Prized Spirit: Not So Spirited! Three Favourite Reads and 'Beyond the Limits'!

Prized Spirit is no. 8 with black and white silks

Prized Spirit is well-positioned here (in the middle of the pack) but she didn't have enough gas in her tank to finish well. See the race video below.

Shepherd.com asked me to submit my three favourite reads of 2025. I found it difficult to select them. My criteria are: I must have enjoyed reading the book (of course!); it's not a book everyone selects; and it bears some relation to my Meg Sheppard Mystery Series. They are all mysteries. I also gave preference to Canadian authors, and there are so many great ones. Two of the novels were written by Canadians, and the author of the remaining book is Irish. Find out which ones I picked and why, here: https://shepherd.com/bboy/2025/f/vicky-earle?referrer_id=d49178

Happy reading!

We had some very challenging words for the Uxbridge Writers' Circle meeting in October. Here they are: philosophy; ectoplasm; phosphorescence; periwinkle; crocodile; pickled punk!!!

Here's what I wrote:

Beyond the Limits

They said Dr Brockenhurst was mad. But that didn’t do him justice—he was unrestrainedly nuts. But his crazy, adventuresome mind earned him a nomination for a prestigious award, he told me. He added that he wouldn’t have accepted it. That made sense. Being a confirmed recluse, he preferred to have nothing to do with people except for the occasional assistant.

He hired me straight out of university. I don’t know how my name reached him. It’s a puzzle since he had so little contact with others. But he did, on occasion, have research articles published in the dubious magazine, ‘Beyond the Limits’.

Why would he select a Doctor of Philosophy to be his assistant? My thesis was about how society regards freaks. I suppose I did delve into how scientists have used freaks of human nature to expand scientific knowledge. Their deep dives were often unethical, harmful and even disturbing.

I suppose Dr Brockenhurst’s interest in me could have been germinated by an article which related to my thesis and concerned pickled punks. I say this because I was horrified to find he’d actually got some in his lab and they were even on display, rather than being hidden away. I couldn’t disguise the horror on my face as I stared with my mouth agape at the deformed, grotesque fetuses stored in formaldehyde. Dr Brockenhurst laughed and said they were bouncers. What did that mean? I found out later that it means they were fake—made of rubber. But that didn’t do a lot to put my mind at ease. Why did he have them at all, let alone proudly displayed?

To say I was apprehensive about working for him is an understatement. He had the stereotypical look of a mad scientist—long, unbrushed white hair, scraggy beard, penetrating dark eyes, and a lab coat with holes and stains that held many secrets within and without.

At the time I started in the lab, he was fascinated by phosphorescence. One of his incredible theories was that phosphorescence could heal skin cancer. After all, it’s a process that absorbs energy from radiation and then re-emits it as light over a period of time. When that didn’t give him the results he’d hoped for, he developed another theory, that phosphorescence could reverse aging of the skin. He developed spooky phosphorescent masks but with disappointing results. He told me his facial skin aged ten years, but I couldn’t really tell the difference, and was relieved he didn’t ask me to wear one. I’m a coward, and I would have left his crazy lab if he’d insisted.

Actually, I nearly left several times, including on the day he introduced me to Clive the crocodile. He had built an elaborate habitat for him, but he hadn’t revealed its purpose beforehand. The crocodile was cantankerous and edgy. It didn’t lie quietly in the water as I understood normal crocodiles do. He snapped his jaws at me, so I kept away. I don’t know what Dr Brockenhurst fed him, but I guessed it wasn’t enough. Even the periwinkle snails he’d chucked into the water escaped and crawled up the walls, adding to my angst. And I struggled to cope with the heat and humidity. Even Clive was panting one morning when the air was particularly sweltering.

Dr Brockenhurst was fascinated by the fact that crocodiles can replace their 64 teeth well over 50 times in their lifetime. They can get through up to four thousand teeth. But he struggled with his research. I questioned the validity of any findings because he had only one lab crocodile, but I kept mum.

The animal clamped down on his finger a few days later, and the screams still haunt me. Dr Brockenhurst’s yells were so ear-splitting that I had to do something. I can’t say I didn’t hesitate, though. I had no desire to wrestle with a crocodile—I’ve already mentioned that I’m a coward. And I’d become disillusioned with Dr Brockenhurst and was searching for a more fulfilling position in a calmer, less chaotic and more predictable environment.

Clive was the only crocodile I had had anything to do with, so my expertise amounted to a bit fat zero. My gut instinct and a vague recollection of something I’d seen on Instagram was all I had to go on. I surprised myself by being able to straddle the beast’s back with its hard armour that felt like arrowheads poking into my behind. Boy, they have tough bony scales. Curiously, I had a mug of steaming black coffee in my hand. It wasn’t part of a well-thought-out plan. I had no plan. I know I’ve heard somewhere, probably Facebook (doesn’t everyone learn everything from social media these days?), that their eyes are the most sensitive part. That’s pretty obvious when you’re seated painfully on a crocodile’s back. So, I twisted myself so that I could chuck some in each of his eyes. I think it was the shock that made Clive open his mouth enough for the crazy scientist to remove his hand.

I took Dr Brockenhurst to the hospital, but they couldn’t save his finger. My next mission was to return Clive to the zoo where he belonged. He’d been bred and raised there, so I didn’t have any concerns about his return. And there was no mention of Clive’s eyes, so he must have survived the ordeal in better shape than his carer.

I didn’t want to return to the lab either. But I couldn’t leave it unattended until Dr Brockenhurst was well enough to get back to work. I hoped the time he had to think would result in a plan for more reasonable and meaningful research. But it became much, much more surreal in his lab.

Dr Brockenhurst watched too many science fiction movies and alarmed me when he said his new research was to prove the hypothesis that ectoplasm is real. And he clarified that he didn’t mean the ectoplasm that’s the outer part of a cell’s cytoplasm. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I didn’t like the sound of any of it.

I ramped up my job search while he enthusiastically dove into his research about ectoplasm. My role was to review previous research studies, but I had to understand what paranormal ectoplasm was. And that’s not easy because I couldn’t find any documented scientific evidence that it exists. But even Arthur Conan Doyle was hooked on this make-believe stuff. He described it as ‘a viscous, gelatinous substance which appears to differ from every known form of matter in that it could solidify and be used for material purposes.’*

Dr. Brockenhurst was an avid Sherlock Holmes fan. He loved that Holmes had a strong scientific bent, particularly his deep knowledge of chemistry. So, Dr Brockenhurst was inspired to launch into his research on ectoplasm. I asked him where his funding came from, and he said he had no idea since his wife looked after the finances. His wife! I assumed he had no family, let alone a wife!

After I resigned—yes, I finally found a lecturer position—I searched out his wife, Marie. She was a charming and joyful woman and immediately zeroed in on why I was on her doorstep. She knew exactly what I wanted to know. She said it happens with nearly all the people who have worked for him. She told me he was stark, raving mad—her words—but she loved him dearly, and had lots of money, so she funded his projects but told little white lies. She told him she obtained funding from sponsors. She added that he’d had a couple of successes and was even nominated for a prestigious award by the ‘Beyond the Limits’ magazine.

She wished me well, and thanked me for saving her husband from a worse fate with Clive. I asked her if she knew about his ectoplasm research. Of course she did. It was her idea. After all, she was a medium and had seen ectoplasm with her own eyes when in a trance state. She was sure this research would get her husband that well-deserved award, and she would be delighted to accept it on his behalf.

*Doyle, Arthur Conan (1991) [1930] 'The Edge of the Unknown' New York City, G. P. Putman's Sons.

 Vicky Earle Copyright 2025

Prized Spirit

Mimi (Prized Spirit) sustained an injury last fall, and she was given many months to recover so as not to take any risks with her health and well-being. So, this was her first race after a long break. It will have helped her condition, and we hope that next time she will find her stride and her spirit!

Here's the race:

Wish her the best of luck for next time!

Christmas is coming!!!!!!

Books make great gifts (including the Meg Sheppard Mystery Series!). Please support your local bookstore (like our wonderful one in Uxbridge: Blue Heron Books).

Thank you.

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