Totally Made Up Tales

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Totally Made Up Tales is improvised storytelling for the Internet. We record completely new stories without any advance planning, assembled into episodes of sinister, touching and whimsical tales for the discerning listener.

04/24/2022

Lockdown tales 4

Lockdown may be over, but our store of lockdown tales is not. Music: Creepy — Bensound.com. Here are some Totally Made Up Tales brought to you by the magic of the internet. Try placing your hands on my thighs and then rub. Language makes it easy to understand other people and animals. Friends don’t listen to moaning. Friends tell each other to shut up. One day, Maisie got out of bed, stretched, and thought, I wonder what I should do today. She arched her back and flicked her tail and stretched her claws. Perhaps she would go and chase birds. That will be a wonderful thing to pass the time, particularly if she could catch that fat blue tit that had been taunting her for days. She jumped up onto the window sill and out, climbing up onto the roof. From her high up vantage point, she looked over the gardens of the neighbourhood that she regarded quite rightly as her own. There, three gardens down, sat a bird. Perched on an old fashioned flat surfaced bird table covered in bacon rinds, pecking away at them with an arrogant swagger in its manner. Maisie extended her claws and licked them carefully, making sure that they were sharp and ready for action. Stealthily putting one paw in front of the other, she crept across the tiles of the roof, with the smoothness of a monorail. First, from her own house to the next door. And then the one beyond that, and finally to the one in whose garden the bird perched. She crouched low against the roof tiles, peering intently down at the bird, still unaware of her presence. And then, letting out a yodelling screech, she leapt for the bird table. Midway through her jump, the bird, alerted by her yodel, turned, looked at her, and took flight. Maisie landed on the bird table, which wobbled precariously. As it wobbled slightly, it fell onto its side and an ungainly heap of cat, bacon rind, and table were left on the lawn. From inside the house, Maisie heard the owner yelling. He was fumbling for the key for the back door and looked like the sort of angry red-faced man that might teach geography. Maisie took off like a shot. And crouched in the branches of a nearby tree where she wouldn't be able to be reached, she licked the bacon fat off her paws and was surprisingly pleased by the taste. Perhaps, she thought, I should hunt bacon next. The end. Timothy sat down on a rock, at the side of the road. He was weary, having walked from the village all the way out to where he was now. The flat, marshy fields of the fens stretched out in a featureless expanse, as far as the horizon in all directions. He was beginning to worry that the pub that he was heading for, maybe didn't actually exist. It had sounded so attractive when his Airbnb host had recommended it to him as a pleasant Sunday afternoon outing. But now, the wind whistling between the rocks and the heather, he was having second thoughts. As he sat on his stone, a cold feeling started to creep from the rocks into his bones. He thought he should get moving again, but somehow couldn't quite pick up the energy to stand up. It seemed that he was getting heavier by the moment, and that his thoughts were slowing. His heart rate seemed to be slowing too. His pulse, almost impossible to discern. Eventually the sculpture park in Lowestoft became Britain's top tourist attraction for 2020. Walking home one afternoon, Melissa stopped by a bank by the side of the road to pick some wild flowers. They were a wonderful selection of colours, bright yellow, dark purple, and pale cornflower blue. She wrapped them carefully in a scarf that she had with her, and took them home and arranged them in a vase. The smell of the flowers filled her living room. It was rich and intoxicating, with that edge of the night that comes from wild flowers. Even by the time she was getting ready to go to bed, she could still feel permeated through the house, the magic and feeling of dusk. As she slept, the land of dreams washed itself over the horizon of her consciousness. She saw herself dancing, dancing through fields of flowers, dancing with flowers, just dancing throughout the night. When she woke in the morning, it was not in the comfortable and familiar bed that she had gone to sleep in. Although the bed was still there, now it was twined with flowers. Every surface covered with creepers, with blooms, and even the very sheets had turned to patterned flowers. She lay in a bed entirely of flowers. As summer turned to autumn, the bloom of the flowers faded and the leaves of the creepers crinkled and shrivelled and prepared for the winter ahead. Now the house felt more cold than it had ever done. And she started to resist going to bed, staying up later and later, the bed feeling cold and unwelcoming when she slipped into it, finally. At last, on a chill October night, the first frost of the year came and carried her away. When they found her body cold, dark, and alone, creepers were still entwined with her limbs and a small wreath of still vibrant flowers sat upon her brow. The end. Philip loved the colour purple, and everything that he owned, wherever possible, he would either buy in that colour or subsequently paint or dye to match his preference. He had purple socks, shoes, purple t-shirts and hats, purple house, a purple car, and a purple cat. He preferred purple food, although it wasn't always easy, but beetroots and certain types of broccoli for instance were among his favourites. He liked purple music, and that meant that he listened to a lot of Prince. And, at work sitting at his purple desk, wearing his purple suit, he picked up his purple phone and spoke to other people who did not appreciate purple to the same extent he did. Philip was a purple consultant. If the metaphor isn't clear to you at this point, then there's no hope for you in the modern world. The end. The river flowed lazily between the sun-kissed fields. It had been a long summer, but Annabel was looking forward to the autumn. She had the kind of fair skin that burned easily, and much as she loved the bright summer days, she had found it taxing to constantly have to be lathering on factor 50, and finding a tree to be in the shade of, and covering up her arms. But now she could see that the harvest was coming in, and that meant that summer was at an end. Not only would she not have to worry about the sun for much longer, but she would soon see some of her friends again, returning from their summers. She walked along the bank of the river, enjoying the soft gurgling sound that it made as it flowed through the rushes and the low hanging bushes and overhanging trees on its banks. She wasn't really taking care of where she was going. She knew the landscape so well, she could find her way home from anywhere. But soon it was beginning to get dark, and then she realized she wasn't sure where she was. She looked up for a familiar marker for some sense of how far she had come, and whether it would make sense to continue or to turn back. There weren't any buildings that she could see nearby. Although the hills looked vaguely familiar in shape, but when she looked down to the river, it was much smaller than it should have been had she been anywhere near home. The light was fading, and the shadows were lengthening and thickening around her, and the now unfamiliar countryside was beginning to take on the sinister aspect of night. Desperately, she looked around, turning towards the setting sun to see if she could see any smoke rising from a settlement. But there was nothing, even the sounds of the motorway, which was less than 10 miles from her home, or of planes overhead, or of machines bringing in the harvest had dropped away. All she could hear was the burbling of the stream. And, as the sun went down, she heard the wolves crying. Ooh: the end. Fly a kite in the wind. It’ll be your freedom. Shopping with your mother leads to strife. Jennifer pruned her rosebush. It was the first time in the year that she'd been able to get out into the garden, and she was relishing snipping off the bits that displeased her. This bush was her pride and joy, she had been tending it for many years, and it was hardy and produced fat flowers reliably every spring. As she pruned, she hummed to her herself, contentedly. She hummed a selection of popular classics, and she found that this not only soothed her but also seemed to please the rosebush in a way that she wasn't quite able to quantify. By the time her husband called her in for tea, she had pruned away all of the unwanted matter and left with a perfect rose bush fit for the growing season. She went into the house and closed the door behind her and looked out through the window as she sipped the delicious cup of tea that her husband had made for her. I think I'm in with a good chance at this year's show, she said to him. Out in the garden, the rose bush hummed softly to itself the overture from Cavalleria Rusticana. The end. Dear Maggie, My breasts are not growing as fast as I’d like. What can I do? Yours, Apples Dear Apples, Have you tried pumping your breasts using a bicycle pump? Alternatively, just get over it. Yours, Maggie I'm James and I'm here with Andrew. These stories were recorded without advanced planning, and then lightly edited for the discerning listener. Join us next time for more Totally Made Up Tales. Andrew: I mean there was a whole thing there... Cause there's a whole thing in medieval literature about, oh, her breasts were small and round like apples. They really loved, Medieval Britons really loved apple shaped – James: They really loved describing breasts, I think is what you're saying. I'm sure that there are many instances of, so: monk, this illustration you've done. Why exactly are you so keen on these breasts the size of apples? Do we have to see them? I mean, is it necessary to the story you're illustrating in any way? A

18 min
07/22/2020

Lockdown tales 3

Another set of tales improvised during lockdown. Music: Creepy — Bensound.com. Here are some Totally Made Up Tales, brought to you by the magic of the internet. Put your faith away. It will hold you later. Try rubbing me. I'll pop out of my clogs. Hardly anyone from Germany likes thinking hard about warfare. It was a bright Tuesday morning and Linda was making herself some eggs for breakfast. She broke the eggs into a ramekin before pouring them into the bowl which, she'd read, is something that you should do. Having poured them into the bowl, she whisked them because she was making eggs of the scrambled variety. As she whisked them, the eggs became frothier and frothier and frothier and threatened to over spill the edge of her whisking bowl. Not knowing quite what to do, she, nonetheless, didn't stop whisking and gradually a tendril of frothy egg spilled over the side of the bowl. This she felt was a disaster. Linda was a very tidy person and any threat of a spillage she was going to treat with the utmost seriousness. She brandished her whisk at the spillage on the floor and she whisked it. Unfortunately by so doing, she made it even more frothy and it started to spread across the kitchen floor. As it spread, it starts to gain consciousness. It eventually towered over her a frothy monster with an opening where its mouth would be. It breathed heavily on her, ruffling her hair back around her face. An eggy smell enveloped her kitchen, and she backed away, trapped between the fridge and the washing machine. "It's time for breakfast," said the monster, as it gobbled her up. The end. Lights cast shadows. Shadows hide evil. Don't use lights. Use your noggin wisely. It will let you down. Screw you, Mr Blair! I want to eat you up! One morning, Erica woke up to discover that her boyfriend Jonathan was missing. Normally this would not cause her concern, but Jonathan had been suffering from a very severe case of measles and certainly wouldn't have been well enough to go out for his own thing. She went downstairs to the living room where he'd been sleeping on the sofa in order to be able to toss and turn in his feverish state. But he was nowhere to be found. She called for him, but there was no answer. She searched every room without finding him. Being a sensible girl, she decided straight away to report the matter to the police, not to bother them, but just so that it was on record at the earliest opportunity. She picked up the landline phone in order to dial them, but mysteriously, there was no dialing tone. She went back into the bedroom and picked up her mobile phone, but despite being plugged in overnight, it had no battery. She decided that the best thing to do would be to walk to the police station and report it that way, but when she opened the front door, something shocking greeted her. The whole house had been enclosed in a clear plastic dome, which appeared to be hermetically sealed from the outside world. Some two meters in front of her front door, the dome curved down into the ground and she could see that there was a sign plastered on it on the other side. It said, "Beware: Plague." Is that the end? I mean, that could be the end. It could be the end. That can be the end. Why can it not just be the end? It could be, "Next to the sign on the other side of the dome, Jonathan was waving at her." The end. One day, a scientist called Peter found the solution to everything. It was to dissolve it all in alcohol. He started with himself. The end. Michael had always loved riding his bicycle. He would get up early in the morning so that he could get a bike ride in before his day started properly. And once he day started properly, he would do as much as possible of it on his bike. One year, he decided that he was going to push himself further and enter a really difficult race. He researched all of the possible bike races around the world and picked one which went over 300 miles through desert and mountains. But the most challenging part of this 300 mile race was the very end where you had to cross the channel to make it back to London. He spent many, many months in training and built himself a series of little courses in his back garden that he could do to practice for these particular terrains. He wasn't able to build himself an equivalent to the channel, and so had to go further afield to practice the cycle-powered aquaplaning he was going to need in order to get home at the end of the race. He decided that the Pacific Ocean was the best place to practice for the channel being as it was slightly harder, and therefore would see him in good stead for the relatively narrow distance of the channel itself. Standing on the shores of Tokyo Harbor, he saddled himself up to his bike and pointed the front wheel towards the water. "Tally ho," he said, everyone around him looking slightly perplexed at his outdated and outmoded way of expressing himself. He was last seen on the 31st of March 1978. If you have any information about his whereabouts, we would be interested in hearing from you. The end. Michelle had a problem with her neighbour. Her neighbour was incredibly noisy. Not just ordinary noise: this was the sound of someone who was learning to play the drums. The end. It was Michael's 13th birthday and he had decided to celebrate his entry into adulthood by telling the girl he loved that he loves her. He took out a piece of paper and his set of drawing pencils and made her a beautiful picture. At the top, he carefully lettered the words, "Michelle, I love you." And he decorated the writing in his very best calligraphic style. Underneath, he drew a triceratops with a speech bubble coming out of it. The triceratops was saying, "No, really, I do." And just to be absolutely certain in a footnote at the bottom of the cards he added, "This is definitely not a joke. I absolutely do love you and this is why I have said it three times on the card." Having finished his drawing, he stepped back, held it up, and was pleased with his work. He popped it into an envelope, wrote her name on the front, and dropped it into her locker the very next day. He waited for the whole day for Michelle to say something to him, or maybe reciprocate with a note. Morning break passed and they walked past each other in the corridor, but there was not a flicker of recognition in her face. At lunchtime, he looked across the cafeteria at her, but she did not look back. Finally, when it came to afternoon break, he could bear the tension no longer. He sought her out. "H-h-hi, Michelle," he stammered shyly. But she looked right through him and kept on walking. She didn't even acknowledge his presence. He chased after her. "Michelle, I wondered if you got the card that I left in your locker this morning." But again, she paid no attention to him. It was as if he hadn't said a single word. Michelle is now 36 and still occasionally hears whispers in the wind, as if someone is desperately trying to tell her something, but she can never quite make them out. And there never seems to be anyone there when she looks. The end. I almost cried. That's such a moving ending. Trials and tribulations make you strong, but annoy you. Buddism won't save you from the cost of living. Rain fell on the high peak. Charlotte huddled close to Roger and wondered when the storm would pass. A little further along the low wall that they were using for shelter, were Fred and Barbara, the couple who had accompanied them to the peak. This was supposed to be a jolly outing on a summer's day, but all of a sudden the weather had changed dramatically for the worse. Charlotte glanced up at the clouds and silently resigned herself to the idea that this was not going to stop, and maybe they were just going to have to brave the rain and get back down to their cars. And then, on a gust of wind, she heard just a couple of words. She thought it was Fred's voice and they were, "Eat them." She turned to look at the source of the noise, but Fred was sitting all the way over on her left and the noise and seemed to come from the right. She puzzled on this for a while and then caught another snatch of words, which again, sounded like him, but came from the wrong direction. This time it came from above, though there was nothing above them except for the cloud, but it was distincter this time. The first time she had thought it might've been, "meet them," or, "greet them," but this time it was definitely, "Eat them." And as she heard these words, she noticed that she was hungry, hungrier perhaps than she'd ever been in her whole life. She turned her eyes on the other couple, but they didn't really seem that appetizing. And then, as she felt her stomach growl, she realized the warmth on her arm. The person next to her was, strangely, making her mouth water. The smell of him filled her nostrils, salty and damp, meaty, almost. She had always liked that he was slightly plump, and now she had a reason. That fat dripping off him made her mouth salivate more than it ever done in her life. She removed the bucket and spades that she'd, perhaps foolishly, packed for their day out, and with one swift blow knocks him out. Fred and Barbara jumped up and screamed, aghast seeing the death blow that Charlotte had dealt to her boyfriend. As they moved towards her, she quickly hit them over the head as well, although she was less certain about eating them. The storm lasted several days, but Charlotte had a blissful holiday. She worked her way through Roger's meatier regions. She disposed of the less appetizing parts of him. And she drew pictures of the scene, as it unfolded in the valley below. When the mountain rescue search party found her two days later, they concluded that the other three climbers, being ine

20 min
07/10/2020

Lockdown tales 2

Another set of tales improvised during lockdown. Content warning: bit sweary! Music: Creepy — Bensound.com. Here are some Totally Made Up Tales, brought to you by the magic of the internet. Grass never grows twice. It always leaves a stain. Refresh your browser often. It will speed everything up. Marry wisely, lest you fall badly into debt. Eliminate waste from your life using spoons and forks. Caring for people is hard. So care slightly left. Put your feet on somebody. It'll stool them slightly. It shouldn't be this hard, Freddy thought, to pick the right shade of red for your accent wall. He tried pillar box red, but it was too showy. He tried wine red, but it was too dull and gloomy. What I cannot cope with, he thought to himself, is the sheer range of options in the red catalog. He looked at the paint colour charts spread out on the ground before him. There must be more than 200 shades of red alone, and this was only from one range. He quivered to think what would happen if he went into B&Q to look at theirs. This was simply unacceptable and he would have to do something about it. I shall simply have to eliminate some of the colours of red from the spectrum, he thought. The easiest way to do this would be using some kind of reverse prism. Happily, Freddy was an esoteric sort of individual and had a whole cabinet full of prisms and various refractory implements, and he began to take them out, line them up, and judge which would be best. It took him three and a half years to determine the exact right combination of different-shaped and sized prisms to eliminate red from any colour light passing into the contraption. But he succeeded, and was dismayed to discover that, with some of the shades of reds now missing from the spectrum, everything was a little bit too blue. In fact, it seemed that there were now more blues than there had ever been before. And this truly offended his sense of balance and symmetry and all that is fair and equitable in the world, and he thought, well, I'm just going to have to get rid of some of this blue. And so, he returned to his cabinet of prisms and added more subtlety and different colours and shades of crystal to use in the prism contraption, and finally, after five years, was able to sit down and have to reduce the number of blues to a palatable number. The greenish tints that settled over everything was, to his eyes, even worse than the blue. And so, back and forth, this went on for several years, tinkering and adjusting each time. Until eventually, the only colour that was left was brown. And Freddy looked at it and it was a nice shade of brown. He liked the brown, and he put the brown on his wall, and he stepped back and thought, what this could do with is just a little bit of colour. The end. One morning, when Margaret got up, Jeffrey wasn't there. What was there, on the pillow next to her was a short note, which simply said, "Had enough. Good luck. Bye." But first, Margaret felt puzzled and somewhat thrown off balance by this. It seemed to come out of nowhere. She checked the wardrobes and the chest of drawers, just to be sure it wasn't a joke, but sure enough, everything that was Jeffrey's was gone. She went to work that day as usual, and got home again in the evening as usual and made dinner. And throughout the day, she wondered what exactly it was that she'd done wrong. She reflected as she went through her day, that nothing very much had changed. Apart from the fact that she was cooking for one, everything else was pretty much as usual. And yet, it felt so very, very empty. But, could she pin it down more specifically? What exactly was this emptiness, and how was she feeling it? She thought back to the beginning of the day. Where did the feeling of empty start? She realised that it had just started as soon as she woke, in a bed that was now only half full. "Aha," she said. It had continued as she had eaten her breakfast on her own, without her husband next to her, then got into her car to go to work, but without her husband next to her, sat down at her desk at work, without her husband next to her, and so on and so on. Every part of her day, just by herself, without her husband next to her. And she realised that more than anything, what she was missing was having something next to her all day. She considered her options, checked on the internet. What else could she put next to her? She narrowed it down to three options. Firstly, a dog, which she would have to feed. Secondly, a coffee machine, which would be convenient in some ways, but would be quite a heavy thing to carry around with her all the time. Thirdly, an avocado, which was deeply portable and heavily photogenic. Unfortunately, she had to discard the last option because she was worried that it wouldn't last. And so, she got herself a dog, but she always thought back that maybe an avocado would have been a better choice. She didn't vocalise this at first, but as the weeks wore on and the dog proved to be unreliable at waking her up, or not always able to control its bladder in the office, she started to blame the dog for not being as good as the hypothetical avocado. You see, she thought to herself, if I was having this much trouble with my avocado, I could just cut it open and eat it. Margaret took a decisive course of action. She went to Sainsbury's and began to peruse the avocados. She hadn't realised up until this point that avocados came in more than one variety. As she prodded and pressed the avocados, testing them for ripeness, the dog was next to her saying, "What are you doing? Why are you looking at the avocados all of a sudden?" She tried to be discreet about it and to say, "Oh, well, I just developed a passing interest." But the dog could smell that she was lying. The dog said, "I see the way you look at them, when you think I'm not there." But Margaret ignored the dog and bought her first avocado. For a few days, Margaret felt an overwhelming sense of happiness. There was always someone there. She woke up next to a dog and an avocado. When the dog was annoying, she had the avocado. When the avocado was boring, she could turn to the dog. But after a week of what seemed like bliss, she woke up to a horrible sight. There, next to her on the pillow was just an avocado skin. "What have you done?" she asked of the dog, that was sitting, looking smugly satisfied on the rug. "I've eaten the avocado," said the dog. The end. Putting on his duffel coat, Thomas Smith set up for work for the very last time. He thought to himself, "I, Thomas Smith, am retiring today, after 40 years in my chosen field". It was a 40 tough years as the police inspector of Cardiff North. As he made his way into the office, he saw the faces that have grown familiar to him, day in, day out. "The boss would like to see you," said Charlie Perkins, but he didn't say it in a very nice way. Heeding the words of Charlie Perkins, Thomas went to knock on the door of the chief inspector. The anxiety made his hands shake and the knock was tremulous. But it's my last day, he thought. What could possibly go wrong? "Come in," said the chief inspector, and his voice was barbed. Thomas pushed the door open, walked across the expanse of shabby carpet, and took a seat in the threadbare office chair facing the chief inspector's desk. Chief Inspector looked at him coldly across the top of his horn-rimmed glasses and said in a low, slightly threatening tone, "But we all know why you're here, don't we, Thomas?" "Because I'm retiring today?" asked Thomas. "Oh, that's what we all expected," said the chief inspector, "a little handshake, perhaps a glass of bubbly to celebrate your 40 years here. It should have been so simple." Thomas looked around him and tried to think what else could be the matter. "Am I behind on my dues to the widows and orphans fund?" he asked. "Oh, no," replied the chief inspector. "The widows and orphans are very well taken care of, thanks to you, Thomas. Oh, no. I think you'll find the answers I wrote in this dossier," which he slipped across the table, emblazoned across the top, Operation Calamity. Thomas opened the dossier and started to read. What he read chilled him to the very bone. It was a complete account of his life, from the moment of conception onwards. "But how have you managed to obtain this information in so much detail? There are things here that no other living person could know," he said, having scanned the few pages. The chief inspector looked at him, scorn in his eyes. "Well, we don't just use living people." Thomas continued reading, more and more unsettled. "You know where my father is." "The whereabouts of your father is crucial to your very purpose," said the chief inspector, "a purpose which you have failed to complete. If you turn to the last page, I think you'll see exactly what I'm talking about." Nervously, unsettled, and more than a little scared, Thomas turned to the last page. "My father is what?" "That's right," said the chief inspector. "Your father is Satan, and it is your job to bring about the end of the world before you retire. Which, by my reckoning, leaves you about six hours. There's cutting it fine, Thomas, and there's cutting it fine. I hope you know how disappointed we and your father are in you." Thomas mumbled something about being able to do only his best, and staggered out of the office. But realised as he walked down the carpet-paved hallway, for the plan was beginning to form in his head. Having been conceived by Satan, he was of course, equipped with all of the knowledge to bring about the end of the world. He just had had so many other things to focus on, he haven't really thought about it until now. The quickest way to bring down contemporary civilisation was simply to switch off the internet. First port of call were the 5G masks. Rather than visit them in person, Thomas devised an ingenious

21 min
06/06/2020

Lockdown tales

During the Covid-19 lockdown, we started getting together on Zoom to improvise. Here are some stories we told. Music: Creepy — Bensound.com. Walking home, Phillip observed children playing on the swing. He pushed them off. Mark put a wimple on and started singing like he was Sister Act. Morning had broken in South Sussex. The animals were awake and violent. Opening his present, Timothy discovered something surprising. It was his own head inside. Heating my house takes many slaves. They burn coal and sometimes, burn themselves. Susie put gin in everything, including her mother's tea. Rest in peace. And now some slightly longer stories. David rode his bicycle to work. It had a bright, shiny bell and a light that he could use when it was dark. One day it developed a puncture and stopping by the side of the road to fix the puncture, he was run over by a car. The ambulance came quickly and whisked him off to the emergency department of the local hospital. The doctors patched him up as best they could and although he was to walk with a limp for the rest of his life, he was more or less all right. The only problem was he needed to top up his pressure every day. The end. Mabel had always wanted to keep chickens. One day, she went to a garden center and got some. Unfortunately her husband had other ideas of the best thing to do with them. One by one her chickens started to go missing. When she questioned him about it, he looked at her with flashing eyes. "Don't worry about the chickens," he would say. The satanic rituals he performed each night made him more and more powerful until one day he became Prime Minister. Unfortunately by then he had run out of chickens, so he only stayed Prime Minister for about 15 days. The end. Waking one morning, Jeremy opened his eyes. In front of him was a gorgeous sight. The woman he loved had climbed through his window in the night. Climbing the rough exterior walls of the tower had given her cuts and scrapes on her body. However, he didn't care. She looked amazing to him. She however was shocked and appalled when she woke up to discover herself in his bedroom, covered in bruises and scratches that she had no memory of getting. "What the fuck did you do to me?" She reached for her mobile phone, which fortunately she had thought to bring with her. Jeremy now languishes in prison. His beloved does not want to have anything to do with him. But she still sleep walks every night. The end. Delia Smith wanted to boil an egg. First of course, she had to find the perfect pan. Fortunately, Delia's kitchen is huge and it has every type of pan conceivable, extremely well-filed. Her first thought was that she wanted a very small pan, almost exactly the size of the egg. So she went to the very small pans section, that is first organised by diameter and then by depth. And she found herself one, which she believed would be about exactly the size of a regular farm egg. Well, when she put the egg into it and filled the pan with water, she became bothered by a particular detail that she hadn't thought of. Because the pan was such a similar shape to the egg, it wasn't able to sit on its side properly once the water was in. Next, she thought, maybe what she needed was an enormous pan, and then some kind of gantry to hold the egg in the exact centre. She took a golf buggy to the other end of her kitchen and went to the large pans and picked out more or less a cauldron. Placing it on the back of the buggy, she then went off to her bits and bobs cupboard and found something that she could use as a gantry that had originally been intended for cubing beetroots. Returning to the the main cooking area, she assembled the contraption and placed an egg within it. And then she went to fill up the cauldron with water. But, quelle dommage! she had failed to take something very important into account. The time that it takes to boil water increases exponentially with the volume. When she quickly calculated how long it would take to boil this egg, it would take the regular amount of time to cook it, but nearly an entire lifetime to heat the water. And her husband was in bed waiting for his breakfast right that moment. She decided to start a health craze for eating raw eggs. The end. "Come into my office", Roger said to the new recruit. "I have a job for you. And you must tell none of the others what I'm about to say. I want you to take this envelope and put it through a certain letter box." And he provided the details of the letterbox: the number, how far above the ground it was, the street address and so forth. The new recruit, slightly mystified by the instruction, was an obedient and hardworking lad called Peter Purse. And so, following the instructions that he'd been given to the letter, Peter took the envelope and set out to find the letter box. He walked, following a street map until he found the building. He managed to gain entrance to the lobby. He realised that the postboxes inside the building weren't all in the lobby, they were on the different floors. And so he started one by one to scout through the floors, looking for the right numbered letterbox. It took him the best part of the morning, but finally Peter Purse found the relevant letterbox, put the letter into it and, with the feeling of a job well done, he returned to his place of work. Peter gave no more thought to the letter that he had delivered for several weeks until he was once again summoned to the study of his boss. "Come into my office," said Roger, "I have another job for you. And this one is of a more permanent nature. How would you like to be a postman?" Peter thought long and hard about the question, and finally agreed. As the years went by, he wondered about the other people in the company who weren't postmen. He wondered what they were doing with their lives, but being a postman he was always on the move, and never had a chance to go back and look. The end. At the top of Melissa's building was a floor that no one went to. Everyone knew it was there. It was clearly marked in the lift, and on the signposts that run up the staircase. But she asked around and nobody knew who lived there or how to actually get out at that floor. So one day she tried. "How hard can it be?" she thought, "I'll just push the button in the lift." So the doors closed. She pushed the button, and the lift went nowhere. "That's funny," she thought, and pushed it again. Still nothing. "I shall try the stairs," she thought, pushing the button to open the lift doors. As she climbed the stairs, she heard an echo of her own footsteps. Or was it? Looking down, she could not see anything. Looking up, similarly the stairwell appeared empty. But looking sideways, just out of the corner of her eye, she felt she could see some sort of movement. It was only when she got to the door to the mysterious floor that she was able to see what it was. It was a woman, much like her. A woman wearing the same clothes as her, the same height, the same colour hair as her. The only difference between this woman and herself was that she was fading away as this woman was becoming more distinct. As she reached for the door handle at the top of the building, her mirror image reached for the door handle too. And Melissa saw her own hands, her fingers fade as fast as the rest of her body was fading into nothing. Suddenly, she felt the door slamming behind her and her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room of indeterminate size that she found herself in. There was no sound. There was no light. There was just herself in the darkness. And when she turned, there was no door behind her, either. The end. Every morning on his way into work. Roger brought himself a coffee. He went to the same little coffee shop just around the corner from his workplace. Until one day he discovered that it wasn't open as usual. Where was he going to get his coffee now? He looked across the road and a little stall he had never seen before had been set up. It offered flights to South America for pick your own coffee tours. So, not really being able to think properly at the moment because of not having had his morning coffee, he signed up for one. It cost him all of his life savings, and a little more. But now he is a Chilean citizen. The end. You have been listening to James Aylett, James Lark, and Andrew Ormerod. Join us next time, for more Totally Made Up Tales. Taking stock of the situation, Hector threw his sword into the pool, winning. I enjoyed that because we had only had thirteen words, but we used five of them just to say "taking stock of the situation".

14 min
06/18/2017

Episode 15: The Sailor's Wife, The Ship Awakes, and other stories

Our third and final episode of maritime tales. Among some lighthearted shorts, we meet a sailor's wife, and then witness the birth of the ship that's we've heard so much about. Music: Creepy — Bensound.com. James: Here are some Totally Made Up Tales, brought to you by the magic of the internet. Alternating: Jump over small hoops. It's better than going through them. Sweeten your deal with honey. It will help you get sales. Mixing your metaphors will lead you to water. Walk a long way. You'll clear your mind and stretch your legs. James: And now: The Sailor's Wife. Alternating: Heather was the wife of a sailor who spent many months away at sea at a time. She survived on hope and her only consolation was her child, Phillip. He was the apple of her eye. Three years old and running around like a maniac. Just the spit of his father. One day, Heather and Phillip were playing in the sand when Phillip saw a ship entering the harbour. "That is my Daddy's ship," he cried. "No," said Heather. "Your daddy is away for another six months." "No," said Phillip. "That is my Daddy's ship," and he stamped his foot petulantly. Heather caught him up in an embrace. "We'll go and look at it." They walked to the harbour wall, Phillip squirming in anticipation. "There he is!", he said, pointing to a man walking away from the ship. "No," said Heather. "That man is too tall." "There!" said Phillip, pointing at a different man. "No," said Heather. "That man is too short." "There!", said Phillip, pointing at a third man. "Well," said Heather, "it is very similar to Roger. I wonder what he's doing back so soon." They walked quickly to where the man was standing. "Are you my husband?", asked Heather. "Are you my Daddy?", asked Phillip. "Are you my family?", asked the man, and they embraced. "Why are you back so soon?" asked Heather. "That is a long story," said Roger, "and one day, I will tell it to you." "We met a disaster just as we were passing the Rock of Gibraltar. The Captain saw three figures floating above the deck and one pointed at him and let a fearsome cry. The second pointed at him and spoke words of dread. The third pointed at him and spoke nothing. The Captain locked himself in his cabin and refused to come out, insisting that we return home at once. The First Mate brought us around and navigated us safely home. I do not know when we shall sail again, but this is a terrible portent." Heather held his hand and hoped that he would never go away again. Phillip also held his father's hand. The End. Alternating: Attention to detail is a devil's errand, so allow yourself to be sloppy. Muster Mister Custer, pester Lester. Faster, Pastor Caster! and foster Coster Gloucester. "Splice the main brace," said Jeffrey, and proceeded to get drunk. James: And now: The Ship Awakes. Andrew: Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang went the hammers against the wood and the sound reverberated around the mighty shed of the shipyard. James: They were putting the finishing touches on the latest ship to roll through the George & Brothers Shipyards, at Chatham. Andrew: She was a truly beautiful vessel, destined for the merchant marine. Large, imposing, grandiose, sleek, missing only the final pieces of decking and the mast to be fixed and raised. James: Spencer, the ship's architect was watching from one side, from the office, as the men swarmed over her. Andrew: He turned, from watching the finishing touches being made, to the ship that he had been imagining for so long. Rolled up the plans on his desk, locked the office door, and headed off to meet the ship's new owner. James: Over a pint in the Rope and Anchor, they toasted the successful completion of the ship's hull, and looked forward to her launch next week, to join the merchant fleet owned by this particular businessman. Andrew: The end of the day came, the foreman blew his whistle, the workmen downed their tools and set out for their homes, and the shipyard shed was locked securely for the night. James: There she rested, silent and waiting. Andrew: The silence of the ship building shed at night had the special quality that only comes to spaces that so often ring with noise. It had a textured feeling to it, as if you could reach out and touch it. James: A shaft of moonlight through the windows of the shed, illuminated the brass name plate on the ship's stern. "Sea Sprite." Andrew: If anyone had been in the shed, they might have had the eerie feeling that someone behind them was watching, and have turned and found nothing but the ship bearing down on them, as its soul slowly started to awaken. James: What do ships dream about before they first touch the ocean? What can a boat imagine before it feels the kiss of a wave? What could go through the mind of Sea Sprite, before she had ever even tasted the open air? Andrew: That same observer, who we earlier imagined, might feel, not just a watchful, but was it a malevolent presence? No. Not quite malevolent, but somehow not of this world. James: All ships have personalities, and those personalities are shaped and changed by their captain and their crew, but at birth, they are invested by only two things. The men who built her and the wood she is constructed from. Andrew: Once upon a time, in a far off land, where a warm rain falls for much of the day, for much of the year, and many exotic animals make their homes, and the forest is alive with the squawks of birds, and the ribbitting of frogs, and the hissing of snakes and other wildlife… there stood a tree. A mighty hardwood tree, towering over all the others. James: It had been there so long, that it had seen not only generations of creatures and birds come and go, but it had also seen the gradual rise of the forest around it, and indeed, deep within its rings, it still bore the memories of the open plain. Andrew: Ah, the time of the open plain. The tree was one of the few remaining witnesses of the period in history, when humans has first descended from the trees, walked on the grounds, and formed their earliest tribes. James: In its branches and whorls, in its trunk and its bark, were encoded the history of not only the human race, but so many other species that it had seen rise and sometimes fall before it. Andrew: Owing to its long life, the tree possessed a deep wisdom that few others were able to obtain, through years of reflection and adversity. Many human shamans and magic men and women had come to worship at the tree, and to draw strength from its wisdom and from its magical power. James: For generations, the savviest traders would come and eat under the tree, hoping that its wisdom would somehow filter into them, and help them be better in the world. Andrew: Now the tree stood tall and proud. Its history rooted deeply inside it. And it knew that a change was about to come. James: The animals and birds were gradually being driven out of the forest, and indeed the forest itself, was being felled one tree at a time. Andrew: And then, the fateful day dawned when the foresters came for the mystical tree itself, and began to hack their little axes into its bark, and slowly cut out an enormous wedge from its base, until it fell — bringing down with it many smaller trees, and other parts of the canopy, so that it too could, in its turn, be packed up, chopped down into planks, shipped off, and sold to European merchants. James: In the shed of the shipyard, Sea Sprite lay waiting, and dreamed of revenge. I'm James, and I'm here with Andrew. These stories were recorded without advanced planning, and then lightly edited for the discerning listener. Join us next time for more Totally Made Up Tales. Andrew: Muster Mister Coster. Pester Lester, test… James: No, I think when we pester Lester, you need to move on to something else, don't you? Andrew: Oh, okay. James: Well, I don't think there's a third one with pester Lester. Andrew: Oh, I don't know why in my head, it was gonna go pester Lester, test a sister. But, that was maybe a bit… James: Yeah, that wasn't gonna happen. I would not have guessed that. Andrew: But, okay. So, pester Lester. I'll just keep "test a sister" for myself. James: Okay.

15 min
05/30/2017

Episode 14: The Stowaway

Another episode of tales at sea. Following on from the mysterious tales of the Dark Gentleman, we find another curious passenger on board…although will they turn out to be any less disturbing to the crew? Music: Creepy — Bensound.com. Andrew: Here are some Totally Made Up Tales, brought to you by the magic of the internet. This week: The Stowaway. James: Martin, the First Mate, thought he knew everything about this ship, as First Mates really ought to. Andrew: It was not the largest ship the world had ever seen, but nevertheless it contained many nooks and crannies and corners that men who had served on it across journeys of several months had still not managed to explore. James: Martin, however, knew them all. But something was not quite right. Andrew: There was a strange energy on board the ship, that was quite different to the masculine peace that settled aboard the boat once the shore was safely left behind. James: It reminded him of the one or two times when they'd transported families from Southampton across to the New World looking for a new life. Andrew: It was not as strange as the time when the famous occultist traveled with them and disappeared halfway across the ocean, but it was still something not quite right. James: Martin didn't like it when things weren't quite right, it upset the smooth running of the ship and it made the men grumble, and that was one of the worst things to contend with. Andrew: He decided that he would determine for himself whether there was anything untoward going on, on the ship, but he would do it in a subtle and determined manner. James: He drew up a schedule where he could regularly walk every turn and every corner of every deck, both above and below. Andrew: He began his exploration and very soon began to have an even more acute sense that there was something either just ahead of him or just behind him, but it was as if, whenever he turned his head, the thing it was that was following him or that he was following — and he could not be sure which it was — had disappeared, and he was left once more alone. James: He had first had the sense a day or two out of port, and it continued for a full week, gradually making him more and more frustrated, until one day, Timothy, the old cook, came to him. Andrew: Timothy was a grumpy man, perpetually red in the face with irritation, and missing his right leg. He had adapted his kitchen galley successfully so that he could navigate his way around, but in all other areas of the deck he moved on traditional sailor's wooden crutches. James: He came to Martin with a complaint about theft. Andrew: An entire barrel of biscuits, which he had been intending to use later that week, had disappeared from the kitchen, lock, stock, and barrel. James: Martin knew that none of the men would have tried to secrete an entire barrel anywhere else about the ship, it was a ridiculous and foolhardy notion that you could even get away with it, and so he continued his pacing about the decks until he discovered the barrel, now empty, in one of the smaller holds. Andrew: Scattered on the floor around the barrel here and there were biscuity crumbs. James: Martin spent some time checking the rest of the hold, looking behind the crates and boxes, and underneath the tarpaulins, but he could not find any indication, other than the barrel and the crumbs, that anything was amiss. Andrew: Later that day, in the evening, he sat down with the Captain for dinner, and the Captain turned to him with his customary question and said, "Well then, First Mate, what are the news?" James: He recounted how Timothy had come to him and his investigation and what he'd discovered, and the Captain looked at him with suspicion crossing his face, "Have you felt a presence onboard ship?" he asked. Andrew: "Well sir, as it happens," Martin replied, "I have felt a rather different atmosphere on the ship than usual… it has seemed that there has been something here." "What do you make of… this?" said the Captain. He opened the draw of his work desk and took out a piece of paper covered in a strange childish scrawl, and laid it out in front of the First Mate. James: "Was that? It looks like it was drawn by a child, sir." Andrew: "Yes, it could be a child or possibly a madman, or I'm not entirely sure. I dismissed it entirely of course, read it through for me." James: "I can't make it out at all, sir. It doesn't seem to be written in English, or indeed any other language as I recognise." Andrew: "Yes, I thought that," said the Captain. "But here, look, when you hold it up to a mirror, now try." James: "Oh my word," said Martin. "You're right. It's a diary." Andrew: "Yes, that's right. A page from a diary. A diary that's been kept while on this ship. I found it fluttering along the passage outside the door to the hold." James: "Do you really think so sir? We have a stowaway?" Andrew: "I think we should consider the possibility. Nothing has been quite right on this ship since the time that mysterious man disappeared after saving us from pirates, and I wonder if the forces of the occult have returned to haunt us." James: "I shall organise the men to do a thorough inspection, sir. I'm sure we will catch them." And indeed Martin was sure that he would catch the stowaway. Andrew: Duly assembled, the men set out in groups of two around the various passages of the ship in search of the mysterious diary writer. James: Creeping down the passageways, hunting through the holds, peering into the dark corners, the men gradually covered every inch of the ship. Andrew: Each pair in their turn, returned from their searching to the main deck to report to the First Mate, and came back empty handed. Not a sign, not a scrap, not the slightest clue as to the writer of the diary had been found. James: Two by two, Martin ticked them off in his head until there were five pairs still out, then four, then three, then two. The last pair that had gone down into the holds below reported that they could see nothing out of the ordinary, and he was just wondering how the other pair was getting along when the sound of a struggle came from the cabins that they had been searching. Andrew: The cries and thuds muffled by the several layers of decking nevertheless could be heard and stirred an immediate call to action in the First Mate. He grabbed two of the pairs nearest him, his trustiest men, and set off down the hatches to go and investigate for himself. James: He burst in, the men hard behind him, on an amazing scene. Andrew: Inside the passengers' cabin, standing quietly and unassumingly in the centre of the passenger cabin was a small elfin faced girl with close cropped hair, beaming at them with her hands on her hips. Lying on the ground of the cabin in front of her were the two burly sailors, out for the count. James: A thought flashed through Martin's mind, wondering how on each how such a small child had managed to overcome such large men, but he was too well trained to voice this concern. "Seize her!" he cried. Andrew: The men who had come down with him and to whom his order was addressed looked at the girl, looked at their fallen comrades, looked nervously at each other, and hesitated upon the threshold. "Didn't you hear me, men?" said the First Mate, "in and seize her!" James: Greg looked at Harry, and Harry looked at Greg, and neither of them wanted to be the one to make the first move. So Martin reached forward and grabbed the girl by the scruff of the neck. Andrew: At once, she burst into tears, and paying no heed to her bawling, Martin dragged her through the passageway, dragged her up onto the deck, into the Captain's cabin, where he threw her roughly to her knees in front of the ship's commander. James: "Good work, Martin," said the Captain. "And what are you, eh?" Andrew: The little girl looked at him, sobbing, wide eyed, and said, "oh please sir, please, have mercy on me." James: Martin nudged her with his foot. "Captain asked you a question," he said. Andrew: "Oh, oh, I am ..." The girl took a deep breath in and looked directly at the Captain imploringly and said, "I am but a poor child, sir. My father was a sailor of many years standing and spent his life at sea and one day in a tragic accident was killed when his ship caught fire. My mother was unable to support herself, me and my brother, and my brother signed up to sail to the New World in the Navy and I decided that the only way forward for me was to follow him and so I ended up here on the first ship I was told was sailing to the New World and I hid in the hold." James: The Captain looked at her sternly. "I cannot just let stowaways use my ship as free transport between the continents." He said. "We cannot throw you overboard, we're in the middle of the sea, but if you are to remain here, you must work to earn your keep." Andrew: "We have no use for you on deck, this is man's work requiring a man's strength, but the kitchen is short of a boy, you shall serve there for the remainder of the voyage. Go, at once. You will be directed by Timothy the cook." James: And so Martin took her down to the galley, and introduced her to Timothy, and Timothy immediately put her to work scrubbing the Brodie stove to keep it clean or at least as clean as Timothy deemed necessary for basic sanitary food production purposes. Andrew: With a dedication and an application and a thoroughness that seemed uncharacteristic for someone that looked outwardly so delicate, the little girl scrubbed at the stove, scrubbed and polished and shined. Bucket after bucket of dirty water was emptied over the rail into the sea, until the Brodie stove was as good as new. She turned to the cook and said, "sir, I have scrubbed the stove. What would you have me do next?" Tim looked at her and said, "sir? I'll have no sir in my kitchen! I'm Tim the cook, and what's your name?" James: In a small voice, Elsie introduced hersel

21 min
05/15/2017

Episode 13: An episode of maritime tales

Our first episode of tales set at sea and among sea-going folk: The Captain's Log, The Dark Gentleman, and other stories. Music: Creepy — Bensound.com. James: Here are some totally made up tales brought to you by the magic of the internet. First this episode: The Captain's Log. James/Andrew (alternating) Once, the Captain was writing a log entry when he noticed out the window that there was another ship following them. That seemed strange, because no one had charted these waters before him. He did what he would normally do when sighting another ship: he wrote down its bearing and approximate distance, and ordered the bosun to raise more sail in order to get distance between them. After darkness had fallen, they changed course in order to lose them. Sailing in the darkness by dead of night, a ship felt like a world of its own. Gliding nearly silently through the black waters, crested with a rime of white catching the moonlight, the crew spoke softly in case they should be overheard by any other beings. Sunrise brought a fresh breeze and no sign of the ship, but that very evening it appeared once more. At dusk it was gaining on them, but once darkness fell they changed course to avoid them. Sunrise came again and brought an empty horizon. The third night a hush descended on the ship. You could hear a pin drop. From astern there came the sound of a woman crying. Her sobs rended the hearts of the men, so much was it a call to their own loneliness. "Beware!" cried the Captain. "'Tis a sprite!" But the men paid no heed, tacked the ship towards the sobbing, and tried to rescue her. One by one, they jumped into the water over the rail. One by one, they swam towards the heart-rending sound. And one by one, their sounds faded into nothingness. Finally only the Captain and the First Mate remained on the ship. "Don't you go in," said the Captain, but too late. Come morning the boat was full of men once more — climbing up the mast, hanging from the spars, and scrubbing the deck. The Captain looked around in great surprise. Returning to his cabin, he made an entry in the log reading: July Fourteenth. The crew have been replaced by fairies. God have mercy on my soul. Seventeen years later, the floating hull was discovered by a Royal Navy vessel, which determined that the boat had been abandoned, and all aboard had perished. They found the Captain's log, the final entry still wet. James: Chase … Andrew: Away … James: Your … Andrew: Demons … James: By … Andrew: Going … James: To … Andrew: Sea. James: Make … Andrew: Biscuits … James: Using … Andrew: Flour … James: And … Andrew: Weevils … James: They'll … Andrew: Taste … James: Crunchy … Andrew: And … James: Delicious. Andrew: Damp … James: Will … Andrew: Get … James: Everywhere … Andrew: When … James: You … Andrew: Are … James: At … Andrew: Sea. That wasn't really a proverb; that was just a fact. James: It was just a statement of fact. Andrew: Rum … James: And … Andrew: Sodomy … James: Neither … Andrew: Are … James: Welcome … Andrew: In … James: My … Andrew: Navy. James: Rum and sodomy. I mean it's really just the Georgian Navy's equivalent of 'Netflix and Chill.' Setting … Andrew: Sail … James: From … Andrew: Southampton … James: We … Andrew: Encountered … James: Three … Andrew: Witches … James: Floating … Andrew: On … James: The … Andrew: Surface … James: Of … Andrew: The … James: Sea. Andrew: One … James: Told … Andrew: Us … James: That … Andrew: Our … James: Voyage … Andrew: Would … James: Be … Andrew: Successful. James: One … Andrew: Told … James: Us … Andrew: That … James: Our … Andrew: Voyage … James: Would … Andrew: Be … James: Traumatic. Andrew: The … James: Third … Andrew: Told … James: us … Andrew: That … James: Our … Andrew: Voyage … James: Would … Andrew: Be … James: Long. Andrew: Which … James: Witch … Andrew: Was … James: Telling … Andrew: The … James: Truth? And now: The Dark Gentleman. Andrew/James (alternating): The morning of the ninth day of the month of May, the ship broke free of its mooring, and started to float towards the mouth of the harbour. Aboard was a distinguished gentleman, who was known throughout the land as a practitioner of the Dark Arts. He had a small moustache and black hair, an avuncular face but long talon-like fingers. He had paid for a cabin across the Atlantic Ocean. The men muttered amongst themselves superstitiously, but accepted his presence since their pay had been raised thanks to his generosity. He intended to spend the voyage shut in his room reading about the newest discoveries in the occult realm. His colleagues in the New World were anxious that he should be ready to assist in their Great Endeavour upon his arrival. His routine was to rise at dawn, read a paper from his colleagues and pray for safe weather to his guardian demons. After breakfast he would jog around the poop deck before settling down into another book. So passed the many hours and days at sea, until on the thirtieth day of the voyage a cry was raised by the lookout. "Ship astern!" There was a black sailed ship some half mile off, emerging from a mist. The Captain immediately summoned the officers, and the Dark Gentleman. "I fear that we are being tracked by pirates. We must load the cannon and prepare to defend ourselves." "Or," said the Dark Man, "we could simply repel them using…" And here he trailed off, and suggestively made a twirling shape with his fingers. The Captain was a practical man and didn't think that this would work, but gave it the go ahead anyway while preparing the cannon. The magician sat cross legged on the fore deck, surrounded by his Dark Objects. He lit a candle, made a sacrifice of his own blood, and started chanting in runic verse. The cannon was loaded, and the Captain ordered it pointed at the vessel gaining fast on them. Before he could fire the other vessel caught fire and burned to the water line. The Captain looked in astonishment and gasped. "What did you do?" The magician did not respond, but packed his Dark Objects away into his special chest, smiled, and descended back to his cabin. The crew grumbled once more. Later that day, the Captain ventured to the cabin of the Dark Master, and knocked. "Come," came a voice. "I've been wondering what —" "Yes," said the magician. "They came, of course, for me. I am the only man who knows how to unlock the magic of the Philosopher's Stone. One of my brethren in the New World has discovered such a Stone — or so he thinks — and I am heading to help him create unlimited wealth for all humankind. What will the pirates do now that gold will be valueless? Ah! That is why they want to kill me," explained the magician. "They cannot comprehend the enormity, or the wonder, of this discovery. I'm afraid that we will have to part ways at this juncture." So the magician folded his hands, lowered his gaze, and vanished. The End. James: I'm James, and I'm here with Andrew. These stories were recorded without advanced planning and then lightly edited for the discerning listeners. Join us next time for more totally made up tales. We set out one morning from Southampton. Three witches on the water, oh aye. Oh the three witches of the Isle of White, the three witches of White … Andrew: Who've all been … The White Witches. James: The White Witches. What'll they tell you then? They said that our journey would be long and arduous but successful. Oh that's not bad. Told us it would be full of fire and brimstone, and that we'd all die. Oh. That's more specific than they usually are. Yeah, yeah. We're going home now. Andrew: I thought the third witch was going to say both of them are lying or something like two of us are lying. James: Oh yes. It's… oh, gosh. Two of us are lying. Well she has to tell the truth then 'cause otherwise it's a logical thing isn't it? Andrew: Unless all three of them were lying. James: Or all … Yes. Or one of them was lying. Andrew: Her. James: Her. Or she was an inconsistent narrator. Which would be a bigger problem.

19 min
01/31/2017

Episode 12: The Cavalier of Saint Ignacio

The second of our Tales of Orange, following last episode's The Queen and the Orange. Music: Creepy — Bensound.com. James: Here are some Totally Made up Tales, brought to you by the magic of the internet. Andrew / James (alternating): Mist covered the land, and from the recesses of the valley came a new sound. Bwaaaaaaah, it went. This startled the villagers, who gathered at the edge of town with ear pressed to the ground listening to the mysterious rumblings and worrying. It made many noises before they saw, emerging from the mist, elephants! As they stampeded toward the town, the elephants put their trunks into action, trumpeting the arrival of the herd. Thus, was jazz invented. James: And now, the Cavalier of Saint Ignacio. Andrew: The sun rose over the hills with the promise of a hot summer's day ahead. James: Sitting in the shade of an orange tree, a man bit into the fruity pulp of the delicious orange globe. Andrew: He offered half of the fruit to the dog that faithfully sat by his side, and man and beast together wolfed down their delicious fruity breakfast. James: Over the hill back in the town, he could hear the sound of trumpets. Andrew: It was the celebration of the Feet of Saint Ignacio. James: Since sundown the day before, people from the villages all around had been bringing their wares and particularly their oranges, fabled throughout the country, to the town square in preparation for the feast. Andrew: Saint Ignacio was the patron saint of orange grove, and legend ran that wherever his foot had landed on the earth, a tree had sprung up — and in celebration of his feast day at the end of the orange season, the growers would gather in the capital city of the region, and paint the soles of their feet orange and walk through the streets. James: The children would run amongst them singing and dancing and laughing, and when they reached the town square, a great feast awaited them all. Andrew: This man however, was not taking part in the feast this year, for something significant was about to happen to him. James: As he got up intending to make his way into the town, another sound reached his ears. Andrew: He was not the only one who heard the mysterious sound. His dog's ears pricked up, and his eyes became immediately alert, and he too stood and man and dog looked at the distant horizon. James: At first they could see nothing but dust. Then, gradually they could see figures moving through the dust and finally, as the figures got closer, they could see men on horseback; the thundering of the hooves as they galloped towards the town warning of the importance of their mission. Andrew: He took from his bag a spyglass and extended it in order to inspect the men and determine who they were. James: He swept the spyglass from one side of the band of cavalry to the other, counting 6,7,8,9,10, no twenty men, all on horseback… until he found their leader. Andrew: Their leader, the Cavalier of Saint Ignacio, the twenty knights of the orange grove! The fabled, nay, mythical group! Surely, they had died out centuries ago! But no, now here they were looking exactly as they did on the mighty altarpiece painting that stood in the church in the town. James: He ran to the town elders. Andrew: Breathlessly, he arrived in the village square and threw himself down before the mayor and said, "Quick! Quick! You must come with me, there is something that I must show you at once. I know it seems unlikely. I know that this is the worst possible time but you must come with me as you trust me as a man and as a member of the city, please!" James: And then Old Marco, the priest stepped forward and said in his gravelly voice, "It is the Calvary of Saint Ignacio, is it not?" Andrew: "But how could you know that?" Said the young man. "How could you possibly know?" James: "I have prayed and I have been visited by the Feet of Saint Ignacio and they pointed towards the frieze of the Cavalry this morning. I knew that they would be coming." Andrew: "There has been a legend, a legend of yore that was passed to me by the former priest of this town on his death bed that one day the Cavalry would return. They would return with a dire warning." James: And so the mayor got into the mayor's official cart and the two ponies were hitched to it and the elders followed behind with the children singing and dancing and playing and not understanding that this was not the normal feast of the Feet of Saint Ignacio, but this was something very special. And the entire town met the Cavalry on the border. Andrew: At the front of the imposing column of men in their dark black robes with orange silk flashes on the sleeves, there was the Cavalier resplendent, a gold cross on his chest, a mighty lance in his hand, a shining helmet upon his head that in the morning sun seemed to be aflame. James: "Oh Cavalier!" started the mayor. "I beg you, tell us why you have come." Andrew: "Silence!" said the Cavalier, banging the end of his lance upon the dusty ground. "Cease this revelry and listen to the dread portent that I have to share with you. Your town is in grave danger." James: So stern was his voice, so imposing his very physique, that even the children stopped playing and dancing and laughing and singing and all was silent before him. Andrew: All that could be heard was a slight rustling of the morning wind in the trees of the orange groves. The occasional chirp of a cricket. You could have heard a pin drop as everybody hung on the words of the Cavalier. What was the threat that was so dire that the mythical knights should have to return? James: "The town," began the Cavalier. "The town, the orange groves, Saint Ignacio's memory itself. All is at stake. Andrew: The wrath of God is to be visited upon this town in twenty four hours' time. A grave crime has been committed against his Grace and a mighty earthquake is going to rip the very foundations of the town from the stones of the hill and cast it down and from the depths of the earthquake will come floods and fire and the groves of oranges will be consumed, unless you render up to me by sundown tonight the criminal who has done this deed." James: So saying the Cavalier wheeled his horse, and the Cavalry rode off to camp outside in the fields. Andrew: Chaos immediately reigned in the town. Everybody was stirred by these words. Suspicion came to roost in every heart. "Surely, it was this person's misdeed when they had swindled me at cards." "Surely it was that person who had given me short measure on my loaf of bread." Ah, but what was the deed and who had committed it? James: The mayor, and the elders, and Marco the priest, gathered in the mayor's house to discuss what must be done. Andrew: The mayor banged his fist on the table and demanded silence. The room fell quiet. He had his audience. "We must hold," he said, "an inquisition. Every adult citizen of the town must be brought before us one by one and their soul and character tested." James: "We should start," Said Mr. Iniquez who ran the bakery. "We should start with ourselves to ensure that amongst the elders there is no sin." Andrew: Several faces looked guilty and hesitant at this idea, for who among us would want all of the most secret places of our hearts to be revealed to our neighbours? James: Nonetheless, no one could come up with a convincing reason why they should not go ahead. And so, one by one they faced their peers and recounted the deeds of their lives. Andrew: What would it be, this unknown crime against the Grace of God that the inquisition was searching for? Each man or woman in turn stood before the others and confessed what they considered their misdeeds. Coveting their neighbour's wife or ass; failing to respect their father or mother; failing to make confessional or go to church; petty swindling; great misdeeds in the heart, in the mind, in action. All was laid bare. James: By lunch time, the elders of the town knew each other better than they knew themselves, and already they were worried about doing this with the rest of the population. Arguments were breaking out between elder and elder over slights and infractions over the years. What would happen when they did this with the entire population? Andrew: What happened was the temperature in the town began to rise. It was as if the collective temper was slowly boiling. There was a seething mass of resentment, and politics, and gossip, and nastiness. The town that had lived so happily and peacefully in the bountiful land, so blessed with fruit trees, where people had lived a happy life for so many years, were slowly turning into a nightmare of mistrust. James: At the end of the first day, half of the town had confessed their sins. Over night, many arguments broke out, including some fights between those who now knew that they had trusted in vain, or thought better of people than they really should have done. And on the second day, they began again with the rest of the population, confessing their sins one by one to the elders, who wrote them down in a large book. Andrew: It had been an uneasy night. Few had had a good night's sleep. People were haggard and worried. The town seemed like a different place entirely from the site of happy festivities it had been the day before. By mid afternoon, the confession had been completed and the elders regathered in the office of the mayor to review what they had found to try and uncover the sin that the Cavalier had been sent to expunge. James: "I have read the entire book of inquisition," said the elderly Marco. "And I cannot see a single act which could be considered the overriding sin of this town.

18 min

See All (19)

Creator

Totally Made Up Tales
Years Active

2016 - 2022
Episodes

19
Rating

Explicit
Show Website

Totally Made Up Tales

Totally Made Up Tales

Lockdown tales 4

Lockdown tales 3

Lockdown tales 2

Lockdown tales

Episode 15: The Sailor's Wife, The Ship Awakes, and other stories

Episode 14: The Stowaway

Episode 13: An episode of maritime tales

Episode 12: The Cavalier of Saint Ignacio

About

Information

Totally Made Up Tales

Episodes

Lockdown tales 4

Lockdown tales 3

Lockdown tales 2

Lockdown tales

Episode 15: The Sailor's Wife, The Ship Awakes, and other stories

Episode 14: The Stowaway

Episode 13: An episode of maritime tales

Episode 12: The Cavalier of Saint Ignacio

About

Information