Eighteen, Blue (Short Stories Volume II)

By Lazlo Ferran

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Five Short Stories AND Chapter 1 of both Iron I: Too Bright the Sun and Ordo Lupus and the Temple Gate for FREE.

Henry's Car
In this hilarious science fiction story, a Royal time traveler from the 16th Century develops a taste and talent for for stock-car racing.

Eighteen, Blue
On the Rebel held wastelands of North American in the 22nd Century, biker bounty hunters choose their victims according to their playing card rank. But in this life-or-death game of poker, one player holds the trump card.

Another One for No 19
Machine 19, the last Janitor bot still moving, travels on to its last assignments as Isha and Danel in NewYork District of Central City wonder how to change their meaningless lives.

Lacunashka
Ilya Kuznetsov, a clerk in Stalinist Russia, has discovered that what he thought of as his fool-proof system of recording mail delivery has gone wrong. An envelope is missing and he is determined to find it.

From the author:

My own family's roots, uncovered gradually over ten years of concerted research, had led me to one Guillaume, a Chevalier (Knight) in 13th Century Languedoc, France. He was my earliest ancestor. Simultaneously, I had been pursuing a theological interest in the Cathars; first though reading a number of books by Henry Lincoln and later through an interest in Monségur and the Rennes-le-Château, near where the lost treasure of the Cathars is said to be hidden. The Cathars believed that the Christian god was really Rex Mundi, or 'God of Earth' and that he was an illusion created by dark forces, while the real God remains hidden somewhere outside Earth. I quite possibly sympathise with the Cathars because my later ancestors probably escaped the Catholic persecution of Huguenots when they came to England in the 1500s.

These two areas of interest came together for me when I discovered that one of my ancestors was cast out by the Catholic Church and had been prosecuted for some unknown violation. This resulted in him having to pay the church an annual tithe of a man's weight in wheat. What his misdemeanour was, I cannot say but he was certainly very wealthy and his daughter married well so it must have been a personal crime against the Church. Was he a heretic or Cathar, even though officially they had all been killed in Monségur 200 years before? This question started me on my journey.

Lastly, I wanted the gothic. The themes of blood, death, eroticism, sex and transcendence are all things that I desire in a good novel. My influences were Kate Bush, The Mission, Lord Byron, John Keats (The Eve of St. Agnes is a particularly favourite poem of mine) and, to some extent, Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Sex and death are the themes that everyone seems attracted to. As a consequence, I couldn't resist a climax to my novel that took place in one of the world's greatest Gothic masterpieces. But you will have to read the novel to find out where ...
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• Language: English
• Publisher: Lazlo Ferran
• Release date: Jun 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9786051761381

Lazlo Ferran

Lazlo Ferran: Exploring the Landscapes of Truth. Educated near Oxford, during English author Lazlo Ferran's extraordinary life, he has been an aeronautical engineering student, dispatch rider, graphic designer, full-time busker, guitarist and singer, recording two albums. Having grown up in rural Buckinghamshire Lazlo says: "The beautiful Chiltern Hills offered the ideal playground for a child's mind, in contrast to the ultra-strict education system of Bucks." Brought up as a Buddhist, he has travelled widely, surviving a student uprising in Athens and living for a while in Cairo, just after Sadat's assassination. Later, he spent some time in Central Asia and was only a few blocks away from gunfire during an attempt to storm the government buildings of Bishkek in 2006. He has a keen interest in theologies and philosophies of the Far East, Middle East, Asia and Eastern Europe. After a long and successful career within the science industry, Lazlo Ferran left to concentrate on writing, to continue exploring the landscapes of truth.

Book preview

Eighteen, Blue (Short Stories Volume II)

Lazlo Ferran

Published by Lazlo Ferran at Smashwords

Copyright © 2010 by Lazlo Ferran

All Rights Reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Visit the Lazlo Ferran blog to see what I am currently working on: http://bit.ly/YJZzdi

Henry's Car

Copyright © 2010 by Lazlo Ferran

All Rights Reserved.

God’s body man, giveth me the 4th gear! Now!

Fucking press the damned clutch you madman! I shouted back over the reverberating din of the V8 Chevy block, attempting some humility and knowing ‘damned’ was the only swear-word King Henry VIII would actually acknowledge.

The large pallid face broke into a toothy grin. Raymond. You are an impertinent – what is the modern phrase – jackass, but I like you! His big foot, somewhat incongruously contained in a size 14 Nike trainer, pressed clumsily down on the accelerator and I slammed the gearstick into 4th. A moment later the King, hunched over the royal Sparco steering wheel, turned the car to the left, and as, dirt spurting from the drifting rear wheels, we emerged from the turn, I realised we were actually going to finish in third place. Not yet a win, but for a man new, not only to the sport, but to the century, it was not a bad effort. Henry roared his approval as we crossed the line.

***

Ah, the memory of it is a delight to me even now. It all seemed like a dream until I saw the article in the The Richmond and Twickenham Times: Archeologists in Richmond dig unearth mysterious ‘fuel can’.

At once I was engrossed and read on.

Archeologists digging up a 16th Century hunting lodge are mystified by a fuel-can buried in the mud below the remains of the floorboards. Barry Deancliff had the following to say to reporters last night:

It is most reminiscent of refueling cans used in stock car racing in the 20th century. Moreover it has been carbon-dated and appears to be 400 years old – give or take. I am completely mystified!

I checked the paper every day after that for months but there was never another mention of the mysterious refueling-can. A letter to the British museum elicited the following curt reply: Professor Barry Deancliff’s team will be spending many years analyzing the finds from the dig and as yet, he has no further comment to make about this particular item. Eventually it seemed to have been buried: an awkward item that simply did not fit the picture the esteemed museum was looking for.

Racing has always been in my blood, my father being an engineer on Grand Prix cars in the 1990s, before children made him settle for a more mundane job. The thrill of it never left him though and we would often stand in the rain for hours at Silverstone watching the Formula 1 cars screaming past. Now I raced cars for a hobby in the Muscle-car Stock class all around England at weekends.

This particular New Year’s day, it really seemed as if nothing could possibly happen to me. Most of my friends were visiting parents, an obligation I had already fulfilled on Christmas day, or they were slumped, lifeless in front of their 3-d screen. I despondently checked the listings for anything that might interest me. My mobile vibrated on the table.

Hi Dave. Good to hear from somebody. Fancy a drink?

Listen Ray. I forgot I have two tickets to the banger racing at Wimbledon Stadium. I didn’t think I would be going but now my sister’s ill and so Don thinks it’s better if I leave it a few days. So I am going. You wanna come?

Banger racing! Ha! Ha! It’s not really my thing, but what the hell! It’s better than brain-death in front of the 3-D. Okay. You pick me up?

Sure.

The banger racing was a hoot! We both chose cars, based on their form in the two-page guide we bought on the styles.

I won again! That’s it Dave. That was the last race and I have the most points. Your round I believe?

Ha! Ha! Okay. Let’s go. It’s getting pretty parky anyway.

We drove to a pub Dave knew nearby with Sport TV on a big screen and watched whatever came on out of the corners of our eyes, while getting steadily more and more inebriated.

Been a good year Ray.

Speak for yourself mate!

"Cheer up! You’re always one to moan but you ain’t got it too bad. Good job, nice flat and a jag outside.

One more drink and its home to the wife! Ah married life."

Although I didn’t need a pee when we left the pub, according to that inextricable law of nature that rules all bladders, I was desperate after the second roundabout.

Stop here! I shouted as Dave swerved either side of the broken yellow line in the middle of a road next to Wimbledon Common. His swerving wasn’t helping my bladder at all!

No way man! You can last till we get home.

Dave! I am warning you! If you don’t stop before the end of this road, I will unzip my flies and do it here!

Nah! You wouldn’t.

I reached for my flies

Okay man! Cool it! I am stopping

I was out of the car before it had stopped and nearly slid under the wheels. I ran into the night looking for any tree but could only find a newly planted sapling about eighteen inches tall. I stood dutifully astride it and smiled modestly as a woman walking her poodle glared at me, and the stream of hot liquid watering the new sapling.

I went back to the car but Dave had gone.

Dave! Dave, where are you!

I stumbled around on the common in the twilight of a half-moon looking for my friend.

Good evening Sir! A large hand gripped my shoulder from behind. Arretez! Parlez-vous français? The voice was loud, gruff and unfamiliar.

What? I said spinning round, trying to focus.

Ah! Verily an Englishe gentleman. Now the voice was overly solicitous, but relishing its own sound."

Yes. Can I help you? I said, rudely.

I was beginning to make out a large grin in a very big face, with a strange hat and what looked like a very large fur coat.

Ah! Yes. Where are we France or Englande! Only some things are very unfamiliar here.

England mate. Wimbledon in fact. Do you need a lift anywhere?

Lift? Ah no. You see I don’t have a horse.

What mate? You mean you had one? My drunkenness was taking away my will to think properly and take part fully in the conversation."

Yes. Yes, I had one, he said uncertainly.

Jeez. I know who you are! You are, or at least you look like Henry VIII! Ha! Ha!

Yes! Yes I am your King. Don’t laugh at me!

Aaah! Sorry. It was just so funny. Come on. We better give you a lift. Dave!

King Henry followed me dutifully while I found Dave, who was vomiting cheerfully into a clump of grass next to some bushes not far from the car.

Dave. I found a straggler. Looks a bit worse for wear but dig the fancy-dress!

Cool! I feel better now. All in!

We climbed into Dave’s battered Vauxhall Astra MkXIV and saw Henry staring wide-eyed at the car.

Come on mate! It’s not that bad. It goes! shouted Dave.

God’s body. What is it? said the furry-coated one.

2031 Vauxhall Astra mate! shouted Dave proudly.

Is there a horse in there? Or perhaps large dogs or something?

Yep! 285 horses in old money but it’s electric really. Measured it myself on a dyno.

Dyno? 285 horses! I don’t believe it! This is some kind of joke?

Dave turned the ignition and gunned the engine. Henry jumped back.

Come on Henry! Jump in, shouted Dave.

For a moment Henry seemed deeply torn between his pride as a king and his wariness of the roaring beast-machine. He looked from the car to Dave and back to the car again and then finally he mastered himself. Walking up to the car he addressed Dave curtly. Subjects, however brave do not address me by my Christ-given name unless I have given permission.

Right, said Dave watching Henry sliding his bulky form into the back seat, so that he could press the button to close the door. The smell of cheap perfume was overpowering.

By God’s mother, this chariot is most fast! offered Henry, pressing his face against the glass as lamp-posts flew past.

He’s a character! said Dave out of the corner of his mouth. Where do I drop him?

I asked Henry and this led to an argument which still wasn’t resolved by the time Dave dropped me at my door in Kew.

Well he can’t come home with me! Dave glared at me, looking much the worse for wear now and I gave in to a feeling of guilt.

Time to disembark Henry! I said.

You mean dismount, erm... What is your name Sir?

Ray. Raymond. But most people call me Ray.

Good day Sir! he said to Dave, and then there we were, standing on the pavement outside my front-door.

Henry seemed thoughtful for a moment as cars sped by, looked up and down the street for a moment and declared in a loud voice, It worketh! It worketh truly! What year is this?

For a moment I thought about telling him he couldn’t come in but I was too drunk to care. 2035. Why? I unlocked the front door and Henry followed me into my semi-detached. He barely squeezed through the door.

Travel in time – travel through the ages. Just as Paracelsus said!

What? You are mad, man. Stop blabbering. I will make you a strong black coffee and then I am going to bed. You can have the sofa.

Is it worth something?

Oh God! Just watch the 3-D and let me make the coffee. I used the remote to turn on the 3-D and pressed the buttons on the machine to make us two coffees. When I returned with them moments later, Henry’s mouth was wide open and he was transfixed on the 3-D. Something in my eyes told me he wasn’t acting.

But he could be mad.

Henry.. I made my voice sound solicitous.

Raymond! What is that?

It’s a 3-D viewer: it plays images which are sent to it from a central station and we all watch them for information. It’s like a talking book.

What am I saying? I am starting to believe him.

I drained most of my coffee and felt it banging at the inside of my forehead. After a few minutes my mind seemed slightly clearer.

Henry. Sit down and tell me all about your... time travel. Henry? I turned off the 3-D and he suddenly noticed me and calmly placed his enormous backside on the sofa.

Well Raymond. It’s like this... He sipped the coffee and frowned before beaming a smile at me. I pray thee, tell me what this beverage is called?

I told you; coffee. Now the story?

"Well, I have a small parchment which I purchased from a seller this Mickelmas which has a spell written down by Paracelsus – I met him once when he was travelling in France. Interesting man... Anyway a’ was bored with weapons and star-gazing. I fancied something different so I tried this spell. Nay, I never thought that