OF A GIRL NAMED ‘MAYDAY’

Prior to her exploitation, she had deduced she needed hard currency and friends.
That to be immersed within this human race, such things paid worthy dividends
yet time was not on her side, she would be carbon dust by dawn’s first light
her incineration, the chosen method, ridding the cosmos of the blight
the wise men perceived as actual, for she defied all natures laws,
overlooking entirely that she was Aristotle’s final cause.

Given a choice in the matter she would never have opted to be one of a kind. Sadly, she was never afforded a say. In hindsight, and given her current situation, her designer had come to a similar conclusion that he should have kept her very existence a confidential thing until the time was right.

It was at The Linnean Society of London, arguably once the epicentre of natural history and taxonomy he first let his, upon reflection, diseased self-esteem part company with sanity, and had proudly presented her in all her glory to his peer group of esteemed biologists and interested academics.  His presumption that his genius would bring forth accolades and plaudits across all corners of the globe, sadly ill-founded. Instead, he would be vilified by one and all as the creator of a monster that challenged the authenticity of the human species being at the very zenith of The Tree of Life.


Two poached eggs set upon a nest of saagwala her preferred last supper. That the self-effacing duty officer acceded to her request, an act of startling kindness toward one who was, in essence and indeed, in actuality a miraculous collection of handpicked organic cells encased, as of the moment, in a ghastly prison cell in a place far, far away from the public eye.

“I’ve heard tell you have the same emotions, same intelligence, same state of consciousness as a regular human being, yet you cannot catch a head cold?”

“You are correct, yet I am however, capable of crying, laughing and dancing a waltz when the mood takes. I should perhaps add that I never fart or belch.” 

Trying his level best not to laugh at her remark, he continued, “Why did he…that professor bloke who made you…name you ‘Mayday’?”

“Because that was the day he completed his work; the first of May, the day I came into being.”

“He’s banged up doing forced labour in some archipelago now by the way. So you never had a childhood; you just came into being.”

“Yes, I was not born of a mother. I am ‘unique’ they say…well that plus the fact they see me as a threat to your species were I to breed with one of you. Moreover, many don’t like the thought of a highbred. I understand as it conflicts with long held devout beliefs. Those people think me the Devil’s daughter.”

Was it a tear she saw in his eye…it mattered not…as he continued, “You are not the Devil’s daughter, you are the most beautiful creature there has ever been; you deserve better than the fate that awaits.”

“Thank you, kind Sir.”

“Do you know why the professor just made the one version of you? I mean to say he could surely have come up with a male prototype to keep you company? He could have called you Eve and him Adam I’m guessing!”

“If I recall he said, ‘There is more scope for compassion within the female of any species, no place for a male in the new order I envisage’ or words to that effect”

Later, into the early hours, over more than a glass or two of moonshine
he shared memories with Mayday, told of his childhood days, so sublime.
With that he unlocked her cell door, took her hand, made good her getaway.
Even now all that is really known of her, is just her name, the name ‘Mayday’

Should my recent work take your fancy, herewith the links. I believe the Kindle thingy is free; the paperback inexpensive;

Copyright © 2020. All rights reserved. Unauthorised copying, reproduction, hiring, and lending, prohibited although in a crisis I’ve no issue with any reader using the pages of said books as emergency’s loo roll.


18 thoughts on “OF A GIRL NAMED ‘MAYDAY’

    1. My thanks, Ms S. I’m of the opinion there’s a tale to tell from this piece. At least this lockdown thing and constant freezing rain affords time to write, if nothing else. I sometimes think living in a house built in 1888 was a mistake. It’s almost impossible to keep the place warm, let alone hot. Anyhow, and much more important, how is your writing going?

      1. Now then young Mike, if you had asked me re old houses and heating them, having spent the best part of 30 years living in an 1860s, with a huge basement, we never opened, right above the howling river Tay, with the original windows still in, ceilings that would have accommodated a giant beneath their ornate framework, I’d have said ‘if you want to spend more than the mortgage each month on the heating even in July, ‘on yirself.’ In other words, dinna be so bloody daft. But you know? One learns these things for oneself. Now we have an upper and bits of the lower floor Edwardian, further back from the river and with glazing and it is fine. Truly i now liken that other time in my life to being Arctic explorers, wearing fur coats to bed and all. So I well know where you are coming from. I am getting there with a new book. the Follow up to the last one. Hopefully word soon . Hope you are good too and overcoming the freezing rains.

      2. What a cracking good line, ‘liken that other time in my life to being Arctic explorers, wearing fur coats to bed and all’. The older one gets, the colder one gets, I find. My son’s flat at the top of the house, to me, is freezing yet he wanders about in sleeveless t-shirts and shorts. The annoy thing is that we don’t want to move house for this old lump has got all we need, aside from heat. The days when the IBS flare up are the bad ones when the weather plays cruel games, but I am doing my level best not to let it depress. One benefit is being able to write without worrying. Locked in, writing does keep my mind at work, and not constantly considering when the next flare-up is on its way. It is good the hear you’ve another book on the way. ‘Tis the likes of you…particularly you, as I and others can verify…have given rise, through support and advice, to those others and I to have done the self-same thing and write for ourselves. We all owe you. You need a posh badge of respect, Ms S.

      3. A young thing like you feeling the cold??? Actually mr M feels the cold and he never used to. I have Raynauds I am sure I am cold in fact when my fingers turn black I know i am cold, I just don’t know it. If you are happy where you are then don’t part with it. This is a horrible cold snap. and yeah our house was generally like a fridge but a couple of the rooms at the back on the yard where there was an annex bit sheltering them, were okay. Obvi we had given one of those to one of the kids.But had we stayed on when it was just us we’d have used it as a winter bedroom. Either that or put a log burner in ours. There’s ways. I just know there were rooms like the dining room which was the old washhouse that you could never ever heat. In fact one Christmas Day we all sat with our coats on. You’d take bad with a smaller place actually. Now listen, your words are very kind, truly. I just about fell away. But honestly write for yourself because at the end of the day you have to be true to you and your heart has to be in it. Yeah you can tweak the odd thing if someone points something out to you and you think…right enough, that is better… but it is your book, your thoughts, your passion.

    1. I teeter no more. As an ancient I find too much wine has that teetering effect…as was the case the other day. Ever since I swapped wine for tedium although that won’t last too long. My thanks for your kind words. Regards, The Old Hypersensitive Wine Quaffer

    1. My thanks, Pam. The song is from Reed’s ‘Magic & Loss’ album, you may well know that already so please forgive if I’m rattling on. ‘Tis my favourite of all Reed’s work. Regards, The Old Fool

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