Thinking Of Taking It Up

Faith is a wondrful thing, but there's nothing like a big old dollop of proof.

The first light of dawn is arm-wrestling the street lights for control of the sky as we emerge wearily from the tunnel. We've just spent six hours investigating the paranormal in an underground bunker. There may have been caffeine involved.

Well, that was bizarre, I mutter.

No kidding, murmurs arch-genius Dr. Max Tunguska edgily, as he dusts the chalk from his jacket; we're all bearing the marks of the seemingly endless chalk tunnels on our clothing.

Can somebody tell me what just happened? asks Abbey quietly. My fiery-haired neighbour looks gaunt in the twlight, her calcified bare feet only just outshining the paleness of her face.

I think it's safe to say that we were not the only intelligence in that room, rumbles Bear. His fur is spattered with what looks like - for want of a more scientific description - translucent goop.

Half an hour earlier, we prepare for the final phase of the evening. We've already taken some unnerving-if-not-entirely-inexplicable flashgun photographs in the depths of the tunnels, held a near-comical séance with an unconvincing and somewhat-theatrical medium, and scanned the whole complex with paranormal detection gear to no avail. A bit of a mixed bag.

But this is different. A dozen of us are gathered under the high vaulted roof in the deepest reaches of the base, and there is a real sense of anticipation in the air as five of us move nervously forward. We stand in a ring around the focus of the ritual, and stretch our hands forward in preparation for the finale. Our fingers brush together, and after exchanging encouraging glances we slowly let them drop together onto the warm, coarse surface.

Beneath our hands, the pig grunts.

Swine-o-mancy is an all-but-forgotten mystical technique. In Roman times, it was common for simple country folk to divine the future by examining the entrails of sacrificial animals. However, the pork farmers of Roman-occupied Britain - deeply superstitious, but without a chicken to their name - were reluctant. To them, a prematurely-slaughtered pig would always be an omen of a difficult winter. So, in a practice that eventually evolved into Ouija, they would drag a recalcitrant old boar into the centre of a wide circle of flat stones, each of which bore a letter of the alphabet. Then, after placing hands on the animal and summoning the spirits, they encouraged their late ancestors to move the pig and spell out words.

And hoped for the best.

Back in the now, I carry the scent of pig sweat on my damp hands.

I think you did a great job of setting the mood Bear, I say, seeking a positive spin, nice and calm and encouraging. If I were a spirit, I'd like that, I think? I feel almost mean when I add, Though maybe your question was a bit vague?

Not at all, replies my massive companion, somewhat testily; I guess it's been stressful for all of us. I asked them to tell the future of one of the participants. He shrugs. I just didn't pin it down; it never pays to know too much. This is typical wisdom from the seven-foot black bear.

Well, I was pleased about that uncertainty at the time, whispers Abbey. When the pig moved to the letter B, I thought that he was going to spell out B-L-O-O-D! She blows her nose into a hanky. I've no idea why. And, that said, she walks away to a nearby patch of grass and starts wiping the chalk from her feet with the help of the dawn dew.

Max sighs. When it added the letter A, I immediately expected the word B-A-N-J-O. I frown at him, bemused. He cracks a half-hearted smile, Well, I was thinking of taking it up!

I move us along from that unsettling thought. Well, I wasn't at all surprised when it added the letter C. I figured it was spelling out B-A-C-K-P-A-I-N. The others nod, knowing I've had some twinges of late.

Tho of course, grumbles Bear, when the next letter got us as far as B-A-C-O-, the pig panicked and trampled me and made its escape. He flicks angrily at his shoulder with a paw. And got drool all over me!

I hand Bear a tissue. And there was me thinking it was ectoplasm.

In a nearby bush, a blackbird breaks into the first few bars of the dawn chorus; I guess it's a bit early for dogs to be barking in the distance.

Over by the grass, Abbey's stifles a giggle.

Smart creatures, pigs, says Max.

And of that, we no longer need proof.

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012

Wrong About The Cat Litter

The waking moments of any day are precious. Indigo?

They are a wonderful blend of reverie and reality. Roth? Rise and shine!

It is in them that the shape of the day is revealed.

HEY FATBOY! WAKEY WAKEY!

My lids open to a close inspection from a pair of golden eyes.

I'm sorry, did I wake you? purrs the quiet, feminine voice.

I wonder idly if I'm dreaming; my waking moments are unreliable of late. I start to sit up, but the tabby cat has retreated from my face, and is now manoeuvering herself onto my bare chest. The faintest of needles from her small paws silently encourage me to lie still. She settles, upright and imperious, a pleasantly small feline with unusually symmetrical stripes. And a warm tush. There's the faintest scent of gin.

It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Roth, she lies without a trace of irony, or may I call you Indigo? She seems very familiar, but I can't place her, nor her American accent. Michigan? Cleveland? Tho, to be fair, I don't know any talking cats.

Waitaminute. A talking cat? A talking American cat? Ah. The dime drops, and I realise that it's a Minnesotan accent.

Liza Bean Bitey, I presume? Of the Minneapolis Biteys? My mouth feels dry, like I've been chewing cat litter in my sleep. I hope I sound less apprehensive than I feel. And that I'm wrong about the cat litter.

Mmmm, she purrs noncommittally, Pearl said that you were a smart one. For a male of your species, that is. She is of course referring to the Minneapolis blogging legend Pearl *, a friend of mine. And as far as any cat is owned by anyone, Pearl is the owner and - to her eternal frustration - responsible for Liza Bean. This carries quite a price tag on both her patience and finances. I mean, just the tuna alone...

[ * Click this link. You'll thank me; Pearl is a fabulous writer.]

Hey! Ow! Stop that! The claws are a fraction of an inch deeper, begging for my wandering attention. Liza Bean tilts her head with faux empathy at my discomfort.

Apologies. It's a balance thing. You are rather... round. Good manners and insults; she must have gone to an expensive feline Finishing School. Probably Swiss. But, answering the question forming in my mind, she continues. I thought we might have a chat.

Okay. Sure. I clear my throat. So, you're a long way from home. How's that?

Oh, you know how it is. She sighs, bored. The nomadic life of an international musical artist.

You're kidding?! I sound genuinely excited, despite myself, SQUEAK TOY are touring?! The Minnesotan all-cat jazz/blues fusion quartet are a legend in their home town, but I had no idea they were broadening their horizons; leave it to a cat to try and take over the world.

Yes, and our manager insisted that we take in your quaint little island.

Really? Who's your manager?! I hope it's Pearl, and that's she's with them.

Me. She licks a paw smugly, compensating the shift in balance with a faster and more painful grip on the other. And of course, we had to visit Cambridge.

Well, of course, I wince, the history, the architecture...

She stops in mid groom, her paw hanging in mid air. Architecture is for primates. No, there's a good reason. She sniffs. Part of is that the tour bus broke down. Right outside your house, in fact.

Now, that is a stroke of luck, I say sourly, but wave a vague hand in the direction of the back garden. If you'd like some assistance, we have several badgers on hand who can fix...

Yes, yes, she dismisses gently, I've already had words with them. They were happy to help. It seems there's inexplicable razor thin slashes in some of the engine pipes. Her gaze is momentarily attracted by the wanderings of a fly above my head; her tail flicks playfully, and her voice becomes distant. I have no idea how that could have happened. She turns to face me. Badgers are such competent engineers, don't you think? She phrases this in such a way that the compliment sounds far more like filthy feral creatures. I frown, unhappy with the way this is evolving.

So, did you wake me to ask if you could stay for a few hours?

Again, the tail flicks happily. Not at all, she smiles, your charming lion friend let us in as he was heading out, and your bear has been helping the band set up downstairs. Liza Bean glances at my bedside clock. They should be almost done...

On cue, the amplified sound of a swinging band strikes up, and they launch into a remarkable rendition of Big Noise From Winnetka. Ignatz D. Katz's upright bass work is fast and bright, Hairball's piano is melodic and loose, but Stumpy “Lucky” Strikes on drums is in a world of his own, and plays a striking resemblance to a heyday Gene Krupa.

That's terrific! I gawp, my irritation blown away; I've heard the foursome's breakthrough album, Not A Can Of Worms, but this is something else. You guys are even better live!

And better yet with me on violin. The look is smug. A little too smug, in fact.

Hey Diddle Diddle, The Cat Played A Fiddle...

Ms. Bitey raises an eyebrow, which somehow makes her resemble Death taking a good run up, about to swing his scythe. Excuse me?

So, I say, changing subject, if it's not the tour bus or the rehearsal room, what can you possibly want from me?

The reply is cool, calm, definite.

We're here for the lobster. I frown again, and the commanding cat spells it out in tones I would reserve for a slow child. Your lobster. From Maine. In your fridge.

Lobster? I bluster a little, What makes you think I have lobster?! I'm not sure I'm very convincing. I like lobster. A lot. In fact, to the point that my picture is in circulation on badly-printed cautionary fliers in the crustacean world: pliers, bib, Have You Seen This Man, the works.

Pearl occasionally buys what she laughingly calls "the good shrimp" says Liza Bean, and tells me that one day we'll get "some of the good lobster like Indigo always has". What?! Dammit, that's my dinner; I think fast.

Well, I don't have any right now, so I'm afraid you're out of luck. It's no good, I'm a hopeless liar; she's not buying it. Though obviously, if I did, I'd happily share it with four marvellous musicians. I croak the last of that, feeling myself wilt as the gorgeous golden gaze grows steely.

I assumed that would be your reaction, purrs Liza Bean, so I enlisted some help.

There's a knock at the door, and a moment later it opens to reveal the ever-smiling gaze of Abbey, my next door neighbour. Seeing I'm awake she breezes in barefoot, the smell of sunflowers accompanying her, and tickles an appreciative Liza Bean behind the ears.

Oh, there you are! Are you two making friends?! gushes the lovely blonde. Oh Indy, isn't she a beautiful kitty?! Liza Bean miaows, grinning up at Abbey in a closed-eyed, adorable fashion which is clearly designed to snare unwary owners of albacore tuna.

Lovely?! I rant, exasperated. She's a manipulative little wretch who's only here to steal my food!

My neighbour cooes over Liza Bean, and picks her up. I hiss in pain as the claws come free from my flesh, but the cat yowls louder to cover it. Abbey glances down and scowls at me, as if it's my fault that I'm being assaulted. She kisses the playful moggy's nose as she pops her over her shoulder.

Don't be mean, Indigo. Stroking Ms. Bitey's stripey back, Abbey turns to leave. Now, let's go see if we can find you some cream and some of old Mr. Grumpy's yummy lobster tail from the fridge. Liza Bean does her best Cheshire Cat impression at me from Abbey's shoulder and waves a paw as the pair retreats from my bedroom.

Downstairs, the music is rocking.

Upstairs, I'm bleeding and defeated.

Rolling over, I discover cat litter scattered across my pillow.

Why, I oughta...

I flick it clear, fuming, and try to get back to sleep.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012.
Dedicated to Pearl and Liza Bean Bitey (Of the Minneapolis Biteys).

We Are A Domain

Sometimes you have to step your game up a notch.

2012 is well under way, and there's things I want to do; I have a book to write, representation to find, a million copies to sell, and a reputation to forge.

Yes, despite my Fractal Slacker mindset, I remain a man of Ambition.

The first step towards Legendary Author status is to solidify my online presence.

So, as Mrs. Thatcher almost once said, We are a Domain.

There it is, look! At the top of your browser, in the address bar!

Yep, you've been redirected from the old Blogspot sub-domain.

Mark the date in the diary, and ready some grandkids; you'll want to tell them.

*stands proud in a magnificent suit and necktie*

Okay, that's quite enough of that. But while I'm bigging myself up, I'm delighted to report that my second published tale is finally available:

Thanks to Jessica Weiss over at Wicked East Press for accepting my story into this anthology, despite it breaking most of their publication guidelines. It's an early tale - a rather revealing one in fact - and one of my favourites. You can find it on Amazon USA, Amazon UK and Barnes&Noble.

I won't see a penny for it, not even a free copy, but I'm happy to be out there.

So, the future in under way. Thanks for helping me get there.


This blatant self promotion was brought to you by the letter 'I'.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012. 
Fractal is from Irish View's Fractal Art, copyright © Nathan Smith, 2009

Laying In Wait With Bricks

One of the nice things about working for Her Majesty's Secret Service for many years was that I got to drive some pretty fabulous cars. High-speed chases through Tokyo? Hairpin bends on Alpine roads? No problem.

One of the nice things about transitioning to semi-retirement was that I got to keep one of the cars: a Bentley Continental GT. Sitting in traffic for hours on the London orbital? Popping down to the supermarket? Sorted.

One of the bad things about knowing Dr Max Tunguska is that when he lays off his command flight-crew of ferrets, they have nothing to occupy their devious and highly-organised little minds.

So, while I am sensitive to their plight, I want to be clear.

Several bad things will happen to entire bunch* of them if they don't make this right before the morning.

I may stay up late and lay in wait with my own bricks.

And give them a secret servicing they'll never forget.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012.
* The correct collective noun for ferrets is a business or busyness. Yes, really.

Twenty From Seventy

Picture the scene on a quiet Easter Sunday.

Good afternoon, Dominique's Pizza! Zoe speaking!

Hi Zoe. Can I order some pizza for delivery, please?

Yessir, but delivery is taking an hour and ten right now.

Thanks for the head's up, that's fine. Let's order.

Righto. What can I get you?

Oh, I'd like a medium Meaty Monster please.

With extra sauce and olives, hold the onions?

Hey, good guess!

Not at all, I remembered when I saw your address pop up.

Well, that's damned efficient of you!

Isn't technology grand? Can I get you anything else?

Yep, I need a bottle of Diet Croak too, please.

Done. Hey, we've not seen you in a while, have we?

That's right, I've been celebrating Lent.

Really? We're your favourite treat? That's cool.

You got me. Seven weeks, it's been tough.

Congratulations! And yes, your last order was February.

I tell you, it feels like longer. What do I owe you?

Well, fifteen for the pizza...

Okay.

...but the Croak and some garlic bread is on the house.

That's bloody decent of you, Zoe. Thanks very much. 

Our pleasure. And I'll get it to you as soon as it's done.

I don't know what to say. Again, thank you.

Not at all, Sir. Welcome back, Mr. Roth.

It's nice to be remembered, and worth double to be missed.

They got it here in twenty.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012.
This true tale is dedicated to the always-excellent folk at Domino's Pizza.

Beyond The Notice Of Physics

In the hubbub of the busy roadside café, my mind is elsewhere.

Around me, I've tuned out the mothers, children, truckers and pensioners as they talk, eat, scold and laugh their way through the hottest part of the day. I'm no longer aware of this physical and spiritual cross-section of a small town under shade.

The plate of food in front of me has me in its evocative embrace; a simple meal of rough-cut chorizo sausage with scrambled eggs. The spices sizzle and whisper on the hot dinner plate, and the still-moist eggs bubble gently.


Outside, in the Northern Californian town of Tomales, it's August 2008.

But in the cafe, as I taste my first mouthful of the fragrant dish, I have no idea when it is; the flavours and textures of the ingredients combine to make an experience that forces reality even further into retreat.

Eolist Petite is also somewhat absorbed. My tiny friend sits opposite me, raised up by a few cushions on the seat of her rustic wooden chair. A halo of wet cocoa rings her grinning mouth as she tucks into a bar of dark chocolate filled with raspberry fondant. Normally she'd have a coffee, but this treat provides enough caffeine that she's able to risk a glass of water with ice and lemon. The diamond cubes clink and bob quietly.

Two hours ago, I'm behind the wheel of an awesome car, heading up towards Tomales with Eolist, my eccentric amigo iDifficult, and Yavin the badger. It's been a busy few days. Today, we're heading off in search of a mythical bakery with the best cakes in the State.

As anyone will tell you, I'm not a great driver; I choose odd routes and frequently get lost. I'm backtracking from a wrong turn right now, in fact, but nobody has noticed; as my rear-view of tortured limbs confirms, they're all playing Travel Twister to pass the time.

And indeed, a bit too much time passes; by the time we reach the crossroads of the small town, the sun is high and the bakery – sold clean out of its legendary pastries - has just closed for the day. Yavin and 'Difficult are philosophical about it, and head off excitedly in search of something they're tracking on a scanner, while a parched and hungry Eolist joins me for lunch and shade in a tiny café.

Back in the now, my meal continues stirring up eclectic and seemingly irrelevant memories.

It's 1998, and I'm sitting at my desk in North London. In front of me is a heavily-anticipated sandwich: thick granary bread; plenty of butter; thick salted gammon ham; and two handfuls of strong grated cheddar. Next to me is a cup of tea and a copy of At The Mountains Of Madness by H.P. Lovecraft.

Over the cubicle wall, the marketing department roar their relentless babble at phones, video links and each other. I don't enjoy being near them, as my work requires quiet and concentration.

The sandwich, made for me by the grandmotherly Letty in the staff canteen, awaits. I unwrap the expertly-folded greaseproof paper and, grasping its mighty layers in two hands, take the first bite. The moment - like one of Lovecraft's monsters - defies description, and the chaos of the office fades into distant irrelevance.

Back in Tomales, I realise that it is this exact same feeling. Amidst the herbs, the spices and the veteran grease of this backwater eatery there is something magical to be found.

Very few adventures end in disappointment.

Behind the counter, the pretty Mexican waitress watches me take another forkful and hopes I'll glance her way, but I'm long ago and miles away; there's just the food, the memories, and the eye of the strom. And I have no idea that from the bridge of his broad, weathered hot plate, the house chef sees my enjoyment and swells with pride. He needs no thanks from me; there is pleasure in eating, but far more in cooking for someone with an appetite.

Outside, the daylight is harsh, the street empty. Mad dogs and Englishmen famously go out in the midday sun, but in this quiet little town those are in short supply at any time of day. But today, Tomales welcomes a Mad Englishman and a Badger; outside the window, 'Difficult and Yavin slowly cartwheel by in zero gravity, gently spinning, beyond the notice of Physics.

Eolist contentedly waves chocolately fingers at them, and for a moment I glance up and smile; I guess we've all found something special today.

I return to my lunch, and wait for the universe to catch up with us.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012

The Weight Of An Accent

Acapulco really is lovely at this time of year.

As I sit on a narrow wooden pier on the Mexican seafront with my best friend Dr. Max Tunguska*, my feet feel heavy; it's late afternoon, and it really has been a long and eventful day for the pair of us.

( * Yes, yes, the arch-genius-formerly-known-as-iDifficult. I miss him too.)

Neither of us is dressed for dinner at the Ritz, but we're perfectly attired for our surroundings: I'm sporting an Hawaiian shirt and some very cool board shorts, set off jauntily by a straw hat and some retro shades; Max is resplendent in a lime green safari suit and tinfoil panama hat.

Behind us, a new acquaintance fusses over some details, making preparations for our evening. We're waiting while he looks for something, and we aren't going anywhere quickly. Despite the rigours of the day, we slip into easy conversation.

It's nice to get away every once in a while, I sigh, the ease of a thousand miles of separation washing over me.

Yeah, agrees Max, adjusting his hat brim to reflect the lowering sun. I was going to spay the squiddrel today. He sighs, perhaps with relief. It can wait. What would you be doing at home right now?

Oh good grief, a dozen things, most likely, I reflect vaguely, and probably all at once. I wave an equally vague hand around us. That makes this place all the more fun.

As any busy person will tell you, boredom is a luxury. But as a confirmed and somewhat advanced slacker (a fractal slacker in fact), I find that boredom is a bummer. I'm only truly relaxed when ignoring things that I should be doing, rather than having nothing to do.

This is kind of an slacking axiom.

A brief jostling of the pier drags me from this train of thought, and I glance back, catching a glimpse of our companion - a short, suited figure - as he goes about his business, muttering in Spanish. There's an earthy, animal smell in the air that the sea breeze isn't dispelling.

Max doesn't seem to have noticed and smiles quietly to himself, the very picture of relaxation. I must admit, that apart from a few details of the day, I'm feeling very much the same.

I really enjoyed dinner. My mind is rarely far away from food, a truth to which my tailor will attest.

The lobster was excellent. His belly gurgles absently.

You really shouldn't have eaten that eighth one.

Max feigns offence and grins broadly. Well, you'd eaten all the pizzas!

I take a huffy tone and defend myself admirably. Look, I needed something to put all that caviar on!

We laugh hugely, but are cut short by a spat Hispanic curse from our rear. We share a glance and start to turn, but start as the third member of our party leaps forward to seize an ear on each of us. The tiny wooden pier creaks beneath us, which is hardly surprising considering how heavy his Mexican accent is.

You sons of beetches, you eat for twenty peoples!

The armadillo rears up on his hind legs to his full height, which is just sufficient to menace our earlobes as we sit, twisted, our hands uncomfortably behind us. We try to pull back, but his tiny claws are sharp and strong.

Despite our predicament, I marvel again at what a dashing figure the armadillo cuts for an armoured mammal: a black suit with a white pinstripe; an immaculate white shirt paired with an eye-watering turquoise tie; a similarly-hued kerchief poking from his breast pocket; and a tiny black hat that would have suited Sinatra sits squarely on his narrow head.

You theenk you can eat everything in my restaurant?! he bellows, spitting incredulity all over my shades.

Well, it was an All-You-Can-Eat buffet! The needle-clawed paws twist viciously on our ears and I let out a yelp. Max hisses my way, equally pained,

Yeah, too bad it was run by the Armadillo Mafia.

With a final curse, the grip is released, but his deft digits snap handcuffs onto the pair of us before we can raise our hands to nurse our mauled lugs. Lurching between us with no regard for his shoulder pads, the armadillo mobster gazes over the edge of the pier at the personal blocks of concrete encasing our feet; the aching in my ankles is quite insistent now.

The tide, she is ready now I theenk. The mammal chuckles, and aims a kick at Max's knee. Any last words before you sleep with the feeshes, dog?

Max ponders this for a moment before responding brightly, Yeah, the enchiladas were superb. The crystallised jalapeños particularly. There he goes again, thinking with his stomach. Still, he's right, and our captor knows it; the mammal touches the brim of his hat with momentary good grace.

Si. It is my wife's recipe. She thanks you. He steps in front of me, and again the pier groans under our combined weight. And you?

Um, yes! I wiggle my hips to a chorus of shrieking timbers. This pier is really shoddy! Especially with all this cement dangling from it! I kick my feet to the clonk of concrete against wood. I know some badger engineers who could design and build you a proper one.

I'm rewarded with a howl of derision.

Badgers?! he spits. We don' need no steenkin' badgers!

A moment later, the diminutive don heaves us from the pier.

As we fall, I reflect that we always strive to take it easy; it comes easily to us most of the time. But sometimes our appetites get the better of us.


Acapulco really is hot at this time of year.

Tho the water is still quite cold.

And deep.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012