by Steve Lodge
Willing is a beautiful area, but lonely and inaccessible. My wife, Clarissa, went out for some ingredients to make her famous Renaissance Stew five days ago, so I expect her back any minute.
Local winter fruits keep me going. I can pick flundermokers and red limp near the house. At Wasted Yawn frozen lake, flen wibble grows to an enormous height.
Later, I’ll use the phone at Barney’s place near the disused forest. I should report Clarissa missing. Police will start at Vincent’s place, where she stayed last winter, while seeking comfort and solace, presumably two main ingredients for her stew.
I had many quiet moments during this time where I searched for peace in the inner recesses of my mind, but I only found a disturbingly vivid wartime memory of receiving a kiss from a camel by an oasis near the deserted Silvermoon Airfield at New Southport. It was a truly defining moment for me. That jolted the memory of the time I had been captured and tortured by monkeys who licked my toes as I was tied and suspended from a tree and later teased by a frisky rhino.
We used to walk the 5 miles from the airfield to the delightful Fox And Tuppence pub. All the remaining airmen at Silvermoon, Bimmer, The Guffler, Sid and myself, would spend a lot of our time in the pub, you see, because no planes landed at Silvermoon anymore. Even the Home Guard based in nearby Broken Biscuits had disbanded. There was barely a living to be had for the husband and wife team who ran the pub, Eliot Fox and his wife, Tuppence, but this was the end of the war and anyone with an opportunistic streak could stumble on a way to make some money.
I was in the company of three of the most fearless men I’d ever met, but we knew it couldn’t last. Thoughts of forming a band and touring the area were quickly scotched as none of us could play an instrument or sing. We were all considerably rhythmically challenged and none of us could be described as talented in any artistic area. I did once know a guy called Bernard Sangster who juggled broccoli and played tambourine in a church band, but I felt his talents would be of little use, since he had died in the war.
When the Ministry finally closed the airfield, Bimmer and The Guffler joined a band of mercenaries led by Jobbie Dobbs and his brother, Squalid. They propped up a puppet regime on the island of Expatria for many years.
Sid and I headed for nearby Willing, where he joined the local police force. I failed the medical to join due to my worsening overactive jiggles and unhappy bowel. I opened a small trading store briefly but my bestsellers – fake alibis and tree scampi were very seasonal.
Marrying Clarissa, my mail order bride, had been a huge mistake. For both of us. I learned subsequently that she was a very active nymphomaniac and I still had recurring dreams of that camel. I suspect that to keep up appearances, I will need to ask for Sid’s help again soon in locating my wayward wife. It may be easier, of course, when the lake thaws.
Steve Lodge is a wandering minstrel from London, now based in Singapore. He has written short stories and poems, plays/skits for theatre groups and also lyrics for a band he shouts in. He does stand up comedy, improv, and some acting.
