PRINCE DROOL

Once upon a time there lived a prince. I can't say that he was a handsome Prince - he wasn't. He was uglier than hog with a hangover. In addition to being ugly, this prince had many unpleasant habits, the most odious of which was drooling (that's drooling, not duelling). He drooled whenever he was nervous, whenever he was excited, and he especially drooled over fair maidens.

He was known far and wide as the drooling prince, or Prince Drool. This didn't bother him in the least; he was remarkably insensitive. He also had an awful personality; he was quite simple and always broke. His father the King was rich, but he rarely indulged the prince, other than to provide him with a beautiful white charger whom the prince called Corvette.

The prince loved his horse, and would ride proudly throughout the kingdom, leaving a trail of glistening drool behind him, attempting to seduce the not especially bright maidens who were attracted to Corvette. But as they were women, they were much brighter than the prince, they'd say things like "Would you excuse me for a moment whilst I wash my tresses." and that would be the last he'd see of them. This was unfortunate because the king would have liked a grandchild, if only to skip over the prince and continue the royal line with dignity.

 One evening the king summoned the prince to the royal bed chamber. "Prince," he gasped, "I think I'll be dead before the year is out (he was only suffering from a severe case of indigestion), so I'm giving you one week to prove you are worthy of my fortune (ha ha) or it will all go to the society for the preservation of dragons. This was not a purely benevolent gesture on the King's part. The king had for years relied on dragons as the enforcement arm of his protection rackets. If villagers did not pay their taxes the king would send down a dragon to terrorise them.

This was far more effective than the ill-fated GST. Unfortunately, the dragons were demanding more and more from the king, and it was rumoured that they were applying for certification by the united dragon workers. Since the king had no replacement dragons his bargaining power would be limited. This could mean the downfall of the kingdom, but like most rulers with evaporating omnipotence the king was ignoring the facts and turning to more mundane things, like insisting the prince find a wife.

 "You are to go forth into the Kingdom and return with a fair maiden who is willing to marry you." said the King. "Complete this task I have set, and you will inherit my kingdom, the dragon’s contract, and the keys to the regal bathroom. Big deal!

"No problemo," said the prince. Being stupid, he had no idea how inept he was in the world at large. "First." he thought, "I'll go out and kidnap some helpless maiden. This of course was nigh impossible; the kingdom wasn't that big, and the maidens were no longer helpless having availed themselves of the courses at Eric's school of hog rearing and codpiece crunching.

The prince’s case wasn't helped by the local media who were slagging off the prince at every opportunity. In every village a crowd would gather to hear the latest on the royals from the tabloid press. Usually someone like Loid, a former bingo caller with a loud voice who had set himself up as the Town crier. He would call out, “Oh yea, oh yea, my sources tell me that Prince drool is not fit to sleep with hogs."  "Oh yes he is!" would scream the crowd. "Oh yea, oh yea, the Palace has issued a statement denying this - apparently the prince prefers sheep." 

The prince slowly realized that if he were going to find a maiden who would be willing to marry him, he would have to travel to a strange town beyond the boundaries of the kingdom, travel at night, or wear a disguise. He did all three. He even traded in his horse Corvette; it was too easily recognized. He now rode a black charger. He called it - Dodge.

Prince drool rode for many days before he came to a town that seemed, well - strange. It was dark when he reined dodge to a halt in front of the inn. "Why," said the prince, drooling profusely, "Here is a fair maiden standing in the shadows beside the Inn." (It was dark remember). The prince peered closely, maybe she would be the one he would marry. She seemed fair enough — until she smiled, then he could see she was a little long in the tooth — both of them. That didn't matter to Prince Drool, it really was true what the tabloid town crier had said.

"Fair maiden," drooled the prince, "how would you like to marry me and be my princess - and be rich too?"

"Be a princess," said the maiden, "That's the best offer I've had all evening, sure, why not". It was so easy Prince Drool couldn't believe his luck.

"We'll be married in the morning," he said. 

They did indeed marry the following morning. They then set out on the return journey to Prince drool's home, but as they drew closer, they could see that a disaster had befallen the kingdom, all the crops in the fields were burnt, the villages in smoking ruins. The prince and his new bride reached the castle to find the old King on his death bed (he was still only suffering from indigestion).

"I'm here with a wife father, where's the cash?" The prince of course was quite tactless.

"Sorry son, there is no cash. The dragon got greedy, he roared in last night with an attitude and an ultimatum. If I don't provide him with a princess, he'll incinerate us."

"No problemo," slurped the prince. "I have met your challenge, here is my new wife, she is a Princess. We can give her to the dragon then I'll be rich. Which is an option that the shrewd old king had considered all along, except for the part about the prince being rich.

Now the new princess may have led a socio-economically deprived life in a male-dominated society, but she wasn't stupid. She had her eye on the main chance. Like Princess Di she planned to be queen one day soon. She was more than a match for Prince Drool and his dad, who incidentally was already calculating gate receipts and taking side bets on the dragon.

"Better still," whispered the Princess, "why don't you challenge the dragon to a duel (that's duel, not drool), if you win, you'll be twice as rich, and still have me."

"Great idea," said the prince. Travel had not broadened his mind.

Word of the challenge was sent out and the whole kingdom gathered to watch the prince fry. The peasants, like peasants everywhere, didn't really care who ruled them. But they loved any excuse to watch simplistic displays of gratuitous violence.

The host was Lloyd. He was also providing biased media coverage.

"Oh yea, oh yea," he hollered, "On the east side of the arena is the beautiful iridescent green dragon.

"The dragon stood alone, fearless, wisps of smoke from his pilot light curling upwards into the morning air.

"And, on the west side of the arena (facing into the sun) Our Knight in rusty armour - the drooling prince."

Prince drool was out drooling himself with anxiety. A pond was forming around him. His mighty charger was trampling the ground into mud.

"Let the battle commence," cried Lloyd. The dragon by this time was already halfway down the hill snorting smoke, great blasts of flame scorching the arena, singing the eyebrows of the unwise who had mistakenly paid good money for front row seats.

Prince Drool urged his mighty charger forward, but poor old Dodge couldn't move, he was stuck in the mud. The crowd rushed forward to push, and, with a mighty slurp Dodge was free, charging towards the dragon, Prince Drool waving his sword wildly. It looked as though the prince and the dragon would collide head on, but at the last moment the dragon sidestepped as nimbly as a politician dodging a question and gave a mighty blast aimed right at Prince Drool.

Amazingly nothing happened, except for little puffs of steam arising from the post warranty perforations in the prince's armour. The dragon tried again and again but he just couldn't ignite the knight. Prince drool wasn't called the drooling prince for nothing. His armour, and especially his underwear was soaking wet. The prince was non-flammable.

The dragon was so embarrassed at his failure that he turned and ran. The crowd roared, the king had a heart attack, Loid called for a rematch, and the princess smiled her long toothed smile. Prince Drool was rich at last and a hero to his people. There was nothing left to do but for the Prince and the Princess to live happily ever after. But given their psychological profiles it didn't happen. They became a miserable dysfunctional family with three children, sisters -- two ugly, drooling ones and one who was annoyingly bubbly. Her name was Cindy, and you know the rest.

 Home

December 1995 David Hobson

 

ORIGINS

I was born long ago on the wild moors of west Yorkshire, where my family eked out a living hunting moor mussels, a local delicacy reputed to be a powerful aphrodisiac. Hunting always took place around the time of the full moon. This was when the giant mussels would drag themselves out of the peat bogs and hide in the heather to mate. We flushed them out using a team of trained hedgehogs, on leashes of course — they can be hard to control otherwise, especially when they sniff out a moor mussel.

The hardest task was getting the collar and leash on the hedgehogs, The chief hedgehog handler always did this. It wasn't a job anyone aspired to; it was usually reserved for the person most likely to reach an evolutionary dead end within the least number of generations.

Unfortunately, due to over hunting, the herds shrank drastically, to the point where we had to leave the moors and move to the town, where my dad got a job in a toast factory, a new industry financed by the ministry of foolish ventures. He worked in the Research and development dept., trying to figure out why toast always falls butter side down.

Times were hard still, so we supplemented our diet by ambushing the camel trains that passed by on their way from Scotland to the fleshpots of Wales. I'm just kidding, there were no camel trains from Scotland — they were Aberdeen Angus cattle. What a sight they were too, especially after a wet day. The Angus drovers would remove their kilts and hang them on the horns of the beasts to dry.

I'll never forget the catastrophe that occurred when one went berserk and ran amok in the town — a drover not a beast. It wouldn't have happened if he hadn't sat down in the heather after removing his kilt, inadvertently disturbing a pair of mating hedgehogs. There's nothing quite like the sight of a half-naked Scotsman running around with a pair of hedgehogs clinging to his rear end.

 After terrorizing the townsfolk, he was finally apprehended by the occupants of the Meany Rest-home for Retired Gentle Ladies. They held him until the authorities were notified, which was about four days later. It took so long because they all wanted a turn holding him. 

Life wasn't always so exciting though, at least not until the town was hooked up with electricity. This allowed everyone to experiment with different forms of mechanical stimulation, a welcome relief after having been deprived of moor mussels. Of course, this also meant the end for the toast factory since home toasters were then readily available.

This was unfortunate, as the R and D dept. were close to solving the falling toast syndrome. My father's team had somehow discovered, that by fastening the buttered toast to the back of a cat, it always stayed butter side up — 62.5% of the time (in tests that were considered accurate fourteen times out of twenty). They were on the verge of turning it over to sales when the factory closed. One fortunate side benefit was the discovery that, by using peanut butter instead of regular butter, it ensured the toast always landed butter side down.

My dad took early retirement and spends his time now helping with the Moor Mussel Conservation Movement. He has a stall at the market selling slimy tee-shirts. He also makes a little on the side working part-time for an obscure group called the flat cat fraternity. Me, I'm here!

Home

March 10th, 1995

 

HOT POTATOES

We range in age from five to fifteen, twenty or more of us huddled in the corner of the field, sheltering against the drystone wall.  It's mid-October, cold and damp. Featureless grey clouds are draped across the hillside like a wet dishrag.  We hear the men approaching with Blossom and Flicker, a beautiful pair of massive Belgian shire horses.  They appear out of the mist, tossing their heads, rattling their harnesses, snorting flumes of steam into the frosty air.

They're eager to work.  They enter the field where the spinner lays waiting. Although rusty from a year's idleness, it's been daubed with grease on its movable parts.  Shouts of: "Gee up, get back — get back, whoa, whoa," the team is backed up and harnessed to the machine.  Ted clambers onto the old iron seat, a burlap sack for a cushion.  Reins in hand, face turned from the weather, he clicks his tongue and Blossom and Flicker lurch forward.

Huge as they are, they step instinctively, daintily, between the furrows.  Ted pulls on a lever and two wire tipped discs began to spin.  A pull on a second lever and the whirling discs descend to make contact.  Soil flies scattering its treasure in a six feet wide swath as this piece of Victorian ingenuity is hauled slowly up the length of the field.  At the top the spinner blades are lifted, and Blossom and Flicker return to begin another row.

Meanwhile we pair off, take our places and begin to pick. I think of a childhood rhyme; one potato, two potato, three potato four.  It can't begin to keep up with the number of potatoes we will pick during the week's harvest.  Our school holiday coincides perfectly with the potato harvest.  Maybe that was the idea.  It's a source of cheap labour for the local farmers, and a source of scarce cash for the local kids.

Backs bent, we pick, and pick, and pick.  Again and again Blossom and Flicker make the trip up the field.  For them it seems like light work, for us it's aching back tedious.  In rubber boots and short pants, lugging an old pail, I pick alongside my dad; he works for the farmer, and he keeps me working.  He always seems to be able to kick the soil aside to expose a few more potatoes that would be missed by the less diligent.  When our pails are full, we take them and empty them into the heavy burlap sacks which will be loaded onto the wagon at the end of the day.

The pails don't seem much lighter after emptying, not after the sides and bottom have collected a layer of heavy soil.  Some of the kids have proper wire potato baskets.  The mud doesn't stick to them, but they hold twice as many potatoes. There are always a few extra sacks, too, in case it rains, with one corner turned in they make the perfect cape — until they become sodden and heavy.  If we are lucky a watery sun might show itself by mid-morning.

But the real spirit lifter is the arrival around ten-thirty of Mrs. Pennington, wife of Mr. Pennington.  She brings a huge pail of cocoa.  It's rich and sweet, made with fresh milk and cream.  Of course, we must finish the row we are picking on before we can have any. You should see the potatoes fly. 

By mid-afternoon it's time to prepare the rows for the following day.  It's the worst of jobs, we must strip the potato tops off otherwise they'll tangle and choke the spinner.  They are green and slimy, on the verge of rotting, sometimes frost covered.  It's the job everyone hates.  However, as horrible as the job is, it's a change from picking, and there is one bonus, after the tops have been piled up and dried Ted sets them alight.  They are smoky and burn slowly, but they somehow brighten up the field.

At the end of the day we return to the farm.  Everyone piles on to Mr. Pennington's car; a huge Ford V8 pilot.  They say it's more powerful than any tractor.  He uses it for everything, pulling wagons, carrying bales of hay, or taking calves to market in the back seat.  It easily carries us kids; kids inside, kids in the trunk, and kids sitting on the fenders. We travel in style.

At the farm we line up at the house and are paid for the day — cash.  The amounts vary according to age, size, and observance of our work ethic throughout the day. Clutching the hardest earned money I have ever received I walk home with my sister.  My dad stays to milk the cows.  He'll be milking them again at 6 the next morning.

I get to keep the money. I earned it and there are no restrictions on how I spend it.  I set half aside for Christmas gifts for my mum and dad and sister Jacqueline, and a little something for a couple of aunts.  The rest of it is soon spent.  Potato picking week is followed two weeks later by bonfire night — November the 5th — Guy Fawkes night.  The village shop is well stocked with fireworks to tempt the money from where it's already burning a hole in pockets.

By the time the fifth arrives a lot of kids have already set off their fireworks.  But not mine. I keep them in a bag under my bed, each night I take them out and sort them, admiringly. I'm fascinated by the coloured wrappings and exciting names.  Mount Vesuvius, Catherine wheels, Jumping Jacks, and Two penny cannons.  I can hardly wait.

The evening of the fifth arrives.  As dusk falls the bonfires are lit, dozens of them.  I have my bag.  With trembling fingers, I light each firework then stand back to watch, my eyes, I'm sure, are as bright as the flares and rockets that shoot upwards carrying my potato money with them, but I have no regrets; it was worth every penny.  Besides, there's not just bonfires and fireworks, there's food — treacle cake and chewy toffee, but best of all, roasted in the dying embers, sprinkled with salt, and dripping with farm butter. Potatoes, my potatoes.

 Home

EROS, THE GOD OF LOVE?

A god surely means one must have attributable skills in the chosen, or should I say appointed field. If God of love, then by default the god of marriage. I note there is no record of a Ms Eros. How typical! Just like the divorced marriage councillor.

It is even rumoured that Eros lived with his mother. No wonder there's such a high number of troubled marriages. No, I think if anything Eros is the God of Infatuation, and he's not too good at that. If he is the one responsible then why doesn't he become organised, concentrate on his career. People are resorting to all kinds of audio-visual aids to enhance "love". Call 1-900 and you should be able to get a sympathetic Eros, not a part-time mortal with kids and a mortgage trying to put tuna on the table. They make love about as romantic as ordering a pizza.

I can honestly say Eros has failed me. Too many times in my life I've suffered from unrequited love, especially as a teenager. Where was Eros when I needed him, slacking off, not getting the job finished. For instance, I can remember standing in line at Tim Horton's, and being suddenly smitten. There I was shaking, blushing, stammering, even drooling, all the classic symptoms of true love. What a half-assed job Eros did that day. The object of my desire wasn't even aware of my existence. When I asked for a large black, she simply said. "Is that all?"  Is that all? If eros had done his job right she would have dropped her apron and leapt over the counter to ravish me, a venetian creme in each hand. At least that's how I think Eros should operate.

They say love is blind, I think what they really mean is old Eros is blind, he could use a decent guide dog. He fires off those stupid little arrows, pierces one potential partner right through the heart and then completely misses the other one. Or worse yet only manages a flesh wound. I'm sure he only manages to graze the scalp most of the time, something must be the cause of male hearing loss, or all those headaches.

Once that arrow has pierced the hearts of two people there is no end to the stupid things they will do in the name of love, like staying in cheap motels, or leaving footprints on the dashboard. Neither of which are likely to promote a stable relationship, especially if discovered by one's spouse.

What Eros really needs is to be more responsible partner, a practical god. Forget the love, how about a god of getting along together. That's it, a God of compromise, a god who could smooth things out in a relationship. It wouldn't take much, imagine how improved things would be if he could resolve the biggest bone of contention in any marriage and ensure that toilet seats would always return to the closed position. Marriages would last forever, a lifetime of bliss. Ralph the god of Compromise.

Now, where is that 1-900 number?

 Home

HAVE YOU EVER SEEN A GHOST?

On the hill that separated our valley from the next one stood an empty old house. Kids from both valleys would meet there and have friendly games of adventure, pirates one day, explorers the next, and of course it was a natural fort. During the day, the old house was just an old house, but at night it became something eerily different — the haunted house, the house of doom, the den of the devil. Our own imaginations turned it into a terrifying place after dark, a place to avoid. Then, as our two groups grew older, we would play later and later at the house, even after dusk, until one day the challenge was laid down. Halloween was coming up, who would stay the whole night in the old house? Each group drew lots. I won, or I lost the draw in mine.

We arranged to meet in the front yard at sunset. The two challengers would enter the house together. First to emerge before sunrise would not only be the loser but would face the wrath of his own gang. I didn't really think anyone expected us to stay more than a few minutes in the house alone. This gave me just enough courage to go through with it.

The sun was almost set as we approached the house. My gang was with me for support, or to make sure I entered. I knew they'd leave the moment I was inside. It looked terrifying, living up to the images we kids had bestowed upon it. In the setting sun it had already become a malignant silhouette. In the front yard stood a dead tree, its branches reaching out as if to claw a hole in the roof. In the tree, a solitary crow, looking guilty. In the distance, a dog howled. I shuddered. I approached the door and stopped, thinking this was foolish, but I dare not turn back. I looked around for my supporters, but they’d already sneaked away. I was alone. If the other kid didn't show up, I could leave. I wasn't so lucky.

A voice called out, "In here, you're late,"   It was the boy from the other valley, he was inside the house. If he were trying to psych me out, he'd succeeded. Nothing could have got me to enter that place alone. I went in, switching on my flashlight. "Over here, in the living room, by the window," he said. "I'm just enjoying the remains of the sunset, it's a beautiful view from here."  I couldn't believe it; this guy was so cool; he was even wearing sunglasses. We introduced ourselves, his name was Jack. I didn't recognize him. 

Apparently, he was new to the other valley. The other gang must have been happy to find sucker in their midst. I led the way upstairs to the main bedroom where there were two old mattresses. It didn't seem too scary as we made ourselves comfortable in sleeping bags. We tucked away prematurely into our midnight snacks. The dog had even stopped howling. Before I knew it, I'd dropped off to sleep, only to awaken suddenly at the sound of an enormous crack of thunder. It was raining and the roof was leaking. I looked over to the other bed. It was empty. Jack had obviously left, what a chicken I thought, briefly elated at the realization I was the winner. I was just as quickly deflated at the realization I was alone in the house of horror. It thundered again, and the dog resumed its howling. I wanted to howl too.

 I reached for my flashlight; it was gone. What a rat I thought. I pulled my head into the sleeping bag, then I heard it, creaking, the house began to come alive, banging doors, slithering sounds, viscous slurping, every haunted house cliché, and more that I imagined. It's just the wind I told myself. It's only your imagination I said. I wasn't listening. All I could hear were the soundtracks of every horror movie I'd ever seen; I knew Freddy was out there. Then I heard a tapping sound — tap, tap, tap. It was coming from downstairs. I didn't want to know, I had to get out of there.

I went out onto the landing, stumbled in the dark and dropped my flashlight, my spare one. I got down on my hands and knees to search for it. I shrank as my hand touched something cold and slimy. I jumped back, falling down the stairs. I was ready to run when I heard it again, tap tap tap then a shuffling sound. I raced for the door, grabbing the handle, about to wrench it open and escape when it began to turn in my hand. Suddenly the door jerked open. Not the front door. I'd been confused in the dark. It was the basement door. I screamed in terror at the figure standing there. "Oh, it's you!" it said. It was Jack.

"You scared the heck out of me," I yelled — not too angrily. I didn't want him to take off again.

"And you woke me up," he said, "banging around up there."  He told me he'd gone down to the basement because he was getting wet upstairs. He said I looked to be sleeping peacefully and didn't want to disturb me.

"Come on down here,” he said, "It's dry and cosy. There's no point being uncomfortable." 

I couldn't believe this kid. None of us had ever dared to go down those basement stairs, not even in the daytime, let alone in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm! Jack was right though, it was dry, and I was able light the candle I had with me. You don't think I'd only have two flashlights along, do you? We spent a very pleasant night, sharing stories, even ghost stories. By now we were like two old friends. Jack gave me such confidence. The way he dismissed all fear of the unknown with a flippant remark, or a logical explanation.

"Did you know?" he said, "the reason there's such a sense of foreboding at the time of a full moon (that night incidentally) is because after dark, the only light available to early people came from the campfire, no one could explain the eerie sounds that came from the darkness beyond. Consequently, everyone stayed put, but a full moon allowed people to sneak around in the shadows and get up to all manner of nasty things."

I'd never thought of it that way before. Eventually we grew tired of chatting and fell asleep. We awoke at dawn, packed our things, then prepared to leave the house. The sun was streaming in.

"Isn't great to feel the sun on your face," said Jack, "It sets you up for the whole day." There was no argument from me.

Since we’d both spent the whole night in this haunted house, Jack suggested that we leave through the front door arm in arm. We did and were met by a tremendous cheer from both gangs. "Thanks Jack,” I whispered, "I couldn't have done it without you. By the way, why is it you're not afraid of the dark." His only reply was to flick her wrist, extending a cane, a white cane.

"You're blind?" I said.

"That's right,” she replied, "I had an advantage. When you're blind, either everything is a ghost, or nothing is! I made my mind up long ago that nothing is."  I learned a big lesson from Jack that night  — to be afraid of the things I can see, not the things I can't.

 Home

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

Aloyna Ivanovna was murdered. Struck down brutally with an axe. An axe wielded by the hand of Rodion Raskalnikov, a penniless student. Then he killed her sister; murdered, simply for a few pieces of jewellery and a paltry sum of money, but were they? This is the question Feodor Dostoevsky explores in his famous novel, Crime and Punishment.

Doestoevsky leads us on a tortuous journey with Raskalnikov as he tries to come to grips with the enormity of what he has done. We are taken inside Raskalnikov's head, into his heart, and to the very depths of his soul.

For days after the incident Raskalnikov is physically ill. Unable to leave his squalid apartment, he drinks, and is driven to the point of suicide. His mind a turmoil of twisted emotions. As much as he tries to intellectually justify the crime, he is in danger of being drawn to confessing by his remorseful heart; to divulge all to the diabolically shrewd police chief Porphyry Petrovich.

This then, is the essence of Dostoevsky's famous novel "crime and punishment". Set in Petrograd, this book was written in 1864. More than 130 years later crime, and occasionally punishment permeate our society. Not a day goes by that we don't hear mentioned the young offenders act, a capital punishment debate or we are captivated by details of a grisly murder.

I would like to tell you a contemporary tale, a parallel to Doestoevsky's, a story of another man's experience with crime and punishment, and his fearsome struggle with guilt and remorse.

Like Raskalnikov, Alfred Barnes was also a penniless student. We find Alfred in bed, just awakening with an awful hangover. The previous evening Alfred had just completed reading Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. The effect this novel had on Alfred was astonishing, he could identify too closely with the book’s protagonist. Like Raskolnikov, Alfred was repressing a terrible secret, reading the book had only served to strip away the protective layers in which he had clothed his heart. He was now forced to face the darkness of his own soul.

Liquor had given him a brief reprieve, which was why Alfred now found himself groping towards consciousness, the empty bottle on the floor beside the bed. His head felt as though it had been welded to the pillow. His eyes opened slowly, but they couldn't stand the light, they snapped shut, causing spasms of pain to reverberate through his head, but with painful perseverance Alfred was eventually able to keep his eyes open. He lay there, perfectly still, staring at a stain spreading slowly across the ceiling.

The phone upstairs in his landlady's apartment rang jarringly. It went unanswered as Alfred knew it would. The sound penetrated his ears though like a stream of ball bearings which ricocheted around the inside of his head. It wasn't just drink that was causing the pain in his head though, feelings of shame and remorse had returned to torment him. He knew now that getting drunk hadn't helped.

 By early afternoon Alfred was able to roll off the bed and lurch to the bathroom where he soaked his head under the faucet. He'd gathered his thoughts by now and convinced himself of the only solution to his misery, but it wouldn't be easy, and he didn't know if he could bear the cost.

 He grabbed his car keys, then left the apartment, not bothering to close the door. The day was hot, the car was a furnace which increased the pressure in his head. The route into town crossed the river. Alfred stopped the car at the bridge and got out. He walked over to the edge. He stood there for ages staring down at the water swirling by, wishing it would carry away his crippling conscience. He wanted to jump, but that wasn't the answer.

He climbed back in his car. There was only one destination left for him. He drove on, perspiration from his hands soaking the steering wheel, but despite the oppressive heat an icy chill suddenly shocked through him. In the rear-view mirror were flashing blue lights. He pulled over, the officer approached him. Alfred wanted to blurt out his awful secret right then but couldn't stand the thought of the public humiliation on the highway. It was a routine check though and Alfred was allowed to continue, but by now he was an emotional wreck, torn between remorse and fear of retribution.

He reached town and found a parking spot. The place Alfred was headed was a huge grey single storey building. It crouched menacingly atop a small hill across the park. He set out towards it reluctantly.

 It had never seemed so hot to Alfred as it did that afternoon, as he crossed the park, he paused in the shade of a large linden tree. For a few moments he relaxed. The fragrance of summer flowers was wafting over him, and he was able to admire the gardens, children were splashing happily in a fountain. He wanted to fix this scene in his memory, but just then a cloud obscured the sun and the brightness of the images faded before him. His anguish flared again, and he walked on. As he drew near the building the sky was darkening, thunderheads were crowding in. A rogue wind sent leaves and litter stampeding down the now deserted street.

Alfred stopped at the foot of the steps and looked up at the building, horror stories had come of this place, he was terrified, but he had to go on. He climbed the steps haltingly, his burden now almost too much to bear. As he reached the top, rain began to fall and thunder rumbled in the distance, conspiring to push him forward through the door where he immediately froze at the sight of a uniform, the man simply glared at Alfred and pointed down a long wide hallway to a darkened recess at the end. Alfred could sense they were there waiting for him.

 He wanted to scream and run but his feet wouldn't cooperate. Instead, he stumbled towards the desk.

"Mr. Barnes?" Alfred let out a gasp and shrank visibly. They knew his name.

"I've been expecting you."  Alfred was too afraid to speak, but he managed to mumble the only words which came into his head, "Crime and punishment."

"That's right Mr. Barnes, 'crime and punishment'. That book is 3 weeks overdue; how do you think the can library function if people don't return their books on time?"

Alfred paid his fine, relieved that they hadn't stripped him of his library card. He left the building feeling like a new man, the skies had cleared, it was a beautiful day. He passed through the park again, children were again playing in the fountain, the world once more looked wonderful. Then, as he approached his car, he stopped dead in his tracks and began to tremble. He stared with dread. It was parked right where he'd left it, beside a meter  showing . . . expired.

 Home

© David M. Hobson  January 10th 1994