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Sweet F.A.
This is a place for archiving any 'Fantasy Archers' posts that I, or others, think worthy of the honour. It's a manual process, and once they're gone off the main site they're gone for good, so alert me if there's something that you feel should be in here. This page could get very long, very quickly. ;)

The copyright of all works herein remains with their original authors; contact them for permission if you want to use them elsewhere.

If you see something here that is in breach of copyright (we're talking plagarism, here, people!) then alert me and I'll take appropriate action...

Peet


The Mustard out of Space by Marsh Gibbon
Posted: Fri Oct 21, 2005 8:37 am
Posting this here, there, and elsewhere as the next part will involve
various MBers, and don't want to go behind anyone's back (ooer). It
should finish before we finally go....over.

howerd2 Phillips Gibcraft.

I will speak now because speak I must. Though I have sworn that the things
I saw and heard would never be repeated by these lips or fingers, the
whispers in the hushed reading rooms of the Miskatonic were enough to
reduce me to cold sweats, and to fill my nightmares with horrendous shades
I truly believed I had left behind.

Read then, and know. And those that have influence: take action lest a
power, millennia buried, corrupt and defile our world.

Yet still I cannot sleep;

It was the late summer of 2005; word had reached me in my Arkham study that
a junior researcher; young Beth ***** had returned from a field trip in
Hungary…strangely changed. It was said her previously sunny disposition had
been replaced by an odd and unnatural despondency, her native intelligence
dulled and perverted. The talk seemed wild. I remembered Ms ***** when she
began her graduate program; a bubbly and bright youth, attractive and
popular and keen to immerse herself in even those areas of ethnography
thought ‘dull’ and ‘lifeless’ by her fellows.

It was Dr Simon Gerrard, the Miskatonic counsellor, and a man of exquisite
sensibility and compassion, who introduced me to the chamber of the secure
ward; he registered my shock at what I saw,

“She is much changed,” he said “but she will live. If only she will sleep…”

The youthful face seemed strangely, hideously…older, lined with the lines
of care one would expect in a face in the latter phase of its life and ,
though it was difficult to be certain, her natural New England glow had
been replaced by a pallor that was almost grey, though at times it seemed
there was an odd fluorescence, and hints of a colour that was not of this
world or the laws and physics that govern it.

Her story was told hesitantly and I did, as you will, doubt her. However,
the things that I saw and heard subsequently…changed me as they had changed
her. And now…

If only I could sleep….

“Professor Gibbon”, she began, “I was in Hungary for the …translation..”

I observed her pointedly, but she revealed no knowledge of what may be
meant by that term, beyond that which is normally ascribed by the youthful,
and had to remind myself that the hidden sections of the Miskatonic library
were not open to undergraduates such as she /had/ been, nor could she have
known of the cursed Lukignomicon by the mad Hungarian, Ch’aba al Alrzed.

“I met him…he seemed such a …straightforward boy…from a little British
village full of quaint,” she almost spat the word, “folkways. Anyway, we
got on well, and here I believed I had a chance to see, to really see, an
ethnographic fossil. When Ed…,”

“Ed?” I interrupted, memories stirring of blasphemous texts studied during
my youth.

“Ed” she replied, her once bright eyes clouding over as if possessed by a
memory her troubled brain could still not make full account of. “When Ed
told stories, of his granddad, of the local landed family, the Archers, it
was clear that here was a village barely touched by time….a chance to see
truly rural life in the raw…an…” her body was suddenly wracked with sobs,
“…an everyday story of country folk”.

“So you followed ‘Ed’ there?” I prompted.

“Hardly, I almost led him” she replied, “he seemed strangely reluctant to
return…I ..well, I suspected there was a girlfriend he didn’t want me to
know about. If only that had been the truth, but I went to …to… No No
No!”

She was seized by violent paroxysms, shaking wildly, eyes popping. Two
warders rushed into the room to restrain her and ensure she did not harm
herself in her twisting throes.

In his office, I spoke again to Dr Gerrard, “Where was it she went”, I
asked, “that has had such a terrible effect on her?”

“We are unsure” her replied, “but daubed in menstrual blood on the wall of
her student residence was a word, a word we cannot pretend to fully
understand, but a word which provokes in her the profoundest delirium. The
word ‘Ambridge’”

For a moment it seemed (or perhaps it was my fancy?) that the sunny New
England fall was clouded by a strange fog, and the russets and golds of the
maples in the faculty gardens dulled to an odd and lifeless yellow.

My dreams that night were possessed by strange imaginings; images of a
cyclopean system of threads, endless threads, cross-threads and, always
ringing in my nightmares, the strange cursed sound of “ Timeorder ”.

I returned to the secure unit the next morning, hardly rested but consumed
with a strange fascination. Our interview began simply: “Tell me,” I asked.

Beth’s strange and unholy narrative began. A story I repeat only to warn
those who are now looking for other messageboards, other worlds to
discover of the preternatural horror awaiting.

“I went back to Amb…to …there” she began, “with Ed. I met Ollie and
Caroline, Clarrie and Eddie. I met…..” there was a pause..”Ruth and David”.

She made a visible effort to compose herself; “you must tell people,” she
continued, “they won’t listen to me because I am mad.. But they must
*HEAR* ”
the last word was a shout. “Badgers” She muttered, barely coherently.

“Arriving there I tried to fit in, and believed I had so done. I was
accepted, went for trap-rides with Joe and Bartleby, worked in…I worked
in…I…”

At this point it became necessary for an orderly to enter the room and
administer a sedative. When its effects had fully taken hold, she
continued, though in a strangely hypnotised, automatic tome.

“I worked at…Jaxx.”


“I talked. I talked to all of them. All of them. I had my notebook…I was
thinking Doctorate….but there were some references I did not understand,
and felt….uncomfortable asking about. There would be occasional references
to ‘them’, ‘the great Old Ones’…and then, infrequently, and with a kind of
shuddering terror, to ‘When Things Changed’. I was your student,” She
reminded me, “I determined to discover what lay behind this gentle valley…”

Love MG



Fifty Second Fiction - series two - episode one! by The Sentry
Posted: Sun Nov 20, 2005 11:23 am
'Look Emma love don't get all cross agen' mumbled Ed, 'I know I spent all the savings I 'ad but wen I sell this lot on ebay or sommat we'll be quids in an' can get to France straightaway, okay?'

He tipped the contents of the bag on the table.. Emma stared in dismay, then picked up a tea towel, looking quizzically at Ed.

'Thats Yasser Arafat's headscarf thingy!' yammered Ed eagerly, 'could go for a couple of 'undred, maybe more, an' look at that!' he said, holding up a lump of stone, 'a piece of moonrock - we could get a grand for that!'

This went on for a few minutes and Emma's heart sank as Ed stated that every piece of crap he had was something precious and a potential goldmine.

Ed confessed that he'd bought the lot from a mate of Snatch Foster's. Emma coloured at the mention of Snatch, she had her own arrangement with him that was bringing in money which went straight into her own savings account but which she kept Ed in the dark about. 'Can't be too careful and anyway he wouldn't understand' she rationalised the arrangement to herself with..

'Oh throw the lot away Ed, its rubbish!' and she swept the lot off the table and onto the floor. Ed bent down to pick it up swearing irritably.

'oh stop that, you'll wake George' she moaned, wishing she had a proper man with a proper job and a proper home. But if she'd been able to look into the future, scarce three months ahead, she'd think she was living in a paradise compared to the predicament that loomed ahead in her personal future....



The prologue by LadyMacbeth
Posted: Sun Nov 20, 2005 9:56 pm
Two brothers, both alike in enmity
in rural Ambridge where we set our scene
from ancient grudge break to new mutiny
when brothers’ brawl leaves Grundy hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
a son is born and causes further strife
adding to his mother’s many woes
when Edward steals both Will’s son and his wife.
The fearful passage of forbidden love
And the continuance of the families’ rage
Which only tragic ending could remove
Is now the two year traffic of our stage.
Oh gentle list’ner, bear with us awhile
When all is done ‘twill end but in a smile!


JUSTIFICATION - Fifty Second Fiction episode 2 by The Sentry
Posted: Tue Nov 29, 2005 2:47 pm
The mobile rang at the pre-arranged time, and as usual, Emma had arranged to be on her own in the caravan, Ed having taken George out for a toddle...

She went glassy-eyed and into the usual trance. 'Master' she replied, speaking into the phone. The person on the other end of the call spoke, giving Emma her instructions after listening to her detail the growing and irreparable breakdown of relationships and friendships in the Grundy family and the two lads in particular, that she had encouraged.

Obediently she repeated back her instructions. 'I must encourage Ed to see himself as my sole provider and lover, and hate Will even more. I will lie and steal and cheat and put the blame for everything on Will. I will do my best to keep my parents and Clarrie and Eddie at loggerheads with each other.'

The man on the other end of the call smiled in satisfaction, and was about to end the call when spite made him give Emma a further instruction. She listened and affirmed her obedience, then put the phone down and hid it at the back of a drawer ready for the next call from her master. And then she left the caravan and began an excellent simian impersonation for the next twenty minutes, gibbering and curling her arms in true monkey fashion, jumping about in a crouching position. When the twenty minutes was up, she abruptly stopped the strange dance and went back in the caravan oblivous to the events of the previous half hour.

Simon Pemberton laughed. Good to know that he could still be in control of events from a couple of hundred miles away from Ambridge. Doing so much damage to Eddie's family was just the second success in his schemes to revenge himself on the families that had been so much of a nuisance to him during his time in Ambridge. A hypnotised maid at Lower Loxley would never recall putting the mild but accumulative heart stimulants in Julia's drinks over a fortnight's period and thus effectively causing her death. One in the eye against Lizzie, smirked Simon.

Now what could he do to hurt Shula??


Fifty Second Fiction 3 - The Answer by The Sentry
Posted: Wed Dec 07, 2005 8:54 am
David was baffled. Two days and no inspiration.. he was certain that he knew the answer somewhere at the back of his mind, but he was also equally certain that he didn't want to show himself stumped in front of his wife...

He would have gone onto the computer to google for the answer but his daughter was never off it..he would have tried to find his old copy of the Hunter Davies biography of The Beatles but he knew that Tony still had it and he was damned if he was going over to Patntony's to pick it up. Last time he went over he wasn't able to get away for three hours whilst Pat showed him her first draft of her autobiography and Tony played non stop Fairport Convention albums through his hifi.

It was no use. He must finish the 'Q' crossword. There was no alternative. 'Ruth' he called, 'Whats the surname of John Lennon's wife?'

'Ono' said Ruth.


My TOS comp entry by LadyMacbeth
Posted: Sun Dec 18, 2005 7:49 pm
Now the birth of George took place in this way.

When his mother Emmurr had been betrothed to Will, she was found to be with child; and that she had fornicated with Ed, the brother of her husband Will who, being an hairy man and wishing to put her to shame, resolved to divorce her noisily and with much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth and cries of 'Ee's moi sun!'.

He also cried thus: “Em is a Jezebel and Ed like unto Kind David (not to be confused with Dayveed) who took Bathsheba, wife of his servant Potiphar and did fornicate with 'er”

And he put her away from him into an caravan behind the Palace of Carter - as there was no room behind The Bull – and she dwelt therein with Ed and baby George.

And it came to pass that the D N Angel did appear unto them, speaking thus: “It has been revealed that Will is, indeed, the father of baby George and that Emmurr was beguiled by the serpent in her heart when she did say that the baby was Ed's” to which Will replied “You see! I knew 'ee wuz moi sun!” And said that Ed was a snake as well as many other moddable words.

And Emmurr did arise and speak unto Ed saying: ”We should take Georgie and flee into France, or Will shall come and seek him and take him from us”. So it was that Ed prepared for the flight into France and maxed out his credit card and booked tickets on Eurostar so that he might take the young child and his mother by night away from Will's wrath.

But Will trusted not Emmurr or Ed and entered the caravan by stealth, discovering the tickets and the passport belonging unto baby George, which he did remove under the pretence of searching for a jacket. And he rent his clothes and cursed Ed and rang his employer, telling him that Ed was a liar and a troublesome youth who deserved no gainful employment.

Then it was that Will began to visit the caravan, demanding that he should take George with many cries of 'Ee's moi sun an Oi kin 'ave 'im wenever Oi wan”, seeming to lack all reason and being afflicted by visions of George as a parcel. But it came to pass that the wisdom of Clarrie prevailed and a timetable was agreed upon with ill grace.

Then Ed and Emmurr and Will and the Grundys and the Carters all wanted Baby Georgie on Christmas Day and could not agree among themselves, all shouting “Ee's moine!” - the only time they spake in unison.

Georgie wept.

The Ambridge Monologues by twriter
Posted: Sat Feb 04, 2006 6:41 pm
‘Seeing Through The Dark’

Scene: The kitchen at Bridge Farm. Pat is sat with a cup of tea.

Pat: I think Tony’s being most unreasonable about my idea – I mean it’s a good
idea, everyone’s said so and we have to do something with the carrots. Sometimes it can seem as though he is really being very insensitive but he’s not. He’s lovely, he just takes a little time to come round and to see the light. Funny, Tom’s not like that at all…but thinking about it I suppose he must have had his reservations to begin with, I don’t remember but then with the Sausages the idea was already there and all he had to do was nurture it. Once he’d started though…well, you know what he’s like, always busy with his latest venture, full of enthusiasm and life.

Helen’s done well too, of course, with the shop, she’s got a good business, as organic produce is so popular these days. That’s why I need to cash in on it. I know that Tony will see that it’s a good idea eventually.

It’s almost as if I can see into the future. I haven’t always been like this, sometime I couldn’t see what was right under my nose. Like Helen and Greg – I never knew…well, and then her problems, I didn’t see that coming, did I? How could I though, that’s what I have to ask myself. Not that I suppose it matters.

And Tom, well I never thought that he would go to such lengths – sleeping with that supermarket women – Tamsin. Oh! It’s all well and good saying that we regret the past but what about the future? What about the children now, and Tony, what about him?

Well, I suppose that I’ve no real need to worry about Helen, she’s set up well enough in the shop and seems so happy and Tony will carry on just being himself. He’s being brilliant at the moment with Mike, making him go out – that’s what you need. There’s no good wallowing in it…but it’s hard.

I am worried about Tom though. He and Brenda are getting very close, Jenny said so the other day. She said that he talked about her a lot, I can’t help worrying but what do I say to him? Mike doesn’t need this and perhaps clinging onto someone is the only way that Brenda can cope.

I’m beginning to wonder whether having the ability of forethought is all it’s cracked up to be, should I just bury my head in the sand? They say that carrots help you to see in the dark but I don’t think that I really fancy them very much now. The sooner we can sell them, the better.

Moutarde by lili bolero
Posted: Sun Feb 05, 2006 2:45 pm
It was a bitterly cold February day when Anouk and I arrived at the village. Everyone seemed to be gathered on the hillside above, trying to race each other down the slopes in ridiculously dangerous-looking carts.

Anouk and I watched them from a distance, wondering what our future would bring in Ambridge.

We were lucky, and found empty premises with a small flat above. It appeared to have been the village bakery some time in the long distant past. Anouk and I set to work scrubbing the place down and getting ready for our new adventure.

The next week was spent sweeping, washing, receiving deliveries, and throwing out rubbish into the skip at the rear of the house. Although the villagers took great delight in watching us, and whispering, no-one approached us directly. One woman dressed in dirty dungarees always seemed to be peering in the window of the shop. She seemed somewhat unkempt, and always had what appeared to be bits of wallpaper stuck to her hair.

At last the day came when we were ready to open. It was a Saturday morning, and Anouk and I had spent the previous day dressing the window with tempting displays of all kinds of mustard: grainy mustard, wholemeal mustard, golden mustard, Dijon mustard, all served in beautifully crafted gold or mustard-coloured boxes. We made sure that the aroma of mustard wafted out into the street, and the shop looked warm and welcoming.

Our first visitor that day was an elderly lady. She introduced herself as Bunty. She seemed to have the remnants of a winter cold, so I said,
"I know just the thing for you - it's on the house!" I served her with a steaming cup of my special recipe, Mustard Revival. She drank it down and thanked me.

She started to tell a sad tale of how she and her husband, Reg, would love to see their grandson, Daniel. His mother had stopped Daniel from visiting them after she had remarried.

We were interrupted by the arrival of the vicar. Bunty bade him 'Good Morning' and hurried out of the shop.

"Good morning, Mrs..er..." he faltered. "I'm not married." I replied. "Oh - sorry, I just assumed..." he tailed off, looking towards Anouk. "That's OK. Would you like a drink, vicar. I know just the thing for you."

"Oh - no thank you. I can't stand the stuff. My girlfriend just made me a dinner of all yellow stuff, and it was pretty awful."

"I'm sorry about that. Still, the ancient art of Mustard isn't for everyone, is it, vicar?"

"Call me Alan - everyone else does around here. Each to his own, as we say! I'm a Marmite man, myself."

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