitalist world back to its rightful place in the Middle-Ages.

Later, in a press conference, the Metropolitan Police denied all knowledge of either PC Splank Horology, or his alleged undercover pseudonym of Hotwire Treehugger. The fact that several lorryloads of documents had been shredded as soon as the news broke was, as the chief constable said, ‘Just one of those things.’

Meanwhile, it can now be exclusively revealed that Hotwire Treehugger is now living with a female rabbit and their kits in a hole just off the ley-line formerly known as the M6.

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Into the Storms

She came back to me through the rain that night, looking like someone who’d just come back from a war. Like someone who had just survived some great catastrophe. We hung on to each other through that dark and stormy night like two storm-tossed survivors of some great wreck. Around us the world we knew tore from the reality we understood and set adrift on these wilder waters of some stranger possibility.

Until that night, I was sure of reality. I felt the great weight of it anchoring us to this world around us. That night, though, we clung to each other as we saw the world outside our window slip, break, crack and fall. The world we knew became this new, strange place we could not understand or even name.

For a while afterwards, neither of us was sure if we were alive or dead. We did not know whether we had slipped through some crack in what we once regarded as the real. Or, if – somehow – we had slipped free of the living world altogether.

Each night, from then on, as we searched these twisted, changed streets for some sign of the familiar. Seeking somewhere where we could be safe as we dodged and evaded those strange creatures that had merged from the cracks in all that was once real. All while we wondered if we would ever see our familiar old world ever again.

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Smoke on the Breeze

Shirena was weary; she'd been up late the night before with the old woman, treating a sickly calf. Now she'd been out wandering the woods since it had been light enough, searching for the herbs to replace the ones they'd used treating the calf.

Shirena dropped her basket to the ground and slumped back against a tree trunk. No doubt, she thought, the calf will be snuggled up against its mother, while she was out here in the morning-cold woods.

It had taken Shirena hours longer than she'd hoped to find the plants the old woman needed. There were none in the usual place, so she'd had to go deeper into the woods, further than she'd ever been before.

Now, she wanted to rest for a while before going back to the village.

She awoke, she didn't know how long later, smelling smoke on the breeze. She wondered if any of the men had ventured into the woods to hunt or gather building wood.

Sighing, she got to her feet, picked up her basket and headed back to the path that led to the village.

There was smoke and... well, little else of the village left when she tuned the corner out of the woods. Shirena just stared, her basket dropped and forgotten.

She ran for the village, stumbling over something, which turned out to be old Toma, the oldest man in her village. She had treated his cut hand a few weeks ago, and now as she looked down, a silent scream caught in her throat. She could see he was beyond her healing ability, beyond the healing ability of even Beena the old woman.

Nothing remained, except smoke and bodies, the bodies of the men and of Beena too. Shirena half-smiled to see the old woman had died with her knife in her hand, its blade bloodied.

There were a few strange bodies too, wild-haired men, their hair as pale as that of hers and her fellow-villagers was dark, lying where their drying blood soaked into the ground.

Then a hand grabbed her by the hair and dragged her away, screaming past more of the strange pale-haired men, laughing gangs of them, all taking turns picking out which ones they wanted from the women of the village.

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

The Entrance to the Lair

He prepared himself and took a firm grip on his lance, ignoring the smirk from the peasant. ‘Are you sure this is it?’

The peasant nodded. ‘In here… definitely.’

Sir Gawain studied the cave entrance. ‘It’s a bit small.’

‘Are you worried your lance is too big to fit in the hole?’ The peasant smiled helpfully.

The squire snorted and doubled over.

‘Squire!’

‘Sorry, sire… I… er… sneezed.’

‘You’ll do more than sneeze when you get in there.’ The peasant seemed to relish the prospect. ‘Go on, then.’

‘Aren’t you coming?’ Sir Gawain fiddled with his visor.

‘No… I’ve got…..’ The peasant looked around the mist-shrouded landscape, what they could see of it. ‘It’s harvest time.’

‘What, this time of year?’ Sir Gawain knew little of farming. In fact the only thing he knew about agriculture was not to fight a battle in a field recently vacated by livestock… it was a bugger to get those sort off stains off armour. The latter thought made him wonder just how fearsome a dragon could be. He didn’t want to be trapped in a suit of armour with those sorts of smells on the inside.

‘Shall we go, then Sire?’ The squire helpfully stepped to one side holding her flaming torch up just inside the cave entrance.

‘Peasant. I order you to go first!’

‘Fuck off… I’ve got a harv….’

Sir Gawain swapped the lance to his other hand and drew his sword.

‘Oh, bollocks,’ the peasant said, grabbed the flaming torch from the squire and stopped into the cave. ‘Come on then.’

Sign up to the David Hadley – Author Mailing list to receive news about new releases, special offers, forthcoming titles and much more.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

It was Nowhere

There was nothing there. At first it was just wasteland stretching as far as I could see. Stubby trees, brambles, weeds and grass, little more and all overgrown. There was something familiar about it though, even though I couldn’t place it. As I walked on, looking for anything that would tell me where I was, I realised it reminded me of the waste ground around where I’d grown up. Back then, there were many places where demolished houses and factories had been, with the site just left to grow wild. Great places if you were a kid back in those days when you were just let out in the morning to roam and explore.

This, though, looked bigger than those places, as though a whole area, the whole area, as far as I could see had gone wild. Then, looking around up on a small rise I had the feeling I was home.

There were none of the houses, shops, factories and all that. No roads, street lights and pavements. But looking around I realised that this was where I lived. There was something there, the place behind the buildings under the roads and pavements. It was where I lived, but everything human removed from it. 

Half-closing my eyes I could imagine all the human habitation given a place and a name. Eyes half-closed, I could see it all how it was only yesterday, back when everything was normal. Not like it was now, when I’d woken up and found myself here, either long before humans came to inhabit this place… or long after they’d all died and gone.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

The Magic Wand

Then it happened.

Well… almost.

The stick, or - as Mercor insisted – the magic wand, fizzed a bit at the end like a damp bonfire-night sparkler and the frog glared back at me.

Mercor studied the frog for a moment. ‘Not exactly a princess, is it?’ He looked over his eyeglasses at me, raising a portion of his facial forestry, which on someone less hirsute would be in the vicinity of an eyebrow.

‘Magic is bollocks.’ I glared at the stick… wand… in my hand. I waved it around a bit, like a bonfire night sparkler.

Mercor ducked, surprisingly fast for someone of his age… whatever that age was. ‘Careful!’ He raised himself up from behind the workbench. ‘That thing is still charged.’

‘Rubbish, there’s no such thing as magic, I threw the stick down on the workbench. There was a dazzling flash. One of the nearby curtains caught fire. 

‘Shit.’ I said.

‘See?’ Mercor folded his arms, his hands disappearing into the sleeves of his gown. I thought about mentioning wizard’s sleeves, but he didn’t look like he’d appreciate the joke right now.

‘Magic does exist.’ He spoke as he picked up a bucket of water and doused the flaming curtain. Black smoke rose from the curtain as it dripped wetly on the floor.

He turned back to me, gesturing for me to pick up my sti… wand.

‘Now, the frog.’ He pointed.

‘Er…?’

‘What now?’

‘Shouldn’t frogs turn into princes, not princesses?’ I shrugged. ‘Y’know… traditionally?’

Mercor looked at me. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you were… that way inclined…. I’ll get you a male frog.’

‘No… no…. I want… like the female.’ I waved the stick at him. There was another blinding flash. ‘I’m more than happy with a female fro… Mercor…? Mercor?’

Where the wizard once stood, there was now a frog sitting on the empty heap of wizard robes next to the fallen wizard’s hat.

‘Oh, shit.’ I said.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Dreams Are This Fragile

Dreams Are This Fragile

Dreams are this fragile

insubstantial as a thought

drop the moments when those times

become like a cold reality

and those delicate dreams tear

like tissues to fall

as paper snowflakes

across a dark green carpet.

These are your dreams

something precious to hold

like a rare delicate butterfly

or some other living beating thing

with a soft tremulous heartbeat

so soft, like a thicker warm moment

pulsing under your fingertips.

Something precious that can take hold

of the insubstantial air to take wing

across these endless skies

to take your dream soaring

to some high safe mountain

Where your tumbling tears

will not wash these dreams away.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Meeting Doom

Sometimes there is not that much that can be done. Sometimes it is better to turn away and go back to how life used to be. Back before all this chaos, trouble and disaster up-ended itself over your head like someone emptying the night-soil pot from an upstairs window as you walk the street below.

Other times, though, walking away is not possible.

Especially when there is a fire-breathing dragon in the way.

Especially when there is a princess with such huge… eyes, pleading with you to save her.

Trouble was Stan was not, as he claimed, Sir Stanley, Knight of the Storms. He was just Stan a poor peasant from a town with a great many upstairs windows. He didn’t know how to walk in armour and doubted it would be much use against a dragon; he’d seen what happened to metal in contact with heat at a blacksmith’s forge. So, he didn’t want to be locked inside this semi-articulated can when the dragon turned that flame on him. He had no idea how to get it off though, not without help.

As for the lance, he’d turned it over in his hands, looking for some indication of how it should be used. It looked flimsy, too flimsy compared with the dragon. The lance looked as though it could only annoy the fire-breathing beast, kindling and stoking up an appetite for a nice lunch of hot tinned man.

But the princess was begging him to save her and she had those huge… pleading eyes. She also looked like the kind of girl who could be very grateful.

Stan took a firmer grip on the lance, checked his sword was there in the scabbard at his side. He had to admit that so far his had not been much of a life, so losing it would not be that much of a loss, but it was the only one he had.

But she had those huge….

‘Right, dragon!’ Stan yelled as he lowered his visor and hefted his flimsy lance. ‘Prepare to meet my… your doom!’

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Here be Dragons… Possibly

‘We're here.’

‘What?’ Sir Gawain stared around the damp misty valley, then turned to his squire. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, look.’ His squire held up the sat-nav.

Sir Gawain clunked across to her. He was sure the constant drizzle was making his armour rusty, seizing it up slowly.

His squire showed him the sat-nav screen. ‘Here be Dragons!’ It said.

Sir Gawain turned to stare at the damp, empty valley again.

‘Hey, be careful with that lance!’ His squire yelled, stepping smartly out of the way and ducking.

‘Sorry, it's new,’ Gawain said absently.

Then, out of the mist something emerged.

Gawain peered into the mist, whatever the whatever it was was, was coming towards them. His hand fell to his sword pommel as he dropped his lance to the ground.

‘Hey, careful with that lance!’ the squire said. ‘I was up all night polishing that.’

Gawain turned, trying to glare at the squire through his visor. ‘So, that was what you were doing?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Oh, nothing… its just that… well, y’know…?’

‘What?’

‘Polishing your lance… y’know back at knight school… well, that was a bit of a euphemism….’

‘A what?’

‘Nothing…. Nothing at all.’ Gawain turned back to see the whatever it was was now standing in the road staring at them… possibly.

‘What manner of foul beast are you? I am Sir Gawain of the Knights of the Oblong Table and I command you to stand clear or taste the edge of my sword!’

‘What does it taste of, then?’ the whatever it was said, drawing back a hood made of the same collection of patched and ragged material that Gawain could now see gave the whatever it was its rather indefinable outline.

‘This sword of yours… taste nice does it?’ The whatever it was winked broadly. ‘Pork sword is it? Know what I mean, eh?’ It winked again.

‘I….’ Gawain peered through the mist. The whatever it was was a peasant, but it was hard to tell if it was male or female, or how old it was. Although, the dirt ingrained in the skin suggested he or she had not had a bath, or even stood out in the rain, for quite a long time. That was surprising in such a damp country as this.

‘Never mind all that,’ Sir Gawain said. ‘I’m looking for a dragon.’

‘Oooh, kinky,’ the peasant said. ‘Got a lance have you?’

‘Yes, I ha…. What do you mean by that?’

‘Disgusting, I call it,’ the peasant said. ‘You posh blokes coming up here to poke a nice harmless dragon with your lance… you ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

‘A dragon… nice… harmless…!’ Sir Gawain spluttered.

‘Yes.’

‘But… it is a… dragon.’

‘So?’

‘But they are savage, fire-breathing monsters who kill….’

‘Well, I’d imagine that you’d get a bit pissed off if every time you settled down for a nap on a heap of gold some toff strode up to you and started prodding you with his lance.’ The peasant peered through the mist at Gawain. ‘Although, you’d probably like to be prodded by a lance, wouldn’t you? I’ve heard what goes on at those Knight Schools once the candles are blown out.’

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Roadside Experiments

Well, there she was. Which was not ideal, for if she was over here then I wouldn't have had to shout against a background of heavy traffic noise. So, I believe she can hardly be blamed for any of the subsequent misunderstandings, except of course the incident with the weasel.

However, the weasel is now receiving intensive trauma counselling, so it is possible that later a line may be drawn under that particular aspect of the experience.

Although, current psychological evidence does suggest that the weasel may never be fully at ease... ever again. Especially in the near vicinity of a cheese and sweet pickle baguette.

However, such setbacks should not divert us from the bigger picture and the great advances made in our understanding of human sexuality. In particular how it relates – or not – to the lay-by. Especially during the early evening rush hour.

As well, of course, as the significant increase in our understanding of cheese and sweet pickle-related trauma in impressionable young weasels. A subject which, I'm sure you will agree, modern science has woefully left unresearched. Even despite the more than generous research funds available from the EU for such vital research.

Anyway, so there she was dressed in the full leather outfit and ready for our research project to begin. At least, until the police patrol arrived and insisted we erect the barriers to avoid distracting the passing drivers. In particular the drivers heavy goods vehicles. The police claimed there was a possibility of us causing a severe road accident when the aforesaid driver became aware of a rather under-dressed young lady striking nubile posses in a lay-by near Redditch. Which, if you have ever driven around Redditch will make you understand why those drivers were in dire need of any distraction available.

Still. The erection of several large cricket sight-screens in a lay-by did cause more inconvenience, we are sure – than any provocatively-dressed young lady would have done. Consequently, the entire lay-by was soon full of haphazardly-parked vehicles as their drivers stopped to see what was going on.

This, unfortunately, meant that any results we gathered from our research immediately became invalidated by the crowds of observers. For as we all know the nubility index of any young lady is often erratically perturbed by the number of observers present.

Therefore we had no alternative but to abandon the experiment for that day.

However, we plan to try again, but this time somewhere in the vicinity of Luton where – it is said – drivers are immured to all roadside distractions, no matter how provocative.

However, we shall have to wait for our experimental confirmation of this sometime in the near future before it can be stated without equivocation or the possibility of statistical error.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

The Issue of the Gazelle

And this?

Well, obviously, that is involved with other matters entirely. So if we could just put it to one side... carefully. Ideally, not next to either the gazelle or the tennis racquet, then we can move on to more tasteful and refined matters.

Of course, if we are serious about becoming more tasteful and refined here at this... er... whatever this is, then I'm afraid that you - especially you over there - will have to forgo, or at least limit, anointing yourself all over will baby oil. Especially before you leap in and peruse whatever that day's particular missive sets forth.

Oh, and make sure that device of yours is switched off too, you know how much the buzzing perturbs the gazelle. Which, then, makes the tennis racquet somewhat superfluous. Especially when it then has baby oil all over the grip.

As you are no doubt aware, being a person of refined discernment, several animal welfare organisations, at a worldwide level, are growing increasingly concerned about possible animal abuses. Especially about the number of gazelles becoming unnecessarily perturbed by various untoward goings-on in the domestic environment. It is at such a stage that some of these charities are calling for a ban on tennis racquets and the strict licensing and control of baby oil. As well as making those devices illegal to posses within a two-hundred metre radius of any gazelle of a nervous disposition – which, let's face it – is most of them.

Now, while most right-thinking people think that a ban on the possession or use of a tennis racquet for use in the sordid world of international tennis is at least a step in the right direction. Going, as it does, towards removing the abomination that is tennis from this world it has blighted for so long. However, some believe the erotic use of the tennis racquet is too important, despite its sometimes detrimental effect on any nearby gazelles, for an outright ban to be considered... yet.

So, please bear this in mind and - to be on the safe side - be careful with that baby oil too.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

These Stories We Tell Each Other

We tell one other stories of these times and places. We have no choice.

Without the story of the morning about how the sun rises beyond those far hills, our days could not begin.

Without the stories of the animals moving across these landscapes and the tales of how the plants grow we would have nothing to eat. Then our dry bones would be the only story we could tell to that warming sun. Without the long twisting tale of the river we would have no fish, nothing to drink and no way of taking ourselves down to where the sea waits. Its waves tumbling over one another in their haste to hear us tell the great legends of the sea and the tales of the seafarers who risked all to travel across it is search of more tales to tell. The tales of distant lands and peoples who each have their own stories of how this world came to be, and their place inside it the sailors tell us on their return.

Without you, I would have no tale to tell of how it feels to wake and not be alone with only the trees and the animals to sing my stories to. Without your stories of children that grow inside you, then break free to run across these hillsides making the stories of their own life then there would be no-one to tell all these stories to.

And what else is there, except these stories we tell one another?

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Wildlife Documentaries of the Future

Well, as you know if you are a devotee of nature and wildlife programmes on the TV, these days it is rare to see the Attenborough in the wild. At least in his native habitat downwind from any rutting wild animals. Some even claim the TV naturalist is becoming an endangered species, especially with the possibilities of miniaturisation and remote operation of today's camera technology.

There are some, indeed, who believe the whole business of going out into the back of beyond, just to film various animals either having it off or eating one-another, and sometimes both, is no longer a viable business model. Especially in these days of reduced budgets, receding hairlines and the relative paucity of camera-ready totty in the field. Let alone the expense of getting some out of work former top-flight actor to do the voice-over when all else fails.

Critics point to the increasing success of CGI films featuring cartoon animals with far more endearing personalities than their natural wild analogues. As well as the merchandising prospects of some of the more engaging artificial creatures.

So, in future, it looks as though computer-generated virtual animals will replace today's wildlife documentaries. Programmes where the animals can go beyond the mere rutting and devouring with, and of, one-another and go on to do more adventurous activities, up to and including saving the world from mankind in cute and endearing ways. This will leave both the possibilities of numerous sequels to each programme and the very real possibility of significant merchandising sales as the creatures grow into popular characters.

All in all then, a much more rewarding televisual experience. Much better than watching, yet again, some old bloke crouching behind a bush, muttering on about how exciting it is to be this close to a pair of wild creatures either copulating with, or eating, one-another.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Where the Shadows Belong

It comes slow and careful through the darkness. It feels at home in the dark, light reveals too much. The shadows and dark places are a home. It can feel the prey as it moves oblivious through the darkness.

There was a time long ago, many prey lifetimes ago, when it would haunt the dark woods, waiting for the prey to come into the deep night of the forest. It would wait high in trees, or low in the undergrowth, for the prey to blunder into its reach. Then it would stretch, grab and devour, leaving only a memory for the prey’s kin to mourn.

Then, though, it moved, made its home in the prey’s cavernous cities. There were more shadows, more dark places and much more prey. The creature could sit up high on the roofs and watch. It could wait for the choicest prey to pass by. The creature could hide in the deep, almost solid, darkness in the cellars and basements for the prey to come by, sometimes oblivious, sometimes wary. But, all too often, wary of other dangers than the creature waiting to rip their lives away.

The creature knew this world belonged to it, and not to the prey, and it liked it that way.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

The Still Point of This Turning World

Well, there you go… unless, of course, you are currently not in motion. Although, quite how you manage that when the rest of the universe is rushing about all over the shop is probably better explained by someone in a more physics-compatible stance than the one I am currently utilising. A posture which more resembles the stance of one caught by surprise next to a chest freezer by a Thomson’s gazelle concerned about the integrity of its vanilla ice cream supplies.

No doubt, it is wise for a creature from such a warm climate to have some concern about whether or not someone is attempting to steal its ice cream. This is especially the case in an area famous for the diversity of its wildlife and especially some of the more rapacious hunters and scavengers… as well as an inordinate amount of TV naturalists. Particularly when the naturalists would be more than eager to capture such dramatic footage of a distraught gazelle standing next to its pillaged freezer.

After all we all – no doubt – remember that award-winning footage narrated by David Attenborough in his last TV wildlife extravaganza. A piece where a herd of zebras returned home from a day’s busy grazing to find their once so neat vegetable racks in complete disarray. Finding no sign whatsoever of the spring cabbage they’d bought only that morning from the Serengeti Tesco.

So, like I said – there you go… unless of course you are at the still point of this turning world. In which case, you won’t.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Careful with that Canoe

Once we thought about the canoe, as is often the case on Thursdays. Even so, it was not often we thought about the canoe on Thursdays without a fully-consensual stickleback ponder session in the gazebo.

Of course, it does – so often – in these days of austerity mean that any fully-fledged consideration of almost every mode of aquatic (or in the case of the hovercraft semi-aquatic) transport does entail at least some – however fleeting – consideration of the stickleback.

Especially – as has already indicated in the House of Lords – on Thursdays.

Back in earlier days, however, it was often quite normal for the stickleback and its feelings about having its personal space violated by humans and their callous disregard of stickleback rights.

These days, of course, we live in more enlightened times... so we are told. Consequently, any violation, unthinking or otherwise, of the current nostrums of correct thinking will get us just as banged up as was the case when caught thinking the almost direct opposite a few short decades ago.

Most will – if they ever bother to think about it, will not waste much thought on the matter. Especially if they feel that the sticklebacks may have some sort of case for keeping their lifestyles free of unwarranted intrusion by canoes and – in some places – coracles.

However, we should all realise that what is the right thing to think today, may not be necessarily the right thing to think tomorrow.

So just be a bit careful with your canoe, because next time it may not be just the sticklebacks you are inconveniencing who take issue with you.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Monsters of the UK

As monsters go, it was not that impressive. However, it could give you a nasty nip on the ankle. Unless, of course, you wore rather thick socks, which was something that the residents of the area did with increasing regularity as the word of the monster spread.

It was not long, though, before the national media heard about the phenomenon. However, they decided that it was not quite enough for them to leave the London Metropolitan area for, despite the possibility of travel expenses and a chance to see what the rest of the country looked like.

The media decided to wait until the Annoying Little Bugger of Cleethorpes actually killed someone, or – what could be worse – one of their rivals attempted to get an exclusive deal with a suitably traumatised victim of the Annoying Little Bugger.

Exobologists were more than keen to get a glimpse of the fabled creature, even though it wasn’t as fearsome as some wished. ‘Still,’ as one camera-festooned amateur exobologist said, ‘…a nip on the ankle can be quite sore, sometimes.’

Eventually, when a victim managed to get a camera-worthy wound as well as some shaky out-of-focus smartphone footage of an actual attack, the popular press grabbed their chequebooks and rushed off to investigate.

However, several years of staff cutbacks and time spent mostly in the office recycling press releases meant there were few reporters with the necessary skills to investigate such an elusive phenomenon.

The police too were hampered by health and safety legislation and Police Federation rules that forbid any police officer to do anything more dangerous than fill in a diversity-awareness form without specially-trained backup. As there were no officers trained in dealing with irritating miniature monsters, there was nothing they could do.

And so the attacks carry on, despite a local philanthropist offering a reward of nearly five whole pounds for the capture of the beast.

 

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

The Only Secrets Worth Knowing

There was a noise, something moving in the undergrowth. She turned, saw the bracken undulating as though they were the surface of some deep sea disturbed by what swam though it. It looked as though it was big... whatever it was.

Melody turned back to the path, picking up her basket of berries and herb leaves, including the precious leaves the old crone has insisted she get.

The woods looked too dark; forbidding and full of secrets that she would not want to discover. She had always been told never to step off the path, but the crone had laughed, her few remaining teeth dark in the cavern of her mouth.

'The only secrets worth knowing, all of them lie off the path,' Old Beth laughed. 'If no one ever dared step off the well-worn path, none of us would ever learn anything.' The old woman then looked up into the tall young girls eyes. 'If you learn little else from me, young one, remember that. It is only when we go beyond what we know that we ever discover something new.' She hobbled away to her shelf of mysterious potions in dark bottles, jars and jugs. She picked up a green bottle, tightly stoppered, with something indefinable inside it. 'Although,' the old woman turned back. 'It is always possible – if not likely – that we will learn something we never wanted to know.'

Melody, as she hurried back towards the path, was beginning to think that she had discovered – or it had discovered her – one of those things she would rather not know.

She sighed a deep sigh of relief, one more step and she would be back on the path and safe.

The sudden claws struck out, grabbed her ankle and dragged her back into its own deep darkness.

The Still Point of This Turning World

Well, there you go… unless, of course, you are currently not in motion. Although, quite how you manage that when the rest of the universe is rushing about all over the shop is probably better explained by someone in a more physics-compatible stance than the one I am currently utilising. A posture which more resembles the stance of one caught by surprise next to a chest freezer by a Thomson’s gazelle concerned about the integrity of its vanilla ice cream supplies.

No doubt, it is wise for a creature from such a warm climate to have some concern about whether or not someone is attempting to steal its ice cream. This is especially the case in an area famous for the diversity of its wildlife and especially some of the more rapacious hunters and scavengers… as well as an inordinate amount of TV naturalists. Particularly when the naturalists would be more than eager to capture such dramatic footage of a distraught gazelle standing next to its pillaged freezer.

After all we all – no doubt – remember that award-winning footage narrated by David Attenborough in his last TV wildlife extravaganza. A piece where a herd of zebras returned home from a day’s busy grazing to find their once so neat vegetable racks in complete disarray. Finding no sign whatsoever of the spring cabbage they’d bought only that morning from the Serengeti Tesco.

So, like I said – there you go… unless of course you are at the still point of this turning world. In which case, you won’t.

Out of Distance and Circumstance

Possibility grew out of distance and circumstance. We moved away from all we knew into strange lands and strange times, looking for a place that could become a home. We had all lost so much, only memory remained, and memory, like the seasons fades away into loss... eventually. But these were still raw times; the memories of our loss burned and were sore.

There were some amongst us who had lost everything, except themselves. Lone survivors of families and the last of their name now, trudging through the winds and the blizzards. Alongside them, were those who still had remnants of family left, thinking they were the lucky ones, only to see those relatives fall and die by the wayside as we trudged on.

We were a weak and defeated people, making our stumbling way through hostile lands. Predators can smell fear, taste weakness on the wind. Not only animals: mountain lions, bears, wolves, but the wild humanity that prowls these thick forests too, the outlaws... they could sense we were easy pickings. Many of us died: taken in the night by animals, attacked at dawn by renegades, outlaws and slave traders. All eager for the easy pickings we – the weak – gave them.

It was a hard land and we too – eventually – learnt to be hard back, offering no mercy, no quarter. We became just as ruthless, just as savage as those that would prey upon us, but each day trudging ever onward, looking for that elusive place we could, one day, call home.