Uncle Silas

There was a buzzing sound which mounted to a crescendo, it was the chattering of millions of words swirling around with a life of their own.

“Bunty, they’re alive!” exclaimed the disembodied voice of Lola from somewhere.

“What are?” asked Bunty from somewhere else.

“The words, Bunty, they’re living!”

Bunty strongly suspected that wherever Lola and Padraig were they had been partaking of exotic herbs as Lola sounded stoned out of her brains.

“Look! They’re dancing, it’s beautiful!” she drawled.

But then Bunty could see them too and Padraig, Lola and Branwell, or at least their heads which were floating in space.

“We’re at the beginning of everything!” said Lola, her hair floating around her in spirals.

“But it’s words Lola!” said Bunty.

“I know! The ancients were right! The alphabet is magical, each letter has a corresponding number and the harmonics created everything! They sang and that’s how magic works! Words really do have power Bunty! That’s how the grimoire works!” said Lola.

“I would normally disagree respectively Miss,” said Padraig “but I’m a giant floating head in outer space.”

“Now it all makes sense!” said Bunty.

And as improbable as it seems, it did.

Branwell looked ill.

Then they were somewhere else.

It was a navy blue and tempestuous night with thunder and lightning in abundance.

Lola found herself standing on a stone parapet of a castle wearing ever such a nice white lacy nighty.

“Oh not again!” she moaned, as the sky lit up.

Bunty was in the dining room which was sparsely lit with candles which cast gruesome shadows on the walls.

A raggedy creature in a smoking jacket loped around the room gibbering with a silver salver.

“Would you like  some peas?” it asked Bunty, thrusting a spoon laden with maggots in her face; it was Dorking.

Bunty was dressed in late Georgian attire wearing a turban which sported a peacock feather in turquoise silk with a dress modeled on a kaftan and she seemed to be wearing some rather firm foundation under garments.

“Ooh, I must tell Lola!” she thought declining the “peas”  “she’d be so impressed with me!”

Dorking hit himself in the face with the spoon and hit himself on the head with the salver.

“Monkeys!” he gibbered, “Science! I’m right Lola’s mad! she’s on the parapet and no-one can save her! Tee hee! I’ve got laser vision! I’m going to take all her money!”

Bunty braced herself-which was jolly impressive;

“Gothic, ” she surmised, “typical of Lola, but which one?”

“I say, you sir” she cried, “are you Lola’s uncle by any chance?”

“Yes, Uncle Silas!” he groaned.

Lola was fed up;

“This is always happening!” she cried, “Now I’ll have to rip up this lovely nightie to make a rope and swing down it naked. I’m sick of rescuing myself! One of these days I’ll find a real man who will look after me!”

She sat down heavily and sobbed fumbling around to see if her night dress had any pockets which might contain cigarettes and possibly a lighter.

“I think I’ll give up!” she cried.

Then she heard the sound of a foot dragging.


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