The Duck Pond Incident , livre ebook

Markosia Enterprises Ltd - Charlie Humphries

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31 pages

English

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Description

Focusing on non-binary genders and people of the LGBTQIA+ community, this is a collection of twelve short stories crossing a wide spectrum of genres and different sub themes, such as the reuniting of a same-sex couple through a failed cadaver-finding German Shepherd, a bookshop haunted by a deceased non-binary customer and a gruesome discovery made by a gay couple after their new cat pees on the floor.

Sujets

LGBTQ+

Transgender

Erotica

Fiction

Informations

Publié par	Markosia Enterprises Ltd
Date de parution	14 octobre 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781912700950
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0350€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Duck Pond Incident
Charlie Humphries

The Duck Pond Incident ™ & © 2019 Charlie Humphries & Markosia Enterprises, Ltd. All Rights Reserved. Reproduction of any part of this work by any means without the written permission of the publisher is expressly forbidden. All names, characters and events in this publication are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Published by Markosia Enterprises, PO BOX 3477, Barnet, Hertfordshire, EN5 9HN. FIRST PRINTING, October 2019. Harry Markos, Director.
ISBN 978-1-912700-94-3
Book designed and edited by: Ian Sharman
www.markosia.com
First Edition

CONTENTS
We Should all Learn Sign Language
Cogs
A Brother’s Love
Settlement 16
Frantic
The Duck Pond Incident
Stand Tall
Ashes to Ashes
Five Hundred and Seventy-Seven Miles
Familiar
The Joys Of A New Pet
Extinction

We Should All Learn Sign Language
Morgan was sure that if daisies weren’t so beautiful or charming they would have been classed as a weed because of their new-found refusal to just die. No, instead, half of Morgan’s working day in the cemetery was spent cutting them back. They were pretty, sure. Somebody was coming in and planting more of them after curfew. However, between lying awake in the complete dark, punctuated by the occasional dying satellite, and worrying over every tiny noise outside, Morgan was thankful for this one mercy. At least daisies were gentle on the eyes after the short walk between their home and work, through what had been.
Today would have been July 15th 2313, if people still kept precise dates: the only thing people counted and observed were the sunrises until the water rations were due or until the slow creep of winter would kill off their carefully tended vegetable plots. Morgan peeped through the gap in the curtain and breathed deep against the glass. In the surface fog they traced two words that had gained more meaning in the years since the government had taken the necessary steps to ensure the people were kept safe: Happy Birthday. Morgan allowed a small smile to prick the corners of their mouth before getting ready for work. They had ironed their blue work polo shirt specially for today, using up what little energy was left in the house-battery. They settled their baseball cap just so over their cropped dark hair - in need of a wash, truth be told - and allowed a small wink in the mirror before leaving the house. There was no point in locking the door: if people were desperate enough, they would smash a window. And Morgan couldn’t afford to replace another broken window.
“Good morning, crew! How are we all?” Natasha grinned round at their tiny team, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. Her tightly braided blonde hair was pinned up under her work cap, her work shirt a little grubby from dirt and grass stains.
“Can’t complain,” George said with a smile. He saluted the group with his chipped mug of tea, and there were a few nods.
“Good, good, good! Now, before we move onto today’s schedule, we have a very important thing to celebrate. Today is Morgan’s birthday!” Natasha took her hands from behind her back and offered Morgan a rectangular parcel wrapped in Christmas paper. Morgan’s eyes felt like they were going to pop out of their head. They placed a hand against their chest.
~For me?~ they mouthed.
“Yes! A little something from all of us. I’m sorry it’s in Christmas paper. It’s all I had left.”
Morgan took the parcel between all eight fingers and two thumbs, unable to contain the grin that was spreading across their face. Pinching the corner of a strip of tape between thumb and forefinger, Morgan drew it away a millimeter at a time. Natasha, George and Carmen watched on, holding their breath.
Morgan closed their eyes and ripped the paper off in shreds.
“Hey, Nat, if this paper was the last of it, what’ll you use at Christmas?” Carmen twirled a scrap of the shiny red and blue paper between her fingers. Natasha shrugged.
“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”
Morgan pulled the book out of its wrapping and gave it a grand sniff, hugged the book to their chest and looked around at their colleagues.
~Thank you.~
“You are most welcome, Morgan. Enjoy. And because it’s your special day, I’m taking you off daisy duty. George has volunteered in your place. You’ll be digging out a new vegetable plot down by the gate. As wide and long as you can manage. I wanted to attempt staples next year, onions and carrots.”
Morgan placed their book on the trestle table with a gentle reverence and brushed an imaginary speck of lint from the cover before beginning to sign with their hands.
~We should attempt peppers and tomatoes too. Is the greenhouse still in one piece? We might have a better chance of germination in there.~
“You know, I’ve not checked.” Natasha took her tiny notepad from her trouser pocket and the ever-present pencil from behind her ear and scribbled some notes.
“I’ll go check it out while I’m hacking at the daisies,” George said. He drained off his mug and rocked to his feet, his hip clicking. “I’m getting old,” he laughed. Morgan wasn’t sure how old George was exactly, but he was in his sixties at least. His hair was a mop of black and silver now that hair dye was no longer a vital commodity.
The team finished up in the chapel’s small side room and went en masse to the tool shed tucked off to one side of the grounds in the shade of a hawthorn tree. Morgan skipped ahead, breathing in the sleepy buzz of the morning, the rising pollen and insects, the brash song of some hidden bird.
Only, something made Morgan stop mid-skip, flung their arms out to stop the others. Under the shadow of a hawthorn tree stood the small shed, squat and in need of a new coat of paint. The newest thing about it had been the padlock. Even the ‘private’ sign was rusting at the edges. But the padlock was on the ground, the shackle snapped clean in two.
“No, Morgan! Stay here! Morgan!”
They waved Natasha off, stepped towards the shiny lump of metal and crouched to pick it up. Morgan watched the shed, strained their ears for any sound out of place. And there, underneath the bird chorus, was a noise like whimpering. Morgan waved the others back and their shuffling and whispering was loud in the morning hush. Since everything had changed and rationing had become an ever-present pressure there had been stories of groups moving through towns and taking as they pleased. These stories were whispered during the witching hour but bloomed into a cautionary fairy tale when the sun burst over the horizon.
Morgan went to lick their lips, flinched at the thrashing stump in their parched mouth as they stepped closer. The book-joy had dissipated and was nothing more than a memory. Morgan took hold of the shed latch and wrenched the door open with a clatter. A cry from the gloom, heavy-weight shuffling as the body heaved itself backwards. A trail of blood.
“Rich?” came the whisper. Morgan’s eyes adjusted to the gloom and took in the youth clutching their side, sprawled amongst tarps and wool skeins.
“Shit, shit, shit.” The youth’s breath came in sharp bursts. Morgan took a step into the shed, filling it, spilling over in anger. The tools were gone, the walls empty of their spades, hoes, rakes and secateurs. Morgan turned their gaze back on the intruder and bared their teeth.
“Morgan? We’re coming in.” George poked his head around the door and let out a sigh. “Oh, well now that’s a shame.” He shook his head and placed a hand where his spade used to hang.
“George! This woman needs looking at!” Natasha hauled George out of the shed, shoved past Morgan and dropped to her knees beside the young woman.
“Maybe we should just call an ambulance.” George looked wistfully around the door.
She had sustained a stab wound in the side, but Natasha couldn’t see if the blade had been broken off or not. The young woman had already lost a lot of blood. Natasha frowned and had started to speak, but the youth cut her off.
“No hospitals, no police. My mates’ll be back soon enough., They’re just waiting for dark.”
“What’s your name, lass?”
“Don’t you be lassing me mate.”
George blushed deep.
~Her name is Susan.~ Morgan signed and looked straight at their guest, invader, thief.
“Shit, what’s all that?”
~We should tip you on the compost heap and leave you to rot, like your friends have.~ Morgan’s hands were nearly a blur, tears pricking their eyes and in the end they threw their hands up with a shout, burst out of the shed into the dappled sunlight, took deep gulping breaths with hands on knees. Breakfast was roiling, bubbling in their belly.
“Morgan, you okay?” Carmen went to put a hand on their shoulder, then thought better of it. Morgan waved her away, shut their eyes and took one last deep breath, really tucking it into every corner of their lungs before letting it out in a huge rush. It was far too soon to face up to old memories again, far too soon. They left the others to fuss over Susan and ran into the semi-tamed wilderness of the cemetery proper.
The headstones and sta