1864. An unsolved murder

The murder of Octavius Snickenbough was in all the papers. It was in all the papers not because it was a murder (goodness knows, murders are so common these days they could hardly be considered newsworthy) but because of who Octavius Snickenbough was.

Octavius Snickenbough was the local vicar who, despite having being married to a lovely wife for many a year, had singlehandedly fathered three children on the one night, all born in the same local maternity hospital on the same day, and all registered by different mothers with the information on the father recorded as “Octavius Snickenbough, Vicar”.

It had turned Octavius overnight, on the one hand, into a folk hero, and on the other hand, into a fiend. And now, several weeks after the births his body was discovered lying murdered in the sands of the local beach. The beach was in a sheltered bay and most popular over the summer months. The sand was a mass of hundreds of footprints going in all directions, so the murderer’s footprints going to and from the body were indecipherable.

Clearly, Octavius Snickenbough had been chopped to death by a tomahawk. In fact, it was patently obvious because a tomahawk, the kind used to split firewood kindling, was still protruding from the crown of his head.

Naturally, the three mothers of the three new-borns were questioned by the police, as indeed was Octavius’s wife. None could offer any information that caste the slightest light on the situation.

This all happened several months ago, and the police are no closer to solving the mystery and making an arrest. The closed beach has subsequently reopened, and parishioners seem to rejoice in the appointment of the new vicar whose homilies are considerably shorter than those once offered by the late Reverend Octavius Snickenbough. Rather fortuitously, the new vicar has his own house, so Mrs. Snickenbough is more than welcome to continue to live in the old vicarage. After all, why should it remain empty when it is warm and welcoming, and suitable enough for a lone widow to live comfortably? The potbellied stove in the kitchen is a little old-fashioned but Mrs. Snickenbough doesn’t mind that – once she gets a new tomahawk to split the kindling.

1847. It pays to check

When Clyde got out of bed that morning he had no idea (who does?) how his day would end.

There he was in early afternoon innocently sitting on the window ledge of his girlfriend’s new apartment when suddenly Tracey pushed him out the seventeenth story window.

As she pushed him suddenly out she was heard to exclaim, “Die you selfish toad. I love Shane now and I do this for Shane.” What Tracey didn’t realize was that her accommodation unit was set in the middle of a high-rise rooftop garden. Clyde fell no more than three feet onto a soft paving.

Clyde got up, brushing a little sandy gravel off his knees. He was half bemused and half shocked. It was the last thing he had been expecting.

Tracey had jumped out the window herself when she realized her murderous plot had backfired. She turned her shock and agitation into concocted horror. Naturally she pretended it was a practical joke. She was merely playing around. Of course she didn’t love Shane; she didn’t even like him. Shane was a creep. Everyone knew that the window seventeen stories up opened onto a rooftop frequently used for barbeques.

Clyde didn’t believe her for one minute. The rooftop was surrounded by a safety balustrade. Clyde picked up Tracey and threw her over it. She almost floated down to splat amongst the ant-like figures busy about their business way, way in the street below.

It certainly pays to check before throwing someone from a great height. That got rid of Tracey. Now there was no one to come between Clyde and his boyfriend, Shane.

1744. Toast for breakfast

Archie’s morning was always the same. It’s not that his life was regimented; it’s just that anything prior to nine in the morning, roughly the time when he awoke from his post-rising stupor, was done by rote. He would get out of bed; get partially dressed; turn on the coffee machine; feed the cat; check the news on his laptop; pour the coffee; put on some toast; and begin to have breakfast.

While he was eating his toast, always with raspberry jam, he would read the blogs he followed. There was one blogger who annoyed the hell out of him. The blogger was always killing people off. Every day it would be another story and another dead person. Sometimes death by poisoning, sometimes strangulation. Why couldn’t he write a happy story for a change? Nonetheless, Archie couldn’t help but sneak a peek every morning as he ate his toast. Possibly Archie, every morning, was hoping for something happy to happen in one of the stories. And would you believe…?

This day was sheer happiness! Freddy had fallen in love with Leonie at the school picnic. They were teachers at the school, not pupils. They had dated for several months and then Freddy proposed to Leonie. It was quite out of the blue.

“Yes! Yes!” said Leonie, beside herself with gladness. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” They kissed! They planned their wedding day! Oh happy day! Oh happy, happy day!

Archie, having breakfast, was beside himself with excitement. A cheerful story! For once something jubilant happens in this blog he followed daily! Oh happy day! Oh happy day indeed! To celebrate, Archie took a great big bite of the slice of toast he was eating.

He choked on it, and now he’s dead.

1645. Half cut

When Trixie Caldhurst was offered “half a pig for the freezer” from a neighbouring farmer she was delighted. Half a pig was more than enough to keep her going in pork for a long, long time. It was going to be such a saving. What a kind and thoughtful neighbour! Trixie wouldn’t be able to thank them enough. She bought a bottle of wine and a thankyou card to express her thanks when the meat arrived.

Arrive it did! Trixie was most grateful. Except… it wasn’t chopped up. Half a pig was half a pig.

Trixie phoned her friend, Monica. They were both nearing their mid-seventies. Together they could hardly lift the half pig. Trixie looked up on the internet as to how to chop up a pig. The first thing was to split it in half. That was already done. As for the rest, the problem was even if they had the right tools they were in no position to weld them efficiently.

Monica went home and came back with a tomahawk and a hacksaw. Over the course of the next five hours they had the time of their lives. And a few wines. Monica was able to take home a good half of the half pig for herself.

“Necess… neceess.. nesissity is the muvva of invenshin,” declared Trixie at the end of the day. The pork chops were nothing like one would buy in the shop. But, my word, said Trixie pouring a celebration wine, there’s nothing more delightful than a home-chopped chalk pop!

1641. A fishy story

Basil’s job was to design labels for fish food packaging. He had worked for Fins and Gills Fish Food Company for eleven years. Being a graphics designer, the Fins and Gills Fish Food Company was the last place that Basil would have thought he would end up. But the fish food company produced such a variety of aquarium products that a permanent packaging designer was called for.

As you can probably imagine, eleven years working for a fish food making establishment would drive anyone crazy; even thick, boring people. And drive Basil crazy it did. He was thick. He was boring. Now he was crazy. At first his idiocy was almost imperceptible; for example on the packaging for an aquarium thermometer he coloured in the picture of a Siamese Tigerfish so that it looked like it had pink stripes. Pink stripes! But things went from bad to worse. Oh no! Oh yes!

Everyone noticed. You couldn’t miss it. In every packaging picture the fish were naked. Completely starkers. Not even a fish wearing skimpy underwear. Responsible parents could no longer purchase Fins and Gills Fish Food for their children’s goldfish bowl. The fish food business went out of business. Basil was left without a job. Meanwhile, little boys sniggered at the fish food packets that they kept hidden under their iPads. Even the fish food display at the International Fish Food Museum had to cover up the Fins and Gills Fish Food packing boxes. As Ms Myrtle Browningham of the Fish Food Manufacturers’ Union said: Disgusting! Nude fish! What will they think of next? It’s sickening.

And that’s the naked truth.

1621. A week camping

There’s surely little more scrumptious than a sausage cooked on a camp fire, then wrapped in a buttered slice of bread with some chopped fried onion and tomato sauce. Follow this with a hot cup of tea or coffee made with water boiled in a tin hung over the hot embers. It’s summer! It’s evening! There are a few mosquitoes but the insect repellent keeps most at bay. All that’s needed now is a competent guitarist to complete the spell. A little sing-along and a bit of yarn telling and all is perfect.

Rufus and Trina with their two children had been camping for a week. Twice a man had come along and told them to move, but they hadn’t budged. Apparently they were not permitted to have a camp fire where they were, or to erect a tent. Rufus had used some choice words at the man, which had prompted Trina both times to say, “For goodness sake, Rufus, not in front of the children.” It made little difference; Rufus gave the man a piece of his mind in a way that only Rufus could.

It was nearing the time they would have to move. The camping food supply was getting low, as was wood for the fire. Camping on their driveway after the catastrophic earthquake was only a temporary measure. But where to go?

1619. Such a pretty garden!

Monica had what could only be described as “a pretty garden”. It wasn’t very big but it was perfect in every detail. It was all flowers, and through careful planning Monica managed to get it to flower (prolifically) for a good ten months of the year.

Monica didn’t let the time she spent on the garden come between her and having a tidy house. It was neatness to the core. Even the books in her bookshelf (which contained mainly well-read classics) were carefully arranged on each shelf from tallest to shortest. To say nothing of the cupboards! The pots were a picture. And the pantry! Oh my word! One quick peek at the rows of carefully labelled spices and herbs was enough to convince one that God had put the alphabet on earth for a reason.

And yet, Monica wasn’t a fusspot. Nor was she neurotic in her tidiness. She would enjoy making a mess as much as you and me. It’s just that, unlike you and me, she always cleaned up afterwards.

As happens to most people, she eventually died. And what a pretty cemetery with well-kept gravestones! The flowers placed on each grave were removed once the bouquet had wilted. Honestly! It was a pleasure to stroll down the row upon row of dead people and simply take in the orderliness and (dare I say it?) beauty.

And then what happened? Progress doesn’t step aside for anything. All human remains were removed to a common grave (with relatives permission of course) to make room for an extension to an industrial plant. They were reburied (in bulk) in a park nearby with a makeshift memorial saying that a list of the names of people reburied here was available for perusal at the city council office.

Eventually the makeshift memorial rotted away. Long grass and brambles took over the entire park. It was an utter mess. It was a jungle. Few remembered it was once a burial site. The world moves on.

If ever proof was needed that there is a life after death it is here… Monica was clearly pulling strings. The local community got together and created a community garden on the site. It was all flowers, and through careful planning they managed to get it to flower (prolifically) for a good ten months of the year.

1618. Reproductive toxicity

Just as Leopold was about to undergo purgation for reproductive toxicity, disaster struck. His wife had insisted that he have such a treatment and it was while flying to Los Angeles to see the experts that something happened to change his mind. He met a high altitude safety technician. She was delivering cut lunches to all the passengers when she leant over to ensure that Leopold’s safety belt was properly fastened. “We don’t want you to fall out of your seat when the plane crashes do we, sweet pea?” That was enough to convince Leopold that the proposed purgation of his reproductive toxicity should be put on hold.

Quite frankly, enough was enough. Upon arrival in Los Angeles Leopold and Angelina (for that was her name) booked into a motel where they mutually enhanced not only Leopold’s reproductive toxicity but his toxic masculinity as well. It was what used to be known as “a dirty weekend”.

Upon his return home Leopold’s wife was convinced that the expert’s purgation had indeed worked, for he no longer showed any interest in her. That was the beginning of the end; or rather the beginning of the beginning. They drifted apart. Leopold’s wife revelled in her new-found independence and ran for Congress. She was duly elected and had an extremely fruitful career demanding the destruction of male reproductive toxicity up and down the county.

Leopold’s ex-wife became something of a celebrity but, I’m sorry, I can’t remember her name.