Friday Night Frights Presents: Subtext

Good evening. Mr Arthur Deco is one of those pesky masters of the unspoken word. His opponents have a sense that something isn't right, but they just can't put their finger on it. It's quite infuriating, you know, as one is unable to devise a snappy comeback, not knowing the question. Fortunately for our harried shop owner, he's not averse to resorting to violence.












The curio shop's bell jangled as Arthur Deco swept in, clutching an ancient tome of Greek philosophy--or at least a modern English translation. Such dry subject matter couldn't compete with Harry Potter. The publisher therefore released it as rare, signed copies that commanded high prices from academics. It was all a fraud, in Deco's opinion. His job as an art critic was to have that fact published in his newspaper column.

"Harker!"

The shop's owner, Trent Harker, emerged from a side room. His face fell upon sight of his nemesis. "What now, Deco?"

"I suppose you haven't read my column today. It's a critique of this piece of trash."

Harker looked chilled at seeing the book's title. A buyer had offered the shop four thousand for it. "You can't be serious. That book is a window in time. It gives us insight to how men thought three eons ago, before the golden age of Greece."

"Maybe as originally written. But the publisher has taken liberties." Deco consulted a small note pad. "On page 156 he has 'appeal to'--epikalesasthai--instead of the original 'call out to'--epikaloumenon. That makes the speaker subservient--not at all the bombastic type he actually was." Deco could practically read Harker's mind via the man's expression: Storm clouds ahead.

"Do you speak Greek?" Harker spluttered.

"No, I never had interest in studying and mastering the  tongue." But easily could have.

"Then you're hardly an authority, Deco."

"Isn't that what scholars are for? Your thesis is that I can't look at Greek text on a screen, and read the plain English that appears beneath it." This is the captain, folks. We're experiencing turbulence.

"Still. . . .it's not like being a native speaker."

Strapping on parachute. "I know grammar, Harker, such as when the prepositive article is abused." Sound of birds chirping in Harker's brain. "To clarify that for you, it's the word 'of''. The translator moves it from the genitive cast, making it a simple inclusive."

"Well. . . .I'm not convinced."

Jump out, pull the ripcord. "The question is who made the error--translator or publisher. My money is on the biased translator." Well, THAT ship has sailed. Moving right along. . . .

Harker seemed suddenly resolved. "Suppose I can show you an original voyager through time--one who will settle that matter once and for all."

"That I'd like to see."

The shop owner navigated glass cases, arriving at a small safe. He spun the combination and removed the lock. Stepping behind the safe, he prepared to open the door. "Stare into the eyes of--Medusa!"

Deco's face registered the same horror as the would-be robber a week ago. His movements grew sluggish as he grayed over and solidified.

Days later, one of the shop's more reliable buyers marveled at Harker's latest acquisition. "Amazing--that's the art critic Arthur Deco! Why would he commission such an unflattering likeness? He looks positively scared to death."

Harker beamed at the praise. "That's what the sculptor is calling it: Scared To Death."

"I can't understand why the artist wants to stay anonymous. How much is he asking for it?"

"Oh. . . .four thousand ought to do it."

The Deed To The Country

Empires turn on a coin, goes the old saying. Enter a pair of entrepreneurs named Scrum and Chalmers. They've absconded with the collateral of a high-stakes card game, hoping to cash in on a life of ease. They're about to discover the truth of another old saying--easy come, easy go--as they sail with a singular lack of imagination into the murky waters of. . . .The Twilight Zone.







A rowboat emerged out of bright morning mist, bearing three survivors of the Lolligag. Captain Squee roused himself from the fugue of having taken a falling timber to the noggin.

"Hoist the Roger! Haul that lanyard!" So saying, he slumped forward once again.

At the bow, Scrum raised placating palms. "Let's keep it quiet, Cap'm--somebody on yon beach might be hearin' us."

"Besides," Chalmers added, "flyin' the Roger is the last thing we wanna do at this point. It's what got us proper gunned by that Frenchie man-o-war."

Scrum drew up on a reedy shore of white sand. "Nothin' for it now but to hide the chest. That bluff makes a right landmark."

The pair splashed ashore, grounding the boat and its dazed skipper. They lugged a small chest behind some scree at the cliff base, since the mist was burning off and might expose them to any eyes out at sea. There wasn't much chance of discovery by the colonials, whose tenuous foothold on this coast faced all manner of challenge: Indians, raiders, the king's grasping tax men, unpredictable storms and the  like.

Chalmers leaned on his shovel, wiped a sweaty palm on his striped tunic. He stole a glance at the captain's bowed head. The plumed black hat obscured the man's vision, even if he was just shamming. The red coat was a liability, though, for blokes not wanting to draw attention. Suddenly emboldened, Chalmers hatched a plan.

"The cap'm don't know what we're about. I say we move on, and tell 'im the chest got stole." His craggy face leered. "Then there's the bounty on 'is head. Can't say as how it's easy takin' serious a man with a name like Squee!" He started to chuckle, checked himself with another fearful glance at the boat.

"Stow that, barnacle brain!" Scrum secured his tri-corner hat against a grit-laden gust. "I'm not sure he ain't watchin' us right now, clear through 'is hat, or listenin' to every word!"

These ruminations were cut short by distant thunder rolling ashore. Flashes of light fired the mist farther out. The Frenchie was back, and this time her opponent flew a union jack. Scrum shouted for the spy glass, and Chalmers lumbered down to carefully ease it out of the captain's hand. On his way back, another blast startled him, and he juggled the glass, almost dropping it into the foaming surf.

Scrum focused on the newcomer. "Limeys!" he spat. "Now all we need is the Spanish and the Portuguese!" The combatants moved farther off, the contest undecided.

"And the Dutch," Chalmers added. "There was five kings at that card game."

Scrum rested a foot on the chest, grinning. "A noble idea it was, gamblin' all this territory on a game--no war, no killin'. Too bad they didn't keep a closer eye on the deed to it all!"

Both men laughed at that, carelessly letting down their guard.

A girl of maybe fourteen or sixteen stood on the lower slope. It was the second thing Scrum noted, the first being the pistol in her belt. He shook Chalmers, whose giggling abruptly ceased.

"Good morning to you, gents," she began. "Leave off the chest, and be away with you."

Scrum drew up with swelled chest. "Keep in mind, lass, you only got one shot."

"Then it will be for you, even if you send your man after me."

"I ain't nobody's man!" Chalmers blustered.

"Shush!" Scrum warned. "The cap'm. . . ." He confronted the girl again. "Nothin' but a piece o' paper in here, missy." He took out a scroll as proof. "It's just the dregs after we lost all the gold."

"Then it must be mighty important. It'll be the scroll for your life."

Scrum was liking the bounty idea more and more, risky though it was. "Fair enough--the scroll is yours." Over Chalmers objections, he led the way back to the boat. "How is it you're called?" he shot back to the girl. "Who is it what got the best o' Cap'm Squee?"

"Don't laugh," she said. "I have one aunt named Erica, and another named Amelie. My da put both together to name me: Am-Erica. America."

"Bah!" Scrum risked some parting sarcasm to save face. As he and Chalmers rowed south along the coast, his confidence in betraying the captain faltered, and the captain didn't disappoint.

From somewhere in his coat, Squee came up with a pistol and pointed it at Scrum's head. "Where be the chest, Mister Scrum?"

Scrum's eyes crossed at the nearness of the gun to his nose. "We was beset by superior forces, sir!"

"Aye," Chalmers echoed. "Superior forces, it was!"

Squee slumped forward again.

As Scrum exhaled relief, Chalmers fetched a jug from under his bench. "There's some rum left. I say we keep 'im sozzled, then throw in with a new crew at the next town."

"It's just like you to have no imagination," Scrum scolded. "Here's what we do. . . ."

Their bickering trailed behind them as the boat journeyed on, passing the future home of the Norfolk Naval Air Station.

The Case of the Vanished Man

From the journal of Dr Watson

In Kensington there stands a manor which shall remain nameless, for reasons to be revealed later. The master of the house stood accused in the disappearance of one Cyrus Hampstead; both men were known to be bitter rivals for the affections of a certain woman. Dogs were called in, having lost the trail at the end of an upstairs hallway. Yet Scotland Yard knew there was no such thing as a dead end when it came to Sherlock Holmes. Holmes insisted on seeing the exact spot the trail was lost, marking it with chalk. Even so, the suspect, Lord Wellesley, remained boastful that no one should ever get the goods on him. Nullus Corpus, as it were--no proof. It is here that our tale begins.

"Smug popinjay," I huffed. "He has the air of a man who has committed the perfect murder."

"It's my own sentiment as well," Holmes said. "Attend." He stomped vigorously on a step about halfway up.

"How very curious." I performed the test for myself. "There is no hollow boom. It's as if the thing is made of stone instead of wood."

"Quite so, old boy. We shall make a detective of you yet." Holmes nodded to Inspector Lestrade, who waited at the top of the stairs with Wellesley. Lestrade led the suspect out of sight down the hall. Having been briefed the previous day, I went up to join them at the spot Holmes had chalked. Strangely, the corridor was a dead end, save for a pair of guest rooms on either side.

A brief interval passed, and what was my astonishment to see Holmes coming up the stairs backward!

Lestrade scowled. "See here, Holmes--I've learned not to question your oddball methods, but this is too much! What do you expect to accomplish by walking backward!"

"If I'm right, Inspector, I expect you to make an arrest."

None of us spoke right away. Wellesley looked positively ill.

"It's a queer thing," I said. "When you came up in reverse, I had the disorienting thought that time itself was moving backward."

"The final trigger," Holmes explained, "though it has little to do with time. It's only necessary to awaken the progenitor mind, that primitive part in tune with that which cannot be seen or felt.."

"Blarney," Lestrade muttered.

Holmes glowed like a school boy. "Our own minds have set in motion the arcane machinery entombed beneath us. I'd never expected to see one--a set of Euclidian stairs!"

"Entombed," you say. I waited for him to continue.

"Legend has it that a large gyroscope spins in opposition to earth's rotation, operating as a true perpetual motion machine. I'm loathe to delve too deeply into the occult aspects, but the manor's original owner knew an airtight seal of the chamber is essential. If our two realities should collide, the resulting explosion--"

"Hallo!--" Lestrade drew back from one of the rear doors, which had begun to grow translucent. It winked out of existence, admitting cold and foul wind from a barren chamber within. It was no longer a well-appointed bedroom. Lightning flashed at a tall window, illuminating a gray nightmare world of blighted wood and tattered drapes. Nothing else occupied the cursed space--except for the man crawling toward us.

"Great Scot!" I peered closer. "It's Hampstead!"

Holmes beckoned urgently. "Quickly, man, come out of there! The breach won't hold for long!"

Clearly the man had been shot. No sooner had we dragged him clear did the door come back into existence behind him. He raised a trembling hand to point accusingly. "Wellesley. . . ." Then he fell dead.

Wellesley closed his eyes as does a man facing the gallows. A sick grin came to his features.

Holmes took hold of the dead man's arm. "Help me turn him over, Watson."

"No matter," Lestrade said. "We have our man. There's nothing more this poor devil can tell us."

"Except," Holmes pointed out, "what Lord Wellesley finds so ironically amusing. What do you make of the wound, Watson?"

"I'd say it cut the right renal artery, causing rapid blood loss, though not so catastrophic if the descending aorta had been hit. It bought him an extra moment or two."

Holmes looked up at the killer. "Your arrogance has undone you, Wellesley. You didn't go for a kill shot because you wanted the victim to be some hours in dying an agonizing death. You overlooked a prime characteristic of Euclidian stairs: they always return to the same point in time as the prior visit. It wasn't days ago that you shot Hampstead, but mere seconds!"

"Away with you, now." Lestrade hustled his charge downstairs, his reputation once again riding the coattails of Sherlock Holmes.

I stared at the door. "I suppose we should alert the science ministry."

"Nay, old friend. We can't have adventurers coming here for some infernal thrills. When the lightning flashed, I saw something at the window, which clung to the outside. I didn't get a good look, and for that I shall ever be grateful."

I nodded. "Some things are best forgotten."

We made our way down as two policemen came to collect the body. Wellington's maid inquired as to whether it was safe, having overheard the proceedings.

"Quite so, my good woman," I assured her. "But do not go up these stairs backward."

Best Christmas Displays

Ok I have to go with the season.  I love when someone spends lots of time getting into the spirit putting on lights, buying up the displays to arrange in a special way on their lawn, the bushes and the house.    My husband usually does this every Christmas. Our house looks so nice and gets people to slow their cars down to take a look. To keep with the season, post some displays of lights.  It can be in your neighborhood, your house, or someone that really goes way out to blast away their electric bill to power those lights.  Have a great Friday night!  Ok our house is not like Griswold's but this person really got into it.

Skyscape: Peach, Berry, Plum

This is another small 8x10 acrylic, done rapidly with thin paint. That allows some of the white canvatex to brighten the colors and show streaks to suggest movement. The eccentric cottage owner has elected to use a green bulb. It helps keep the foreground neutral against a sky that has both warm and cool colors.

Ideal Writing Place

What is your ideal writing or work area?  Are you happy with it or does it function?  I have had many different writing areas throughout my life.  I had a loft over the garage, quite spacy and enough to put in a library.  When I got married, we have a two bedroom house.  The bedroom in the back became an office/art room and I used it quite much.  When the kids were born, I took my workspace into the kitchen where I use it.  I make it work.  My last workspace was under a tree in Florida watching the ducks in he lake, feeling the breezes and my ideas just flowed. I came across this, and thought that would be really cool.  But I would spend more time watching movies or binge watching one of the series. Maybe the red has too much energy, though my favorite color is red.  

This writing office may look nice, but closer to the window perhaps so I can look out while I warm up and drink my coffee.

I have written my work on a bar table overlooking the water under the shade.    Just have an iced coffee, or slushy cold drink while you let the creativity flow. I would have to have a light lunch here. What is your writing space like? Share it with us!

Contractions

Okay I do use contractions, and sometimes I think over using them can reveal a lazy writer.  I do use them at times when my character is using dialogue with an accent.  What other contractions have you come across not on the list?   

I	I'm I am	I'll I will	I'd I would	I've I have	I'd I had
you	you're you are	you'll you will	you'd you would	you've you have	you'd you had
he	he's he is	he'll he will	he'd he would	he's he has	he'd he had
she	she's she is	she'll she will	she'd she would	she's she has	she'd she had
it	it's (or 'tis) it is	it'll it will	it'd it would	it's it has	it'd it had
we	we're we are	we'll we will	we'd we would	we've we have	we'd we had
they	they're they are	they'll they will	they'd they would	they've they have	they'd they had
that	that's that is	that'll that will	that'd that would	that's that has	that'd that had
who	who's who is	who'll who will	who'd who would	who's who has	who'd who had
what	what's/what're what is/what are	what'll what will	what'd what would	what's what has	what'd what had
where	where's where is	where'll where will	where'd where would	where's where has	where'd where had
when	when's when is	when'll when will	when'd when would	when's when has	when'd when had
why	why's why is	why'll why will	why'd why would	why's why has	why'd why had
how	how's how is	how'll how will	how'd how would	how's how has	how'd how had

WORDS	DOUBLE CONTRACTION
she would have	she'd've (colloquial)
it is not	'tisn't (archaic)

WORDS (odd ones)	CONTRACTION
of	o'
of the clock	o'clock
madam	ma'am
never-do-well	ne'er-do-well
cat-of-nine-tails	cat-o'-nine-tails
jack-of-the-lantern	jack-o'-lantern
will-of-the-wisp	will-o'-the-wisp
it was	'twas (archaic)

https://www.enchantedlearning.com/grammar/contractions/list.shtml