Curse

The goblet arrived on a Tuesday, by Thursday they were certain there was something very wrong with it. The condition of the piece was exactly as the agent had described; mint. The problem wasn’t in the goblets physical appearance, it was the goblet itself, it was different. Even Mistress seemed unsure of her new acquisition. She would look at it with a slight purse to her lips but she wouldn’t touch it, even when her fingers would absent-mindedly caress the other inhabitants of the Victorian mantle, they never strayed close to it. Could she sense the same difference in it that they could? Whether she could or not wasn’t clear but she hadn’t named it yet and the rest of them had been named within minutes.

Its essence was all wrong. It was dark and somehow sinister; it was something none of the others had ever come across. The average antiques essence was uplifting and loving which was to be expected considering the origin of the essence was the adoring former owners themselves. Upon their passing the essence of the owner was imbued into their favourite item and that love and adoration lingered in them still. The dark essence in the goblet didn’t feel like anything formerly human; it felt like…evil.

This was sensed most strongly by Swig who had the misfortune of being the goblets closest neighbour. Swig was a Victorian hip flask with an intricately carved silver base and lid and a facetted glass body. Circa 1858 the flask had been passed down through the Cutler family line until Mistress had procured it from a car boot sale in Stevenage. Previously charged with delivery of Dutch courage to soldiers in many wars and then to warding off the cold on frosty morning hunts, Swig now spent his days basking in Mistress’s love. Next to Swig was China; China was an antique plate bearing a hand painted scene of Loch Lomond. The plate had been stolen from the Duke of Durham sixty years earlier and had been so loved by its liberator that he had been clutching the plate to his chest as he’d taken his last breath.

The carriage clock encased in ebonized wood and known as Tick Tock came next. Tick Tock had been won by its owner after an extremely bitter and acrimonious divorce settlement. All the good fortune that had been bestowed on the owner since that victory she’d attributed to the delightful little clock. And then, finally, there was an inkwell Mistress had named Inky. Inky contained no essence; they suspected it was a knock off. Mistress didn’t have anyone else in her life so she gave them all her love and they loved her right back.

It was early evening the first time they sensed a startling change in the goblet. Mistress was rushing about the flat excitedly, already on her fourth change of outfit, when the dark essence they were growing accustomed to turned malevolent. The others grew fearful when they realised the malevolence was directed towards Mistress, trying to allure her to it. The essence meant to harm her.

Panic erupted along the mantle as they helplessly watched the goblet work its dark magic. Either the goblets sinister allure wasn’t strong enough or Mistress’s ministrations to making up her face proved too distracting but to their relief the allure went ignored. Their fear for Mistress abated when, after a final inspection in the full length mirror and a muttered prayer, she left the flat. The malevolence turned on them and if silver, glass and china could’ve trembled they would’ve. They tried to project the love that always made Mistress sing to neutralise it but the dark essence was too powerful. They were hopelessly outgunned.

When Mistress returned her excitement had been replaced with misery. Her shoulders were bowed and tears had created blacks tracks of mascara down her plain face. This saddened them; they didn’t like Mistress to be unhappy. After banging about in the kitchen Mistress came out with one of her Waterford crystal glasses filled nearly to the brim with white wine. This saddened them as well, whenever Mistress drank from her Waterford she was always very cross with herself in the morning.

She sat on the couch facing the fireplace and looked at her antiquities, the things she loved most in the world, as she took big mouthfuls from her expensive glass. They tried to cheer her with their love but her attention was locked on the goblet. The essence within it stirred, once again intent on alluring her to it. The same helpless panic raced along the mantle.

Eventually she stood on slightly unsteady legs and neared the fireplace. They projected love even harder, trying desperately to distract her from the evil before her. All efforts stalled and disquiet filled the others as Mistress poured the pale gold liquid into the goblet. She was going to drink from the goblet! They didn’t know what would happen if she did, just that it would be very, very bad.

In a perfect example of the love they harboured for Mistress, China forced his essence around and around the plate until it wobbled out of its holder and fell to the ground at her feet.

In an instant Mistress forgot the goblet as she fell to her knees in tears and gathered the three pieces of China into her hands. She wailed and clutched them to her chest as though she had lost a loved one. More black tracks stained her face but she was safe.

Swig marvelled at the sacrifice China had made to save Mistress.

The full extent of his sacrifice became clear the next morning when Mistress placed a well glued together China back into his holder. They could detect no essence in the plate, China was gone.

It was almost a week before the thing in the goblet tried again to lure Mistress into its trap.

Once again Mistress had left the flat in a state of anticipation and returned dejected. This time though the Waterford Crystal stayed in its cabinet and Mistress poured the white wine directly into the goblet. Panic gripped Swig as her fingers curled around the ornate base of the goblet and the thing within almost vibrated with malice.

The goblet neared Mistress’s lips and Swig knew he had to save her. He loved her too much to let whatever evil was in that goblet harm her. As Tick Tock pleaded for the goblet to stop Swig forced his essence as quickly as he could to the top of the flask. He toppled and then fell forward. His front hit the mantle and his lid popped out and hit the ground. The rest of the flask teetered then followed. Before Swig hit the ground, Mistress dropped the goblet, its contents splashing her legs as she leapt forward and grasped the flask mid fall. Her foot came down on Swigs lid and she lost her balance. She fell, her head cracking against the oak coffee table as she went, until she landed flat on her back.

Swig fell from her hand to settle next to her hip and the empty goblet rolled into the wall.

Swig was triumphant. He had saved Mistress.

Tick Tock was strangely un-jubilant from her post above them.

There was quite a lot of blood oozing from beneath Mistress’s head. It flowed along the hard wood floor and pooled around Swig, coating the flask. He was going to need cleaning once Mistress woke.

If he’d had Tick Tock’s vantage point he may have registered her vacant eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling. But he didn’t so all he knew was that soon she would awaken. He had saved her.

***

Swig stood on a shelf in an antique shop but he wasn’t alone anymore. He could feel another presence within the silver and glass walls of the hip flask. Instinctually he knew this new comer entering the flask had been made possible by Mistress’s blood but it wasn’t Mistress he sensed. Her presence would’ve been light and airy possibly even smelling of Lillie’s. This presence was black and oily and it closed around his essence like a warm hand. Swig recognised it as the presence that had inhabited the goblet but he no longer feared it. 

It had power. It was intoxicating. It promised him release.

Swig embraced the darkness and bided his time. Soon someone would drink from him and then he would be released. Soon.

Around him the other essences cowered in fear.

By Dayv Metcalfe

The Test

The music box had been my Great Great Grandfather's. He had packed it carefully when his German family emigrated to Australia. It had made it through the sea voyage and the rough journey along cart tracks to the Ballarat Goldfields. It had sat on a little table of a modest home, the front of which was a shop that sold general goods. Often customers, tired miners and the wives of tired miners would pause to listen to its soothing melody and ask "What is that?"

"The music box." My Great Great Grandfather would say. The customer would linger for a few moments, then depart with a slight smile, back to a life of extreme hardship, with little hope of riches.

The Gold Rush continued, some great discoveries were made, and wonderful riches were accumulated by the few. There was also great sadness and poverty. For those that suffered, a trip to the general store for bread or milk was a moment to escape, for always, the tinkle of music would reach their ears and take them away, even for a moment.

One day, the door banged open, and in came a prospector with wild eyes. Onto the counter he slammed a gold nugget, as big as a child's hand, glinting heavily.

"Eureka! At last! More gold than I could ever hope to find! I am rich!" My ancestor looked on in surprise. No one had ever displayed their good fortune before.

"This nugget is three pounds in weight! It was the first among many to be unearthed and I am saved!" The Miner looked about the shop, and behind through the door into the house. "The sound of your music box has kept me going when at times all I wanted to do was die. The Sweet melodies follow me to my diggings, and rest me to sleep. This nugget is yours! With one condition, I must have the music box, It symbolizes my good fortune, it symbolizes me! I must have it! Where to is the music box?"

***

160 years later, the music box sat on a table in front of myself and my Son. We both regarded it silently but I could feel him burning with questions. The silence suited the moment, until my Son could stand it no longer. "What happened!?" With a heavy sigh, I related the rest of our family legend. Tapping my fingers on the music box, a music box I had never opened.

***

"The music box was my fathers." My Great Great Grandfather replied. "On its drum are the notes of Amadeus himself. I cannot give you the music box, it represents me and my family, my family before, and my family to come."

The newly rich prospector grew scarlet, and shook with indignity. His swarthy looks, dark hair and beetle brows marked him as a Welshman. In his rage his dialect burned. "Where to the music box!? Here is a nugget worth thrice your shop! Worth a thousand times your Music box isn't it! It must mean more to me than you! I have found a fortune because of it!"

The German in my ancestor came to the fore. He was a short man, and had a shock of magnificent blond hair that at times glistened like a golden crown. It made him seem taller, and when he approached the Welsh miner he did it slowly, letting his controlled anger build with each step. The Welshman diminished as the German spoke slowly and deliberately, his own dialect escaping - the only indications of anger.

"Dass is not your music Box! Das music box is mine!"

***

I looked at my Son, I remembered how I felt when I was told the story, the feeling of elation that one of my family had stood his ground, stood by his principles even with an offer of wealth. I wondered how he would regard the Music Box when the story was finished.

***

The Welshman looked upon the tough little German. At last, the outraged miner picked up the nugget and hurled it, it struck the cheek of our ancestor, leaving a peculiar scar. "Look You! Curse your music box! Curse all that hear the melodies on its drum, curse the hand that opens it! Curse you German, keep the music box and the nugget, and curse you."

For months our ancestor searched for the Welshman, for he wanted to return the valuable gold nugget. Until he had returned it he said, he could not open the music box. "Whilst we hold the nugget, the curse lives!" He said it to anyone who would ask to hear the music of Amadeus Mozart, and soon, people forgot the music box, and the General Store became another General Store which declined in tune with the decline of the Gold Rush.

***

My Son was lost in thought. Finally he asked not about the music box but the gold nugget. I felt a eerie sensation slink up my spine. He was still young, just fifteen, of course a gold nugget was more interesting that a curse on a music box, but a great regret leapt upon me when I looked into his eyes, perhaps I should have given it a year or two before telling him the family story. He was a dreamer, and like all dreamers he didn't know what he wanted and was subject to whims and fascinations that were placed in front of him.

"The nugget disappeared, we don't know what became of it. Thrown or sold." I tried to end it there, but he could not shake the thought of the precious gold nugget.

"What if it is in the music box?" It was the question I had dreaded, for temptation had found a place to rest and I feared it would win its battle.

"No, it can't be in there. Don't you remember what I have told you? The music box is cursed, it hasn't been opened for generations! Don't you fear the curse of the Welshman?"

"That's just a story!"

"So is the gold nugget." He ignored me and picked up the box.

"It's heavier than it looks!" he gave it a rattle. "There's something inside, did you hear?!" I grabbed his hand to still his next move.

"I'm warning you Son, if you open that box great misfortune will come your way." My tone was harsh and angry and he pulled back, seemingly ashamed.

"I'm sorry, I won't open it, but what if?"

"No what ifs. Open it and be cursed."

That night, I lay sleepless in bed by my wife. The hours passed slowly, the witching hour especially, and just as I thought my Son was saved, a soft music reached my ears. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, in the simple picked notes of an intricate and clever music box. A rendition of Piano Concerto no 21, so incredibly beautiful, I paused to listen to the exquisite melodies before weeping. My son, was the first in a line of five sons to have failed the test. He was cursed, but not because of the fictitious Welshman and his curse but because he put the idea of gold before the lessons of his fathers. He was greedy, and I was certain he would lead a life of disappointment because of it .

By Andy Parker

Story Idea 6

The heirloom was cursed...

 

The story should be no more than 4000 words. 

Deadline: 23th June 2013
 AM

Jimmy Hunter

I could have sworn it was 1984 when I went to bed. I had been at school that day, I remember Jimmy Hunter gave me a handful of dried magic mushrooms in a matchbox. I had eaten them before maths. In maths, I performed graffiti on my textbook. Spirals and double helix's, fractaling down to a giggling and wicked Donald Duck. It was awesome. By the end of the maths lesson, I thought we were all in a cartoon. Outside seagulls spiralled and double helixed around the green playing fields. Above my head and around they flocked in rhythm to the mewling screaming children. I got a little irritated by my peers, was I Donald Duck? Should I throw A Donald Duck type hissy fit?

I walked around and around that lunch break, I'm sure I did. I remember faces up close, "Look at his eyes!" I'd snort laughter at their disbelief, a couple of adult faces, Mrs Jump was one, were giving me the once over. Jimmy Hunter was nowhere to be seen.

Towards the end of the lunch break, I had a gang following me. They'd copy my every move, If I looked up at the sky so would they. When I put my hands on my hips they copied the motion, giggling and congratulating themselves. I plucked from the field a blade of grass, a perfect creation, held up close it looked like a tiny green sword, God's sword, God's army of swords! Look how many there were! I made a gesture across the field. "Wow." I said. Behind me 20 kids said w-oow, gesturing, then erupted, each with their own tiny green sword.

Mrs Jump and another teacher were pacing behind the strange happening. They couldn't quite figure out what was going on. The bell rang and my gang disbanded in hilarity, leaving me to wonder, what was going on? I was sure it was 1984. What should I do, I remember thinking that, what to do immediately? Go to class? I think it was Geography. Mrs Jump was walking close, dangerous, question at the ready, hands behind back. What should I do? What would Donald Duck do?

 "Hiya Toots! We are in 1984 right?" My address and question flummoxed her, and she attacked.

"How dare you! All I ever see you do is dawdle around. Drag your heels. Stare at God knows what! Nothing! Come to my office after school! Now get to class you, you prat."

I was sure I was 15, and it was 1984, but something else lay within me. It spoke of leaving school, of working, of marriage and children, of heart break, love and frustration, and experience. I wasn't going to let this woman talk to me like that.

"Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, don't be like that Mrs Jump!" She went crimson, and took two angry steps to me before I held up the blade of grass and barked, "Get Back!" She stopped suddenly, uncertain, then furious, not just the bluff type, real fury, with ears pricked up. Tardy students looked on agog. This was cool.

"Are you on drugs?"

"Aw Phooey!" I made a dash for it, around the front of the school out onto Longmead road, I snatched a quick look back at Mrs Jump watching me apparently depart, there was a palpable menace to her, and a cunning I had never seen before. I doubled back to the main entrance, and into Mrs Marr's Geography class.

I was ten minutes late. I got a frown from Mrs Marr and sniggering from the students. Someone drawled, W-oow and there was further amusement. I sat down, still feeling like a cartoon. I immediately began to doodle the double helix and spirals over my textbook. I remembered this moment, Mrs Marr was pointing out the features of a glaciated valley, she would say 'Moraine' in a moment, and she did. I was absolutely sure this was 1984. In the middle of my complex doodling was a face. Abstract, shadowy, but defiantly Mad Max, from the second film.

All faces looked up at a tap at the door, in the pain of the window was Mrs Jump. She momentarily looked like Margaret Thatcher, the Spitting Image interpretation, but her snarl was all American Werewolf in London. I turned to the class and said:

"I'm just here for the gasoline." I made a face, a slight face, but it seemed to work because they cheered. Outside Mrs Jump contorted and her teeth bulged out and sharpened. She said something, something like:

"Stay on the road, Keep clear of the moors." Then something else, something like 'lads' but her body had changed and words weren't words but howls. I knew what to say.

" Queen Elizabeth is a man! Prince Charles is a faggot! Winston Churchill was full of shit! Shakespeare's French! The giggling ceased, not because of what I had quoted but because the door had splintered and an enormous beast entered the classroom. I gave it both barrels of a sawn-off shotgun that came from my pencil case, and from the back of the class room the swish of a razor sharp metallic boomerang came, it snipped a couple of pieces of student off, before embedding itself in the muzzle of Mrs Jump.

I turned to face the class triumphant, expecting jubilation, high praise, but there was silence. Utter quiet. Every eye was on me with mouths a perfect O. Outside, a little raggedy boy grunted, his hair was a mess and he was wearing a loin cloth. He jumped up to look for his boomerang before, fading.

"He just punched Mrs. Jump!" Someone commentated.

This was not a dream. This was 1984. Mrs Marr groaned. Mrs Jump got up from the floor and also groaned then whispered something in The Geography teacher's ear. What had just happened? Mrs Marr left the room, Mrs Jump, took a step towards me, this time calm and worried. She wasn't aggressive at all, she was being kind, there was something wrong with me. Was there? Blood was filling her mouth and I could see her swallow, but when she spoke bloody tendrils threaded her lips. "Don't panic, sit down."

I did sit down, I felt like I was about to cry. Some terrible juxtaposition was upon me, was I in 1984 or was I something else? Absently, I picked up my pen as Mrs Jump quietly ordered the students out of the room. No one was sniggering this time, most of the faces were ashen. When they had left, she knelt down to look at me eye to eye. I continued the spirals, the double helix, and I introduced a treble helix, they danced together like tropical fish, and led to a face. Jimmy Hunter's.

"Please tell me, step by step, what you have done today. Don't worry, I know something is wrong and I want to help." I smiled at her.

"I gave him, I mean Jimmy Hunter gave me magic mushrooms which I ate whilst I, I mean he was still there."

"Jimmy Hunter gave you magic mushrooms?"

"A match box full, dried."

"Where is Jimmy Hunter?" A suggestion of shrewdness seeped back into her face.
"I'm here, no, Jimmy Hunter went home." She noticed my drawings and paused to watch. The flow was moving away from Jimmy Hunter's face, and the complex doodles were beginning to outline someone else's. Mrs Jump's hand grabbed my wrist, forcing me to stop. With her other hand she snatched my pencil away and broke it.

"Jimmy." She said. I looked up at her in shock. "It's okay, you've had an episode. Your mother is on the way, she will take you home and put you to bed."

Was I Jimmy Hunter? I looked at my hands, what were all those feelings that seemed to evidence I was someone else, that had lived half their life? I looked at Mrs Jump very carefully. She did look concerned. I let her lead me away. Outside my mother (was she?) took me by the arm and to home. She made me a cup of tea and put me to bed.

I awoke to the dawn chorus. Black birds especially seemed to fill the moment birds truly own. In the mirror I saw me, that face. It was me wasn't it? Did I have to go to school or work? I was sure it was1984 yesterday, but today, was I 15 or 45? Footsteps ascended the stairs. It was either my mother or my wife. I shivered and dressed.

By Andy Parker         

Episode 97

In all my countless calculations, the one factor I’d never considered about the process of leaping was the pain that could possibly be involved.  But every time I leapt, there it was, intensely acute pain caused by swelling in my frontal lobe.  I’d narrowed the cause of this down to the transference process.  As my mind leaves one body to enter the next, the memories I’d gained in the last body were extracted, painfully, to make way for the new ones to come.  It was an altogether unpleasant experience and one that left me wondering what effect the continuous swelling was having on my actual body; the one in 2021 that was being monitored in an underground lab in the Mojave Desert. 

Apparently I wasn’t alone in this line of thinking and my colleagues took every opportunity to remind me how foolhardy I had been to leap before I looked, so to speak.

But I stood by my decision; what else could I have done?  We were about to lose funding for the project I had already put my heart and soul into.  But I knew they couldn’t shut us down if I leapt; so I did.  That was five years ago.

The long and the short of it was I was stuck.

Apparently the failsafe to return me to my body hadn’t been factored correctly, something I took a lot of shtick about.

Hell, I’d figured out how to leap from body to body and take control of that person’s nervous system; I couldn’t be expected to think of everything could I?

Eventually I would get back to my body.  In the meantime I helped where I could on our mission to “right the wrongs” and then moved on.

My frontal lobe was swollen and the intensely acute pain was present – I was leaping. 

I can never open my eyes at first because of the pain but I am always anxious to, anxious to see what reality I’ve landed myself into.  When I could, the first thing that I saw was a monkey.  A chimp to be precise and he wasn’t in a cage.  He was perched on a stool, in what appeared to be a dressing room, eating a banana and, oddest of all, wearing a red military style jacket that looked to have been made just for him.

Still squinting from my headache, I slowly leaned backwards, greatly respectful of the power of the beast before me.  Three things happened simultaneously; I noticed a huge boa constrictor looking for a way out of its glass cage behind the chimp, the chimp gave a cry, that I prayed wasn’t its equivalent of a battle cry, and I raised a hand covered in a white sequined glove in front of me to subdue him.  Ludicrously, it was the glove that stayed my attention.  All thoughts of wildlife fled my mind as I took in the un-gloved hand in my lap.  My mouth ran dry.

Temporarily unmindful of the potentially dangerous chimp I jumped out of my chair and lurched in front of the mirror.  Michael Jackson stared back at me.

“Oh boy!”

I looked around the room frantically, the chimp and snake barely registering, as I searched for Al, my leap companion.  Bar me and the wildlife, the room was empty.

Knuckles rapped on the door and the chimp cried out again.

“MJ, you’re on in five.” A disembodied voice shouted out.

I understood what he meant; I was to go and perform on stage in five minutes, in front of people.

I am a scientist, a man of facts and I write this account purely for the sake of historical accuracy regarding the project.  And in the interests of accuracy it is my duty to recount my experiences in detail.  So it is with great regret that I report that as I stood staring in horror at the dressing room door, a little bit of pee came out.

“Al!” I yelled out which startled the chimp into crying out again.  At this point chimp attack didn’t figure as highly on my avoid list – go out on stage and face utter humiliation or get my face ripped off by a chimp? Rock and a hard place.

I needed to get out of this body and for that I needed my womanising, cigar smoking friend who was only able to appear in holographic form.  A rather annoying aspect of leaping was it appeared to be completely random, or maybe we just hadn’t discovered the pattern yet.  This meant when I leapt, it took a while for my colleagues to find me.

Al still hadn’t found me when the stage hands came back to escort me to the stage.

“Look guys, I’m just not feeling up to this tonight, we’re going to have to cancel.”

The stage hands looked at each other and rolled their eyes.  “C’mon MJ.  We go through this every time.  You have pre-nerves but you’re always fine when you get out on the stage.”

This gave me pause.  Was I merely feeling Michael’s anxiety over performing instead of mine? If I’d had the ability to recall even just one of my wiped past memories I would’ve known if I still possessed the abilities of my host.  There was a very slim chance that I could go on stage and Michaels muscle memory would see me through the performance, the singing on the other hand was a different story.  I controlled the voice box and I didn’t know the words.

I renewed my efforts to get out of my predicament.

“Wait, my monkeys sick!”

Both stage hands surveyed the banana eating monkey with frowns.  “Bubbles looks fine to me.”

“He’s not, he’s really not.  He’s sick!” I could hear the hysteria in my voice.

Both men again frowned at the monkey but this time Bubbles popped the last of the banana in his mouth and made an extravagant motion of kissing his hand and then thrusting it towards us.

The stage hands tutted, actually tutted, and then hooked my arms in theirs and pulled me towards the door.

“Come on MJ.”  One of them sighed.

Panic such as I’d never known gripped me and I am ashamed to say I cussed that chimp out like there was no tomorrow. 

 I could hear them chanting as I was practically dragged along.  They were demanding and I fancied I could almost feel the vibrations of those chants in my chest.  It reminded me of the many movies I’d seen where the virgin was sacrificed to the raging volcano.  No happy ending in sight.

In the blink of an eye I was on the stage, fireworks went off, the music roared to life and the crowd screamed manically.

I froze.  The microphone in my sequined gloved hand hovered around my mouth but that was it.

In confusion the band stalled their playing and everyone was looking at me.  Possibly ten thousand people were looking at me, the most people that have ever looked at me my entire life.

I vomited.

I would like to say it was a discreet, into my hand type of affair, but alas, this was more like a scene from the Exorcist.

The band members retreated from the spill zone and pretty quickly the manic crowd stopped cheering.

Now ten thousand people were just looking at me with frowns; if I’d had more to come up, it would’ve.  Instead I motioned for the band to continue.

Like the incredibly well paid band that I assumed they were, they resumed their performance.

It is at this point you should know I am not, what you would call, a pop aficionado.  Over my career I have worked with a multitude of scientists and physicists.  Many had music blaring in the background, others would sing rock anthems as they worked – I was not one of those types, I liked to work to silence.  So whilst the occasional tune would work its way into my subconscious, mostly I tried to remain ignorant of the pop scene.

At that moment I had never regretted anything more in my life.

I was making noises along to the music and trying my best to moonwalk when the booing started.  The harder I tried, the louder they booed.  I was drenched in sweat, my heart was thundering in my ears and I’d had enough.  I ran off the stage back to the dressing room.

People shouted after me but I kept going.

I was safely back in the room with the potentially dangerous animals when a rectangle of light appeared next to me and Al stepped through it to stand at my side.  I’d never been so glad to see that receding hairline or saliva tipped cigar in my life.

He took one look at me and shook his head.  “Talk about biting off more than you can chew.”

“Al, get onto Ziggy and find out what I need to do to get out of this body.”  I snapped.  I didn’t mean to but I was having a very trying day.

“Keep your hair on.”  Al muttered as he poked at his hand held console.

I shrugged off my sweat drenched military style jacket that I noticed matched the chimps.

“Okay, clearly you know who you are already.”  Al had jammed the cigar into his mouth and spoke around it; he knew I hated that.

“Apparently I’m the king of pop.”

“Not yet you’re not, it’s only 1984, that crown won’t be given to him for a few years yet.  Although your performance tonight may have delayed that a bit.”

I made a gesture as though my sides were splitting.  “Hilarious.”  I dead panned.

“I aim to please.”  He muttered around the cigar in his mouth.

“Al, what am I doing here? This guy’s got it made.  What would I have to change about his life?”

Again Al punched furiously at his hand held device.

“Ah, according to Ziggy it doesn’t end so well for MJ.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, after a long struggle with an addiction to pain meds, he finally succumbed to cardiac arrest under the supervision of his personal physician.  The physician got four years for involuntary manslaughter.”

“Addiction to pain meds?” I queried.

More tapping on the hand held console.

“According to Ziggy MJ does a commercial for Pepsi, on the sixth take his hair catches on fire which burns him badly and starts his downward spiral into the addiction.”

I laugh out loud.  I couldn’t have been given an easier assignment.  “Right, so MJ doesn’t do the commercial, everything turns out fine?”

“On premise, I can’t argue with your logic.”  Al nodded while chewing his cigar butt.

“One step closer to home baby!” I shout as I offer my hand up for a high five.  Al’s hand sailed right through mine.

**

 “Let me read you the reviews!” Frank, my manager shouted as he poked his cigar at me.  He was like a fatter, more receding, unfriendly version of Al.

“He didn’t even know the words to his own songs.  He danced like he was constipated.  The act at my bar mitzvah was better and I didn’t rate them!! MJ, what are you doing to me?!”

“I had a bad night.”  I replied lamely.

“You had a bad night? MJ, you already spend money like its water and now you’ve cost us a fortune.  We have to refund all those people.  Do you know what that does to our bottom line!”

“I’m guessing by the throbbing vein in your forehead that it’s not good.”

Frank launched out of his seat and jabbed his cigar right at my face.  “You’re damn right it’s not good!  Fans pay.  No fans, no pay!  You had better make it up on your next performance or we’re in trouble.”

A rectangle of white light appeared next to me and Al stepped through it.  “Don’t even worry about it Frank, the next performance will be perfect.”  I assured him, as I knew I would be out and MJ would be back.

“Ah, maybe not Sam.”  Al frowned as he tinkered with his hand held device.

“What?” I asked out of the side of my mouth and under my breath.  Frank still frowned at me.

“There are five more performances between now and the commercial.”

“I can’t perform five more times!” I shouted as fresh sweat broke out over my body.

“Why not?” Frank asked with a huge frown.

I didn’t know how to argue my point until my holographic friend pointed out the obvious.

“Diva card Sam.”

“If I say I’m not performing, I’m not performing.  Reschedule the concerts for next month.”

“No way MJ!  We’ll lose millions.” He argued.

“Frank.”  I stared at him pointedly.

“Fine.” Frank mumbled and I felt the heady sense of power.

“And another thing, I’m not doing that Pepsi commercial.”

“Like hell you’re not.  Contracts have been signed – you’re doing that commercial.”  Frank insisted with enough persistence to cause spittle to fly from the sides of his mouth.

“I am not!”  I had power, I was the star, and I would prevail.

Frank smirked at me.  “Well we’ll see what your daddy has to say about that.”

I was on a roll; I was in the power zone so I couldn’t figure for the life of me why my body started shaking uncontrollably.

Al clued me in.  “Sam, MJ’s daddy - not such a nice guy.  He’s been accused of being abusive and controlling, MJ ditched him as manager four years ago.”

“He’s not my manager anymore.”  I asserted to Frank.

Frank laughed and sucked on his cigar.  “Yeah, but he’s still you’re daddy.”

**

“What am I going to do Al?”  I would like to think I asked the question in an assertive manner but I’m pretty sure it came across as whining.

“You can’t let MJ’s hair get burned Sam, that leads to his downfall.”  He punched his hand held device.  “Yep, that is definitely the crux.”

“You saw the way I shook like a girl when Frank bought up my Dad.  Clearly there are some latent father/son issues there.”

“Well, one thing is for sure, no one is going to help you get out of this commercial.”

I paced the hotel bedroom while rejecting plan after plan as they occurred to me until I came up with the perfect solution.

“Bingo!” I grinned.

“What do you have in mind Sam?” Al asked as he worked his cigar around his mouth.

“I’m going to make Pepsi not want me.”  I said with determination.

**

The t-shirt was crudely designed, I will admit, but it was the message that was important.

And I got that message out there.

Fans were crowded around my hotel, being held back by security but when I showed my face the security team had to triple their efforts to keep the baying crowd at bay.

A mustang was parked in the forecourt of the hotels entrance and before my security team could stop me I jumped up onto its bonnet to proudly display the message I wore on my chest.

Pepsi is poison, Coke is king.

**

I lasted up there about thirty seconds before my security team dragged me down and hustled me back into the hotel but that was enough time for hundreds of camera’s to capture the moment.  When I was alone in my room I called out for Al.  He stepped through that rectangle of light already poking at his console.

“So? Did I do it?”  I asked anxiously.  I always got a real high from helping people.

“MJ didn’t do the commercial so he didn’t get burnt.”

“Yes!” I fist pumped the air in victory.

Al made a funny noise in his throat.

“What?”

“Pepsi sued the hell out of MJ, as did the venues of the concerts you cancelled.”

Now I made a funny noise in my throat.  “Well, I’m sure he would’ve bounced back from that, he was a pop icon.”

“Not in this new reality.  Prince did the Pepsi commercial with his hit 1999 and eclipsed MJ’s fame.  Mj was declared bankrupt in 1989 and was committed to a care facility.  He was put on suicide watch on the eve of the millennium when Prince’s iconic song shot back up the charts.”

I cringed with regret.  “Well at least he lived.”  There was always a silver lining. 

Al rolled the cigar around in his mouth and then took it and pointed it at me.  “Sam, you are a gifted physicist with six doctoral degrees but have you ever stopped to consider that maybe you’re not the most qualified person to be messing about in these people’s lives?”

My ego didn’t like it but he did have a point.

Before I could argue the familiar pain seized my brain.

The leap took me.

Memories of MJ’s life were stripped away leaving an aching emptiness.  Before I could open my eyes I was aware that I was sweating profusely and panting.  The first thing I saw over my huge belly was a man in a white coat peering between my spread eagled legs and my feet were in stirrups.

“Okay Mrs Shipman, your little Harold is almost ready to come out.”

“Oh boy!”

Room

John remembered when he'd awoken that first night. His eyes had opened suddenly and sensing the change in temperature, he knew that consciousness had wrenched him from the warm ambience of sleep back into the grey glassy air of early morning. He had sighed and fidgeted, and by the light, the way it revealed only certain aspects of the room, he tried to judge what time it was.

His feet and shoulders felt cold and he knew at once that things weren't quite right, not the same as they should be. Odd, unfamiliar patterns emerged as he looked about him, and struggles to form nearby objects into recognisable shapes.

He turned to reach for his smartphone charging on the nightstand beside the bed but his hand struck something solid, wooden, nearer. He ran his hand against and around it and thought it some kind of chest. His hand fell to the bed covers and he saw they were not his and as he moved under them he realised that he was naked, not how he would usually be in bed.

John's stomach hollowed and he quickly recounted the night before, organised events into some order in an effort to remember with certainty why he wasn't at home; but nothing came. No memory of place, of arriving here in someone else's house.

He sat up in the bed trying to stifle a discomfort of rising panic but as his eyes adjusted to the light, more and more of the room became apparent. He recognised the general configuration; the window alcoves, where the door was, but the chimney breast now had a fireplace and the walls, once an inoffensive and unimaginative neutral colour, were now pink and splattered with what appeared to be bluish blobs of paint. Why was this room so similar to his? Was he in another property in Castle Road? He didn't know his neighbours.

As he became more alert he rubbed his eyes quite firmly trying to illicit some sensible reason, to jolt his memory into revealing an explaination. He hadn't drunk last night and he certainly was not someone who'd ever found himself unable to remember events from just the night before. Especially if it ended with him in a strange bed.

He saw the child just at the moment she spoke to him. John threw up his arms and hid his head behind them momentarily before, breathing heavily now, he looked again at the little girl who had been sitting quietly watching him. She giggled.

'Hello,' she said.

John's throat clenched in a dry painful swallow and he remained silent for a few moments before responding.

'Hello,' he replied. His voice croaky and trembling.

'What are you doing in my bed?' She asked.

John tried to calm his breathing. 'I...I don't really know,' he said quietly and drew his feet up against himself tucking the duvet under his legs to hide all of his nakedness. The duvet barely covered him and it was now that he saw he was in a small single bed, a child's bed; her bed. He desperately wanted to wake up but he knew, he just knew this wasn't a dream and the consequences of everything that was unfolding began to illustrate something quite terrifying in his mind.

John began to see the girl a little more clearly. She sat on a large bean bag in the darkest corner of the room wearing a yellow nightdress and hugging a pink bear with two hearts on its front. Rocking her feet from side to side she continued to study him, this stranger in her bed. Unbothered that John didn't know why he was there, she bit her lip and looked away thinking of another question. Long perfectly straight strawberry blonde hair fell around her face which was also still partially obscured by the mottling of shadows. Suddenly, she drew a large breath and excitedly asked 'What's your name?'

Did he know her? 'My name is John,' he said before asking her, 'what's yours?'

'Holly.' She smiled and squeezed the bear.

'Hello Holly,' John said and Holly giggled again.

He looked about the room which the blooming light had now clearly revealed. The pink walls were interspersed with a repeating blue stencilled pattern of jungle animals and here and there posters and children's paintings were fixed crookedly to the walls with sticky tape. He looked down at the skirting board, the radiators under both windows and an electric socket just to the left of it. These were things he saw from his own bed at home. Exactly the same, and in the same places. Apart from decoration and the missing bed, dresser and side table, this was undoubtedly his room albeit now filled with an assortment of children's furniture, toys and belongings.

Something else struck John suddenly as he took in his surroundings again.

Where were the girl's parents? Surely they must be sleeping in another room and would soon discover him here in their child's bed. Naked. A cold sickness swirled in his stomach and he closed his eyes until the feeling passed.

He wondered if he might get up right now, open the bedroom door, run down the stairs that he knew would be immediately on his right, step through the hall and open the front door and escape to.... to where? He didn't know.

This was an unusual fear that gripped him, and one he felt deeply as everything he understood and believed about things was unravelling before him. He simply couldn't make sense of his situation and began to consider if he was actually ill and perhaps hallucinating in some way. He remembered times in the past when the boundary had been blurred, moments of lucid dreaming but they were always washed with a muddiness that anchored him in unconsciousness. This was different and he felt the explicitness in the fibres of his body; excited nerve endings unfettered by sleep firing into the depths of his brain telling him that he was very much awake and this was the reality he needed to deal with now.

Holly was still quietly watching him, unperturbed but curious. Despite the light now, the shadows had not entirely lifted from her face but John realised they were mostly bruises in various shades of healing. He studied her more carefully and again he could see dark marks on the areas of her arms and legs not covered by her nightdress.

John winced when he saw the shapes of fingers in the bruises on Holly's arms. He took another look around the room and noticed a plastic horse and unicorn, each with brightly coloured manes and tails standing on the mantelpiece. There were also posters of cartoon characters and pop bands from long ago which John recognised from his own childhood. They were favourite things of his sister Kate. She adored those horses. He remembered hiding them once at the back of the airing cupboard and she screamed and screamed at him to tell her where they were. She had actually vomited with the turmoil and John had felt so guilty. It was, he knew, the moment in his life when he truly understood the consequences of his actions but more than that he felt a deep empathy for his sister whom he knew had other more frightening things to deal with; things that he couldn't stop.

After that day, they had become very close. She was three years younger than him and as they grew up together he protected her with a ferocity that made his mother feel quite uncomfortable at times. John would watch Kate's every move seemingly waiting for an opportunity to rescue her from danger, an unseen and yet to transpire threat. After everything, his mother realised that John must have known what was going on. This was why he took it so badly they said; when Kate died.

John turned to Holly.

'Holly. How old are you, I mean do you know what year you were born?'
John thought she looked about five or six.

She had noticed him looking at the posters and said, 'do you like the Smurfs?'

Holly looked down at her fingers. 'I'm five, six in November.'

John repeated his question, though he wasn't sure a five year would know what year they were born.

'Holly, do you know what year you were born? I know it was five years ago, so what year do you think that would be?'

'That's easy,' she said. 'Nineteen seventy nine.'

John's mettle took another blow and he struggled to contain his emotions. Nineteen seventy nine. The same year Kate was born.

'Are you OK?' Holly asked. 'You look a bit sad now. Before I thought you looked scared but now I think you do look a bit sad.'

John forced a smile. 'I'm fine Holly. I know, tell me about your bear,' he said in an effort to distract her.

'This is Love-a-lot,' she said enthusiastically holding up the pink bear towards him and shaking it from side to side.

John already knew the name of the bear as he probably knew the names of the other toys in the room.

Who was this girl? Was she supposed to be Kate in some way, as a child when it all would have started. John now faced the dilemma of his own escape and the rescue of Holly. Clearly she had her own abuser. Could he take her with him, down the stairs and out of the front door as he had mapped out in his head. Find a police station or hospital, explain that he had found her and suspected she was being hurt, in danger from someone. But who? Her parents? Her father, that's what they'd think anyway.

John couldn't offer a rational explanation to himself, so expecting to convince others was probably delusional. No he decided that he needed to get himself out of here first and then return with the authorities.

He thought maybe this was a test, and how he acted now would determine whether he passed or not. Someone must have set this up to make him think he was back in the eighties, reliving his childhood with Kate. But this wasn't their family home in Gloucester. This was twenty seven Castle Street, where he had lived on his own for the last nine years and now in had been turned into a shrine to nineteen eighty four.

Surely though with such an elaborate plan, going the extra mile to fully recreate his real childhood home wouldn't have been that difficult. Bit of plasterboard and paint, they do it all the time on those shows. Twenty four hours, they rebuild people's houses. This was poor really, very poor.

Was it the girl's parents? He was certain he didn't know Holly. Unless it was friends of friends, that sort of thing. People just sticking their fucking noses in.

'Holly,' he said. 'Where are your parents?'

Holly giggled again. 'Silly, you mean our parents.'

John swallowed. 'No I mean your parents. Are they somewhere else in the house?'

Holly screwed her face up. 'John you are teasing me again. You know where they are. You always know where they are and you still ask me every time.' Holly slapped her legs punctuating her reply.

John became agitated. His fear and confusion escalating once more as Holly actually appeared to confirm his suspicions about this whole situation. He scratched at his arm where the needle marks were.

He calmed himself quickly by acknowledging that Holly was just acting a role in this experiment and to be fair he thought, she was doing a very good job.

'Holly. This is really important. I need you to tell me. You may have told me before but I can't help you, I mean we can't escape unless you answer my question now. Please Holly, I only want to know where they are.'

Holly continued to giggle, eventually breaking into hysterical laughter; tears and saliva escaping from her eyes and mouth

John imagined the bones of dogs, half chewed, sinewy and ragged, bubbling with spit. He tried hard to control his anger and talk evenly without raising his voice. He spoke is a forced whisper.

'Holly, Daddy is very upset, now please answer my question.'

Before Holly could answer there was a sharp double knock at the door. It opened and a man appeared.

'John, you have a visitor,' the man, said stepping aside to let a woman into the room.

'Hello John,' she said smiling.

'Hello Kate,' he replied.

By Darren Seeley