Hello chickens, I hope that you are all well and thriving. Don’t let the man get you down; whoever the ‘man’ really is.Enough of the waffle and on to business. I have mentioned in previous posts that I will be starting a Sunday Series and today is the day. I had many ideas brewing, many ideas that I was going to run through and decided on this fantastic story I had mapped out.
I sat down, cool and confident to write, then when I wrote the first sentence, I realised I wasn’t writing the story I had planned, but one that came to me months before but didn’t know how to write it. It seems that when a story needs to be told, it decides when. (Sorry fantastic story, it really isn’t your time)
So I went with it and now have a series for the next so many weeks. The first one is a starter, allowing you to settle in. Hopefully you will join me on this journey.
Professor Hokum – Pilot
Evelyn was left on Professor Hokum’s door when she was eighteen years old.
Her long white sheer dress had been ripped and blemished with mud, the blood that had stemmed from the wounds on her face had stained her clothing and skin. Her short brunette was congealed with blood and soil, her face a swollen disfigured mess.
Professor Hokum had heard the fracas whilst reading a book on Symmetry and drinking a hot chai tea. His office was at the far end of the building, dimly lit with candles, warm and cosy with wool rugs adorning the floor and blankets thrown over the antique furniture. The walls were made out of bookshelves, filled with volumes and volumes of historical guidance.
It was the middle of the Autumn, so Profressor Hokum had opened the window by a crack, the nightlife sounds of Duberry a welcome background noise. He was half way through his tea when he heard the urgent knocking on his front door and the sound of screaming kids outside.
He put the book down, tilted his glasses and looked over at his grandfather clock in the corner of the room. It was nine fifteen. At any other time he would have continued reading; he had no time for visitors. But at that precise time on that day meant something.
He stood up, straightened his purple robe, stroked his grey goatee beard and slipped his feet into plush slippers. He walked out of the room, through a long hallway that ran the length of the house and towards the front door. He peered through the peephole; no one was there. He knew the game.
The Professor flicked the three bolts, pulled out a key ring with three keys and unlocked three separate padlocks. He took a breath, slowly exhaled and pulled the handle on the door. There she was laying in a heap.
He scooped her up, kicked the door shut (he would later come back to it and go through the long process of locking it) and guided her to the bathroom where he placed her in the bath. It took hours to get the girl cleaned up; removing the blood and soil to reveal many cuts and gashes and to patch them up the best he could.
He would settle her in the spare room, ensure she was comfortable, not too cold or hot, and would wait by her bedside reading until she stirred. Once she woke she grumbled, looking at the Profressor in disbelief and sat back.
“Who are you?” She asked in a groggy manner, looking around at her new surroundings. “Where the fuck I am?”
Professor Hokum smiled and sat back in his chair, hooking one leg over the other and rested his hands on his lap.
“No need to be scared child. I mean you know harm. But do I have a story to tell you.”
Next week: The Magician’s House
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