Alligator Tale

‘Smile mum, don’t look so nervous. Say Miami.

Three, two, one ….. Miameeee. 

Sunny Miami!’

Thud.

That was the instant that changed everything, including our plans for the rest of the holiday. Until then, we had been doing the usual touristy things, soaking up the sun and enjoying the apricot marmalade light of early evening as we walked among the swaying palms.  Our bodies moved against a backdrop of the vast hazy blue sky and lapping sea. Multi-coloured pastel buildings, tan bodies in earnest activity, all surrounded us like a comforting blanket, reassuring us that we were somewhere different to home.  The digital memory of my phone was already at brimming point with images of beach huts, snazzy sports cars and riverside mansions too perfect to be populated.

I had insisted on taking the children to the Everglades for the day. We endured the car journey to get there and the queue in the heat, relieved to be finally seated on the boat tour. After gliding through the still waters, skimming through reeds and exclaiming at the fairy-like birds swooping in and away from our boat, we alighted and shuffled our way along with the other visitors, obediently following the signs to the ‘Alligator Show’.

Sitting in a white open air amphitheatre, we listened to the alligator expert telling us lots of facts that he told us we could probably all google. He held a long staff with which he liked to tease the alligators. I had the impression we were being given a presentation masterclass on how evoke Gandalf, Indiana Jones and Crocodile Dundee all in one. His jokey style was delivered with a fitting deep booming voice, inducing a regular ripple of chuckles from us as if he were a conductor with his orchestra. Although the orchestra members were not exactly heaving with exuberance, they offered the right amount of cooperation perfectly on cue.

He delivered his key takeaway messages.  Alligators are not crocodiles! Why do you need me to tell you what you can look up online? The Miami police take the welfare of alligators very seriously and anyone attempting to kidnap, kill or trade in them without permission will be punished with a hefty fine or imprisonment.  All the alligators in the show are rescues, and the staff are all volunteers, so any contributions to the good work of the organisation will be very appreciated, thank you. He waved his wand towards a smeared acrylic box at the front containing a layer of coins and a few crisp notes of different colours.

His assistant, an athletic, brown muscled young man with a laid-back smile, moved confidently around the alligators, in unison with the Big Wizard’s words. Gasps rushed round the arena as he placed his arms around one giant alligator’s snout and prised its jaws wide, revealing a phenomenal array of pointy, tobacco-stained teeth shards. 

The sun was beating down on my face; my throat was dry. Seeing those alligators all heaped close to each other, just like we were in the audience, made me suddenly feel uncomfortable. My shoulder blades felt itchy and a line of sweat trickled down my back.

Next, we filed out, straight into a zoo-like group of small enclosures.  There was a barren feel to some of them. Maybe the heat had forced a gecko into its hole. Maybe a python had died and the wardens had found it too difficult to purchase a successor.

In a corner, stood a young male next to a sign which read, ‘Get your photo with a baby alligator - $20’

I thought of all the snapshots I had taken already of my children on the beach, smiling in front of a burnt pink lifeguard hut, wind blowing their hair horizontally across their laughing faces. The group shots of us in front of candy coloured Art Deco buildings, with slightly fixed wooden smiles because we didn’t know exactly when my husband would press the shutter button.

‘Let’s do that!’ I said to my children without hesitation.

We stepped into the shady enclosure and the bored young man, dressed in a limp white grey T-shirt and baggy shorts, perked up as we approached.  He went to a wooden cage, reached inside and pulled out the baby alligator.

‘You go first, mum!’

The young man held out the alligator with both hands, as if handing me a plush towel at a luxury spa reception.

I felt my first flicker of nerves. Why was I doing this? The other tourists had passed straight through, keen to get refreshments in the blistering heat. No doubt some of them, after having sated their initial curiosity to see some alligators, didn’t want to linger in a sorry half-empty animal enclosure. Weren’t we all meant to be over this animal slavery for mere entertainment. The show had been educational, but this was overstepping it, I knew that.

I would handle this small creature with compassion. But with speed, just enough for a good image of me looking brave and adventurous.

Presenting my arms forward,  the young man placed the baby alligator gently on both my raised palms. It felt weighted, like a large slab of kneaded pastry, neither too cold nor too hot, a perfect temperature that comforted my hands. I had been expecting to feel rough scales, but instead, the thick skin was of a smooth firmness not unlike the palms it rested on.  The alligator weight kind of sank into my hands. Not tense, relaxed but not floppy. For me a new sensation. For it, a familiar routine of repetitive to-ing and fro-ing, which it accepted passively in exchange for food and rest, knowing no other life in the wild.

Once used to the feel, I opened my squinted eyes to gaze at the face of this new friend. Its eyes and long snout were right there, in my hands. All of a sudden, I looked into the round, glassy, still eye and thought back to the giant alligator jaws of the show. Could this little alligator be doing what in nature it did best, lying low and still until the perfect moment when Snap! It would open its jaws and sink its little spiky daggers into my flesh?

‘Smile mum, don’t look so nervous. Say Miami.

Three, two, one ….. Miameeee. 

Sunny Miami!’

I looked up to face the camera and remembered to unfrown my face and hold the alligator a little less than at arm’s length. Wait, I thought. Where is the alligator’s mouth? As soon as the creature was no longer in my sight, my trust and self-control drained from me, leaving in their place just pure fear.

Snap!

Thud!

‘No, no, mum, what are you doing!’ My children shrieked.

I had flipped apart my hands apart instinctively. They felt weightless and when I looked down, they were empty. I had dropped the poor animal. I refocused my eyes further down and saw the grey-brown baby predator right next to my feet, turning its head side to side, looking afraid.  The slits of its eyes were on me the whole time ready for me to make the first move.

‘Aagh!’ I jumped up high in fright to escape any quick dart of the small beast onto my body for revenge. This happened at the same time that the young assistant dived in low to try to grab the creature. I closed my eyes and panicked, landing on something that was not flat ground. Was it the keeper’s hand? I couldn’t be sure and a flash of irritation passed through me. ‘Aagh!’ I jumped up and down again. ‘Get it away from me!’ Perhaps I was thinking about the keeper’s hand.

‘No, mum, no!’

So that, then, is how I came to kill a baby alligator on holiday.

What came after was a hazy few hours of police sirens and questioning. I filled out endless forms with my name, address, hotel, reasons for being in Miami, over and over again, resulting in me being judged responsible for the death of one baby alligator, sentenced to two nights in jail and a hefty fine. To make the time pass, I kept thinking of the afternoon I could have had instead if I had passed straight through to the shop refrigerators filled with chilled drinks, the doors leading at the same time out onto the hotel balcony with its sweeping vistas of North Beach and fresh crashing waves.

That time in the cell has been airbrushed in my mind. A defence to forget the humiliating powerlessness I felt.

Some memories stick with me, like when a police guard slows down in front of me seated and pans his gun muzzle across my face, inviting me to startle back. The way they look beneath my face when they speak to me as if my breasts are my only measure of worth to them. The watery scrambled eggs; they could have been for breakfast, lunch or dinner, with the splodge of watery ketchup and that bluebottle stuck in it, legs still twitching.

A journalist visited me in the cell to ask my side of the story and to take a photo.

Later, much later, back in London, my children would talk about this day, laughing, one of their favourite stories to tell about me. They had kept the news article published in the local Miami Herald, written along the lines of ‘Stupid Brit blunders again in our precious nature reserves!’ There, a photo of me, looking pale and resigned to my fate, head sticking out through the bar grille doors.

I too, join in with the general bantering tone at dinner parties, deep down relieved that I have something interesting to say about myself. The story never fails to entertain. It beats all those times before when I had to go through the motions, one eye on the clock as I finished dessert, feeling empty.

I have lived, I can say. I have been in prison. I wrestled with an alligator. Everyone understands it was just an accident.

But when I am away from the parties, alone and lost in thought, I wonder, if that day, in that moment, I wasn’t just afraid. Perhaps, deep down, in my subconscious, I had a powerful impulse to do something altogether crazy, attention grabbing and dangerous. That need had to be satisfied right there right then. 

I often drift back to that day. The flashbacks can visit me at any time, without warning, but they always remind me of the lasting effect that single moment has had on my world order of things.

I am haunted by having killed that adorable, helpless young creature. 

Every now and then, during the onset of winter, the shop window displays change and I eye a spotlit pair of pointed heeled shoes in that unmistakeable pattern. Even though I know they are of course fake, it never fails to hit me, particularly when they are in shades of grey or brown. Call them croc, alligator or whatever leather, when I glance at the items, a shudder runs through my entirety. I see the image as clear as any phone-captured photo, of a long alligator, draped across my feet, neck twisted, jaw open and still, marble eyes looking up at me as if in a silent, knowing chuckle. An in-joke that we share between us, and that no-one else, will never ever truly get to know.

This story was inspired by the thought that life can change in an instant, due to an unexpected event that ends up becoming a defining moment in one’s life. I wonder reader, do you have any ‘what if that hadn’t happened’ moments? I’d love to hear.

Creature of the Night Part Two

The story so far:

The demon from the 4th circle of Hell (greed) is coming down to earth to harvest a few fresh souls to torment. He’s after the ‘difficult to reach’ ones as special trophies.

What he must bear in mind is the one rule that the Big Man has given them ‘Don’t get involved’……

We have a rota for all of this – we’re a pretty well managed lot you see, and it’s my turn for planet earth this evening. So I decide to visit one of my all-time favourites: your century and your capital - London. I’ll go Clubbing, to one of my regular haunts: a great dark hangar of a venue just south of the river.

It’s an easy trip and as I shoot through the atmosphere, and get closer, my excitement builds. Approaching the building through the clouds, and well before I materialise at the edge of the floor, my gradually pupating human form is already vibrating with the thrum of some serious drums and bass. Then I slowly let my eyes become accustomed to a sight that never fails to thrill me.

High above me in this vast space, laser lights in electric blues, emerald and fuchsia, strafe the darkness, criss-crossing it with surgical relentlessness, their brilliance casting the heaving Friday night mass of humanity into silhouette. They seem to be in thrall to the DJ and his crew, elevated on a dais, mixing the sounds and watching the bobbing heads: waving hands, pointing fingers, while on scattered podia, clad in form fitting flame Lycra, athletic dancers thrust and glide, their movements enhanced by softer lights, gently pulsing around them.

Enraptured by the intensity and general Friday night euphoria –it’s been a bit grey back home lately on account of recent heavenly tariffs on fire and brimstone – I watch until my reverie is interrupted by a Drag Queen, glorious: their hairy chest tightly laced into a scarlet basque above black harem pants.

‘Hello.’ They gush, flitting blue lidded eyes at me while stroking a robust black moustache. ‘I’m Stella, who are you?’

I move away with a shake of my head. Not my target – I can’t go trespassing on a colleague’s Circle and anyway, we’ve learnt over the centuries that the few of these creatures of paradise who do qualify, tend to be disruptive.

No, today I’m after the greedy; got to stick my brief, especially those living lives of gluttonous luxury and ease off the backs of others. They are the ones with the furthest to fall. Their suffering so enjoyable to observe when they find themselves amid the choking stench of poverty amid the Fourth Circle. Tonight it’s the dealers I’m after. The big ones.

From my vantage point I let my eyes rove. It takes a little while but then they become easy to spot: the pasty, puffy faced Eastern European types; the weasel faced, pallid with pimples; the tattooed, mallet headed thugs.

You know the sort. Of course you do - you’ve seen their mug shots on the front of the Daily Mail. Well, they’re the ones that get arrested because they’re so damned obvious. 

I don’t want them.

What I’m after is the one you’ll never see in the Press because they never get caught. That one perfect fruit that’s almost unreachable. I continue to scan the room

Then I see a hand, soft and white as a fresh napkin, draped insouciantly over the arm of a red velvet chair. It’s attached to a languorous figure, dressed in a fine bone-coloured linen suit. White-blond hair slicked back, with a slight curl at the nape of the neck, cheekbones like scimitars and above them, eyes as impassive as an Egyptian cat.

Here’s the Master of the Universe I’m after! The Dealer’s Dealer. And you know what, I’m willing to bet he’ll have a Lamborghini or Bentley carelessly slewed across the double yellows outside.

As I watch, two of his minions approach. Scrawny young women with tell-tale indigo circles below their eyes, crusted scars and scabs on their pale inner arms. When he sees them, his photo-perfect face is transformed into an ugly snarl as words are exchanged. The frightened girls scuttle away.

Now, I’m certain. It’s time to make my move. He looks up. Eye contact. Polar blue eyes sizzle into mine like weapons of shock and awe, leaving me momentarily numb. My mind whirls.

‘Do something, say something, act…….., before the moment is lost.’

I make a move.

‘You selling?’ I ask somewhat feebly.

A dismissive sneer crosses his face, and he makes an idle gesture around his assorted crew populating the club.

‘They’re selling.’ He replies, his white hand lazily batting me away.

Conversation over. This isn’t good, I need to engage, to land my hook properly, find a weak spot.

The car! I could gamble on my hunch about the car. Dressed like that, there’s no way he would have come on the bus.

‘Nice set of wheels you have outside’ I say.

‘My wheels? You like them?’

I nod.

‘The Lambo covered in purple velvet? Yeh. It’s cool’.

It’s a start. Carefully I consider his clothes: scarlet silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, red cashmere socks to match, encased in polished brown leather loafers. And that watch peeking out from his sleeve; it has enough buttons and dials to send him into orbit.

Vain, yes, he’s vain. A little flattery might be all it would take.

‘Nice suit too.’ I continue.

‘Savile Row’

‘You’re a man of wealth and taste.’ I say with a slight smile.

 ‘You have a decent eye, my friend.’ As he assesses my clothes with some disdain.

I’d gone for black. You can never go wrong with black, but I must confess, it was more Primark than Prada.

Budgets, you see, are carefully controlled in the Fourth Circle. With us being Greed, going out in some designer clobber would be hypocrisy, and completely unethical.

I smile. ‘I’d like to think that one day I might aspire to your standards.’

Do I see a little warmth creeping into his features? Am I winning him over by my skilled combination of flattery and humility?

There’s a long pause, backed the pounding rhythm of the bass.  I wonder if this is what having a heart might feel like.

Eventually he gives out a relaxed sigh.

‘So,’ he says. ‘You want to be like me?’

I nod in a manner I like to think is a combination of servility and sincerity.

‘You’ve got some nerve.’ He says, ‘But I like that. In fact, I’m taking a bit of a shine to you. Care to keep me company? Join me in a line or two?’ He indicates the empty velvet chair beside him. I sit.

Then with barely discernible gesture of his forefinger, one of his team shimmers into sight, and deposits a small white packet and virgin fifty-pound note on the glass-topped table, before evanescing just as quickly back into the crowd.

With a dealer’s sleight of hand, my quarry makes four neat, white powdery lines with a small blade on the mirrored surface, criss-crossing the ‘No Drugs’ sign reflecting there.  Then he rolls the banknote and passes it to me.

‘Be my guest.’

My wolflike inner maw drools and slavers. He’s playing right into my hands. Pushover, Pushover, Pushover!!

 I have all the proof I need. 

I could take him here and now.

I should take him here and now.

 But I don’t. Having hooked my big fish, it’s only sporting to play him along for a while.

Black Diamond

I like to think of it as mine. I’ve been around long enough, longer than my closest mates, that owner’s rights ought to befall me. But I can be generous, of course. On weekdays between 9am-5pm I pretty much have to, and during the summer, forget about it, a pure free-for-all.

My favourite vantage point is from the water, on a day like today bobbing in the breeze, a gentle current tugging at my legs. I hardly need to stretch my neck to take in the entirety of it. Shimmering as it does in the sun, sparkles cascading off the polished black granite. I puff out my chest, one can be proud. 

The heavy hum of a diesel engine and the cackle of foreign tourists destroy the moment. Another of those wretched canal boats. Like pendulums they swing back and forth across the inner harbour, stopping at selected focal points for passengers to gawk and point their phones. Show some respect I feel like announcing. Naturally, they won’t understand me.

“Straight ahead you see the new extension of the royal library, housing all works of literature published here. One of the largest collections in the Nordics.” The tinny voice traveling through the microphone tells a story I’ve heard a million times before. They usually omit the fact that my favourite fairytale lives there. Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Ugly Duckling”.

Someone throws an empty can out the side of the boat, almost hitting me. The gall. The sacrilege. Enough. I hiss loudly as I rise tall, spreading my white feathers, the broadest wingspan I can muster. That’ll show them. No matter what they say, it’s my Black Diamond. 

Inspired by the Curtis Brown Creative flash fiction competition prompt “Landmark” and the Royal Library in Copenhagen, fondly known as the Black Diamond.

Emily

He tugs at his mum’s sleeve, but she doesn't notice. She’s chatting to Mrs. Lawler. Ashley pulls faces at him from the back of the Volkswagen Beetle. 

“Mummy!  Mummy, can you take me to school tomorrow?”  She doesn't hear, and all of a sudden, it’s too late

“See you in the morning Krish!” Mrs Lawler shouts from the wound-down window, before driving away. 

After breakfast the next day, Krish puts on his coat and waits; they’re late. A car horn blasts outside, he jumps up. His mother opens the front door while holding the baby, and gives him a kiss goodbye. 

“Can we see Emily after school today, Mummy?”

“Hmm we’ll see.”

“Hurry up! Mrs Lawler calls over to him. 

Krish climbs in next to Ashley;  Ashley is in the middle, next to him is Suzy. At nine and three quarters, Suzy is much older and doesn’t say hello. Ashley starts prodding him. 

“Stop it,” Krish says. 

“Stop it,” mimics Ashley.

“Shut up Ashley,” says Suzy 

“You’ve got to be nice to me, it’s my birthday!”

Ashley and Suzy start arguing, Mrs. Lawler starts yelling. Krish gazes out of the window. The car turns onto the main road; that’s when he sees her. Past rows of houses, over the treetops and beyond the wavy fields, watching out for him. Emily. 

In the classroom they practice writing sentences. Krish's handwriting wobbles about, refusing to be straight. 

“Letters on the line please! ” says Mrs Kendry as she walks past. 

He rubs it out and starts again, but he’s pressed down on the pencil far too hard - the old smudged letters linger beneath the new. It’s worse than before. Outside, the sky is darkening, dun clouds draw in, but Emily is still there. She blinks and twinkles at him, sending out her signals. 

“Krish stop daydreaming!” Mrs. Kendry shouts. She walks back over to him, peering down at the exercise book. “My word, what a mess, do it again and concentrate this time!”

Towards the end of the day, Ashley brings a cake to the front desk, they all line up for a slice. Krish reaches the front, Mrs. Kendry says no cake for daydreamers. 

At home-time he looks out for his mother, but she isn’t there -  Mrs. Lawler is.

“You’re with us again Krish, your baby sister’s a bit poorly and mummy’s taken her to the doctor. Suzy’s at a friend’s so the three of us can do something fun!”

Krish looks down at his shoes.

They drive along unfamiliar roads - past wide green fields and brown stone walls. Sun rays shoot through gaps in the clouds, brightening up the sky. The car stops at the bottom of a hill. Krish stares upwards. 

“Emily!” he blurts out. 

“A little bird told me you wanted to visit the Emley Moor Mast.” Mrs Lawler turns around, smiling at him. 

“You can have some cake now - if you like?” says Ashley. 

This piece was inspired by a flash-fiction competition on the theme of ‘Landmarks’. The original remit was 300 words- for this version I added an extra 146.