Total Pageviews

Thursday, 25 February 2010

'Hungry' #fridayflash

(This story was initially 60% longer so I had to employ some significant editing to get it down to the right length for inclusion in FridayFlash. Let me know what you think....)


The invention of the Internet was a life-changing event for Eric. As a man with 'specialised interests' he had often struggled to see his needs fulfilled but with the advent of superfast connection there were now more 'big beautiful women' than hours in the day.

At first Eric had been content as a passive spectator, bookmarking such favourites as 'Ample Amateurs', 'Big British Babes' and the eloquently monickered 'Fat and Desperate'. After a while however the material became repetitive, and many of the sites seemed to offer not genuine 'big girls' but slender young things with ridiculously disproportionate breasts. This was no good; Eric wanted to see women with real passion rather than those soulless professionals going through the motions. Eric had seen adverts promising encounters beyond your dreams with no strings attached, and a little googling led him to a niche variant on this theme - 'Big Gurls Meetups’. The site offered very small pictures of extremely large ladies, many posing in underwear or even less. Eric found these photos something of a turn off; half the joy of large women was the mysterious excitement of wondering what was under their clothes. Daphne however had submitted a photo demurely dressed in long floral skirt and navy blouse - more Sunday school teacher than hooker. Eric was instantly drawn in and sent a message expressing an interest in 'getting to know her'.

Several days passed and Eric had begrudgingly accepted that Daphne wasn’t interested when an email pinged into his inbox with the header ‘Feeling Hungry?’.

‘Thanks for your email. As you clearly appreciate I am a woman with great appetites which I hope you will be able to satisfy. I would be delighted if you would meet me outside Temple station at 6pm on Saturday for a bite to eat and a chance to get to know each other. Yours, Daphne.’

Having never done anything like this before Eric felt nervous and unsure of the protocol for such an encounter – should he bring flowers? Smart or casual dress?
As he made his way to Temple Eric became nervous to the point that he contemplated turning round and heading home, however when he arrived at the station and caught sight of her he knew he’d made the right decision to see this through. As in her photo Daphne was smartly dressed and her hair was pulled back in a demure chignon. Her cheeks were flushed and she was nervously fiddling with a large ring on her right hand.


The longest second of Eric’s life ticked by before their eyes met and a smile simultaneously spread across their faces.

'Eric! So glad you made it. Don't know about you but I'm starving - there's a great pizzeria around the corner if you fancy it?'

The date went well with few awkward moments. Their first bottle of Chianti was quickly downed and Eric was pleased when Daphne ordered a second – he had feared that she was dining out of politeness and secretly engineering a quick getaway. As Eric settled the bill (she had offered to split but he had insisted), Daphne took hold of his hand. The feeling of her chubby fingers entwined with his sent a bolt of pleasure surging through Eric.

'That was wonderful; she whispered. 'Now, don't feel obliged if you have plans, but I'm still hungry and was wondering if you’d like to come back to mine for a quick bite?'

For a moment Eric thought he was having a heart attack, such was the impact of Daphne's invitation. In the years since his wife had left Eric had not so much as held hands with a woman, and now he was being invited back by a veritable plus sized goddess.

'That would be wonderful;' he managed to stutter.

As soon as they reached her flat Daphne poured another glass of wine and told Eric to make himself comfortable whilst she 'prepared herself'. She drew the curtains and locked the door; 'Don’t want any disturbances now, do we?'

Whilst Daphne retreated to her room Eric lounged amongst cushions almost as plump as their owner. Woozy from drinking far more than he was used he leant to rest on the end of the sofa but managed instead to bang hard against the coffee table at the side. With his forehead throbbing he leapt to his feet and called out;

'Er Daphne, do you have any ice? I've managed to bang my head. Idiot.’

Several seconds passed without a reply and with a fierce bump developing Eric decided to look for some ice himself. He could hear music coming from what he assumed was Daphne's bedroom but walked straight past to the kitchen. Located in the corner was a large American style fridgefreezer. He opened the door and bent to look for something that he could use to relieve the swelling. He was hoping for crushed ice or maybe frozen peas, but the freezer just seemed to be full of joint after joint of meat. Spotting a bag of sweetcorn lurking Eric pulled out a couple of the joints and put them on the floor. It was only as he heard Daphne's door creak open
that he noticed the labels on the unusually shaped joints.

‘Colin - 10/1/2010'
‘Ryan - 4/2/2010'

With a start Eric spun round to see Daphne, wearing what could only be described as a large bib, brandishing a long knife that glistened menacingly under the halogen light. 'Hungry, are we?' she asked. 'I see you've found my latest victims'.

Terrified, Eric dropped the bag of corn by his feet. He'd always been attracted by a big appetite, but an appetite for human flesh – well that was quite a different thing. Feeling that he had nothing to lose he pushed past her, ran down the corridor, twisted the key in the lock and fled for his life, not looking back until he reached the safety of a busy main road. Still standing in the kitchen Daphne was mystified. Eric had seemed so into her and she had been looking forward to spending the night with him. Quite why he was so turned off by the fact that she kept and butchered her own pigs she would never know, but on the plus side she wouldn’t have to share the Parma ham that she had just freshly carved.

Thursday, 18 February 2010

Ambulance Chasers #fridayflash

Have the misfortune to find yourself in any accident and emergency unit and you'll probably find them skulking around somewhere nearby; surreptitiously slipping business cards onto waiting room chairs or handing out flyers to the smokers congregated outside, shivering away in hospital gowns and with IV drips at their sides as they desperately seek their nicotine fix. At the sound of the tears of a worried relative their ears prick up like wolves; where the untrained eye may perceive distress and heartache they see only a business opportunity. Most of my rivals have a 'Where there's blame there's a claim' mentality; tripped on a pavement? Sue the local council. Developed a blood clot after a long-haul flight? Let's drag that airline to court and get you the compensation you deserve. Been misdiagnosed by the kindly GP who has been treating you and your loved ones for over twenty years? Who cares about his kids or retirement plans, he owes you big time!

There are a number of familiar faces that I've encountered over the years although none that I would call - or indeed wish to call - a friend. Most of the ambulance chasers would sell their own mother for a quick buck, not the kind of people you'd want on your Christmas card list. Whilst the others are drawn to sobbing parents, partners or offspring like flies around shit, I prefer to steer clear of such drama, lurking in the shadows and going straight to the victim to make my move with little noise or fuss, yet never failing to maintain my 100% success rate. Once I’ve chosen my target then there’s no turning back.

Business on the ward this morning was brisk; a road accident, a possible spinal injury caused by a playground football match, a chef who was meant to be chopping parsley but ended up slicing off the end of his index finger. Dan Henderson pounced on the mother of the 18 year old RTA victim with his usual winning combination of insincere sympathy, slightly inappropriate physical contact (a comforting arm around the shoulder, a soothing stroke of the hand) and the promise of a big fat
payout. Watching from across the room I found the whole performance nothing less than distasteful, though had to begrudgingly admit that the technique clearly works as the woman slipped Henderson's card into her wallet with a promise that she'd call him once her son was out of hospital.
Paul Steel, meanwhile, had been striking up conversation with the concerned parents of the child whose sporting career may have been tragically cut short. He quickly ascertained that the boy had been playing football on a hard tarmac surface unsupervised by any teachers when a rough tackle had floored him, hitting his back against metal railings. Paul spouted legalese at them, muttering about duty of care and health and safety legislation. Cases like this make me feel sorry for teachers; who in their right mind would enter the profession if they knew that they could be dragged through a legal minefield every time a kid experiences a bump or scrape?

Whilst the sharks were busy circling their prey my attention was drawn to a new admission to the ward. This was more my thing; I’ve got no interest in minor injury or disability claims, it's the big cases that interest me. Sophie had been walking to school without a care in the world when the motorcycle swerved to avoid a pothole, lost control and mounted the pavement at a speed of at least forty miles an hour. The ambulance had been there within minutes but the situation was clearly grave; in a fight between a pigtailed ten year old and over 200kg of throbbing metal I'd say that the odds are heavily skewed in the direction of the latter. As she was wheeled into the emergency room I slipped in behind the team of sweating surgeons and stern faced consultants to take stock of the situation. As they concerned themselves with medication and bleeping machines I rested my hand on the young girl's head, warm and sticky with blood. Although she was unconscious I could tell that she was in a lot of pain and knew that this was the case I'd been waiting for all day; whilst those slickly suited charlatans outside concerned themselves with petty financial gain, there I was in the same hooded cloak that I’ve been sporting since day one of my career, ready to make my move with trademark ruthless efficiency. I haven’t carried the scythe for years now; that was all for dramatic effect and frankly a bit of a burden to lug around, although I do sometimes bring it out for special occasions. As the medical staff continued to buzz around oblivious to my presence I bent down and rested my lips on her forehead. The cold sensation speeding through her veins momentarily roused the girl; in the instant that her eyes met mine there was a flash of understanding – although no one has ever seen me and lived to tell the tale, somehow when the time comes for us to meet everyone has a faint sense of recognition, as if I were a long lost friend. Seconds later the moment had passed and her eyes shut again. As the machines started to let out that familiar ear-piercing noise, I pulled away. My job here was done - another day in the office, another soul for the collection.

Thursday, 11 February 2010

#fridayflash Midnight Kiss

Hard as they tried, nothing seemed to shift the large stain from the hallway wall. One of the main reasons why they had chosen this particular house was that it had been well maintained and would require minimal DIY effort on their part; after hours of scrubbing and scrubbing until their elbow grease reserves had run dry however they concluded that maybe a lick of paint wouldn't go amiss.

Rachel personally would have preferred to have gone for a more neutral shade, something light and welcoming, but as Simon pointed out it would take many, many coats of magnolia to erase the stain whilst his choice, a regal shade of purple called 'Midnight Kiss' would do the trick in just one. She was concerned that the effect would be a little seedy, more brothel than cosy family home and going against every TV property show convention but Simon insisted that she would be wowed by the finished effect, plus resale value was hardly an issue given that they didn't actually own the property, regardless of how long their tenure may or may not last.

Several tins of 'Midnight Kiss' were duly purchased along with brushes, rollers and rags. All were promptly deposited in the cupboard under the stairs where they remained for a number of months until one day out of the blue Rachel's mother announced that she was going to come and visit the couple in their new home. They'd become strangely accustomed to the stain and would even greet it by name each morning and bid it a good night before they ascended to their bedroom, however they weren't so sure that Mrs Spellman would take to it in quite the same way.

The couple tended to keep themselves to themselves; although they'd been in town since August making friends had not been a priority - they had each other, and their beautiful home, so why would they wish to waste time on other people that could be spent together? Past experiences had shown that friendship could be more trouble than it was worth - they had been perfectly happy in their previous home but when the neighbours had started to become just a little too neighbourly, bringing around homemade muffins and expecting more than just the usual inane conversation about the weather in return, then they knew it was time to move on. Learning from that previous mistake, this time they had chosen a detached property down a long gravel drive well away from twitching net curtains and uninvited guests.

It was a cold but sunny spring morning when they laid plastic sheets over the wooden floor of the hallway and retrieved the tins of paint from their resting place. Rachel made the first mark on the wall, writing 'i love u' in sweeping indigo letters. As the words began to slide down the wall like tears, Simon grabbed a brush and painted a blob on her nose. Laughing, she threw her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close, rubbing the paint onto him in an Eskimo kiss. The job at hand was pushed to one side for some time as they proceeded to strip each other naked, flicking paint onto each other’s bodies and rolling around on the plastic sheeting with careless abandon under the watchful eye of the stain and Felicia, the cat that they had acquired along with the property. After a scalding hot shower they returned to work, starting with the wall surrounding the front door and industriously progressing down the hall until they reached the large dark red splatter. With some reverence Rachel swept the first brush of paint over the stain. It was a shame that it had come to this, but as Simon had kept telling her in the lead up, it was necessary, it was the only way that they would be able to move into the beautiful house, the house with the sunny south facing conservatory, immaculate lawn and fine decor. They had spent several weeks watching number 14 Paradise Grove and its solitary occupant from afar, keenly noting that he never seemed to have any visitors, and was not connected to the telephone network. Eventually Rachel plucked up the courage to introduce herself to him, using a fictitious charity collection as a means of striking up a conversation. In their brief chat she managed to ascertain that he had no children, communicated with his one sibling only through unreciprocated Christmas cards, and enjoyed the company of only Felicia and an old transistor radio. Rachel felt quite sorry for him, all alone in that big house, but Simon told her not to be so ridiculously sentimental and to remember what he'd told her before - emotion is a sign of weakness, and weakness leads to failure. Last time, and the time before, they had gone about the house hunting process in a clinical manner and not let emotions come into it. No reason to be any different this time.

As her paint brush tenderly caressed the wall, Simon wrapped his arms around Rachel’s waist and buried his face in her hair. He had been so lucky to find her, so beautiful and so understanding, as perfect a partner in love as in crime. As she covered up the last inch of the blood stain with Midnight Kiss Rachel bade farewell to Mr Brown for the last time, erasing with the final stroke the only remaining evidence of his life, and death at the end of their gun.

Thursday, 4 February 2010

The Last Meal

This week's Friday Flash story....


She ate her last meal slowly, chewing each mouthful as many times as she could physically manage before swallowing, trying her hardest to imprint on her mind every taste, hoping that the memory would live on somehow when she could eat no more. To start she had selected chicken liver pate, rich and sensuously smooth. He – standing no more than three feet away and watching every bite with eagle eyes – said that he could not understand why she liked it so much; he hated the texture, hated the taste. She however relished the way that it clung to the roof of her mouth, loved the savoury flavour. She would definitely miss it.

For the main course she chose a rare t-bone steak, blood trickling from the fibres as she plunged the knife into it. She joked to him that she was surprised to have been allowed a knife, given the situation; he replied, straight faced, that it was as a blunt as the plastic cutlery from a roadside diner, and anyhow did she really think that she stood any chance of overpowering him in her current state? She laughed and pointed out that she’d successfully overpowered a guy before, as evidenced by the very same ‘current state’. His face remained blank.

Instead of a dessert she opted for a cheese course, a fine selection of unpasteurised cheeses including a soft Camembert that dribbled down her chin when she bit into it, and a Stilton, white and threaded with a network of blue veins like a recently deceased corpse. She cut the cheeses into ever smaller pieces, trying to delay the inevitable for as long as possible. This was her last meal; she was sure as hell going to make the most of it. With the knowledge of what was to come - in the immediate future at least, what would happen beyond that being terrifyingly unknown - it was surely the least she deserved, even if ultimately it had been she who had determined her own fate. Her actions that day had been driven by an uncontrollable blood lust; there was no way that they could be taken back now.

The only thing that she felt could have improved the meal would have been a bottle of good wine, maybe a rich and spicy Shiraz or a smooth Burgundy, the smell of which always transported her back to the Catholic Church in which she had been raised, and where she had first tasted alcohol. She had initially been put off drinking red wine by the memory of Father O’Reilly invoking the Holy Spirit to transform the Eucharistic gift from wine to blood, but quickly developed a taste for it and could imagine no better accompaniment for the beef. She didn’t even bothering asking, however, as she knew that the answer would be a resounding ‘no’, and in her present position she lacked the energy or inclination to plead. He was not worth wasting her breath on.

With the last morsel of cheese slipping down her throat, she glanced at the clock on the wall. She’d dragged the meal out as long as she could but it was over now. 2.15pm. Almost time for an appointment with destiny.

As the door slammed behind her she bade farewell to this chapter of her existence. Time to find out what would happen next. Time to accept her fate. Father O’Reilly would surely have said that she would be damned to hell for what she had done; she recalled however her religious studies teacher telling her how Jesus forgives any sinner who truly repents, so maybe there was hope for her yet? Mind you, that would involve repenting, and she could not honestly say that she regretted a second of what she’d done. Regretted the consequences, perhaps, but the act itself had been pure pleasure.

The artificial light of the corridor made her strain her eyes. It seemed very clinical, and the smell of disinfectant invading her nostrils made her feel quite nauseous. She had tried to put off thinking about what was going to happen, but as she made her way down the hallway past silent, judgemental eyes, she could not help but picture what was coming, the white-coated doctor leaning over her, the smell and heat of his breath on her face and then the final prick as the needle pierced her vein. He was a couple of steps in front of her, several other people following behind.

“Shit, I’m scared;” she whispered, her eyes welling as the enormity of it hit her. In just a couple of minutes time she would wave goodbye to freedom forever.
As her stifled tears gave way to loud moans he turned and looked at her with a quizzical smile.

“I know this hasn’t been easy for you, hell it hasn’t been easy for me either, but it’s time to face the facts, sweetheart. The doctor is only going to confirm what you already know. We’re going to be parents! With a face like that, anyone would think you were on death row....!“

(Note: This was inspired by discovering via a pregnant friend quite how many dietary rules and regulations there are for pregnant women....)