on the tv show

the walking dead

every woman has

shaved arm pits

but how in hell

would that matter

in the apocalypse

asking for a friend

who isn’t a man

but a woman instead

we fight to the death

zombies and bloodshed

but at least we’re hairless

I lean down and blow dust off an old covered table. The dust floats into my face, causing me to sneeze and cough. I yank off the tablecloth and find an old typewriter. The old creaky house groans and crackles as the wind outside blows. I spot a stack of paper and stick it into the typewriter. “Let’s see if this works.” I smirk.

I prepared the typewriter and set my fingers on the keys, slowly I push down. Clacking sounds as letters print onto the paper. I glance over my shoulder, checking to see no one crept behind me in this old, abandoned house. After turning back to the typewriter, I start typing.

“I, Sierra, am sitting at an old desk, in the abandoned Rickter house. Stories have this house is haunted, but I never believe any of those gossipers. I’m writing this from inside a spooky house on an ancient typewriter,” I pause, a whistling sound draws me out of my words.

It swirls around the room and I gulp. “Just the wind.” I whisper to myself, just the wind.

My fingers resume typing,

“This house is starting to give me the creeps, maybe I don’t believe the stories, but it doesn’t mean I don’t get scared.” Another sound makes me stop. The keys on the typewriter sit still, silence ensues me and the room.

The floorboards creak outside the attic, as though someone is walking out there. I ignore it, hoping it is my imagination, I continue writing.

“Everyone hates this home, I don’t know why. It’s only an old abandoned mansion. Some people say the ghost of Mr. Rickter resides here. It’s so ridiculous, but the whole town believes it. One person said he saw Mr. Rickter’s shadowy outline beside a window. I don’t believe it for a second. Rumors say he was buried somewhere near his house, and his spirit lives on. Everyone is insane if they believe such things; when someone dies, they die - they’re gone.” I swallow back a lump growing in my throat. My fingers fly across the typewriter, as everything around me seems to disappear.

“It’s also been said that he hid his journal somewhere in this home, I, being the only brave and sane person in my town, have decided to find it. My family even thinks this place is haunted. I came here tonight to prove it’s not. I am going to end this writing, shortly. I will search for his journal. It seems as though other have tried to find it. I’ve heard there’s a ghost protecting the journal and home. That’s why no one ever comes here. Of course, I think this is all ridiculousness, people believing such nonesense.”

A creak sounds behind my chair, I ignore it, continuing on. “His journal is said to hold precious information, about some treasure.” I feel warm air on the back of my neck, yet I continue on. “I don’t believe that part; the only reason I want to find it, is because I’ve always been intrigued by such things. The past holds history, it holds secrets, it holds things to help us in the future.” I take a moment to stretch my fingers, then I crank in a new paper, sit back down, and begin writing something else.

~*~

A slight shadow moves over the paper and I feel someone or something standing behind me. My fingers pause, I slowly turn in my chair. A person, dressed totally in black, stood behind my chair. I leap out of my chiar, toppling it into the person’s leg. A shrill scream escapes my throat as I scurry away into a corner, away from the person.

The person huffs and pushes the wooden chair away. It skids across the floor and lands inches away from where I am sitting. The floorboards creak as the person walks over to me, I shiver and bite my lip to keep from screaming again.

A hand grabs my shoulder and pulls me up, I yelp and struggle against the grip. Two hands now grip me tightly. I shiver, despite the dank, warm air trapped in the attic. “Hush!” A male voice hisses I am pulled up.

“Wh-who are you?” I try to contain my shaking voice.

No reply comes as I get pulled away from my spot. The man leads me to the attic’s exit and grips me tightly. I glance around, terrified.

“I can be either a friend or an enemy; it depends on you.” The gruff voice replies.

His words echo in my mind. I panic, my self defense instincts kick in, and I kick my captor in the shin. He releases me and howls in pain as I kick him once more in the knee. I turn and rush down the stairs. Heavy footsteps tumble after me. I slide to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, my heart pounds in my chest, it’s beat echoing in my mind.

The footsteps come faster, this man is determined to catch me. I move, suddenly twisting my ankle. “Aghh!” I screech as pain soars through my left ankle and leg. Limping, I grasp the wall and move away from the stairs.

“Where did she go?” I hear heavy panting near me.

I jump away from my spot and start half running, half limping. The man tackles me to the ground, I struggle as he knocks me down to the wooden floor. “I warned, you.” His hands press me down.

I pant, still struggling against his grip. “What do you want?” I try to free my arms from his iron like grip.

“You know where the treasure is; I want the treasure.” His hands move to my forearms and he pins them against the floor. Preparing to kick him off me, I pull my leg up close, bringing my knee to my chest.

The man notices and rolls his body off of mine, then suddenly locks my legs under his, holding my down. “Think you’re smart, do you?” He scoffs as he pins me down again.

I wiggle under his heavy weight and give up. There’s no way I can beat him in the postion I am in.

“Why do you think I know where the treasure is?” I grunt as he shifts his weight on my legs.

“I watched you writing on that old typewriter.” His voice becomes sly, dripping with suspicion and craftiness.

“I don’t believe in any such things!” I reply through gritted teeth.

He releases my legs and arms and yanks me up. I hobble for a moment, making sure I don’t apply pressure to my injured foot. “Liar!” His voice hisses into my ear.

“It’s the truth!” I shove him away, hard. He stumbles, falls backwards, and releases me.

I turn and run, ignoring the pain that pulses in my ankle with every move.

“She’s getting away!” His voice calls through the house.

I stop, that means he’s not alone. Panic surges through my body as I turn into a hallway of the old mansion. My heart pounds hard and loud as I crouch in the shadows. I try to slow my breathing, to make it quieter.

I slowly creep out of my hiding spot, there are no noises. I start jogging, but immediately stop when my left leg hits the floor. Pain shoots through my ankle and leg, I limp, trying to relieve the pain.

I suddenly feel myself being tackled from behind, again. I tumble to the floor, someone lands on top of me. It is the same man who tackled me minutes earlier. We roll a couple times before he stops us, holding me down. His hands move to my throat and he slowly starts squeezing away my air supply. “Where is the treasure?” He asks again.

I cough, wheezing as he hands squeeze my throat. “I-I don’t... know.” I pulled my arms up and placed them between his grip. He notices, but I move quicker than he can react. I smack his forearms with mine, causing him to release the pressure. Yet, he still holds my throat.

Footsteps sound by my head. “She’s a feisty one.” A gruff voice came from above me.

The man choking me nods, grunting as he shifts his position to keep me down. “No kidding.” He growls under his breath, “Didn’t think she’d put up such a fight.”

I cough again as he squeezes harder. “Hey, now, don’t kill her.” The man above us warns.

“I’m not trying to.” My captor keeps a steady, even grip.

I knee him in the stomach, he grunts but doesn’t release me. I gasp for breath as his strong hands keep their hold. I pull my knee up and knee him again, this time he releases me and rolls away. He grimaces in pain as I leap up and dash away.

“Get her, Keith!” My captor screeches.

The man that stood above us, Keith, takes off after me. I run up into the attic, grab the typewriter and paper and dash back down, tumbling into Keith.

His eyes peer at me from behind his masked face and he grabs my shoulders. “Not so fast.” His icy blue eyes lock me in place.

I lower mine and hide the paper I printed by discreetly crumpling and shoving it into my pocket. Keith grabs my shoulders and marches me down the stairs. “Got her!” Keith’s voice shouted.

The man who had tackled me walks up, his face is still hidden in a black ski mask. His dark eyes peer at me; they hold anger. I squirm under Keith’s grip, he’s stronger than his partner. His arms feel like two iron clamps, holding me down. “Good.” His friend sneers.

“What’re we gonna do with her, Nolan?” Keith asks.

“Get her to talk.” Nolan kneels closer to my height. I watch as he leans close to me. “Now: where. Is. The. Treasure.” He spits his words out like hard ice.

“I already told you, I don’t know.” I reply, in a matter-of-factly way.

Nolan stands, his lean body towering a good foot over me. Keith’s hands release me slightly, that’s all I need. I whirl around and duck under his arms, still holding the typewriter. Finally, I get out of the house and pant for breath.

Shouts come from behind me, Keith and Nolan are still chasing me. I start running, carrying the typewriter with me.

~*~

I lean back in the chair and sigh, my fingers ache slightly as I stretch them. “Phew!” I smile as I look at my finished piece of work. The paper sits atop the typewriter. I had allowed my imagination to grow wild as to what could happen in this old spooky mansion. Then, I wrote everything down, allowing the world to slip away, along with my problems. As I lean over the typewriter to create an ending to my story, I hear a creak in the floorboards. I laugh and shake my head, “There’s no way this story could actually come to life.” I chuckle, as I think about a good ending.

Much to my dismay and terrified self, I see a shadow move over my paper.

“Girl, your story is just starting to come alive.” A male voice growls behind me.

I gulp, “There’s no way this can be happening.” I whisper as I turn around, to face a man dressed in black complete with a black ski mask covering his face.

“Oh, but it is.” He takes a step closer as I scream and leap up, tumbling my chair into his legs.

Where are you going to Hope Anne?

Why are you looking so fine?

Don’t you worry none Hope Anne?

I know you were never mine

You didn’t know the day I found you

Was the worst day of my life

My world had crashed around me

I felt the sharp edge of the knife

But you gave me your attention

And I held onto it tight

Like a light into the darkness

Like a becon in the night

Where are you going to Hope Anne?

Why are you looking so fine?

Don’t you worry none Hope Anne

I know you were never mine

I never took one day for granted

Because I knew one day you’d go

I kept the things you gave me

and I wanted you to know

You helped me through my troubles

You helped me through the storm

I’m on the other side now

Where I am safe and warm

Where are you going to Hope Anne?

Why are you looking so fine?

Don’t you worry none Hope Anne

I know you were never mine

Today was a great day in the TTC (Teleportation Transportation Company) We managed to send someone exactly 10 inches to the left of where they stood. We wanted to start small, so we programed it for ten inches. It was the exct amount that we wanted. The subject said that he felt slighlty dizzy after the whole experience. But now we just have to figure out a way to increase the range. Hopfully one day, we can reach our goal of Teleporation Transportation for everyone, that is quick, easy, and afforable.

I just...don’t care anymore.

I don’t care about your sandwich. I don’t care about your selfie. Yeah, your kid is cute, but I don’t need to see twenty pictures of them picking up a shell. Glad you had a good time at the beach, though.

Why do I need to know how everyone feels about everything all the time? The kid that sat behind me in algebra is “woke” now. The algebra teacher, not so much. The girl who rode my bus, she thinks this group of people are stupid. My great-uncle? Well, he thinks people who think like the girl who rode my bus are stupid, too. Does having a soapbox matter when everyone has one? Hold on a second, I need to respond to this- my former co-worker just “Okay, Boomer”-ed my mom’s cousin and I need to break this up before it gets messy.

I’m offended! You’re offended! We’re offended! Come get in on some of this outrage, folks! There’s plenty for everybody!

Ah, yes. The people I hung out with prior to marriage and children. I see you’re all still having a great time. Haven’t heard from you in a while, but it’s fine. I’m fine. Totally not bitter at all. You did what? With who? Why did you put that online? Well, now I feel like I know too much. You know that’s there forever, right?

Wait, how do you know who I am? Oh, one of my friends shared a post. Did you really just like that photo? I posted that two years ago…how long have you been looking at my profile? I’d prefer it if you’d not send me pictures of your…aroused state.

We haven’t talked in several years? There’s probably a reason for that. Hey- I wonder what that girl from my neighborhood is up to. Quick search says she moved back home and is a hairstylist. Damn good one, too. Her sister? She works at a restaurant. They both look pretty much the same as they did fifteen years ago. I can’t believe I found out so much so fast. That’s unsettling.

Am I that visible too?

I don’t have to see that much of people.

I don’t want people to see that much of me.

Not everyone needs to see my joy and my sorrow. Not everyone needs to share in my success or play spectator to my failure.

My experiences are beautiful, but they are precious, sacred. A gift for those I choose to share them with. My life is not an exhibition for passerby to ogle and critique.

So why did I put myself on display?

And how, despite all my frustrations, did I get so caught up in the exhibition of others?

In hindsight, Mrs. Martin’s expression said it all.

Stone faced, she stepped solemnly toward her computer desk, clicked her speakers on, and pressed a button on her laptop. She told us that we could leave the room if we wanted, no repercussions. The room of teenagers sat still in plastic seats. White light splashed across our faces. Billie Holiday began to pour from Mrs. Martin’s cheap desktop speakers. She pressed another button. One word scrolled across the screen.

Lynching.

The beginning of the PowerPoint was simple. Information that anyone born in the South is innately aware of. Slavery happened, and that was bad. Black people were persecuted. Also bad. They said the colored folks were free, but Jim Crow stepped in and tightened the restraints. Martin Luther King came along and sorted all that nonsense out. Now diversity is the norm and everyone is equal- isn’t that great, kids?

Mrs. Martin’s presentation was less optimistic.

The slides--bold black letters against a stark white background-- began to show images. Crude sketches. Artistic renderings. Black and white photos. An endless stream of crooked necks and heavy, limp bodies hanging from ancient and unwilling trees. Billie’s vibrato narrated our slide show, slowly spinning stories of horrors trailing through the years. Our barely pubescent faces were fixed to the screen, forced to acknowledge the lengthy history laid before us.

Strange fruit, indeed.

The last slide was in color. The man depicted was wearing what appeared to be a windbreaker and a pair of modern looking sneakers. This confused me. These accounts were truly horrible, I thought, but...it was in the past. The far gone past. A description popped up on the screen. His name was Michael Donald. The picture was taken in 1981. He was 19. A mob of angry Klansmen went out looking for retribution. They crossed paths with Michael.

Billie’s voice faded out.

Mrs. Martin shut off the projector and turned on the lights. Twenty-four eighth graders sat in silence. I don’t remember what happened during the rest of the class period. The next day was business as usual. We returned to the state-approved lesson plan. Pull out your South Carolina History books, Chapter 6: The Civil Rights Movement.

Like I said. Business as usual.

Mrs. Martin never spoke of the subject again. I don’t remember her getting any backlash for it. There didn’t seem to be any complaints from parents. She was never pulled from the classroom, and her daughter, who was in her mother’s class with me, wasn’t removed either. Surprising, considering she probably showed the PowerPoint to every class she had that day. I often wonder if any of the other students told their parents what happened.

I certainly didn’t mention it to mine.

Being biracial, I was of the few people of color attending the school. My middle school was predominately white and largely suburban. There were two non-white people in my class period, myself included. Mrs. Martin, a white woman, was brazen in her approach, and I don’t know that I will ever fully understand her motivations. My guess, based on what I can remember of her, is that it was frustration at a watered down retelling of history to a demographic that may not truly understand its implications. Simply put, Mrs. Martin likely wanted to let those middle class white kids know what’s up.

I have a white mother and a black father.

I was raised by my mother and her family, and spent most of my early childhood in white communities. There was, at least in my early childhood, a sense of blinding bliss that accompanied my environment. School taught me about slavery, about civil rights, about black history month. My mother’s parents preached kindness and acceptance, and any misgivings with my father were never tied to the color of his skin. I knew my skin was a different shade than theirs, but to me, it was no more than a difference in hair or eye color. I knew racism existed, but it was an abstract concept- a thing of the distant past that our society collectively agreed to move on from. This PowerPoint popped that bubble.

Ignorance is blissful, but defenseless. Discomfort is betrothed to the truth.

I don’t look for racism everywhere. I don’t think that it’s everywhere. There are kind people, and there are horrible people. There are lots of honest mistakes, though malicious intent is alive and well. This is something I’ve come to reckon with as I move through the world with a convoluted identity.

History books love to talk about Dr. King. Most skim over the part where he gets shot in the face.

I go back and forth in regards to how appropriate Mrs. Martin’s decision was. We were children, most of us no older than thirteen, and this woman, based on her own beliefs, decided to show a highly graphic and potentially traumatic slideshow. I write this, nearly fifteen years later, with the image of Michael Donald’s sneakers burned into my memory.

I was just a kid. He was too.

Even now, I remember the chill that crept up the back of my neck as I heard a raspy, haunting voice moan of bulging eyes and blood soaked leaves. How it wailed of the crows coming to feed upon the strange and bitter crop hanging from the poplar trees. I was sickened, but couldn’t force myself away from her mournful poetry. Billie became one of my idols. Fifty years after her death, she still had a story to tell.

I had to listen.

Some stories ask to be retold.

Others force you to tell them.

I felt the cylinder slide into my hands. Hard, cold, dense. It was small, too small, but I’d have to make do. I paid good money for this.

“That’ll be six double-A’s,” says the hooded man.

I fork over the batteries. The last of my stash. If this flashlight ran out of light, I’d have no way to replace it. No way to replace the batteries, no way to buy another one.

Our economy used to be powered by money. That’s why most of us leaped at the change when Zenith began.

Zenith, a nonprofit electricity company. Providing free energy to everyone, everywhere. It took a while for us to accept it, too afraid of a catch.

But there was no catch.

Or so we thought, until that Halloween when all the lights went out.

At first, we thought it was a joke. We wondered why none of the houses in our neighborhood had lights. Why no one was giving us candy.

Yes, 16 is a little old for Halloween. At least, some people think so. In my opinion, you’re never too old for free candy and gory costumes.

It was the first nice Halloween we’d had since 2029. Most of our Halloweens here are brutally cold. Rain, snow, sleet, hail. The whole shabang. One year, we even had graupel. That was the year I learned what the world “graupel” meant.

Four years of horrible weather. So in 2033, when sun and mild temperatures came together to create the perfect day, I figured everyone would be out on Halloween.

But all the lights were off. No one sat on their porches. And I didn’t know why until me and my brother John got home, discouraged and annoyed.

That’s when Mom told us what happened.

“Luke, John, come into the living room.”

For the first time in my life, the TV wasn’t running. My mom always had the TV running in the background; she said it helped her focus. I think she just liked watching General Hospital reruns and Family Feud.

But today, it was off; as were all the lights.

Not just here. Everywhere. Even from countries like China, electricity was out. The company of Zenith, which powered our world, had simply vanished overnight, leaving us in darkness.

My brother John was afraid of the dark. At 15, he constantly got made fun of for it. Once the power went out...

He couldn’t handle it. Three days after the blackout, he committed suicide.

It only took a week for the monopoly to begin.

Day 1: The panic. We waited for government officials to respond, to find a solution, to help us.

Nothing.

Day 2: The death: almost everything with a battery died. Phones, computers, even flashlights. Everything, in total sync. Almost as if it were planned.

But that’s crazy talk. I can’t afford to think like that. I have to keep living. Keep surviving.

I have to stay sane.

Day 3: The riots: People rose up, angry and scared. Libraries were raided, books were stolen. But with no lights, it was hard to read.

Most of the books ended up burned in the streets, bathing everything in a hazy red glow.

Book Burnings.

That’s how every tragedy starts, right?

Day 4: The crash: It’s a miracle it took this long, but finally, the stock market crashes. Money loses all value. And we desperately search for an alternative currency. Something with value. Something real.

Batteries.

Day 5: The adaptation: Took us long enough, but finally, life settles into a post-apocalyptic rhythm. Still violence, still no word from the big guys in Washington (or from anyone, in any part of the world). That much hasn’t changed, and probably won’t for a while. But we have a routine. We wake up. We scavenge for batteries. We buy flashlights, conserve them, hoard them...

We have a routine, but we have no purpose.

Some people have a purpose. I heard there are people working to reinvent electricity. Build it up from scratch.

But a single spark isn’t enough to relight the fire.

Day 6: Yesterday, we heard the news.

The White House still had power.

They glowed like a light of salvation.

But there was one problem: the big guys don’t want to share their toys.

Just kidding. It’s not a matter of authority anymore. The White House has power, but there’s no one to use it. Washington is empty.

Why?

Above my paygrade. Everything is above my paygrade. I don’t get paid. And I haven’t found enough batteries to buy information. Not my problem.

I don’t care what happened to Washington. I’m too busy worrying about me.

Selfish? Old me would have thought so. Old me would have called me a selfish dick.

Old me died with the power. Old me died with my brother. There’s no trace of him left.

That brings us to today.

Today, I bought a flashlight.

And just in time.

Because today, the birds came.

Although I suppose they aren’t really birds. They look like birds.

But they flock to darkness.

As I sat in my dark house, trying to ignore the smell, I see the birds begin to run into my windows. Battering them down. Maybe they smell it too. The smell that comes from the kitchen.

The smell of death.

John died early enough that we could get him a proper burial.

But Mom...

Mom set the house on fire. When I doused the flames, using water from the melted ice in the fridge, she was a charred corpse. And that was only two days ago. Right as everyone else settled into a routine, Mom decided to end it.

And by then, it was too late to give anyone a proper anything. So I left her there. What choice did I have?

So I told myself that the birds were coming towards the smell, hoping for food. I couldn’t see them— it was too dark for that— but I could hear them, flapping their black wings and shrieking their black cries.

That’s how I knew they couldn’t be real birds. That sound, that horrible, horrible sound... it was less of a sound, even, more of a feeling. It was so loud that it became an overwhelming black, an all-consuming darkness.

I turned on my flashlight, hoping to catch a glimpse of their vile, twisted faces.

But as soon as the lights came on, the shrieks stopped. They stopped using their bodies as battering rams. They were nowhere in sight.

They were gone, vanquished by the light.

But I couldn’t keep the light on forever. I didn’t have the energy. I was out of batteries. But I’d keep it on. For now. At least keep it on at night. At night, when nightmares become real. At night, when darkness is everywhere.

Now I know why John was so afraid of the dark.

Maybe he knew. Maybe all along, he knew what was coming. He knew about the outage, he knew about the apocalypse, he knew about the birds. He always knew.

I should have listened to him. I should have been there.

I should have...

I woke up to a faint clicking sound.

chick... chick-chick-chick...

It was the sound of my flashlight flickering.

“No,” I whisper. “No, no-no-no.” I grabbed the flashlight and shook it.

How long was I asleep? I don’t even remember nodding off? How could it be out of batteries? It’s only been a day! It’s too soon! Too soon!

With a final “churk” sound, the light is off, and the birds are back.

No... I can’t accept this. I won’t be torn apart by these monsters. These aliens. These demons. I can’t do it. I can already feel it, their beaks pushing into my stomach, shredding my entrails, gobbling up my lungs.

their wings beat in a steady rhythm. flap. flapflapfwap. over and over again please make it stop.

its only a matter of time before they get in here. i don’t even know if anyone can read this anymore. my handwriting is shaking and looping and scrabbling just like my mind. i guess that’s what i get for turning my suicide note into a memoir. its too long. i need to cut it short. there’s more i need to say, but there’s no time. no time at all.

it’s too late.

the birds are only moments from breaking in.

This past week of my life has been one suicide after another. Bit by bit.

Now, I’m making sure that chain ends. Ends with me.

This will be the last suicide I ever have to witness.

I pick up the match and sigh.

Electricity and fire are so different, yet so similar. Both make light. Both can burn you.

And both start with a single spark.

I read people so well, I know their emotions before they even do. Those who are happy are whom I choose to spend my time with. There is one woman, she is there, yet she isn't. She seems to smile at all of the right times, she seems to laugh at jokes, she seems sad when something terrible happens; yet, she just isn't there. She doesn't have those feelings and I know it is all fake. Our group is small, she spends every day with us, she does what we do, follows the latest trends, she doesn't miss a beat.

From time to time, she is gone. Our group assumes there is a secret lover, just someone she doesn't want us to meet. The group doesn't pester, but they do tease about the secret lover. Then, she is gone again.

After a night away from the group, I come home and look in the mirror. Blood covering my face and clothes. I look in the mirror and I see her. The woman, the one who has no emotions. The woman who fakes it every day with her group. I see the woman I am looking back at me after yet another ruthless kill.

I realized I was a writer when I was a senior in high school. I'm 43 now, and am just now taking it seriously. I could never find the courage to even try because I was afraid of rejection. It wasn't until last year that I realized I needed to be writing for me. While we all love to hear positive feedback on our creations, that should not be your focus. Your writing is a part of you, who you are. You should be writing for you, and you alone. Who cares what other people think? Find your courage!

It has been a while since writing a story on Prose, my eyes are not what they used to be and to be honest, just never found inspiration from any of the prompts that suited my writing style.

I suppose this is quite a strange prompt really from Prose, but hey, who am I to criticise?

The best outcome of it is that it has prompted me put finger to qwerty keyboard and write a short story of one of my many escapades in France which from how I see it, should fall into the guidelines of this prompt.

The house we owned in France was edged, land wise by our nearest neighbour, Christian, whose farmhouse was some 3 km’s away. Christian would wave at me and my wife as he passed along the public lane in his trusty old Ford tractor leaving a cloud of black diesel smoke behind him.

One Sunday, we were having lunch alfresco with a couple of French friends Patrick and his wife Blandine. We were about to sample our third bottle of wine each, when Patrick asked if we had heard of the French pass time of cloud spotting, which for those uninitiated in the art form is staring at the clouds and finding shapes that look like objects, people, babies, dogs etc. We told him that we had and that obviously the English had stolen the idea from the French at some point in history. Still staring at the sky, Patrick indicated with his left arm that he had spotted a puppy which we assumed was his contribution and commencement of the game. My wife pointed at another cloud and said look, there’s a tree. I was looking around the sky and frankly couldn’t make a shape of anything. Worm shouted Blandine pointing at the remnants of an aeroplanes exhaust that had passed by earlier that morning. After taking another large gulp of wine I heard Christian’s tractor coming along the lane in our direction. Still scouring the sky, I waved at Christian as he passed without taking my eyes off the sky. The aroma of diesel fumes filled the air before rising into the sky dispersing slightly with the light breeze. Come on Julian shouted Patrick impatiently, the wine’s effect making him slur slightly. With all my might, I scrunched my eyes together and there it was, as clear as day and right above us. Bob Marley I shouted pointing at the shape of the diesel fumes above our head and there are the Wailers to the left of Bob. I couldn’t help but start singing Buffalo Soldier...... It appears I won the game as Blandine quickly changed the subject leaving Patrick nodding his head in agreement at the vision in the sky.

Christian’s tractor had turned at the end of the lane and from the plumes of smoke was heading in our direction, down our driveway. Suddenly, from out of the smokescreen, Christian came bounding over the lawn and kissed all the ladies four times on each cheek in that French custom of greeting and then proceeded to shake mine and Patrick’s hand. Julian said Christian putting his hand on my shoulder and gently coercing me away from the table and the others so he could speak in some privacy.

His Breton dialect was always difficult to interpret and on this occasion was not helped by the garlic snails he had eaten for lunch causing his breath to almost singe the hairs on my ears as he spoke. When he had finished speaking and I had managed to gulp in a garlic free inhalation of his body odour which for a split second was a welcome relief, I noticed that he was staring at me intently, waiting for an answer. I thought for a few seconds and once I had deciphered what I thought he had said, I weighed up the pros and cons of what I had mentally translated from what he had asked.

Cava he asked impatiently? After several moments of thought and in my best guttural French replied Oui! Demain he pressed? Oui, demain matin, tomorrow morning. With a satisfied grin on his face, he shook my hand firmly and left as quickly as he had arrived; his hand waiving his au revoir’s to Patrick, Blandine and my wife.

With another Bob Marley and The Wailers taking shape above our heads, Christian disappeared down the lane.

As I took my place back at the table, an air of anticipation was apparent and the baying crowd before me wanted to know what all the secrecy was about with Christian. As I had been asked to “ferme le bouche” regarding the agreement, I could not reveal what it was I was speaking about with Christian. However, not wishing to ruin the atmosphere of what up until now was a very convivial lunch, I quickly thought of an excuse that fitted in with the body language that everyone had witnessed and said, well Christian is going to cut the field next to our garden the next day and had said that it would not be too much of a chore for him to run our lawn over with his machine while he was there. His only proviso being that I arrange for my wife’s underwear to be on the washing line at the time of cutting as it made rather a boring job that little more interesting. Thankfully, Blandine, Patrick and my wife found the request more than amusing and their laughter passed over the need for further interrogation.

As with all lunches in France, lunch turned into an afternoon session of drinking and well more drinking really and before you know where you are, the evening aperitif hour has arrived, and out comes the kir royale’s and salty nibbles.

The offer of a traditional 5 course French evening meal was declined by Blandine and Patrick as it would “interfere with the natural flow of drinking”. However, this did not stop them requesting the wine list!

Following the conclusion of two bottles of Saint - Emilion Grande Cru, and a bottle of Premier Cru Champagne to liven up the liver, Patrick wandered off to check the functioning of our fosse septic by way of using our loo whilst my wife and I hastily carried out a stock check on our fast depreciating stock of wine. After ten minutes and several “raising of glasses”, I noticed through the one remaining open eye that Patrick had not returned. Fearing he had collapsed or fallen asleep on the loo, I unsteadily traced his steps to find that he was not in the loo! I noticed our bedroom door was open and fully expected to find him spread eagled on the bed, but no. I saw the sliding glass doors which led to the patio and the garden were open and I could hear faint singing in the distance. When I reached the end of the patio, I could see Patrick hanging washing on the washing line in the garden.

I shouted to him and asked what he was doing. He replied but I could not understand what he was slurring. As I approached him, I could see he was hanging underwear on the washing line. Pour demain Julian, pour demain he slurred. With both of us unable to stand, more because of us laughing than through the effects of the drink, we both sat on the grass to recover. After confirming that we were not “pompette”, we both managed to stand on all seven legs, we decided to leave the other non conforming legs where they were and made our way back to the house.

With the effects of the day’s drinking waning, yes, it is possible to drink yourself sober ish, Blandine and Patrick decided they should make their way home which was a relief because we were down to our last bottle of alcohol which as it turned out was cooking sherry, but I doubt anyone would have noticed anyway!

The following morning I was up and dressed with the lark. Bolstered by several strong cups of coffee and my pacemaker beating at double time due to the caffeine intake, I loaded up my van and made my way to Christian’s house.

On arrival I was met by Christian who was holding two glasses of red wine which is another French custom in the morning. After handing me a glass, we chinked the glasses together and downed the rather rough cloudy looking liquid with one body dithering gulp. Chateau du Boite Julian juste le Chateau du Boite! I must admit that cheap wine from a box is not my first choice of morning drink but the warmth I felt as it settled inside my stomach eased my slightly fuzzy head and changed my opinion of wine in a box somewhat!

Alors said Christian leading me over to the rear of the barn. He stopped suddenly and stood open armed as if presenting someone. Along the edge of a dilapidated old fence was a mound of old stonework and an attempt at a concrete footing obviously thrown down during the aperitif hour with not a spirit level in sight. Ici une mure, he continued, il commence ici et fini ici. He said pointing down the line, une metre cinq haute ok? Thank the lord he spoke in French and not Breton! So he wants a wall, to border his land at this point and to end at the bottom of his yard some 40 meters away and one point five meters high I thought to myself. Cava Julian, vous et comprenez said Christian unsure if I understood what he wanted. Oui Christain oui je comprende. I asked if he was still having trouble with his neighbour and he spat on the floor, stamping the guttural sticky mess into the mud, voisans, merde! Surely not I said in reply, but the hatred in his eyes said it all. He was absolute in his feelings, his neighbour was shit!

Over the next week I merrily plodded along, building the wall to the strict instructions as laid down by Christian. The neighbour of Christian with whom Christian was in dispute, came to look at the work whilst Christian was away from the farm on his tractor. He could spot the plume of smoke in the distance indicting Christian’s position at any point ensuring his safety. Michel, the neighbour who was friendly with me was laughing and rubbing his chin as he looked at the wall. Tres bien Julian, vous etes une macon du premiere classe. I thanked him for his comments and asked why he was smiling. He just shrugged his shoulders and smiled again, Vite, vite he said before disappearing to the safety of his land border. Blimey, I’m going as fast as I can I thought.

I must admit, in those days my eyes were a natural spirit level so the need to use one was only to confirm what I already knew and that was the wall was as straight and upright as it could be. These day’s unfortunately, the eyes are not that sharp!

On completion of the wall, Christian insisted I celebrate with a bottle of homemade cider or Domestos as I called it. It was as cloudy as a pea souper in London in the 1960’s. Michel, the neighbour had kindly waited for me to complete the works before opening the pig shed doors, something I was grateful to him for. However, the stench hit us like a barn door slamming in your face and the aroma coupled with the homemade cider, strangely made the whole bouquet more pleasant, even palatable! We drank to the weather, and each meter of stonework that had been laid. He even christened the wall by spitting a fizzy cider laden mouthful of spit which caused the spittle to froth up as it hit the stonework. An empty cider bottle followed it and smashed against the top course of stones. Time to go I said to Christian and packed up my tools and made my way home.

The next day I was woken by four cords of oak logs sliding from Christian’s trailer onto our car parking area. I heard a thud; something had hit the glass sliding doors of the bedroom. I pretended to be asleep for fear of finding Christian standing outside the doors with 2 glasses of Chateau du Boite or worse still wearing my wife’s underwear on his head. I waited until I had heard the familiar sound of a tractor engine start then its “put putting ”diminish as he drove into the distance.

I got out of bed and pulled the curtain to one side to see what had hit the glass doors, and there on the ground was a bottle of homemade cider and a dead rabbit its eyes still open as if gazing across the garden. Payday had surely arrived. I looked at the mound of oak sitting in our car park but could not face the toil it would take to stack it all in the woodshed.

Three days later, two blisters and several splinters later, I had almost finished stacking the wood when a Renault 4 skidded to a halt in our driveway. The door flew open and Christian jumped out waving a letter and swearing in both Breton and French and sometimes in Brench when he mixed up his dialects! Julian, Julian what have you done he shouted angrily! I took the letter from him; it was a letter from a Notaire including a map of the land registry stating a wall had been erected in such a way that the boundary had been breached between Christian’s land and his troublesome neighbours land. We climbed into the Renault 4 and Christian drove us at some speed and it has to be said with very little regard to other road users. We screeched to a halt near the offending wall which was a relief as I thought we were going to hit it! I checked everything regarding the wall’s construction and it was to the exact specification that Christian had demanded. Christian said that the wall breached the boundary at approximately 30 meters leaving 10 meters on his shit neighbours land. I looked at the concrete footings which Christian had laid himself and the wall fell well within the footings. I pointed out this minor detail to him and alarm spread across his face. What I witnessed next was both bizarre to say the least and most alarming. Christian’s face blushed to a bright shade of purple as his blood pressure mounted within the confines of his skull. The purple darkened to damson, I was fully expecting him to turn into “The Hulk” at any second. He then proceeded to punch himself in the face repeatedly whilst jigging about like a boxer in the ring. Jab followed uppercut followed by a haymaker, the sheer force of which, spread his own nose across his face and he went to the floor like une sac du pommes de terre. He was scrambling to get up as if in his mind he was trying to beat the count of ten by some imaginary referee. Not wishing to interfere, I was leaning against my masterpiece of a wall watching in sheer amazement and have to admit, amusement at Christian’s actions. Christian lay flat on his back, his attempts to stand up diminished as exhaustion set in. His eyes were closed and blood ran from the side of his nose down his cheek and into the orifice of his ear. He was motionless now, so I called out his name, but there was no response. I went over and shook him, but he remained motionless. By the edge of one of his barns I could see a bucket of rainwater and like in all good films emptied its contents over his head. The black mud in the bottom of the bucket followed the clear rainwater leaving Christian’s head covered in rotting leaves. A not too rotted oak tree leaf was expelled from Christian’s mouth as he coughed and spluttered back to life, wiping his eyes clear of the stinking black sludge. Merde he shouted as he scrambled to his feet and ran in double quick time to the outside tap.

Fully cleansed, with one swollen eye and lips to match, we walked back to the offending wall. We inspected the length of it and came across a pile of yellow plastic pegs approximately 10 meters from the end of the wall. I asked Christian what the pegs were and he shrugged and said that they were old land markings someone had put in the wrong place. I checked the map from the Notaire and it was exactly where the boundary had been breached and clearly where the wall entered the shit neighbours land. Did you remove these when you laid the footings Christian I asked? Yes he said, they were in the way of where I wanted the wall.

After a brief discussion and pointing out the fact that he was liable to reinstate his neighbours land by removing the offending 10 meters of wall within 3 days or face a court order, Christian negotiated another two cords of wood, this time stacked neatly in the woodshed if I could assist him with his plight.

Luckily, Christian’s wide footings were enough to contain the modification of the wall and the offending section was demolished and rebuilt with a gradual curve to the left which was not out of keeping. Michel made an appearance to check the wall when Christian was not on site. He eyed up the wall as I put the final top stone in and said “exact Julian, exact” before leaving.

When I returned home, I explained the situation to my wife over an aperitif and said that Christian would be putting two more cords of oak into the woodshed in the morning. Will he want my mother’s old knickers on the washing line when he does it she asked only I had forgotten I had them and brought them to France by mistake, they were meant to go to the recycling centre in her old suitcase and must have found their way into the removal van. They were under the bed in our bedroom, I’m glad we found a use for them, mother would be pleased!

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As an aside I just found my spectacles, they were down the side of the chair. Well I hope this story fits the prose prompt of the longest alter....... SHIT, the prompt says alliteration not alteration, sod it I’m entering it anyway!