Amber Bubbles

“THE BUBBLES” he yelped with alarming volume. Perched on the pavement, you and he gazed into a bottle of amber fluid, placed unsteadily on a bus shelter seat. You nodded your head in agreement. There were, indeed, many bubbles. The rain clattered down around the shelter. It's pounding noise dramatised the amber bubbles rising to the top of the bottle and bursting.

“The bubbles are many.” you remarked. He nodded. It was not the first time you had both noticed this. Clinging to the plastic, a lone bubble would detach itself, swimming for freedom to the top, only to find it shared a fate with many determined bubbles that, like it, would be lost in the greater world of gases, losing all sense of self.
“The bubbles are many.” he agreed. You both perched in silence as the rain began to stop.

Grabbing the bottle in both hands, your partner stood up and took a hefty swig. Throwing his head back, his clammy midriff made an appearance from under a padded orange jacket, with several little dark hairs poking out from his pale skin. He lowered the bottle back down and nestled it in his warm armpit before letting out a satisfied belch. You sniffed the air: beautiful cider air.

The two of you had been together for a long time. You and him. Him and you. You had always been similar but now it was difficult to tell the two of you apart. It made reflections confusing. You were round, roughly an oval excluding a pair of pink protruding ears. You wore baseball caps and his was a little too small for his head. You had grubby little sparkly grins and he had freckles. You both walked with a rhythmless skip, arms and legs flailing around the pavement.

“And so I said to him...” he told you, passing the warm sticky bottle your way. His flailing had caused its contents to splash around, coating the outside in a sugary film. You took it from him, throwing back a few mouthfuls and nestling it under your arm. It tasted sweet like sunshine.

“I told him I had not had enough.” You nodded, wagging a finger to reinforce your agreement. He joined you in the action as you both strolled across the road. Vehicles thoughtfully stopped to let you both pass, no doubt impressed by the vehement finger-wags. As you both reached the next bit of pavement, you noticed a figure at the bottom of the street. He was a youngish man in a crisp dark suit, emerging from an office. He looked weary, clasping his face with one hand and holding what appeared, from his posture, to be an excessively heavy slim-line suitcase with the other.

“Poor BASTARD” you spluttered, phlegm and spittle showering the pavement. Your friend strode towards him and you scurried to catch up. Now closer, you saw that his chin twitched, causing his narrowed lips to bob up and down. His forehead was crumpled and his eyes, which were not fixed on anything, had a look distant concern. This was a man in need of a helping hand.

Thrusting the warm bottle of cider in his direction, you stopped to enquire “Have you not seen the...”. You paused to share a glance with your friend before continuing. “Bubbles?”. For a brief second, it appeared he was looking into the bottle with you, watching the bubbles move. Screwing up his face further, it soon became clear that had not understood the enquiry, and was displeased by the object you had thrust before him. He backed off a few paces, looking from side to side. As if to have had his attire marred by his close proximity to the amber fluid, he began to pat himself down. He sighed loudly and, turning his back on the two of you, walked away at an uncommonly fast pace.

“Poor bastard.” your friend whispered, shaking his head with a pitiful smile. You paused to look at your friend, pleased to see his sparkle had not been removed by the pitiful stranger. You imagined that your own, also, was still in tact, but took a slurp of cider to make sure. Beautiful liquid sunshine. And with that, the two of you flailed in unison back to your bus shelter haven.

“What was it like before?” he asked you, as the sun was going down later that day. You paused to think, trying to determine where the line of 'before' and 'after' was exactly.
“I can't remember” you responded, moments later, unscrewing the bottle cap. You closed your eyes, as did he, and bathed in the sound of the bubbles being released: 'ttsssss'. It was the greatest sound of them all.
“Probably shit.” you remarked, throwing your head back and gulping down the cider.
“Piss-poor” he agreed, and smirked. You both let out a sly giggle.
“Then why do they bother?” he asked. “Why the briefcases?”
You shook your head, circling the rim of the bottle with your finger. You could tell that while talking generally, your friend had a particular individual in mind. It was a question you could not answer. You held the bottle up so that you could look through it. One by one, you watched the bubbles rise. They seemed to be endless.
“Bad advice?” you suggested, your eye brows raised. You turned towards your friend to gauge his reaction. He was nodding his head, his finger protruding and wagging slightly.
“Yes” he replied. “Bad advice.” He sounded out the words slowly, giving real thought to each.
“Could have been so different” he mused. And suddenly, leapt to attention, stamping his foot. Confused by your friend's sudden excitement, you leaned towards him, as if to better understand his movements at closer proximity. Noticing your puzzled expression, he threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh.

“We can help!” he whispered, scratching his inner-thigh with dirty finger nails. In celebration of this decision, he whipped an unlabelled half bottle of vodka from his jacket pocket and held it out on front of him with both hands. You smiled widely and, together, you made your way to your usual doorway and settled down for the night. What, you asked yourself, could be finer? That warm feeling of vodka inside you made it easy to sleep.

Your days together often wove into one another but monotonous they were not. You had chosen a busy street as your home and there were always countless people walking and talking and shopping. You'd sit together for hours, chatting and watching the fast paced lives of those around you. There were people you would see regularly and begin to recognise and others you would only see once. The local bakery was one of your favourite spots. This wasteful business would throw out bags of baked goods every evening and for those lucky enough to stroll past at the right time, relatively fresh produce was bagged and waiting. The removal of choice made for surprises: sausage rolls one day, doughnuts the next. It was all good. And there was always enough money, dropped on the road or thrown to you by passers by, for a lovely bottle of something nice. You'd never had it better.

Sitting across the road from the briefcase man's office, you watched him march from his parked car to the door. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out a set of keys and clumsily dropped them on the ground. He wiped his eyes with his hand and let out an audible sigh. Bad start. He put his suitcase down, allowing it to balance upright on the pavement, and bent down to hook the keys with a finger. He put the key in the door and let himself in, all this behind the amber bubbles resting on your knee. Through the office window, you saw him open the blinds and settle down by a desk. It was early, the sun only just rising, and yet his working day had already begun. Your friend stretched, opening his mouth to form a yawn so powerful, it created a belching sound. It was a chilly morning and so you huddled together, the aroma of his breath combining with your own in the air around you. You joined in and let out a tremendous belch, the bestial kind, making you feel like a tiger or a T-Rex. The gratifying noise broke your morning silence. Your friend responded with another yawn, his mouth opening so widely, you could hear his jaw clicking.

“Shall we begin?” he enquired in a gentlemanly fashion. You nodded and got to your feet, helping him up as you did so. The two of you strode across the road, to the office door. You raised a fist and knocked on the wood with three hard bashes. With your hands clasped behind your backs, yours holding a girthy bottle by the neck, you stood side by side, awaiting the man's response. After the sound of eight or nine footsteps, the door opened slightly, and a face, clean shaven with a topping of blonde hair in a side parting, peered out at you.
“Can I help you?” he said, in a tone suggestive of a warning rather than an enquiry. You both smiled at him, rocking on the balls of your feet.
“Not likely.” you responded, tilting your head sideways and smiling.
“We don't need help.” your friend chimed in.
He narrowed his eyes, a look of trying puzzlement on his face.
“You knocked.” he informed you both. Of this you were acutely aware. You demonstrated this point with a nod.
“Oh for God's sake...” he muttered under his breath, blinking deliberately, as if in disbelief.
“WHAT-DO-YOU-WANT?”
“Do you need some help?” you asked him, attempting the most sincere of tones. You stretched your arms out, moving the bottle to its usual place under your arm. The man let out a deep sigh and disappeared back into the office, slamming the door with such ferocity that a breeze wafted against your faces. You turned to your friend.
“Poor bastard.” you commented. You looked down to find a shiny 50 pence piece looking up at you. Not a total waste of a morning then. And with that, the two of you resumed your place on the pavement across the road. You'd wait until he was ready to come out of there.

“Nice bloke.” you friend remarked, before you spluttered out a laugh. Your contact with this acrid fellow made you feel pleased with your own selves and grateful that all was as it was for you. His life must be truly horrendous, you supposed, to create such impatience. But this would change.
“He'll get better.” you reassured your friend. You were feeling particularly determined. You patted him on the shoulder with your podgy palm and passed him the bottle in hope of raising a smile. The sweet medicine worked a charm and he let out a relieved sigh.
“He'll get better.” he repeated in agreement.

The two of you spent your day on that particular piece of pavement, commenting on passers by and offering sad eyed youngsters your words of wisdom. “Chin up, son”, you'd say. “It's a wonderful world!”. You kept an eye on the office window throughout this time, just in case there were any changes with your new acquaintance. He occasionally paced back and forth. This sort of movement was easy to spot through the window. It seemed that whatever his business was, he was not all that well suited to it, given the upset it appeared to be causing him.

After the two of you had played a variety of games, including Pebble-Tiddley-Winks and Belch-the-Alphabet, not to mention the less enjoyable Pebble-Belch and Wink-the-Alphabet, the suitcase man emerged from his office and was met by a youngish woman. They spoke frustratingly quietly and as such, you could only guess their conversation from their body language. He put an arm around her narrow waist and whispered something in her ear. She then turned and glanced at you, raising her eyebrows and whispered something to him in return. It was perplexing. The two of you leaned back on the pavement, your crossed legs sprawling on to the road. You opened the cider: 'tss'. A little flat perhaps, but definitely drinkable. You raised your head to look back at them and as if out of nowhere she shoved him and took several steps back. His hands were reaching out to her, requesting that she reconsider. You heard him raise his voice to say “Cynthia. Please!”. “No, Martin.” she yelled back at him. “Not this time”. Her voice was shrill and cutting. He took a few steps towards her. “C'mon Cynth. Let's talk about this. It's not how it sounds.” he begged. Poor bastard.
“Poor bastard” your friend whispered, a finger tip in one nostril. You shook your heads in unison.
“At least let me explain.” he roared after her. She was already walking away. Her long legs, visible in her pencil skirt, had taken her to the end of the street and she turned a corner. Gone.
He put his face in his hands and bent down to sit on the office door step. He looked crumpled. Another thing to worry about. You turned to see your companion had been moved by the events, a tear forming in the corner of his eye and slowly running down his freckled cheek.
“Poor poor bastard.” he repeated. “It's just one thing after another.”

You decided to move forward with the plan. This was a man in need of help fast. You stood up and your legs flailed in his direction, carrying you to his side of the road. You crouched down beside him, his head still securely hidden in his hands.
“Chin up, son.” you said softly. “It's time for a change. Don't you think?”

His face emerged, wet from his tears, his cheeks pinker than before. Suddenly he had the look of a boy. His hair had developed a more tousled look, the side parting having vanished. This pleased you a little. He was making some progress. His brow was furrowed and his lips quivered at the corners. He took a deep breath and, screwing up his nose at your odour, stood up suddenly, turning away from you. Before you could look up, he had disappeared back into his office. Gone. You turned to your partner, who was still sprawled across the pavement on the other side of the road. He shrugged at you, his cheeks visibly damp. You returned the shrug. With the bottle in one hand, you called out “Dinner, then?” and took several heavenly mouthfuls. Nothing better.

Your job done for the day, you made for the bakery bins, where you and your friend found surplus tasty treats. Cheese and onion baguettes, cheese and onion pasties: it seemed it had not been a day of cheese and onion for the paying customer. Their loss. The two of you leaned on the large metal bin and finished off the leftovers. Perfection. You washed it all down with your usual liquid of choice and watched the remaining bubbles. Counting them was futile but you enjoyed the challenge.
“We'll get him in the morning.” your friend said before letting out a noticeably onion-scented belch. “He can't ignore us forever.”
You grunted in agreement. It was true. He'd have to listen eventually. He would realise the world of business and pencil skirts weren't going to treat him well.

The following morning, you made your way to the office. You were a little later than you had been the day before, having indulged yourselves somewhat the night before, and feared you may have already missed him coming into work. The two of you sat down on the pavement opposite and made yourselves comfortable. No sign of him. You arranged the pebbles as you had done the previous day and started a game to pass the time. Your friend had always had the edge over you with Pebble-Tiddley-Winks. His skill knew no bounds. Lining up the black stone, he took a deep breath and stopped suddenly.
“He's in there!” he yelped, pointing across the road. Right enough, the suitcase man was opening the blinds. Moments later, the door opened and he walked out, stretching his arms in the air. His suit was lined with creases and his hair more dishevelled than ever. His facial hair too, was unkempt. Your friend looked at you, raising an eyebrow and a smile. You both stood to attention and strolled across to meet your new comrade.
“It's time!” you called out to him, grinning widely.
“Forget all this.” your friend added.
The man jumped a little, clearly unaware that he had an audience. His eyes looked tired, the bags beneath them bulging wearily. You held out the bottle of cider in both hands and your friend unscrewed the lid: 'ttssss'. Together, you edged towards him, rolling on the balls of your feet, urging him to join you. His legs appeared to give way, and suddenly he was beneath you both, sitting on the step. He looked up with a resignatory smile and a shrug, before reaching into his suit jacket, which, you noticed, was not as freshly scented as the previous day, and pulling a bottle of whiskey out from an inside pocket. You could not tame the smile that was spreading across your face. The urge to grin was unstoppable. The drink had smoothed out his prickles and creased his shirt. It was beautiful.

The two of you sat down, on either side of him, in unison. You gave his back a hearty rub with one hand and watched as he sobbed into the bottle. Everything would be alright now. Life tasted better on the other side and he had two experienced new friends to help him through the journey. This was just the beginning.

Tail of the Wolf

Once upon a time these woods were filled with my sort. You could hear piercing howls from the deepest crevices of beyond when the moon was full and crisp. Back in those days, the moon really did shine. It left the leaves sparkling on the trees and created shadows that seemed to come alive as the wind swept through. Thorned bushes grew arms and legs and darted in and out of the darkness. The mysteries of the night surrounded you. To take a stroll in the moonlight, to feel the cool breeze parting your fur, was glorious.

These days, there's little left for an old fashioned Canis Lupus like me. I still go through the motions but there's something decidedly Green Peace about howling by the rotting stumps of the old oaks. I can still reach the same blood curdling pitch but the missing foliage makes for a distinct lack of reverberation. And one does cringe at the sight of a beast experimenting with resonance in Grandma's potting shed, doesn't one?

Contemplating this very issue, one mild evening, as I strolled through the shrubbery, I heard the snapping of a twig followed by a plaintive tune. As the delicate sound became increasingly audible, I stepping onto the pathway to greet it.

'What a succulent sound' I remarked, leaning on a slender elm.
The owner of the voice stopped before me and let out a wistful sigh.
'So kind of you to say,' she responded.
I combed through my furry tail with a single claw, drawing her attention to my beastliness. With a delicate hand placed on her hip, she tilted her head towards me, pouting with an air of pretence. We paused and examined one another. She had lips like rose petals that seemed to flutter as she spoke. Her perfectly rounded face was framed by dazzling chestnut locks that tumbled down to her waist. And what a waist! Her strikingly curved figure caused me to glance down at my own battered form. The winter season had not treated me kindly and I appeared gangly and balding as a result. The alopecia on my posterior was spreading, creating the appearance of particularly undesirable human underpants. It's stress that does it. I fret over the quality of my pelt and it thins out further. It's a viscous cycle resulting in the depreciation of my sense of self worth. And the slightness of my stature does not, as you can imagine, aid my confidence in any way.
'Haven't you somewhere to be?' she enquired, awakening me from my thoughts. 'A rabbit to chase?' she added, rolling her eyes as if her words were not mocking enough.
'No little bunnies today' I responded, mirroring her pout. I felt my stomach sink as I vocalised my feeble response. Little. Bunnies. She must find me wretched.
'After a bigger catch?' she smirked, her lashes flickering like butterflies' wings.
'I only accept the best' I responded, feeling decidedly more suave.
She took a step towards me. And one more. So close now that she must have felt my warm breath against the side of her snow white face. I felt a blissful shudder run down my spine.
'Then meet me in Grandma's cottage in fifteen minutes' she whispered softly into my fur.

As she stepped back and walked onwards, I experienced a dull ache within me. Her lack of trepidation, her absence of reverence, left me longing for the reactions I deserved. Just a shudder or a twitching lip would have been enough to rekindle my sense of potence. Instead I found her delicate breath had created a shudder in me. Such effortless power made my sparse fur stand on end. I howled after her, imagining the racing of her little heart upon hearing me, then I dived back into the shrubbery of the forest floor.

I considered my options. The girl would be making her way to her Grandma's home and I would have been a fool not to be there upon her arrival. There was, however, the possibility that our arrangement was intended as a trick. With this in mind, I felt it best to arrive before expected, in order to gain a fuller understanding of the situation. I began bounding towards the old woman's home. I upped my speed again and dashed between the saplings. Cutting through the woodland and avoiding the path meant I arrived at the cottage in mere moments. Before long, I was face to face with a gnarled wooden door on a lone lodging. I knocked.
'Dear sweet Granddaughter, is that you?' sounded a voice of a decidedly lower tone than I had expected.
I hadn't considered the possibility of a Grandfather too. I cleared my throat and attempted to up my pitch considerably.
'Yes it is,' I replied in a coy tone. The result was pleasingly feminine.
'Come on in,' the voice croaked.
I slowly creaked the door open enough to peer inside. An old woman-shaped lump lay in bed by an open fire, curled up under a thick blanket. I opened the door further and crept in, closing it firmly behind me. She turned to face me. I tensed, awaiting a feeble shriek.
'Hello there,' she grumbled gruffly, 'you're not who I was expecting.'
Grandma, it seemed, was not the shrieking sort. I took a few steps towards her, hoping a closer proximity would unnerve her a little. She was not the frail nonagenarian I was expecting but a bulky individual with numerous thick hairs protruding from a fierce square chin. Her skin was thick and yellowed from a lifetime of heavy smoking: a fact that the room's discoloured walls provided evidence for. It seemed there was no Grandfather but a particularly robust woman.
'Would you like a spot of tea, dear?' she asked me.

Having failed to frighten her with my presence alone, I felt a little confused about what was expected of me in such a situation. Were the girl to arrive and find me sipping a cup of Earl Grey with her ageing Grandmother, I doubt she would have considered me the predatory fiend I hoped she might. I shook my head and attempted a devilish smile, displaying my fine array of razorish teeth. That ought to shake her up a bit. The old woman tilted her spectacles a little and upon recognising my expression, smiled back, displaying two tangled rows of rancid yellow gnashers. Suddenly she lurched forward, holding her abdomen, and opened her jaws to release a putrid belch of such magnitude that I took an involuntary step towards the door, my gums bleeding in sympathy for her own.
'Oh.' I said, gasping. 'What... big... teeth you have.'
I felt unsettled by my own words. The old woman looked charmed by them. This was not the chase I'd hoped for.

'I'm going to eat you,' I said, vomiting a little in my mouth.
It seemed I had little other choice. Were the girl to arrive and witness her Grandmother's nonchalance, she would not experience the awe and dread that I hoped she might. And perhaps the old woman would satiate my hunger, thereby diminishing the power the girl had over me with her flawless succulent flesh. I would be in complete control and she would submit to me with the greatest of reverence.
'Oh?' the old woman responded, grinning, with a glimmer of lust in her eyes.
'Yes,' I responded sternly, 'I'm going to gnaw on your leathery flesh'.
I was having trouble convincing myself of this but she seemed fairly excited by the prospect. I'd never experienced such willing prey. It removed much of the pride associated. I moved closer and sat sheepishly on the end of her bed. I avoided looking into those lascivious eyes, not for fear of remorse but rather repulsion of the glee I knew I would be met with. As I lunged towards her, she screamed with delight.

I do not feel compelled to tell you how I went about it. I've since tried to refrain from remembering. But her skin, if you must know, was like a hairy, perspiring Wellington boot. The wrinkles, however, were so deep set that the parts protruding most had a crunch to them. The fat, on the other hand, was so layered and stringy, so thick and revoltingly pungent, that I began to heave uncontrollably. I retched the old woman up and filled her bed with fetid vomit. My fur was matted with the viscous, acidic broth. I tried to shake it off me but the smell was such that I began retching again, covering myself further. I felt disgusted that I'd lowered myself to such meagre pickings.

It was on the edge of the vomit soaked bed that I sat, surrounded by the bones of the old woman, when the door creaked open. In the doorway stood the girl and as she looked at the bed and at me and inhaled the rotten odour, the corner of her mouth curled upwards, producing a crooked grin.
'Did you...' she began, a look of bemused astonishment taking over her.
With vomit on my paws, in my fur, on my face, I could tell no lie. My stomach felt as though it was literally being tied in knots, at the hands of a debauching pensioner.
'I...' I started. I could not find any words suitable.
The girl's face crumpled. Her brows became furrowed and her eyes stern. She looked straight at me while remaining perfectly still. Could it be that I'd frightened her at last? It had not been anything like how I had planned but she appeared awestruck none the less. I attempted a fierce smile, reminding her of my dangerous nature with the sight of my fangs. She raised her eyebrows and, quite unexpectedly, showered me with saliva as she exploded into a fit of laughter. She threw back her head, cackling and slapping her slender thighs.
'Nooo,' I howled with intense desperation. 'No, you can't laugh,' I cried.
I pulled my scraggly tail around my chest for comfort and let out an anguished cry.
'Stop it!' I snarled.
My protesting seemed to amuse her further. She leaned forward, grasping at her abdomen, snorting and sniggering. Suddenly, her laughter was interrupted by a deep booming voice from outside.
'I heard shrieking,' called the voice, 'what seems to be the matter, young girl?' A man of exceptionally large stature stood behind her in the doorway. His broad shoulders filled the door frame. His biceps were easily the width of her waist and the axe in his hand was noticeably sharp enough to relieve me of my head. Her eyes never left mine and as his joined them in inspecting my foul state, the two of them burst into yet more floods of excruciating cackles.
'The fierce wolf!' the man bellowed mockingly, 'Is this really it?'
'That's me' I grumbled, my insides aching. I leapt down from the acrid bed and laid myself out before him, my neck ready for the chop.
'Do me the honour,' I muttered, closing my eyes in anticipation. I felt a breeze from the axe as it swung down on to me. Unexpectedly, I felt an agonizing pain at the base of my spine and as I opened my eyes, I found my bare rear removed of its furry appendage. The man stood over me with my tail in his fist. With blood flowing from the stump, I scrambled through his legs and out into the open. The beast without a tail: hardly a beast at all.