The Adventures of Trevor Ells

The day Trevor Ells discovered his name was an anagram of Traveller was the day day he decided to change his life. He would 'up sticks' and follow his feet to where they took him. He would no longer be tied by the shackles of his conventional life. This was his day of destiny, a life changing day based on one fundamental flaw that you may have already spotted. Trevor was dyslexic and anagrams were not his strength. 

Packing a handful of belongings into a backpack Trevor pulled the door closed on his old life and stepped out with a burning ambition to follow his heart. Since a child Trevor had always wanted to go to New York

After two days in Newark, Trevor found a little cafe where the menu comprised laminated photographs of the meals that they served. Staring up at the beautiful woman who had come to serve him he pointed to a picture of eggs, beans and chips and fell hopelessly in love.  He was not to know that his waitress Cathy was the owner of the little cafe and had seen in Trevor something special, something she shared.

Ten years on they are married with two children and their love is a true and constant as their misreading of the sign above their premises - but then through some eyes 'Cafe' can look like 'Cathy' can't it? Well I wouldn't want to tell them any different. True love should be cherished however it works. 

The Boy Who Couldn’t Say Whitstable

Once there was a boy who couldn’t say Whitstable

Now, had he lived in North East Kent this could have been a problem but he didn’t live there.

Growing up in a community on the outskirts of Buenos Aires he didn’t know he couldn’t say Whitstable. There is no such word in Spanish and he was unaware of English coastal towns altogether.

In fact right through his teens and into his middle ages the inability to say Whitstable did not affect him at all. His life continued on, much as it did for those people around him who could have said it had they so wished.

At the age of 74 he finally gave in to a cancerous growth and passed away. His family and friends spoke warmly of him. They all agreed he had lived a good, steady and unremarkable life.

But then, they didn’t know he couldn’t say Whitstable.

The Death Bear

A little missive as we approach All Hallow's Eve

The Death Bear

The first official ‘Teddy Bear’ was produced in 1902 by Morris Michtom for his small novelty and candy store in New York, but toy bears had been loved and owned by countless generations before that date.

What is little known is that the giving of a toy bear was originally seen as a way of passing on luck or fortune, or at least that was meant to be the case. But one little brown bear was passed on with a curse and this toy became known through the ages as the ‘death bear’.

The bear looked like any other and any child given it to care for, loved it as they would any other ‘teddy’. The parents were always grateful for the gift not understanding that ownership of the bear would bring tragedy to the family in the loss of their child.

Of course after such a tragic happening the family would grieve for some time and the child’s playthings would be left in their room in the desperate hope that somehow the child might come back.

After time the family would have to give or throw away those physical memories finally realising that their child would not return but instead would live forever in their heart.

And so it went on over decades and decades. Families taking in the little bear and watching with joy the love their child showed for the little furry toy. It was worn and in places tatty but that didn’t seem to diminish the hugs and kisses that the little bear would receive from its young owner. But neither they, nor their parents and brothers and sisters, could see the curse that lay at the heart of the bear. That was until one day. A young child playing in the garden was summoned into the house by his insistent parents.

“Great Aunt Clemence is here Giles,” they shouted through the French doors, “and she has something for you.”

Giles, although only two and a half knew what this meant. A kiss on the cheek from a woman whose lips were as rough as the cats and whose whiskers were as sharp. Worse though was the smell of the powder she wore on her face. To Giles is smelt of something rotting and he hated when it stayed on him so that he could smell her even when she was not around.

“My, hasn’t he grown,” Aunt Clemence cooed as he walked into the room. “Come over here where I can see you boy and give your Great Aunt a big kiss.”

Giles shuddered as she held him tight and squeezed the air from his body. Before he could close his eyes and screw up his lips her hairy wet mouth was upon him.

“Now then,” she said, “I have a present for you,” and with that she handed him a little brown bear.

“Oh how lovely,” said the parents but for Giles he could just smell Aunt Clemence’s stale perfume on its fur.

“Where did you get it?” Giles’ mother asked.

“You run along and play,” said Aunt Clemence and Giles left the room to the sound of his Aunt explaining about the curious tragedy that had brought the bear into her safekeeping.

Giles took the bear up to his bedroom, took one last look at it and threw it into the back of the cupboard where his toys were kept. He put the large box in which his soldiers slept in front and shut the door.

He did not think about the bear again until it was time for him to join the army and only then because as he was packing he decided to take one of his toy soldiers with him for luck. In moving the old box the bear fell forwards.

Giles lifted it up and at once he could sense that smell of childhood. He looked into the little bear’s eyes and he could somehow sense evil. It made no sense, perhaps it was the war that he was leaving to fight in, but he knew the longer he held that bear the more danger his life was in.

He threw it back into the cupboard and banged the door shut. He was a man now. He need have no fear of Aunt Clemence’s bear, he had real evil to fight.

Now picture the scene of an old man in an old people’s home. He has spent many years there. Occasionally his family come to see him, very occasionally. He has friends at the home and many he can share memory with as they went through a war together.

Four years ago his grandaugher came with her new baby boy, their first. A beautiful baby and the start of what he hoped would be regular visits. He wanted to see the boy grow, wanted to share his memories, wanted to love once again. But it was not to be, it was just the one visit and since then photographs of the boy at Christmas in a card with what they called a ‘newsletter of their year’. It was through that newsletter that he found out that they had finally sold the old house. It was as if in reading that sentence the door had been shut on his childhood. Since then he had grown older very quickly.

The nurse wheeled him into the television room. “Here we are Giles, it’s that programme you like.”

Giles could hear the voice of Fiona Bruce introducing The Antiques Road show. He sat in front of the TV half in a daze watching people bringing their trinkets and heirlooms to be valued. He was almost asleep when he heard a voice he knew and opened his eyes wide.

It was his granddaughter and she was explaining how they had found it when clearing out the old family house. Sitting next to her was his great grandson looking smart in his new clothes bought for TV.

He could hear the expert saying, “Well some of the really old ones can be very valuable now, especially if they are in good condition.”

Giles leant forward to get a clearer view as his great grandson lifted the object onto the table. As the bear fell forward its head turned to the camera and in that moment Giles could see the evil.

“And will you sell it?,” said the expert to the boy.

“Oh no,” he said clearly, “I am going to keep this bear until I die.”

When the Nurse came back into the room Giles was dead in his chair, his arm outstretched towards the television. The others in the room could only say that he had suddenly screamed ‘No, no, no ooooooooooo’ in a loud voice as he reached out and had died as the Nurse had found him

Recent Days

Day 74. The tigers have left. They must have gone to another part of the island in search of food. I now have an entire town to myself. It the strangest feeling to walk down empty streets where a few days ago there were people. As a child I always played games where I was running a shop. I can now do it. Today I managed a small branch of Blockbusters and re-categorised all their DVDs so that any film with more than six vowels in the title is on the top shelf. I think I’m going to be good at this but I may shut early today.

Day 75. I walked along the beach as the sun set and then spent some time in the empty amusement arcade on the pier. The sound from the games seemed to create ghosts of previous players leaving me feeling both lonely and a little scared. The laughing clown must be on a timer so his sudden burst of threatening cackles made me jump and sliced through me. On the walk back every shadow frightened me including my own. To cheer myself up I threaded 2500 polo mints onto a string and dragged them behind me pretending I was in the 1970’s computer game ‘snake’. I was soon smiling again.

Day 76. The loneliness could drive me mad so I must keep myself busy. Tonight I decided to put of a production of Gilbert & Sullivan’s ‘The Mikado’. As every shop is open to me I was able to get all the costumes I needed. The only thing that might have spoiled the performance was the fact I have never seen the show and don’t really know anything about it. I do however believe that my performance as the overfriendly self pleasing Dutch flower loving Panda, ‘Winkywankytulip’ in the final scene could be one of the finest ever seen.

Cold Turkey

More thoughts from a decaying brain

Cold Turkey

When he came to he found himself trapped in a small, damp and oppressively hot space. He tried to turn but his movement was severely restricted. He tried to work out how he could have ended up in inside wherever he was but he couldn't remember anything before waking up.

He lay panting and then finally with a much energy as he could muster he raised his head. His nose bashed against the side of whatever was holding him. It seemed to give a little. He waited to get his breath back and then tried again. There was definite movement. With a new sense of energy he raised his head one last time and a gust of cool air entered through the tiny hole he had made in the side with his nose.

But wait, not just air but light. He felt rejuvenated. There was a way out. It was as if he had gone mad as he repeatedly bashed his head against the side until finally his head was out. By wriggling his shoulders and pushing with his feet he could fit his whole body through the gap he had made.

Finally he was free. He sat panting taking in huge gulps of the beautiful cool air. As his eyes adjusted to the light he could see he was not alone. He was surrounded by three of the ugliest things he could imagine and they were all staring at at him. Suddenly they let out the most awful screeching sound and seemed to vibrate from side to side with their hideous mouths gaping open.

He feared for himself until he realised they were screaming at a large grey shape descending towards them from the sky. He found himself screaming with them as it landed right next to them and bent over with its enormous ugly hooked nose.

"Oh you're awake then," it said straight at him.

"I beg you're pardon," he heard himself say.

"You're awake at last," the voice repeated, "You're brother and sisters have been out for days."

He found his mouth dropped open at the idea that this, this ... thing, whatever it was, could think he was related to these creatures.

"I beg you're pardon," he heard himself say again.

"Well who's a sleepy head," said one of the creatures nestled in the twigs beside him.

"Can we name him Mama?" said another, "before Father returns?"

"Yes that would be wise," said the large creature, "he is rather awful at choosing names. Now let's have a good look at you. I know, I know, we shall call you Vernon."

He stared at the creature as if she was mad. "Vernon!" he said in his most sarcastic voice, "Vernon! My name is Chris."

All of the hideous animals seemed to scream and laugh at the same time letting out the most awful sound. "Chris," they kept shouting as though it was the first time they had ever said the word. "Chrees, Chreeees, Chreeeeees," they giggled.

Don't be silly said the massive creature. "No one of us has a name like that.  Our names always begin with V. Your father is called Victor, as was his father was before him. This is Little Victor and your sisters Valerie and Veronica and I am Violet."

"And I am Chris," he shouted with such fury that it silenced their giggles, "and what make you think I am related to you." It was then he dropped his head and saw the enormous claws that grew from the end of his feet.

"Because you are a vulture like all of us," said the large creature in a voice that was as soft a caring as it could ever sound.

It was as if he had punched in the stomach and head at the same time. His head dropped once more and he could see what appeared to be grey stubby feathers growing from his skin.

It was at that moment that a giant shadow fell upon them all and in a rush of wind and noise an even bigger creature landed by them.

"Now who have we here?" said the massive bird

"Well," said the other large bird who was clearly his wife by the way they nestled next to each other, "He is clearly a little confused at the moment.

"I am Chris," he heard himself say with a voice that sounded far more confident than he felt inside.

"Chris!" shouted the big bird, "Chris!"

"Now calm down dear, calm down," said the mother vulture, "he's a little confused at the moment."

"Was this your idea?" the father vulture turned on his wife. "You have always had this stupid ideas about being different. How could you call him Chris! We will be the laughing stock of the Colony. He shall have a name beginning with V and that is my final word.

"My names is Chris," he heard himself say in a calm and controlled voice. "It was nobody's decision but mine so you had better get used to it. My name is Chris. You can call me what you want but I will not answer to it, And before I finish can I make it quite clear that, whilst I don't know what has happened I am not, most definitely not, a vulture." with that he turned his back on them in the most gracious way he could manage.

While the three little vultures quietly laughed at him and said his name in increasingly funny ways he could hear the two elder birds talking to each other. The mother seemed to be sobbing a little and saying that it was because of the father that none of their children ever came back to see them. He was explaining that that was how vultures lived, a new family each year. The mother was getting angrier and saying it just suited him that way. Finally after some raised voices and tears they both turned to the three younger vultures and the father said, "Children, say hello to your brother Chris. Now let's get down to some food."

In the cheering that followed no one heard Chris say again that he wasn't a vulture and to be honest the promise of food had almost taken away his voice. In all the strangeness he had not realised quite how hungry he was. And he really was very hungry, that was until he saw the food. He couldn't work out whether it was the smell or the fact that the father bird was vomiting the contents of his stomach into the mouths of the others that made his hunger disappear in an instant to be replaced by nausea.

"Come along then dear," said the mother vulture, "open wide."

"What the hell is that?" said Chris with undisguised disgust.

"It's finest water buffalo," said the mother, "four days old and right on the turn."

"Let me get this right," said Chris as watched the three young birds gulp it down without the slightest nod to table manners. "If I am to be a vulture I am expected to eat rotting meat thrown up by my father?"

"Or by me," said the mother proudly, "but it won't be long before you are picking the meat from the rotting corpses of dead animals yourself."

Chris could feel himself gagging. "I am not a vulture and I will prove it," and with that he leapt from the tree and fell like a stone to the floor below.

Although it hurt it was worth it. He dragged his damaged leg over to the water and leant over with his eyes closed.

He waited until he was prepared and then opened his eyes and looked at his reflection. It took a moment for his sight to adjust but yes, yes, YES - he was a bloody vulture. Same hideous nose, same beady eyes, same evil countenance. "Oh god," he thought as felt a part of him die inside, "I am the same as them."

But then he shouted, shouted to the world. "I may look the same as them on the outside but that does not mean I have to be the same on the inside. I shall eat fruit and berries and seeds. I shall not be the same. I shall show everyone that however, whatever and wherever you are born you have a chance to be different, a chance to change."

A young leopard who had been listening nearby approached cautiously. "Is that true," he said quietly, "Do you really believe that we could be different, behave in different ways, eat different things."

"Yes I do," said Chris proudly. When he woke he found himself trapped in a small, damp and oppressively hot space.

"Hey," shouted Lawrence the Leopard, "I've just tried Vulture for the first time."

"What does it taste like?" said his father lounging near by.

"Turkey," said Lawrence a little disappointedly as he yawned and lay down