Her love for him was in the shoulder felt recoil.

Yarr! It has been an age since I put anything onto my page, hence this wee tester.

The noxious tripe beneath these dodgy words is a first draft of a wicked little book designed to fill the nasty little hands of those with the ability to read, yet lacking the understanding that what they read is likely to diminish intellect.

Aside, it is nice to be back.

N. xxx

19. Chapter Nineteen – Slip

Ragged lumps of flesh were strewn helter skelter in no discernible pattern around the rear entrance to Notre Dame. 

Screaming, bloody, horror to witness.  Sheer pain filled terror that no matter the amount of flailing arms, nor ability to fight, or turn of speed for escape, would provide salvation.  This scenario allowed for none of that.  There was no escape here.  All to be found was the most savage of carnage.

Blood, gore, bone, and entrail covered four mundane, and not particularly fearsome domestic of animals.

Death – Mr. Darcy – Hound – Fox Terrier

War – Tea Time – Rabbit – Blanc de Hotot (white rabbit)

Famine – Scarlett – Cat – Dockside Ginger All Sort 

Conquest – Heathcliff – Goose – Toulouse ‘Vicious Bastard’ Goose

Mr. Darcy, after barking meaningfully three times, trotted off in the direction of the 1770’s.  The remaining three reluctantly followed, not entirely comfortable with the assumed Alpha Male role Mr. Darcy had taken upon himself.


Scallop, once more, displayed unusual agitation on reaching the iron hard rear door of the Notre Dame.  He jumped from the inside of Mini’s overalls to the ground, dashing up the stairs with agility and turn of speed enough to surprise all onlookers.  On reaching the desired room and camp site of the night previous, he began scratching around under one of the chairs, hiding himself from all, but positioning himself to have an outlook over all goings on in the room around him. All the others could see of him was the sapphire blue eye, a white patch of fur, then his ruby red eye, unblinking and brilliant.

Coffee was made.  People sat where they could, and Liv was unable to wash the delightful aroma of Paris, 1773, from her skin.

A call to arms. “Okay, we are going to move.  Quasi, are you coming for the ride?”

“In for a penny, you know the rest.”

“Alright.  We are aiming for the other side of the Seine.  Do you see that tree?  Good, aim for that.” arm outstretched, hand pointing.

Pieces of paper handed out, ferret shoved down the front of overalls, and away they went.


“John.” Mini the inquisitive. “Why did you pick ‘now’?”

Embarrassed silence.  “Aaaahhhh, ummmmm, I thought it would be a pleasant change?” kidding himself as much as he was kidding anyone else.

“John.” Liv. “ I have a feeling we are being hunted.”

“Yes, yes, it’s nice to know you’ve got feelings.”  Stress and anxiety showing in his tone of voice about as much as the absence of the Lusitania in Liverpool May, 1915.

A Pyroraptor, roughly knee high on adult humans and last seen in the late cretaceous, stalked them.  Its feathers causing no little dismay as this rather tragic looking, post lizard – pre bird, anomaly moved around them.

“You know John.” Quasi matter of factly.  “Little fish attract big fish.  Do you think the same would apply to feather duster dinosaurs?”

It was the quickest slip they had made as a group thus far. 1922 was never more appealing.

The original tree that had been their focal point on the corner of Rue Jacques and the Seine, now with an extra 149 years worth of growth, quickly faded into view.


To witness a cat, a rabbit, medium sized dog, and a shorter than the norm pony currently  suffering short equine syndrome, and friend to no man stroll past, would usually warrant a double blink, if not a half decent stair as an unrestrained collective wandering along is want to induce.

The same merry band in the 18th century anywhere can often fall under the banner of ‘haute cuisine’.  Meals on wheels were centuries away, but meals on hoof, foot, claw had been around longer than man has memory. 

Unfortunately for those that had a go at rounding them up, life went from being ‘years remaining’ to ‘seconds passing like years’, and in turn, became a meal themselves.

Temple Prison was reached and dismissed, as was Rue de Cleri, and lastly back in a loop toward the Notre Dame.

After a door was forced and steps were climbed, the tiny room was examined minutely.  The localities of the now departed slumberers proved the perfect place to inhale vast quantities of scent definitely belonging to the prey they sort.  With one exception.  Initially Scarlett hissed, drawing the others closer.  Mr. Darcy shouldered his way through the horde and set his muzzle to the same place Famine’s ginger cat reacted to.  Behind his closed eye’s he had an image of a sapphire blue eye, furry white bridge of nose, ruby red left eye of beast, right eye to look at.  Mr. Darcy then had a the same overwhelming sense of caution take hold of him.  Lastly, he felt heat.

He did not know why.

Whilst Mr. Darcy was conducting his examinations, Heathcliff the Goose was staring out of the room through all available portals.  He saw the Seine, filthy brown and thick enough to walk on; he saw other parts of the cathedral; he saw a tree.  The tree was no different to any others in the surroundings, with one exception.  It was slightly away from any other identifying feature, and it was just off the little island of which Notre Dame Cathedral loomed.

Communication between beasts of the Goosemen is not vocal.  There is no verbalisation or anything the like.  It does not involve interspecies charades that are no easier to decipher drunk than they are sober.  The written word, pictogram, and anything else scrawled does not get a look in.  Voices from Gods, your choice, would result in the type of committal reserved for only the most spectacularly insane.

Telepathy is their thing.  It draws no attention.  You don’t need to be breathing to be able to warrant attention.  No one can go over your notes at a later date.  Best of all you can really give it to someone and not another soul, ha ha, would know.  It can be used-inter geographically, and inter-chronologically.  Inter-geologically is just silly, all though it was tried and tested.

In a thought with the vocal pitch and tone of Barry White, Heathcliff began the conversation.

“Darcy, cast your eye yonder, to the sign post of your recent relief and passing?”

“You mean the tree on the other side of the Seine?” 

“Why yes.  Yes I do.  But do you see it man?!”

“I do.  You believe this to be the focal point?”

“That is my deduction.”

“Splendid.  I am on to it.”  With that Mr. Darcy focused, indirectly blotting out everything bar the tree.  He did not move.  The anomaly he felt was nothing new to him, someone in the same place twice is an everyday occurrence.  But not an everyday spanning thousands of years in one day occurrence.  However, that too had happened before.  The same odours and pulses were all there.  Focusing on one person across time is easier than tracking four across time due to the geographical variants.  This time he was having trouble on narrowing time and place down to just one.  Something was causing time to vaguely blur around not just the one, but the four as he tried to be specific in identifying each target individually.  All without luck.  He was able to pinpoint each of his prey, something which would ordinarily appear in his mind’s eye as a well defined individual, as one might see oneself in a mirror, with your location in time plus geography being the very centre.  What he was looking at was a momentarily still pond, which has the stillness of the surface horribly broken by a stone skipped across it by a ten year old boy.  And the image of you is not only broken into concentric onion like rings, with the identifying point for focus to reveal location and time being the splash in the water formed by the flat skipped stones second bounce.  It was all there, it was nothing his experiences could give guidance to him with, but, the figure of the prey was right there in front of his mind’s eye, but chronically out of reach.

At least it was up until he closed his minds’ eye, and opened his nose to the scent, the prey’s scent.  Again, this had been subtly tampered with, but not enough to throw him.  As such, away they went.  That late cretaceous offered pleasures none of them had known before.    


“I thought there would have been more cars.  Mostly I see gooses, odd trucks, one or two motorbikes, but hardly any cars.  Incredible.”  Mini the observer.

“Joan of Arc, where are we going, and you need to finish telling us the rest of that tale, of you in a dress, and having a crackling good time.”  Liv

“Ha ha” a witless, drier than an Englishmans’ bath towel, response cunningly phrased by Joan de Arc. “we are moving away from where we have travelled so far.  We are going to need transport.  Anyone got anything of value?”

“We could put her on a corner for the night.  That should be worth a bob or two in the morning.”

Quasimodo saw the haymaker approaching, and quickly  gooseed to his left, catching the brunt of the blow on the hump.

“Lighten up girl, just having a lend, just having a lend.” digging the hole deeper.

“Alright, pull ya heads in you two.  We need to head south out of Paris.  By foot is out of the question in relation to distance.  We’re in 1922 now, so most things while quicker than walking are not going to get us there in a hurry.  Hmmmmm……………I think I’m having a plan” still with the charcoal grin never once changing shape with his face.


End Chapter 19.  



All posts and associated intellectual properties regards ‘therebemonstershere.com’ remain ©The World Turned Upside Down.

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2 Comments Add yours

  1. rugby843 says:

    Hey! I read an old blog of mine and saw your icon, realizing I have not seen you on WP for ages! How are you? I hope safe and well.


  2. You are the best! I am well, as I hope you are. Over the last 18 months I’ve been tied up with a plethora of other ventures, hence, sadly this particular blog has been somewhat neglected. Aside, lovely to hear from you once more, and my very best to you and yours. N.


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