A whimsical story written for a Leeds Savages writers group task on the rather challenging theme of 'Heavenly Cows'. Hope you enjoy it!
HOLY COW!
Ever since he’d got his pensioners bus pass Frank had continued to bore and distress his family in equal measure with constant talk of his own mortality. After all their protestations that he was as fit as a fiddle and would without a doubt be winding them up for another twenty years yet, he was smugly pleased to have proved them wrong. Frank couldn’t recall what he had been doing when he died, only that everything went dark and he was overwhelmed by a sensation of weightlessness, as if floating away from his body on the gentlest of breezes. It was quite a pleasant experience really, the nearest comparison he could make from his mortal experience being the bliss he’d felt whilst having a full body massage performed at the skilful hands of a young woman on holiday in Turkey back in 2003, but on this occasion without the inappropriate erotic thoughts.
Although he may have once or twice in his seventy years of existence uttered the expression ‘Holy Cow’, Frank had never for a minute considered there to be anything divine about the bovine kind. Cows were useful, granted, in terms of their capacity to provide the creamy gold top in which he liked to bathe his rice crispies of a morning and the occasional Big Mac, but he had never had any interest in the hooved milk-bars beyond consuming their by-products. It came as a surprise, therefore, when he found himself staring straight into the big expressionless eyes of a Friesian, its black and white head surrounded by a halo of light In the back of his mind he seemed to recall hearing that certain religions believed cows to be sacred, but he certainly didn’t remember the sermons he’d experienced during forty years of weekly attendance at St David’s (or at least the ten percent which he’d managed to stay awake through) ever touching on the subject of being welcomed into the afterlife by a farm animal.
“Moo-oooo-oooooooo-ooooooooo” said the cow dolefully. “Mooo-ooooo-ooooo-ooooooooooooo.”
“Yes, I get it, you’re a cow;” replied Frank. “Mooooooooooo to you too. So what’s going on? Don’t tell me that those fellows wearing dresses and banging on tambourines outside Sainsburys were right all along with that reincarnation mumbo-jumbo and I’m now a mouse or something. I really have wasted a lot of Sundays if that’s the case.”
“Moooooooooooooooooooooo.” The cow broke its eye contact with Frank and pointed its damp pink nose down his body.
“Oh, what a relief, all four limbs appear to be present and correct. You got me worried for a minute there! So what happens next, girl? Is St Peter out at lunch or something? I’ve thought there’d be angels playing sweet ‘moo-sic’ on harps or something – ‘moo’sic, you get it? No, of course you don’t, I’m being ‘udderly’ stupid trying to crack jokes to a cow. I’m going to milk this for all its worth though, haha!”
With another languid moo the cow stepped back and Frank was bathed in the blinding light which had previously been casting an ethereal glow around the heifer.
“Oh lord, I’m sorry if it looks like I’ve not been taking the situation seriously, it’s just that I’ve always brought out the puns when I get nervous. Take me now, lord, I’m ready;” Frank prayed out loud, closing his eyes. “Ready for what I’m not quite sure, as this really isn’t what I was expecting, but I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” The last thing Frank felt was a big wet tongue licking his face, and then darkness swallowed him once more.
“Mum, mum, I think he’s waking up!”
Frank slowly prised open a lead heavy eyelid to see his wife, daughter and grandson all stood looking over him like some kind of museum exhibit.
“What the? What the?” Frank stuttered, the forming of each single syllable requiring an inordinate level of effort.
“Hush, Dad, you need to rest;” his daughter said. “You’ve given us all a scare, but you’re going to be ok.”
“The cow? Where’s the cow?”
“He remembers the cow, Mum!” his grandson said excitedly. “I thought the doctor said he probably wouldn’t remember anything?”
“Keep your voice down darling, I’m sure Grandad doesn’t want to hear you shouting.”
Unable to move his head having been wedged between a barricade of pillows on either side, Frank rolled his eyes from left to right, taking in a variety of tubes and beeping machines which all appeared to be attached to his body.
“I’m in hospital;” he stated, looking to his wife who nodded in confirmation. “I’m not dead at all. But what about the angel cow? I was dead, I’m sure of it.”
“I’m not sure if it was of the heavenly variety, but it’s probably thanks to that cow that you’re alive. You were walking through the field berry picking when you collapsed in some kind of fit – the doctors think you probably ate something poisonous whilst you were foraging, never could wait until you got home, could you? The cow kept nudging you which they reckon may have stopped you falling into a coma or even worse; and apparently it was making such a racket that it caught the attention of some walkers who went over to the animal thinking it was in some kind of distress only to find you prostrate on the grass with berries smeared all round your face.”
“I’m so sorry for giving you a scare;” Frank replied. “I may have joked with you before that I was on my last legs but I reckon that there’s actually plenty of life in this dog yet, and I want to spend as many years as God is willing to give me with all of you. Can you all forgive me for being a foolish old man?”
“Nothing to apologise for, Dad, you weren’t to know, although from now on you’re getting all of your fruit from the grocers!” his daughter replied. “So is it safe to say we’re going to see a more serious side to you after your near-death experience?”
Frank paused for several seconds with an expressionless face before bursting into a massive grin.
“You’d butter believe it!”
Showing posts with label #fridayflash. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #fridayflash. Show all posts
Thursday, 12 August 2010
Thursday, 1 July 2010
'Judgement Day' #fridayflash
This is an edited version of a story that I wrote for a Leeds Savages writers meet with the theme of 'winning', and the second story that I've based in the imaginary English village of Winfordshire.
JUDGEMENT DAY
It started with a marrow. With the girth of a tree and weight of a child, Teddy Ward’s pride and joy was certainly not the bog-standard squash you might pick up at your local greengrocer. This beast was far beyond the capacity of a shopping-basket, with two sweating flat-capped gentlemen and a large metal wheelbarrow employed in order to transport it to Winfordshire village green for judging. Young Eric Marmaduke had never seen such a thing before, but from the moment he first laid eyes on Teddy’s glorious green triumph he knew that he wanted in. Over the next few years he learned from the master everything there was to know about cultivating giant vegetables. When Teddy passed away everyone, Eric included, assumed that the lad would step into his shoes and win a clean sweep of rosettes at the next village fete. It was therefore a huge disappointment when he failed to cultivate anything greater than a distinctly average 18 incher the following summer, and saw the honour he had always dreamed of being his bestowed on smugly grinning Frank Porter.
As the years passed Eric became a husband and father but never faltered in his devotion to the giant veg cause. Mrs Marmaduke always said size isn’t everything, to which Eric would scoff “What? Of course bigger is better!” She would also tell the girls that winning isn’t important as it’s taking part that counts; this provoked indignant huffing from her husband who would respond that only losers could speak and believe such ridiculous sentiments. At the time Eric had accused Maureen of not taking his passion seriously, but looking back he realised she had only said these things in the hope that she could protect him from the disappointment that would inevitably hang over him like a dark, thunderous cloud for the months between judging and planting season. Now that she was gone, Eric decided to have one more stab at glory in her honour before hanging up his gardening gloves forever.
The spring weather had provided perfect growing conditions and Eric was optimistic that after fifty years of failure this would be the summer that he would steal the Vegetable crown from Frank’s bald head. He had always wondered what was the secret of Frank’s success but would never stoop as low as to actually ask his advice. There were countless rumours circulating including speculation that he watered his marrows with single malt whiskey and would play the mandolin to his tomatoes for hours on end. Eric had tested these methods, albeit on a slightly tighter budget with Best-Buy Brandy and a cassette recording of Cher, but to no avail. Eric’s vegetables were larger than most, but nothing compared to Frank’s progeny. With only a week to go before the Fete, Eric surveyed the allotment with tears in his eyes. Since Maureen had died he had kept himself going by imagining ascending the podium and dedicating a prize to his wife, but it was becoming clear that that was never going to happen - he would be lucky to scrape a bronze, let alone the coveted best in show. Frustrated, he kicked the marrows, tore down the creeping runner bean vines and threw handful after handful of tomatoes and strawberries at the greenhouse.
When Eric’s youngest daughter turned up at the allotment intending to catch the sun for a few hours along-side her Dad she was shocked to find him sat on the ground surrounded by a scene of vegetable carnage. Initially she thought that it must have been the work of vandals, but as she moved closer the stains all over his clothes and skin revealed the truth. Claire took his hand and gently helped him to his feet. “Let’s get you home. I think what you need is a nice cup of tea. Don’t worry, I’ll tidy up later.”
A week passed and Eric did not return to the allotment. As far as he was concerned, his life’s work was over - he’d had enough, and after years of labour his knees were knackered anyhow. It was time to put horticulture behind him and spend some quality time with his family. It was what Maureen would have wanted.
The day of the fete came around and Eric had no intention of leaving the house let alone going to watch Frank Porter gloat once again. It came as a surprise therefore when all three daughters turned up on his doorstep along with his four grandchildren demanding that he accompany them to the village green.
“Come on Dad, you’ll enjoy it;” Claire pleaded.
Reluctantly Eric pulled on socks and shoes. “Can’t we just go down by the river instead? You were never interested in the fete before, why the sudden change?”
“You’ll see;” Claire replied.
As the family strolled across the green a loudspeaker crackled to life.
“Great, sounds like we’re just in time for the judging;” his eldest, Susan, squealed enthusiastically.
“Brilliant” he mumbled in sullen reply as they took their place in front of the stage where the Mayor stood in full regalia.
“Today is a very special day for Winfordshire;” the Mayor began. “As you’ll know there is always a very high standard of entries here, but this is the first year that a villager has won seven gold medals in a single year, crushing the record of five previously held by Frank Porter. Mr Eric Marmaduke has for many years been growing fruit and vegetables, but little did we know just how wonderful they tasted. I am delighted to present Mr Marmaduke with the Best in Show award for his Marrow Cake – so moist, I’ll certainly be asking for the recipe! Mr Marmaduke has also won gold medals for his chutney, jam, carrot scones, tomato juice and berry pie, along with the photography prize for a most unusual image entitled Allotment Massacre at Sunset. Please put your hands together as Mr Marmaduke makes his way to the stage.”
Eric looked around at the smiling, appreciative faces of his family and felt on top of the world, ascending to an even higher state of nirvana when he saw Frank Porter’s ruddy face scowling at him.
“Go Grandad” urged his grandson. “Get your prize.”
As Eric ascended the steps he imagined this must have been how Bobby Moore felt when he lifted the World Cup back in 66. Having spent his entire adult life trying to grow obscenely large vegetables, it had never once crossed his mind to actually taste the things – he’d always been more a meat and potatoes man.
“Thanks, thanks;” he stuttered. “I’d like to dedicate my awards to the memory of my wife Maureen, the most wonderful woman in the world. And to three equally wonderful ladies, my beautiful daughters who I’m proud to have with me today.” He looked from one beaming smile to the next before winking at Claire.
“Thank you girls. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
JUDGEMENT DAY
It started with a marrow. With the girth of a tree and weight of a child, Teddy Ward’s pride and joy was certainly not the bog-standard squash you might pick up at your local greengrocer. This beast was far beyond the capacity of a shopping-basket, with two sweating flat-capped gentlemen and a large metal wheelbarrow employed in order to transport it to Winfordshire village green for judging. Young Eric Marmaduke had never seen such a thing before, but from the moment he first laid eyes on Teddy’s glorious green triumph he knew that he wanted in. Over the next few years he learned from the master everything there was to know about cultivating giant vegetables. When Teddy passed away everyone, Eric included, assumed that the lad would step into his shoes and win a clean sweep of rosettes at the next village fete. It was therefore a huge disappointment when he failed to cultivate anything greater than a distinctly average 18 incher the following summer, and saw the honour he had always dreamed of being his bestowed on smugly grinning Frank Porter.
As the years passed Eric became a husband and father but never faltered in his devotion to the giant veg cause. Mrs Marmaduke always said size isn’t everything, to which Eric would scoff “What? Of course bigger is better!” She would also tell the girls that winning isn’t important as it’s taking part that counts; this provoked indignant huffing from her husband who would respond that only losers could speak and believe such ridiculous sentiments. At the time Eric had accused Maureen of not taking his passion seriously, but looking back he realised she had only said these things in the hope that she could protect him from the disappointment that would inevitably hang over him like a dark, thunderous cloud for the months between judging and planting season. Now that she was gone, Eric decided to have one more stab at glory in her honour before hanging up his gardening gloves forever.
The spring weather had provided perfect growing conditions and Eric was optimistic that after fifty years of failure this would be the summer that he would steal the Vegetable crown from Frank’s bald head. He had always wondered what was the secret of Frank’s success but would never stoop as low as to actually ask his advice. There were countless rumours circulating including speculation that he watered his marrows with single malt whiskey and would play the mandolin to his tomatoes for hours on end. Eric had tested these methods, albeit on a slightly tighter budget with Best-Buy Brandy and a cassette recording of Cher, but to no avail. Eric’s vegetables were larger than most, but nothing compared to Frank’s progeny. With only a week to go before the Fete, Eric surveyed the allotment with tears in his eyes. Since Maureen had died he had kept himself going by imagining ascending the podium and dedicating a prize to his wife, but it was becoming clear that that was never going to happen - he would be lucky to scrape a bronze, let alone the coveted best in show. Frustrated, he kicked the marrows, tore down the creeping runner bean vines and threw handful after handful of tomatoes and strawberries at the greenhouse.
When Eric’s youngest daughter turned up at the allotment intending to catch the sun for a few hours along-side her Dad she was shocked to find him sat on the ground surrounded by a scene of vegetable carnage. Initially she thought that it must have been the work of vandals, but as she moved closer the stains all over his clothes and skin revealed the truth. Claire took his hand and gently helped him to his feet. “Let’s get you home. I think what you need is a nice cup of tea. Don’t worry, I’ll tidy up later.”
A week passed and Eric did not return to the allotment. As far as he was concerned, his life’s work was over - he’d had enough, and after years of labour his knees were knackered anyhow. It was time to put horticulture behind him and spend some quality time with his family. It was what Maureen would have wanted.
The day of the fete came around and Eric had no intention of leaving the house let alone going to watch Frank Porter gloat once again. It came as a surprise therefore when all three daughters turned up on his doorstep along with his four grandchildren demanding that he accompany them to the village green.
“Come on Dad, you’ll enjoy it;” Claire pleaded.
Reluctantly Eric pulled on socks and shoes. “Can’t we just go down by the river instead? You were never interested in the fete before, why the sudden change?”
“You’ll see;” Claire replied.
As the family strolled across the green a loudspeaker crackled to life.
“Great, sounds like we’re just in time for the judging;” his eldest, Susan, squealed enthusiastically.
“Brilliant” he mumbled in sullen reply as they took their place in front of the stage where the Mayor stood in full regalia.
“Today is a very special day for Winfordshire;” the Mayor began. “As you’ll know there is always a very high standard of entries here, but this is the first year that a villager has won seven gold medals in a single year, crushing the record of five previously held by Frank Porter. Mr Eric Marmaduke has for many years been growing fruit and vegetables, but little did we know just how wonderful they tasted. I am delighted to present Mr Marmaduke with the Best in Show award for his Marrow Cake – so moist, I’ll certainly be asking for the recipe! Mr Marmaduke has also won gold medals for his chutney, jam, carrot scones, tomato juice and berry pie, along with the photography prize for a most unusual image entitled Allotment Massacre at Sunset. Please put your hands together as Mr Marmaduke makes his way to the stage.”
Eric looked around at the smiling, appreciative faces of his family and felt on top of the world, ascending to an even higher state of nirvana when he saw Frank Porter’s ruddy face scowling at him.
“Go Grandad” urged his grandson. “Get your prize.”
As Eric ascended the steps he imagined this must have been how Bobby Moore felt when he lifted the World Cup back in 66. Having spent his entire adult life trying to grow obscenely large vegetables, it had never once crossed his mind to actually taste the things – he’d always been more a meat and potatoes man.
“Thanks, thanks;” he stuttered. “I’d like to dedicate my awards to the memory of my wife Maureen, the most wonderful woman in the world. And to three equally wonderful ladies, my beautiful daughters who I’m proud to have with me today.” He looked from one beaming smile to the next before winking at Claire.
“Thank you girls. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
Thursday, 10 June 2010
The Final Whistle #fridayflash
This is a quick little story / sketch that I wrote in front of one of the very very many tenuously football related programmes currently clogging up the television schedules (A footballers wives edition of Come Dine With Me to be precise!) in honour of the FIFA World Cup, which kicks off today.
FINAL WHISTLE
Come on come on come on come on, that's more like it, yes! NO!
You idiot, what the hell was that? Come on lad, get the ball, come on,
that's more like it, YES! What? Call that a foul, you blind fool?
Get your eyes tested mate! Oh no oh no oh no I can't bear to watch oh no no
NO!
Darling, I think we need to talk....
What, now? Can't you see I'm watching the game?
Now be a love a fetch me a beer....
Oh christ these Argies are going to be the death of me,
one nil, ten minutes down and already one nil,
PULL YOURSELVES TOGETHER LADS!
Come on boys come on you can turn this around; that's better,
a bit of aggression lads, give them a taste of their own medicine.
Yes, yes, that's it, that's it, push it, push, COME ON!
I'm seeing someone else.
What? Don't be stupid.
It'll all be over by 9.30 and then you can watch your soaps.
OH FOR GOD'S SAKE! How did he miss that?
My nan could have scored there, you overpaid waste of space.
Come on now, come on, that's it, that's it, I've got a good feeling here,
this is it, this is it, yes, yes, yes, YES,
GOOOOOOOAL!!!
What a beauty, oh yes, get in!
His name's Edward. I met him at Pilates.
Yeah right, as if any straight man would be seen dead at pilates.
Did you see that goal? An absolute beauty, here , watch the replay,
d'you see that? ENG-ER-LAND!!!!!
Yes I saw. Great.
A load of millionaires running around like overgrown schoolboys.
Somehow I doubt those big busted models are with them for their admirable ball skills.
Now, do you want to see something?
Look at this picture, yes, that one on my facebook profile.
You didn't know I was on facebook?
You really don't know that much about me at all, do you.
Stop with the attention seeking, look it's almost half time,
we can have a chat at half time,
I'll even get you a cuppa.
COME ON ENGLAND!
EN-GER-LAND!!!
We'll talk at half time, you say?
Well i'm sorry, but I'm not putting up with this anymore.
As far as we're concerned it's full time.
We're over.
What? Oh my god, my god look at this, can they, can they, oh my god,
yes, yes, yes they can! Two one to EN-GER-LAND!
GOOOOOAAAL!
Right that's it I'm off, I'm going to Edward’s.
Don't bother calling me, I'll be too busy having hot, sweaty sex to answer.
Ok, right, be seeing you then. Two one, my god, we really might do this.
ENG-ER-LAND! EN-GER-LAND!!!
She had been all well and good when it came to cooking, cleaning and bedroom services, but there were no doubt other women out there who'd be able to fill that void when takeaways, squalor and porn became too much. The world cup final though - this could be a once in a lifetime opportunity. He knew without a doubt that when that final whistle blew he would be experiencing either the greatest ecstasy or loss of his life.
His wedding really had been pale in comparison.
Up against the true love he felt for those eleven men, that white shirt and St George's proudly flying flag, Frank’s wife of ten years was never going to compete. Women can come and go but football – ah, football!
Football is forever.
FINAL WHISTLE
Come on come on come on come on, that's more like it, yes! NO!
You idiot, what the hell was that? Come on lad, get the ball, come on,
that's more like it, YES! What? Call that a foul, you blind fool?
Get your eyes tested mate! Oh no oh no oh no I can't bear to watch oh no no
NO!
Darling, I think we need to talk....
What, now? Can't you see I'm watching the game?
Now be a love a fetch me a beer....
Oh christ these Argies are going to be the death of me,
one nil, ten minutes down and already one nil,
PULL YOURSELVES TOGETHER LADS!
Come on boys come on you can turn this around; that's better,
a bit of aggression lads, give them a taste of their own medicine.
Yes, yes, that's it, that's it, push it, push, COME ON!
I'm seeing someone else.
What? Don't be stupid.
It'll all be over by 9.30 and then you can watch your soaps.
OH FOR GOD'S SAKE! How did he miss that?
My nan could have scored there, you overpaid waste of space.
Come on now, come on, that's it, that's it, I've got a good feeling here,
this is it, this is it, yes, yes, yes, YES,
GOOOOOOOAL!!!
What a beauty, oh yes, get in!
His name's Edward. I met him at Pilates.
Yeah right, as if any straight man would be seen dead at pilates.
Did you see that goal? An absolute beauty, here , watch the replay,
d'you see that? ENG-ER-LAND!!!!!
Yes I saw. Great.
A load of millionaires running around like overgrown schoolboys.
Somehow I doubt those big busted models are with them for their admirable ball skills.
Now, do you want to see something?
Look at this picture, yes, that one on my facebook profile.
You didn't know I was on facebook?
You really don't know that much about me at all, do you.
Stop with the attention seeking, look it's almost half time,
we can have a chat at half time,
I'll even get you a cuppa.
COME ON ENGLAND!
EN-GER-LAND!!!
We'll talk at half time, you say?
Well i'm sorry, but I'm not putting up with this anymore.
As far as we're concerned it's full time.
We're over.
What? Oh my god, my god look at this, can they, can they, oh my god,
yes, yes, yes they can! Two one to EN-GER-LAND!
GOOOOOAAAL!
Right that's it I'm off, I'm going to Edward’s.
Don't bother calling me, I'll be too busy having hot, sweaty sex to answer.
Ok, right, be seeing you then. Two one, my god, we really might do this.
ENG-ER-LAND! EN-GER-LAND!!!
She had been all well and good when it came to cooking, cleaning and bedroom services, but there were no doubt other women out there who'd be able to fill that void when takeaways, squalor and porn became too much. The world cup final though - this could be a once in a lifetime opportunity. He knew without a doubt that when that final whistle blew he would be experiencing either the greatest ecstasy or loss of his life.
His wedding really had been pale in comparison.
Up against the true love he felt for those eleven men, that white shirt and St George's proudly flying flag, Frank’s wife of ten years was never going to compete. Women can come and go but football – ah, football!
Football is forever.
Thursday, 3 June 2010
'On the Town' - #fridayflash
ON THE TOWN
There came a point in my late twenties when staying out until the small hours of the morning in some sticky floored dive lost its appeal. Who, after all, would subject themselves to that once they’d discovered the joys of imbibing a nice pint of ale in an establishment where the barman knows you by name, where you can hear yourself speak and where you can stay until closing time yet still be tucked up in bed by 11.30? Not me. Yet there I was, pushing forty and queuing outside Aladdin’s, the best and only club in town, surrounded by teenage girls who could legitimately have been my daughter. With the young guys dressed casually in trainers, jeans and t-shirts, we, in pressed shirts and shiny shoes, felt hopelessly out of place.
The fish-out-of-water sensation continued further inside. The last time I had been to a club the playlist had consisted of cheesy pop concluding with a failsafe bit of Bryan Adams just in case you hadn’t yet managed to pull, but from the second we entered it was safe to say that Bryan would not be featuring in DJ Hacksaw’s set. I couldn’t see the appeal of the supposed ‘music’ that had substituted a recognisable melody with a looped sample of what sounded like nails being dragged down a chalkboard. The screeching noise seemed however to fit perfectly with the mood of my fellow revellers who were writhing ecstatically as if possessed by the dissonant sounds.
“Hey mate, having a good time?” Barry from accounts shouted over the racket. I nodded politely, though in reality was questioning why he had chosen here of all places to spend his last night before leaving the country. I hoped for Barry’s sake that Sydney would provide a better class of women than the scrawny chavs he was currently working the Barry magic on. We'd never really been friends but given that all of the other lads had agreed to attend his leaving do I’d figured it would have been a bit lame to say no. I got the impression that most of them had come because they wanted an excuse for a night on the tiles away from the wife and kids rather than through any sense of loyalty towards the colleague we’d always referred to as Fat Barry.
Barry pulled me aside and fished from his pocket a couple of tiny white tablets. “Fancy some?”
Surprised at the offer, I shook my head. “No thanks. I don't do drugs.”
“Lighten up, these are herbal, they’ll give you a rush but they’re completely legal. Everyone else has had some already”. He gestured to the rest of the group who were attempting to ‘throw some shapes’ much to the amusement of a group of giggling girls. Given the pounding bass I couldn’t make out whether the words the women were shouting were encouragement, verbal abuse or a combination of the both.
Barry pressed two pills printed with the image of a leaf to my palm. “Come on mate, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s not like I’m offering you crack, it’s all natural.”
Aware that Barry was not going to let me rest until I’d consumed his offering, I reluctantly put the pills onto my tongue and took a big swig of lager.
“Thanks;” I said in what was intended to be a sarcastic tone, the nuances of which were lost on Barry entirely.
“No problem. You can buy my next drink though; they cost a fiver each.”
“A fiver?” I spluttered in disbelief, lager dribbling down my chin. “They’d better be worth it. I could have bought three pints and a kebab for the price of whatever I’ve just washed down my gullet.”
Barry laughed.“Its top drawer stuff. The girls take it all the time.”
“The girls?” Barry pointed in the direction of the women circling my colleagues like hyenas, no doubt attracted by their propensity to buy a cocktail for any female willing to give them the slightest attention rather than their polyester outfits, receding hairlines or the scent of desperation oozing from their pores.
“We’re lucky that Rose was prepared to sell me these. She’s got plenty of regulars who’re going to go without tonight thanks to us.”
“Very lucky indeed;” I mumbled through a mouthful of beer.
I was about to get the next round in when two women grabbed our arms and forcefully dragged us towards the centre of the room.
“Your friends told us to fetch you for a dance.”
This was it, the moment I’d been dreading all night - I was going to have combat years of fear and dance in a public place. I suddenly felt a sense of gratitude for Barry’s pharmaceutical gift; hopefully the promised rush would kick in and I’d experience a magical metamorphosis into Sussex’s equivalent to Travolta.
Awkwardness gave way to a strangely pleasurable sensation as the bass-line vibrated through my body. The screeching music no longer seemed quite as offensive to my ears and I found myself nodding in time.
“Feeling good, mate?” Barry asked. “Told you it was first-rate.”
Barry and I were working on our best robot moves when the rest of the group interrupted our gyrations.
“Some of us aren’t feeling great, we’re going to go for some fresh air;” my colleague Jim announced.
“My guts are all over the place;” another of the guys muttered through clenched teeth.
We made our way to the smoking area and I too started to feel an uncomfortable stirring in my stomach.
“What the hell have you given us?” I asked Barry angrily. “It must be the pills, why else would we all be feeling rough?”
“Not quite all;” he said with a smile. “I feel fine. Mind you, I didn’t take any.”
“What?” the rest of us shouted in unison.
“Think of it as a leaving gift,” he replied. “A little something to remember me by. Do you know what I’ll remember about you guys? I’ll remember all those times that you went for a drink after work without inviting me, all those snide comments behind my back that you thought I couldn’t hear. Don’t act like you’re surprised; I knew all along what you thought of me. Anyway, in return for all those times that you treated me like crap, I thought I’d treat you to a truly crap night out.” He paused and laughed.
“I’d say ‘crap’s a given’ after a double dose of prescription strength laxatives...”
There came a point in my late twenties when staying out until the small hours of the morning in some sticky floored dive lost its appeal. Who, after all, would subject themselves to that once they’d discovered the joys of imbibing a nice pint of ale in an establishment where the barman knows you by name, where you can hear yourself speak and where you can stay until closing time yet still be tucked up in bed by 11.30? Not me. Yet there I was, pushing forty and queuing outside Aladdin’s, the best and only club in town, surrounded by teenage girls who could legitimately have been my daughter. With the young guys dressed casually in trainers, jeans and t-shirts, we, in pressed shirts and shiny shoes, felt hopelessly out of place.
The fish-out-of-water sensation continued further inside. The last time I had been to a club the playlist had consisted of cheesy pop concluding with a failsafe bit of Bryan Adams just in case you hadn’t yet managed to pull, but from the second we entered it was safe to say that Bryan would not be featuring in DJ Hacksaw’s set. I couldn’t see the appeal of the supposed ‘music’ that had substituted a recognisable melody with a looped sample of what sounded like nails being dragged down a chalkboard. The screeching noise seemed however to fit perfectly with the mood of my fellow revellers who were writhing ecstatically as if possessed by the dissonant sounds.
“Hey mate, having a good time?” Barry from accounts shouted over the racket. I nodded politely, though in reality was questioning why he had chosen here of all places to spend his last night before leaving the country. I hoped for Barry’s sake that Sydney would provide a better class of women than the scrawny chavs he was currently working the Barry magic on. We'd never really been friends but given that all of the other lads had agreed to attend his leaving do I’d figured it would have been a bit lame to say no. I got the impression that most of them had come because they wanted an excuse for a night on the tiles away from the wife and kids rather than through any sense of loyalty towards the colleague we’d always referred to as Fat Barry.
Barry pulled me aside and fished from his pocket a couple of tiny white tablets. “Fancy some?”
Surprised at the offer, I shook my head. “No thanks. I don't do drugs.”
“Lighten up, these are herbal, they’ll give you a rush but they’re completely legal. Everyone else has had some already”. He gestured to the rest of the group who were attempting to ‘throw some shapes’ much to the amusement of a group of giggling girls. Given the pounding bass I couldn’t make out whether the words the women were shouting were encouragement, verbal abuse or a combination of the both.
Barry pressed two pills printed with the image of a leaf to my palm. “Come on mate, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s not like I’m offering you crack, it’s all natural.”
Aware that Barry was not going to let me rest until I’d consumed his offering, I reluctantly put the pills onto my tongue and took a big swig of lager.
“Thanks;” I said in what was intended to be a sarcastic tone, the nuances of which were lost on Barry entirely.
“No problem. You can buy my next drink though; they cost a fiver each.”
“A fiver?” I spluttered in disbelief, lager dribbling down my chin. “They’d better be worth it. I could have bought three pints and a kebab for the price of whatever I’ve just washed down my gullet.”
Barry laughed.“Its top drawer stuff. The girls take it all the time.”
“The girls?” Barry pointed in the direction of the women circling my colleagues like hyenas, no doubt attracted by their propensity to buy a cocktail for any female willing to give them the slightest attention rather than their polyester outfits, receding hairlines or the scent of desperation oozing from their pores.
“We’re lucky that Rose was prepared to sell me these. She’s got plenty of regulars who’re going to go without tonight thanks to us.”
“Very lucky indeed;” I mumbled through a mouthful of beer.
I was about to get the next round in when two women grabbed our arms and forcefully dragged us towards the centre of the room.
“Your friends told us to fetch you for a dance.”
This was it, the moment I’d been dreading all night - I was going to have combat years of fear and dance in a public place. I suddenly felt a sense of gratitude for Barry’s pharmaceutical gift; hopefully the promised rush would kick in and I’d experience a magical metamorphosis into Sussex’s equivalent to Travolta.
Awkwardness gave way to a strangely pleasurable sensation as the bass-line vibrated through my body. The screeching music no longer seemed quite as offensive to my ears and I found myself nodding in time.
“Feeling good, mate?” Barry asked. “Told you it was first-rate.”
Barry and I were working on our best robot moves when the rest of the group interrupted our gyrations.
“Some of us aren’t feeling great, we’re going to go for some fresh air;” my colleague Jim announced.
“My guts are all over the place;” another of the guys muttered through clenched teeth.
We made our way to the smoking area and I too started to feel an uncomfortable stirring in my stomach.
“What the hell have you given us?” I asked Barry angrily. “It must be the pills, why else would we all be feeling rough?”
“Not quite all;” he said with a smile. “I feel fine. Mind you, I didn’t take any.”
“What?” the rest of us shouted in unison.
“Think of it as a leaving gift,” he replied. “A little something to remember me by. Do you know what I’ll remember about you guys? I’ll remember all those times that you went for a drink after work without inviting me, all those snide comments behind my back that you thought I couldn’t hear. Don’t act like you’re surprised; I knew all along what you thought of me. Anyway, in return for all those times that you treated me like crap, I thought I’d treat you to a truly crap night out.” He paused and laughed.
“I’d say ‘crap’s a given’ after a double dose of prescription strength laxatives...”
Thursday, 13 May 2010
Home #fridayflash
An attempt at something a bit different from me - a story of love and loss...
HOME
Although the sign outside the entrance read ‘Sunningvale Retirement Home’, there was, in my opinion, nothing homely about the place. Home, to me, is a place where you feel comfortable and welcome; where you lay down roots, where history is written. Sunningvale on the other hand seemed not so much a home as a waiting room for those awaiting a vacancy in that eternal abode in the sky. The residents seemed happy enough, content with the sub-school dinner meals and seemingly oblivious to the pervasive smell – an unpalatable combination of over-cooked vegetables, industrial cleaning products and decay. Fellow visitors on the other hand seemed to share my agitation. Although I feel bad for admitting as much, every second I was there was usually spent thinking about how much I wanted to leave.
Some days she would just lie in bed, not even acknowledging I was there. On this day however she was sat upright, chatting animatedly with one of the carers. Although the carer turned and greeted me, she did not stop talking – probably recounting some random story to the poor girl for the thousandth time. If I had a pound for each time I had heard the one about the time she met the Duke of Edinburgh then I’d be able to take early retirement. Not that I’d want to if, as the tagline says, Sunningvale is the best that retirement living has to offer.
I took a seat and started to mentally prepare a shopping list for my weekly shop. Beef, pasta...
"I remember it as if it were yesterday, although these wrinkled hands tell me that it must have been long ago as I was just a girl then.”
....eggs, milk, bread. My train of thought broke as I realised that this wasn’t one of the usual yarns.
“The boy in the graveyard - oh, he was the most perfect thing I had ever seen in my seventeen years! I had noticed boys before, of course, but I'd never experienced such a sensation. When he nodded to me it was as if I was frozen to the spot; I wanted so much to speak to him but I had been struck dumb. I wanted to give myself to him; I had never felt more certain of anything, but before we had the chance to meet again the war came and that boy and the rest of his generation went away. All the time he was gone I thought about him and wondered if he had a girl back home. I wrote dozen of letters that were never mailed; I didn't even know his name, just that he had the most wonderful blue eyes and dark hair, and had been placing lilies on the grave of Mrs Lucille Portman, devoted wife and mother, 1887-1938.
The war ended and the village threw a huge celebration for the lads returning, all bunting, singing and tears. There were tears of joy for the men who had returned, though I dare say that on the inside many of them were very different to the boys they had been when they left. Tears of sorrow too, for those who had not come back and never would. I however didn’t cry at all - how could I possibly explain mourning someone to whom I had never spoken?
Months passed and life continued as usual. Although I was not a regular churchgoer, at Christmas my mother begged me to accompany her to mass. Afterwards, whilst mother was milling around with friends in the congregation, I slipped outside for some air. It was then that I noticed a new marble headstone next to Mrs Lucille Portman, devoted wife and mother, 1887-1938. I moved closer until I could trace with my fingertips the engraved text that read ‘Samuel Portman, beloved son of Edward and Lucille Portman, 1922-1944’. In that instant the dreams that had occupied my every thought for the past five years died. I was a woman now, and had to put my girlish fantasies behind me and get on with my life in much the same way as the thousands of grieving war widows. In a way it was even worse for me though - at least they had known the love of their men; I was left with nothing except the memory of him here, in my heart.”
She leaned closer towards the carer, as if to impart a secret.
“But do you know what? I carry him with me to this day.”
Choked, I rose from the chair. She looked at me with confusion.
“Who are you?”
She hadn’t recognised me for months but the clarity with which she had recounted the story she had kept locked inside for over sixty years had made me hope that today would somehow be different. As tears flooded from me the carer gently took my shaking hand and steered me back to the seat. The old memories, so I’m told, last the longest; it was time to accept that the fifty years that we had shared was probably irretrievably erased from her mind.
“Now, Emily, this is Lucy. Your daughter.”
Her face showed nothing, not a flicker of recognition. I continued regardless.
“Mum, its me. Lucy. I was just thinking, would you like to come home with me tonight? The bed is made up ready.”
She shook her head.
“But it must be lonely, here by yourself;" I persisted. "If you come with me I’ll be there to keep you company, and your grandchildren might even pop by?”
“I’m not by myself, love.” She paused and touched her chest. “Did you not hear me? I’ve got Samuel here. “
At the time I had no inkling that that would be the final time that I would see my mother alive, yet in retrospect its seems as if, having spent her entire life teaching and guiding me, the story she shared that day was actually meant as a final lesson. Before then I’d always dismissed the expression ‘Home is where the heart is’ as nothing more than a mawkish sentiment reserved for tea towels or cushion covers. But home, I now understand, is not four walls, a garden, a picket fence, but the destination towards which my mother’s whole life was headed, when her heart would finally be fulfilled. Under the sycamore tree barely one hundred yards from where Samuel Portman has waited for her for all these years, my mother now sleeps in peace, and I myself find peace knowing that she is home at last.
HOME
Although the sign outside the entrance read ‘Sunningvale Retirement Home’, there was, in my opinion, nothing homely about the place. Home, to me, is a place where you feel comfortable and welcome; where you lay down roots, where history is written. Sunningvale on the other hand seemed not so much a home as a waiting room for those awaiting a vacancy in that eternal abode in the sky. The residents seemed happy enough, content with the sub-school dinner meals and seemingly oblivious to the pervasive smell – an unpalatable combination of over-cooked vegetables, industrial cleaning products and decay. Fellow visitors on the other hand seemed to share my agitation. Although I feel bad for admitting as much, every second I was there was usually spent thinking about how much I wanted to leave.
Some days she would just lie in bed, not even acknowledging I was there. On this day however she was sat upright, chatting animatedly with one of the carers. Although the carer turned and greeted me, she did not stop talking – probably recounting some random story to the poor girl for the thousandth time. If I had a pound for each time I had heard the one about the time she met the Duke of Edinburgh then I’d be able to take early retirement. Not that I’d want to if, as the tagline says, Sunningvale is the best that retirement living has to offer.
I took a seat and started to mentally prepare a shopping list for my weekly shop. Beef, pasta...
"I remember it as if it were yesterday, although these wrinkled hands tell me that it must have been long ago as I was just a girl then.”
....eggs, milk, bread. My train of thought broke as I realised that this wasn’t one of the usual yarns.
“The boy in the graveyard - oh, he was the most perfect thing I had ever seen in my seventeen years! I had noticed boys before, of course, but I'd never experienced such a sensation. When he nodded to me it was as if I was frozen to the spot; I wanted so much to speak to him but I had been struck dumb. I wanted to give myself to him; I had never felt more certain of anything, but before we had the chance to meet again the war came and that boy and the rest of his generation went away. All the time he was gone I thought about him and wondered if he had a girl back home. I wrote dozen of letters that were never mailed; I didn't even know his name, just that he had the most wonderful blue eyes and dark hair, and had been placing lilies on the grave of Mrs Lucille Portman, devoted wife and mother, 1887-1938.
The war ended and the village threw a huge celebration for the lads returning, all bunting, singing and tears. There were tears of joy for the men who had returned, though I dare say that on the inside many of them were very different to the boys they had been when they left. Tears of sorrow too, for those who had not come back and never would. I however didn’t cry at all - how could I possibly explain mourning someone to whom I had never spoken?
Months passed and life continued as usual. Although I was not a regular churchgoer, at Christmas my mother begged me to accompany her to mass. Afterwards, whilst mother was milling around with friends in the congregation, I slipped outside for some air. It was then that I noticed a new marble headstone next to Mrs Lucille Portman, devoted wife and mother, 1887-1938. I moved closer until I could trace with my fingertips the engraved text that read ‘Samuel Portman, beloved son of Edward and Lucille Portman, 1922-1944’. In that instant the dreams that had occupied my every thought for the past five years died. I was a woman now, and had to put my girlish fantasies behind me and get on with my life in much the same way as the thousands of grieving war widows. In a way it was even worse for me though - at least they had known the love of their men; I was left with nothing except the memory of him here, in my heart.”
She leaned closer towards the carer, as if to impart a secret.
“But do you know what? I carry him with me to this day.”
Choked, I rose from the chair. She looked at me with confusion.
“Who are you?”
She hadn’t recognised me for months but the clarity with which she had recounted the story she had kept locked inside for over sixty years had made me hope that today would somehow be different. As tears flooded from me the carer gently took my shaking hand and steered me back to the seat. The old memories, so I’m told, last the longest; it was time to accept that the fifty years that we had shared was probably irretrievably erased from her mind.
“Now, Emily, this is Lucy. Your daughter.”
Her face showed nothing, not a flicker of recognition. I continued regardless.
“Mum, its me. Lucy. I was just thinking, would you like to come home with me tonight? The bed is made up ready.”
She shook her head.
“But it must be lonely, here by yourself;" I persisted. "If you come with me I’ll be there to keep you company, and your grandchildren might even pop by?”
“I’m not by myself, love.” She paused and touched her chest. “Did you not hear me? I’ve got Samuel here. “
At the time I had no inkling that that would be the final time that I would see my mother alive, yet in retrospect its seems as if, having spent her entire life teaching and guiding me, the story she shared that day was actually meant as a final lesson. Before then I’d always dismissed the expression ‘Home is where the heart is’ as nothing more than a mawkish sentiment reserved for tea towels or cushion covers. But home, I now understand, is not four walls, a garden, a picket fence, but the destination towards which my mother’s whole life was headed, when her heart would finally be fulfilled. Under the sycamore tree barely one hundred yards from where Samuel Portman has waited for her for all these years, my mother now sleeps in peace, and I myself find peace knowing that she is home at last.
Thursday, 22 April 2010
iSociety #fridayflash
iSociety
Not that long ago it had been overpopulation that had roused the passions of the worlds environmentalists, sociologists and thinkers. With an ageing population hungrily consuming the earth's limited resources and Government funded education programmes and free contraception doing little to halt the spiralling birth rate, many agreed that the future looked bleak.
The 2015 Global Internet Initiative was lauded as the greatest development project of the 21st century; the opportunity to close the divide between the riches of the west and those nations formerly known as third world. It would create entrepreneurial opportunities in communities that had historically been isolated from the global marketplace. It would beam world-class educational materials direct into the homes of children who had never set foot in a school. It would, in short, be the greatest thing since sliced bread, and perhaps most importantly would enable the countless politicians, businessmen and shady oligarchs who had supported and funded the initiative to pat themselves on the back and say what a great job they'd done in bringing ebay and facebook to all those poor people.
Whilst the joys of social networking and skype no doubt enhanced many third world lives, it was the pornography industry which reaped some of the greatest rewards. By appealing to the most basic of instincts many smut peddling billionaires were born. It was however the worldwide launch of the synaesthesia chip in 2020 which heralded the next major step in the evolution of the 'Adult' market.
The Synaesthesia chip, implanted into consumers at a bargain price thanks to huge subsidies from advertisers delighted at the opportunity to beam their messages straight into their targets skulls, enabled individuals to become fully immersed in the Internet. What had previously been a purely visual and aural experience could now stimulate every single sense; a coffee advert would beam the smell of the freshly ground beans into consumers noses, whilst numerous health spas found themselves going out of business now that a pampering massage could be experienced without anyone having to lay a finger on your physical flesh. The border between the virtual and 'real' worlds began to blur and come the launch in 2115 of the sixth generation chip the ability to virtually 'eat' any meal of your choosing on demand even put the food industry out of business, with liquid 'food' (pumped straight into their homes through the system that historically provided that now passé substance 'water') containing the perfect mix of nutrients required without the need for a single minute of preparation the new fuel of choice for the Virtually Human population.
Every new technology from the cave painting onwards has been put to intimate use by some individuals but until the Synaesthesia Chip was launched none had really been considered a preferable alternative to the experience of an actual physical coupling. Although the Daily Mail had initially hailed it to be a greater danger than crack cocaine, before long the online 'romance' experience had moved from seedy to mainstream, millions delighting in the joys of an experience tailored to your own personal needs without any of the risks or emotional hang ups associated with real life. It wasn't even all about sex; many subscribed religiously to the software which would give the consumers a permanent sensation of being in the first flushes of love.
And so it was that the world came to reach a dire state of crisis. As humanity retreated into its virtual shell the act of actual reproduction became a niche activity. Those who felt the primal urge to become a parent could do so in the Virtual world without having any of the agonies of childbirth. There was no need to ever fear for the safety and health virtual offspring due to their immortality - unless, of course, you'd had enough of the digi-child in which case you could simply uninstall the software and get on as if they had never existed (which, strictly speaking, was true). If current trends continued then within 50 years the average age of the population would be over 80, a situation that would clearly be unsustainable given that the vast majority of the rapidly shrinking younger population had no interest at all in a 'real world' profession such as nursing or care, and had even less interest in providing support for their own forbears. Life 'offline' held no appeal anymore; what was the point of accepting anything less than your very own idea of perfection when it was available to you simply with a blink of your eye?
Whilst most scientists agreed that it was a giant meteorite that led to the extinction of the dinosaurs, it was something considerably more mundane that thinned to human herd. On April 23rd 2125 a small earthquake - quite inconsequential in richter scale terms - erupted beneath Japan and cut the power to the Synaesthesia Lifestyle Systems servers that nestled at the base of Mount Fuji. With the power cut, the whole world suddenly found itself plunged back into reality, a place most citizens had not visited within the past decade. Hearts that had over time slowed to fewer than 30 beats a second could not cope with the sudden shock and at least 30% of the population dropped dead in an instant. Many more sent themselves to a grisly end within minutes of the awakening as they hacked away at their own skulls in an effort to bring their short circuited chips back to life. Their bodies weak and malnourished, the citizens of iSociety were no longer fit for life in the physical world, and given the underdeveloped - neigh, nonexistent - immune systems that they possessed as a result of their lack of exposure to anything other than a sterile home environment, an outbreak of influenza quickly killed most of them within weeks of them having tentatively ventured into the outside world.
In a perfect realisation of Darwin’s principals, by 2126 only 144,000 humans remained, all but the very fittest having perished. Many had mocked their ways over the past century but it was the TechnoPuritans who truly had the last laugh.
iSociety had had its day - it was time to return to a life of honest labour and embrace the realities of human nature and the infinite joys and disappointments of messy, complicated, population growing human love.
Not that long ago it had been overpopulation that had roused the passions of the worlds environmentalists, sociologists and thinkers. With an ageing population hungrily consuming the earth's limited resources and Government funded education programmes and free contraception doing little to halt the spiralling birth rate, many agreed that the future looked bleak.
The 2015 Global Internet Initiative was lauded as the greatest development project of the 21st century; the opportunity to close the divide between the riches of the west and those nations formerly known as third world. It would create entrepreneurial opportunities in communities that had historically been isolated from the global marketplace. It would beam world-class educational materials direct into the homes of children who had never set foot in a school. It would, in short, be the greatest thing since sliced bread, and perhaps most importantly would enable the countless politicians, businessmen and shady oligarchs who had supported and funded the initiative to pat themselves on the back and say what a great job they'd done in bringing ebay and facebook to all those poor people.
Whilst the joys of social networking and skype no doubt enhanced many third world lives, it was the pornography industry which reaped some of the greatest rewards. By appealing to the most basic of instincts many smut peddling billionaires were born. It was however the worldwide launch of the synaesthesia chip in 2020 which heralded the next major step in the evolution of the 'Adult' market.
The Synaesthesia chip, implanted into consumers at a bargain price thanks to huge subsidies from advertisers delighted at the opportunity to beam their messages straight into their targets skulls, enabled individuals to become fully immersed in the Internet. What had previously been a purely visual and aural experience could now stimulate every single sense; a coffee advert would beam the smell of the freshly ground beans into consumers noses, whilst numerous health spas found themselves going out of business now that a pampering massage could be experienced without anyone having to lay a finger on your physical flesh. The border between the virtual and 'real' worlds began to blur and come the launch in 2115 of the sixth generation chip the ability to virtually 'eat' any meal of your choosing on demand even put the food industry out of business, with liquid 'food' (pumped straight into their homes through the system that historically provided that now passé substance 'water') containing the perfect mix of nutrients required without the need for a single minute of preparation the new fuel of choice for the Virtually Human population.
Every new technology from the cave painting onwards has been put to intimate use by some individuals but until the Synaesthesia Chip was launched none had really been considered a preferable alternative to the experience of an actual physical coupling. Although the Daily Mail had initially hailed it to be a greater danger than crack cocaine, before long the online 'romance' experience had moved from seedy to mainstream, millions delighting in the joys of an experience tailored to your own personal needs without any of the risks or emotional hang ups associated with real life. It wasn't even all about sex; many subscribed religiously to the software which would give the consumers a permanent sensation of being in the first flushes of love.
And so it was that the world came to reach a dire state of crisis. As humanity retreated into its virtual shell the act of actual reproduction became a niche activity. Those who felt the primal urge to become a parent could do so in the Virtual world without having any of the agonies of childbirth. There was no need to ever fear for the safety and health virtual offspring due to their immortality - unless, of course, you'd had enough of the digi-child in which case you could simply uninstall the software and get on as if they had never existed (which, strictly speaking, was true). If current trends continued then within 50 years the average age of the population would be over 80, a situation that would clearly be unsustainable given that the vast majority of the rapidly shrinking younger population had no interest at all in a 'real world' profession such as nursing or care, and had even less interest in providing support for their own forbears. Life 'offline' held no appeal anymore; what was the point of accepting anything less than your very own idea of perfection when it was available to you simply with a blink of your eye?
Whilst most scientists agreed that it was a giant meteorite that led to the extinction of the dinosaurs, it was something considerably more mundane that thinned to human herd. On April 23rd 2125 a small earthquake - quite inconsequential in richter scale terms - erupted beneath Japan and cut the power to the Synaesthesia Lifestyle Systems servers that nestled at the base of Mount Fuji. With the power cut, the whole world suddenly found itself plunged back into reality, a place most citizens had not visited within the past decade. Hearts that had over time slowed to fewer than 30 beats a second could not cope with the sudden shock and at least 30% of the population dropped dead in an instant. Many more sent themselves to a grisly end within minutes of the awakening as they hacked away at their own skulls in an effort to bring their short circuited chips back to life. Their bodies weak and malnourished, the citizens of iSociety were no longer fit for life in the physical world, and given the underdeveloped - neigh, nonexistent - immune systems that they possessed as a result of their lack of exposure to anything other than a sterile home environment, an outbreak of influenza quickly killed most of them within weeks of them having tentatively ventured into the outside world.
In a perfect realisation of Darwin’s principals, by 2126 only 144,000 humans remained, all but the very fittest having perished. Many had mocked their ways over the past century but it was the TechnoPuritans who truly had the last laugh.
iSociety had had its day - it was time to return to a life of honest labour and embrace the realities of human nature and the infinite joys and disappointments of messy, complicated, population growing human love.
Thursday, 15 April 2010
Disappearing Act #fridayflash
This is an edited version of a longer story written for Leeds Writers Group.......
Disappearing Act
Excited at the prospect of attending her first school dance, Ruth Hennessy spent all her pocket money on cheap make up which she caked on with the subtlety of a clown. Seeing her little girl preening and pouting precociously in front of the mirror, Ruth’s mother decided that she could delay the inevitable no longer; the time had come to teach her the facts of life. Mrs Hennessy’s intentions were good, but when it came down to it she couldn’t bring herself to go into any level of biological detail and as a result Ruth spent most of the dance with horror on her face as she observed her classmates slow dancing and sharing awkward kisses, both activities she had been led to believe could make a baby if the participants weren’t taking what her mother obliquely referred to as ’precautions’.
A couple of weeks of secondary school were all it took for Ruth to realise she’d been duped; the contraband copies of Seventeen magazine pored over behind the bike sheds set her straight as far as sex was concerned, even if some of the practices referred to in the problem pages did leave her feeling repulsed. Although she was somewhat grateful that her Mum had spared her the embarrassment of a conversation complete with all the anatomical in and outs, she was livid that she’d been spun a lie which, had she had been unfortunate enough to repeat it, would have made her look like an idiot in front of her friends.
Several years previously Ruth had visited a magic show which culminated in the magician wowing the audience by making his assistant disappear. At the time Ruth was distraught, convinced that the girl had experienced some terrible fate and refusing to be consoled no matter how many times her grandfather explained that she hadn’t really been transported through time as The Great Magnifico had led her to believe. A disappearing act would, Ruth decided, be the perfect way to get revenge on her parents.
On Friday morning, Ruth ripped a page out of an exercise book and wrote a note which she left under her pillow. In her schoolbag alongside her usual books and pencilcase she packed her toothbrush, Gameboy and teddybear. Spending the night on the streets didn’t, she reasoned, mean that she had to live like a tramp – a few home comforts would make the night go a lot quicker. She wished that she could bring her duvet but there was no way she would be able to smuggle that to school without arousing any suspicion. Anyhow, she would be back in her bed tomorrow, with her parents so grateful to have her home that they would never dare to deceive her again.
When the school bell rang at 3.30pm Ruth made her way to the station and caught a train to the next town. Back home, her Mum sat watching the clock and wondering where Ruth had got to - she would usually have called if she was going to be delayed for any reason. By 6pm Mrs Hennessy was beginning to panic, and when her husband returned from work an hour later she was in a state of hysteria. At 7.15pm they found the scribbled note which struck fear into both their hearts;
‘Don’t look for me. I’m not coming back’.
For the first few hours Ruth kept herself entertained browsing the shops, but before long the only place open was a small supermarket and the suspicious looks that the security guard gave her as she traversed the aisles for the tenth time told her it was time to move on. She looked young for her age so even with make up on there was no chance of her being able to pass the evening in a pub, so the only remaining option was a fastfood joint. Ruth sat drinking a milkshake as slowly as possible whilst playing on her GameBoy until the batteries ran out. At 11pm the pizza-faced burger vendor apologetically told her that it was time to close, so Ruth reluctantly headed out onto the streets. It was freezing cold but she was adamant that she was going to stick it out; running away would be nowhere near as dramatic if she were to return home, tail between legs, before the night was through. Ruth sat on a bench and hugged her knees under her chin in an effort to keep warm.
“You should be careful around here, you know.”
Ruth turned to see a man looking at her out the window of a black car.
“Young girls on the street, well, sometimes they disappear. Why don’t you come with me and I’ll give you a lift home?”
“I’m waiting for someone” she replied, wishing that he would leave her alone. The way that he was staring, eyes wandering up and down her school uniform, was making her feel uncomfortable.
'Pretend what you like but it's true. Girls on the street disappear and never come back. Sure you don't want a ride?
Ruth shook her head.
'Your loss;' the man in the car muttered as he pulled away. Long after he was gone from sight the driver's words continued to echo around Ruth's head.
Disappear.
Disappear and never come back.
In that instant Ruth realised how flawed her plan had been. The magician on the pier, that had all been smoke and mirrors, and although the audience had marvelled at the fact that the girl had apparently vanished into thin air, they would not have been applauding if they had any doubt that she would live to perform the same act the next day. Out here however, in the strange and unfamiliar world of the night, tomorrow seemed very far away.
With tears in her eyes and regret seeping from every pore Ruth turned on her mobile phone and dialled.
This vanishing act was never going to receive a standing ovation or critical acclaim. It was time to bring the curtain down.
Disappearing Act
Excited at the prospect of attending her first school dance, Ruth Hennessy spent all her pocket money on cheap make up which she caked on with the subtlety of a clown. Seeing her little girl preening and pouting precociously in front of the mirror, Ruth’s mother decided that she could delay the inevitable no longer; the time had come to teach her the facts of life. Mrs Hennessy’s intentions were good, but when it came down to it she couldn’t bring herself to go into any level of biological detail and as a result Ruth spent most of the dance with horror on her face as she observed her classmates slow dancing and sharing awkward kisses, both activities she had been led to believe could make a baby if the participants weren’t taking what her mother obliquely referred to as ’precautions’.
A couple of weeks of secondary school were all it took for Ruth to realise she’d been duped; the contraband copies of Seventeen magazine pored over behind the bike sheds set her straight as far as sex was concerned, even if some of the practices referred to in the problem pages did leave her feeling repulsed. Although she was somewhat grateful that her Mum had spared her the embarrassment of a conversation complete with all the anatomical in and outs, she was livid that she’d been spun a lie which, had she had been unfortunate enough to repeat it, would have made her look like an idiot in front of her friends.
Several years previously Ruth had visited a magic show which culminated in the magician wowing the audience by making his assistant disappear. At the time Ruth was distraught, convinced that the girl had experienced some terrible fate and refusing to be consoled no matter how many times her grandfather explained that she hadn’t really been transported through time as The Great Magnifico had led her to believe. A disappearing act would, Ruth decided, be the perfect way to get revenge on her parents.
On Friday morning, Ruth ripped a page out of an exercise book and wrote a note which she left under her pillow. In her schoolbag alongside her usual books and pencilcase she packed her toothbrush, Gameboy and teddybear. Spending the night on the streets didn’t, she reasoned, mean that she had to live like a tramp – a few home comforts would make the night go a lot quicker. She wished that she could bring her duvet but there was no way she would be able to smuggle that to school without arousing any suspicion. Anyhow, she would be back in her bed tomorrow, with her parents so grateful to have her home that they would never dare to deceive her again.
When the school bell rang at 3.30pm Ruth made her way to the station and caught a train to the next town. Back home, her Mum sat watching the clock and wondering where Ruth had got to - she would usually have called if she was going to be delayed for any reason. By 6pm Mrs Hennessy was beginning to panic, and when her husband returned from work an hour later she was in a state of hysteria. At 7.15pm they found the scribbled note which struck fear into both their hearts;
‘Don’t look for me. I’m not coming back’.
For the first few hours Ruth kept herself entertained browsing the shops, but before long the only place open was a small supermarket and the suspicious looks that the security guard gave her as she traversed the aisles for the tenth time told her it was time to move on. She looked young for her age so even with make up on there was no chance of her being able to pass the evening in a pub, so the only remaining option was a fastfood joint. Ruth sat drinking a milkshake as slowly as possible whilst playing on her GameBoy until the batteries ran out. At 11pm the pizza-faced burger vendor apologetically told her that it was time to close, so Ruth reluctantly headed out onto the streets. It was freezing cold but she was adamant that she was going to stick it out; running away would be nowhere near as dramatic if she were to return home, tail between legs, before the night was through. Ruth sat on a bench and hugged her knees under her chin in an effort to keep warm.
“You should be careful around here, you know.”
Ruth turned to see a man looking at her out the window of a black car.
“Young girls on the street, well, sometimes they disappear. Why don’t you come with me and I’ll give you a lift home?”
“I’m waiting for someone” she replied, wishing that he would leave her alone. The way that he was staring, eyes wandering up and down her school uniform, was making her feel uncomfortable.
'Pretend what you like but it's true. Girls on the street disappear and never come back. Sure you don't want a ride?
Ruth shook her head.
'Your loss;' the man in the car muttered as he pulled away. Long after he was gone from sight the driver's words continued to echo around Ruth's head.
Disappear.
Disappear and never come back.
In that instant Ruth realised how flawed her plan had been. The magician on the pier, that had all been smoke and mirrors, and although the audience had marvelled at the fact that the girl had apparently vanished into thin air, they would not have been applauding if they had any doubt that she would live to perform the same act the next day. Out here however, in the strange and unfamiliar world of the night, tomorrow seemed very far away.
With tears in her eyes and regret seeping from every pore Ruth turned on her mobile phone and dialled.
This vanishing act was never going to receive a standing ovation or critical acclaim. It was time to bring the curtain down.
Thursday, 8 April 2010
'Kiss Me Quick' #fridayflash
KISS ME QUICK
A local news programme once informed me this city is the further from the coast in the whole of the Britain. Whilst this may have some advantages in this age of freak weather and rising sea levels, on the rare occasion that I find the sun blazing down and a commitment free weekend ahead I find myself pining for the nostalgic pleasure of the seaside; ice creams, sticks of rock, stripey deckchairs et al. I can't quite recollect if this image stems from an actual childhood memory or from years of Sunday sitcoms and carry on movies, but just imagining lungs filled with salty air and the cacophonous squawking of circling gulls transports me to a happy place far from the concerns of everyday life.
I was walking through the park on my way to the supermarket, iPod blasting at full volume in an attempt to let Bill ‘Lovely Day’ Withers transport me away from the graffiti and dog crap reality of my journey. This was a route that I'd taken many times before, and the fact that we were experiencing freakishly good weather for April did little to detract from the fact that the Nobby Herring Memorial Park was a grim place, preferred hangout of drug dealers and local disaffected youths and not somewhere you would wish to linger for any longer than strictly necessary. I was, as usual, trying to avoid making eye contact with anyone else unfortunate enough to be in the locale, when out the corner of my eye I saw a flash of brilliant blue. Taken aback by something so colourful against this dismal backdrop, I broke with my usual rule and looked up to see a barefooted girl wearing a billowing blue dress dancing on the dead grass, rucksack at her side.
'She sells seashells on the seashore. She sells seashells on the seashore.'
I'd had a relatively heavy night on the town but I was pretty sure that I wasn't seeing things.
'Hasn't anyone told you it's rude to stare?'
The girl stopped dancing and was now stood still, hands on hips and head tilted coquettishly.
'I'm sorry, it's just that I was daydreaming that I was walking along the beach rather than negotiating the litter in this dump, and then there you were, singing about seashells. Weird.'
'Yeah, whatever.'
I was about to walk on but she was staring at me intently in a way that suggested she was waiting for me to speak.
'Er, I've not seen you here before. Are you local?'
'Maybe you just haven't been looking properly. Aurora.'
'Steve. Pleased to meet you'.
Aurora sat down, dress spread in a circle, and patted the ground, beckoning me to join her. Kicking aside a crumpled coke can, I accepted the offer.
'So, you were saying that you were dreaming of the sea?’ she said. ‘I love the sea. So romantic.’
'Me too, though to be honest I was thinking about the funfairs, donkeys and kiss me quick hats side of things rather than waves crashing on the shore.'
‘Kiss me quick hats?’ she repeated quizzically. ‘What’s a kiss me quick hat?’
‘Surely you must have heard of them;’ I replied. ‘When I was a kid my granddad used to always wear one when we went to the seaside. I found it mortifying, of course.’
Aurora laughed.
‘And did he get many kisses?’
‘Well, given that my grandma was always at his side ready to fend off any admirers with her walking stick, unfortunately not.’
‘And do you have one of these famous hats in your wardrobe?’ she said with a grin on her face. ‘Because you know what, if you were wearing one right now, I might just have to...’
I blushed.
‘You might just have to what?’
‘Might just have to kiss you. Maybe quickly, or maybe like this’
She leaned over and lifted my chin with her hand until we were staring into each other’s eyes, then firmly pressed her lips to mine. In an instant I saw the Nobby Herring Memorial Park in a whole new light; in my nineteen uneventful years of existence there had been maybe half a dozen girls prepared to swap saliva with me and yet here I was with this beautiful stranger kissing me passionately and running her hands all over my body in broad daylight. It was like all my adolescent dreams came true all at once, and far more exciting than anything that the internet could provide.
The kiss must have gone on for a full minute before she pulled away, bringing me reluctantly back down to earth from what had felt like a truly divine experience.
‘I’m sorry, Steve’ she said apologetically. ‘I don’t normally do that kind of thing, I’ve no idea what came over me.’ She grabbed her bag and leapt to her feet.
‘Wait!’ I called out as she frantically brushed grass from her dress. ‘There’s no need to apologise, that was amazing. Want to grab a coffee or something?’
She shook her head.
‘No, I really have to go, I’ve got to get to a lecture. Maybe see you around?’
‘Yes, that would be great;’ I replied. ‘Can I give you my number?’
She shook her head again.
‘No, I don’t think so. But it was nice meeting you.’
With that curt reply she turned and walked away, leaving me dazed and confused. Had I really just shared the best kiss of my life with a random girl in the middle of the park?
Bemused, I rose to my feet. I wasn't really in the mood for grocery shopping anymore, but aware of the bare cupboards in my flat I begrudgingly decided to continue on my original mission. I reached into my jacket to retrieve my iPod; for once Bill Withers had been right, this had turned out to be a lovely day indeed. It was then that I sadly realised that if something seems too good to be true, chances are that it is. No wonder she had been keen to kiss me quick and squeeze me slowly; the spontaneous seduction had actually been the perfect cover for a thorough excavation of my pockets. No regrets though; in that instant I would have signed over my soul if only she had asked, so a £150 mp3 player and £16 in change were a comparatively small price to pay.
A local news programme once informed me this city is the further from the coast in the whole of the Britain. Whilst this may have some advantages in this age of freak weather and rising sea levels, on the rare occasion that I find the sun blazing down and a commitment free weekend ahead I find myself pining for the nostalgic pleasure of the seaside; ice creams, sticks of rock, stripey deckchairs et al. I can't quite recollect if this image stems from an actual childhood memory or from years of Sunday sitcoms and carry on movies, but just imagining lungs filled with salty air and the cacophonous squawking of circling gulls transports me to a happy place far from the concerns of everyday life.
I was walking through the park on my way to the supermarket, iPod blasting at full volume in an attempt to let Bill ‘Lovely Day’ Withers transport me away from the graffiti and dog crap reality of my journey. This was a route that I'd taken many times before, and the fact that we were experiencing freakishly good weather for April did little to detract from the fact that the Nobby Herring Memorial Park was a grim place, preferred hangout of drug dealers and local disaffected youths and not somewhere you would wish to linger for any longer than strictly necessary. I was, as usual, trying to avoid making eye contact with anyone else unfortunate enough to be in the locale, when out the corner of my eye I saw a flash of brilliant blue. Taken aback by something so colourful against this dismal backdrop, I broke with my usual rule and looked up to see a barefooted girl wearing a billowing blue dress dancing on the dead grass, rucksack at her side.
'She sells seashells on the seashore. She sells seashells on the seashore.'
I'd had a relatively heavy night on the town but I was pretty sure that I wasn't seeing things.
'Hasn't anyone told you it's rude to stare?'
The girl stopped dancing and was now stood still, hands on hips and head tilted coquettishly.
'I'm sorry, it's just that I was daydreaming that I was walking along the beach rather than negotiating the litter in this dump, and then there you were, singing about seashells. Weird.'
'Yeah, whatever.'
I was about to walk on but she was staring at me intently in a way that suggested she was waiting for me to speak.
'Er, I've not seen you here before. Are you local?'
'Maybe you just haven't been looking properly. Aurora.'
'Steve. Pleased to meet you'.
Aurora sat down, dress spread in a circle, and patted the ground, beckoning me to join her. Kicking aside a crumpled coke can, I accepted the offer.
'So, you were saying that you were dreaming of the sea?’ she said. ‘I love the sea. So romantic.’
'Me too, though to be honest I was thinking about the funfairs, donkeys and kiss me quick hats side of things rather than waves crashing on the shore.'
‘Kiss me quick hats?’ she repeated quizzically. ‘What’s a kiss me quick hat?’
‘Surely you must have heard of them;’ I replied. ‘When I was a kid my granddad used to always wear one when we went to the seaside. I found it mortifying, of course.’
Aurora laughed.
‘And did he get many kisses?’
‘Well, given that my grandma was always at his side ready to fend off any admirers with her walking stick, unfortunately not.’
‘And do you have one of these famous hats in your wardrobe?’ she said with a grin on her face. ‘Because you know what, if you were wearing one right now, I might just have to...’
I blushed.
‘You might just have to what?’
‘Might just have to kiss you. Maybe quickly, or maybe like this’
She leaned over and lifted my chin with her hand until we were staring into each other’s eyes, then firmly pressed her lips to mine. In an instant I saw the Nobby Herring Memorial Park in a whole new light; in my nineteen uneventful years of existence there had been maybe half a dozen girls prepared to swap saliva with me and yet here I was with this beautiful stranger kissing me passionately and running her hands all over my body in broad daylight. It was like all my adolescent dreams came true all at once, and far more exciting than anything that the internet could provide.
The kiss must have gone on for a full minute before she pulled away, bringing me reluctantly back down to earth from what had felt like a truly divine experience.
‘I’m sorry, Steve’ she said apologetically. ‘I don’t normally do that kind of thing, I’ve no idea what came over me.’ She grabbed her bag and leapt to her feet.
‘Wait!’ I called out as she frantically brushed grass from her dress. ‘There’s no need to apologise, that was amazing. Want to grab a coffee or something?’
She shook her head.
‘No, I really have to go, I’ve got to get to a lecture. Maybe see you around?’
‘Yes, that would be great;’ I replied. ‘Can I give you my number?’
She shook her head again.
‘No, I don’t think so. But it was nice meeting you.’
With that curt reply she turned and walked away, leaving me dazed and confused. Had I really just shared the best kiss of my life with a random girl in the middle of the park?
Bemused, I rose to my feet. I wasn't really in the mood for grocery shopping anymore, but aware of the bare cupboards in my flat I begrudgingly decided to continue on my original mission. I reached into my jacket to retrieve my iPod; for once Bill Withers had been right, this had turned out to be a lovely day indeed. It was then that I sadly realised that if something seems too good to be true, chances are that it is. No wonder she had been keen to kiss me quick and squeeze me slowly; the spontaneous seduction had actually been the perfect cover for a thorough excavation of my pockets. No regrets though; in that instant I would have signed over my soul if only she had asked, so a £150 mp3 player and £16 in change were a comparatively small price to pay.
Friday, 2 April 2010
'Ova' my dead body #fridayflash
A light-hearted story for Easter weekend, a slice of English village life.
'OVA' MY DEAD BODY
The cancellation of the 97th annual Winfordshire egg rolling contest was considered by many to be an outrage. Generations of Winfordshire folk had grown up with the contest as important a date in the family calendar as their birthday, Christmas or the last day of term, and the prospect of Easter passing by without the competitive thrill of rushing down the hill, typically whilst being pounded by the wind and rain characteristic of English springtime, was enough to bring tears to the eyes of local residents young and old.
“Health and safety?!” scoffed Edna Burridge, 89 years of age and a lifelong Winfordshire lass. “There was no such thing back in my day. A few knocks and scrapes never did anyone any harm. It certainly wasn’t health and safety that won us the war, you mark my words.”
The local council did not however pay any attention to Edna’s words, or indeed those of any of the other 63 angry citizens who bombarded them with letters, phone calls and mildly veiled threats. In this increasingly litigious age they could simply not afford to bear the risk associated with an event which had recorded in the annals of its glorious history countless cases of concussion, eighteen broken limbs and at least a dozen arrests. In spite of Edna’s declaration that ‘you’ll stop that contest over my dead body!’, the cancellation remained in place and Edna remained in the same rude health as ever.
Regardless of the council’s decree that the event had been outlawed, the citizens of Winfordshire carried on regardless with the task of painstakingly decorating their eggs. Those ignorant enough to question the point of spending hours painting a detailed design on an egg only to throw it down a muddy hill were treated with derision and pointed in the direction of the local museum where a lovingly assembled scrapbook would greet them with photographs of their parents, grandparents and even great grandparents performing the very same task, and the proprietor Brian would solemnly inform them that tradition is tradition, no questions asked.
Word spread that the killjoy council would be locking the gates to the park on Easter Sunday morning in order to prevent any illegal egg rolling activity from taking place, so the self appointed people’s committee of maths teacher Peter Fletcher, ferret fancier Allen Monroe and lifelong Winfordshire lass Edna Burridge, 89, decided that an alternative approach was required. Although tradition decreed that the egg rolling would always take place immediately after the 10am easter morning service at St Barnabus’, they agreed that breaking with a small element of tradition would be preferable to bowing to the bureaucrats and cancelling the event completely. Word quickly spread of the new arrangements and the self appointed committee were confident that there would be a good turn out at the inaugural Winfordshire midnight egg rolling contest.
At approximately quarter to twelve on the night of April 3rd, at least one hundred members of the Winfordshire population crept from their houses into the cold dark street, wrapped up warm in gloves and scarves and grasping a precious egg-shaped cargo. Rogue council worker (and grandson of Edna) Richard Burridge had misappropriated the spare set of park keys, an abnormally deviant act for the straight-laced accountant and one that made him somewhat fearful for his job and final salary pension. Into the park streamed men, women and children, some rolling virgins but the majority faithful disciples of the great school of Egg. Like sheep they flocked towards the top of the hill where they stood in silence, waiting for the sign.
Arthritis and hips that had seen better days meant that Edna had, twelve months ago, had to sadly announce her retirement from egg rolling. Her unbroken record for the most consecutive wins – six back in the early 1970s – afforded her a VIP status that made her the natural choice for taking charge of the event in the absence of the usual council officials. At the bottom of the hill, as instructed, she flashed her torch three times in a row before bellowing ‘Go!’. In an instant eggs were furiously launched down the slope, their trajectory followed in quick succession by a flurry of flailing limbs and screaming mouths. Within thirty seconds the first egg reached the finish line and Edna declared its young owner the winner, taking a photo on her grandson’s fancy digital camera of the boy holding the red and white striped egg aloft which would take pride of place in the Winfordshire museum scrapbook alongside the images of the previous seventy victors. In the background of the photo could be made out dozens of shadowy figures, some sat on the ground holding grazed knees or aching heads, others bent over struggling to catch a breath after their brief annual stint of physical activity. Everyone, no matter how bloodied or bruised, shared in the elation of the winner. This was a victory for everyone, a victory over those cursed words health and safety, a victory over the man.
Whilst the good citizens of Winfordshire were celebrating easter at St Barnabus’ church, or, in the case of the more secularly mind, with a chocolate egg shaped breakfast in bed, local councillor and park keeper Eric Marmaduke rigidly stood guard at the park gate like one of the Queens’ beefeaters, although with a slightly less impressive hat. He was quite surprised by how quiet it was this morning – after the mountain of complaint letters that had landed on his mat he would not have been surprised to have been greeted by angry protesters with signs and threats of violence. To be honest it was even quiet by the standards of a usual Sunday, as if everyone had simultaneously decided to spend an extra hour in bed rather than going about their usual routines. When the clock struck midday without the slightest hint of trouble having occurred, Mr Marmaduke decided that he no longer needed to stand sentry; the good citizens of Winfordshire had clearly come to realise that by calling an end to the preposterous act of carnage that they like to call tradition he had only had their best interests at heart. He had been wrong to doubt them.
At 12.01 Eric Marmaduke opened the park gates and was greeted by a carpet of rainbow egg shells.
At 12.01 and ten seconds Eric Marmaduke greeted the carpet of rainbow egg shells with a very rude word.
'OVA' MY DEAD BODY
The cancellation of the 97th annual Winfordshire egg rolling contest was considered by many to be an outrage. Generations of Winfordshire folk had grown up with the contest as important a date in the family calendar as their birthday, Christmas or the last day of term, and the prospect of Easter passing by without the competitive thrill of rushing down the hill, typically whilst being pounded by the wind and rain characteristic of English springtime, was enough to bring tears to the eyes of local residents young and old.
“Health and safety?!” scoffed Edna Burridge, 89 years of age and a lifelong Winfordshire lass. “There was no such thing back in my day. A few knocks and scrapes never did anyone any harm. It certainly wasn’t health and safety that won us the war, you mark my words.”
The local council did not however pay any attention to Edna’s words, or indeed those of any of the other 63 angry citizens who bombarded them with letters, phone calls and mildly veiled threats. In this increasingly litigious age they could simply not afford to bear the risk associated with an event which had recorded in the annals of its glorious history countless cases of concussion, eighteen broken limbs and at least a dozen arrests. In spite of Edna’s declaration that ‘you’ll stop that contest over my dead body!’, the cancellation remained in place and Edna remained in the same rude health as ever.
Regardless of the council’s decree that the event had been outlawed, the citizens of Winfordshire carried on regardless with the task of painstakingly decorating their eggs. Those ignorant enough to question the point of spending hours painting a detailed design on an egg only to throw it down a muddy hill were treated with derision and pointed in the direction of the local museum where a lovingly assembled scrapbook would greet them with photographs of their parents, grandparents and even great grandparents performing the very same task, and the proprietor Brian would solemnly inform them that tradition is tradition, no questions asked.
Word spread that the killjoy council would be locking the gates to the park on Easter Sunday morning in order to prevent any illegal egg rolling activity from taking place, so the self appointed people’s committee of maths teacher Peter Fletcher, ferret fancier Allen Monroe and lifelong Winfordshire lass Edna Burridge, 89, decided that an alternative approach was required. Although tradition decreed that the egg rolling would always take place immediately after the 10am easter morning service at St Barnabus’, they agreed that breaking with a small element of tradition would be preferable to bowing to the bureaucrats and cancelling the event completely. Word quickly spread of the new arrangements and the self appointed committee were confident that there would be a good turn out at the inaugural Winfordshire midnight egg rolling contest.
At approximately quarter to twelve on the night of April 3rd, at least one hundred members of the Winfordshire population crept from their houses into the cold dark street, wrapped up warm in gloves and scarves and grasping a precious egg-shaped cargo. Rogue council worker (and grandson of Edna) Richard Burridge had misappropriated the spare set of park keys, an abnormally deviant act for the straight-laced accountant and one that made him somewhat fearful for his job and final salary pension. Into the park streamed men, women and children, some rolling virgins but the majority faithful disciples of the great school of Egg. Like sheep they flocked towards the top of the hill where they stood in silence, waiting for the sign.
Arthritis and hips that had seen better days meant that Edna had, twelve months ago, had to sadly announce her retirement from egg rolling. Her unbroken record for the most consecutive wins – six back in the early 1970s – afforded her a VIP status that made her the natural choice for taking charge of the event in the absence of the usual council officials. At the bottom of the hill, as instructed, she flashed her torch three times in a row before bellowing ‘Go!’. In an instant eggs were furiously launched down the slope, their trajectory followed in quick succession by a flurry of flailing limbs and screaming mouths. Within thirty seconds the first egg reached the finish line and Edna declared its young owner the winner, taking a photo on her grandson’s fancy digital camera of the boy holding the red and white striped egg aloft which would take pride of place in the Winfordshire museum scrapbook alongside the images of the previous seventy victors. In the background of the photo could be made out dozens of shadowy figures, some sat on the ground holding grazed knees or aching heads, others bent over struggling to catch a breath after their brief annual stint of physical activity. Everyone, no matter how bloodied or bruised, shared in the elation of the winner. This was a victory for everyone, a victory over those cursed words health and safety, a victory over the man.
Whilst the good citizens of Winfordshire were celebrating easter at St Barnabus’ church, or, in the case of the more secularly mind, with a chocolate egg shaped breakfast in bed, local councillor and park keeper Eric Marmaduke rigidly stood guard at the park gate like one of the Queens’ beefeaters, although with a slightly less impressive hat. He was quite surprised by how quiet it was this morning – after the mountain of complaint letters that had landed on his mat he would not have been surprised to have been greeted by angry protesters with signs and threats of violence. To be honest it was even quiet by the standards of a usual Sunday, as if everyone had simultaneously decided to spend an extra hour in bed rather than going about their usual routines. When the clock struck midday without the slightest hint of trouble having occurred, Mr Marmaduke decided that he no longer needed to stand sentry; the good citizens of Winfordshire had clearly come to realise that by calling an end to the preposterous act of carnage that they like to call tradition he had only had their best interests at heart. He had been wrong to doubt them.
At 12.01 Eric Marmaduke opened the park gates and was greeted by a carpet of rainbow egg shells.
At 12.01 and ten seconds Eric Marmaduke greeted the carpet of rainbow egg shells with a very rude word.
Thursday, 11 March 2010
Mother's Day #fridayflash
Although this story stands alone, it could be the start of a far longer tale - let me know what you think and if you'd be interested in reading more......
Mother's Day
“I wish you weren’t my mother. I hate you.”
Laura rolled her eyes at her screaming daughter, refusing to bite, refusing to let the teenager gain the upper hand. Hours spent perusing parenting forums had taught her not to take this kind of behaviour personally, the thirteen year old who respected and appreciated their parents being a very rare species indeed.
“I wish you’d never had me. Or I’d been adopted at birth!”
It wasn’t a big surprise to Laura that Bethany had failed to get her a gift for Mother’s day. Any acknowledgement of gratitude would have been nice, but the relationship between them had been even more strained than usual of late and Laura had to be content with the fact that she was getting to spend some time with her today, even if it was more an expletive laden war of words than an affectionate bonding session.
As a child Bethany had sported a halo of blonde curls, although as she grew these gave way to a darker complexion which Laura attributed to her absent father. As they walked hand in hand people
had often commented how much the infant looked like her mother, Laura swelling with maternal pride at the beautiful daughter that she had once thought she would never have. After an acrimonious divorce Laura had flitted between relationships, the deep scars inflicted by her marriage causing her to run a mile as soon as the idea of love or commitment entered the head of either party. Hitting forty she was struck by the realisation that her body clock was winding down, the window of fertile opportunity closing fast. She stopped taking the pill and set about a mission to bed as many eligible men as possible. She couldn’t care less if they were good father material as she intended to raise her child alone; as long as the prospective donor was reasonably attractive and capable of holding conversation she had no further qualms. In spite of this lack of discretion the mission went on for five fruitless years and Laura had pretty much given up hope when, at long last, along came Bethany.
Beautiful baby Bethany. Mummy’s little miracle.
“Another slice of cheesecake, sweetheart?”
“No, what do you think I am, a pig? You trying to fatten me up, make me fat and ugly like you?”
“Now, Bee. That’s not a nice thing to say, is it? No matter how much you wish otherwise, I’m your Mum, and nothing can change that.”
“It doesn’t mean that I have to like you though, fat old bitch. I must have done something wrong in a past life to end up with such an old cow for a Mum.”
Laura rose abruptly, deciding to forego the wisdom of Mumsnet.com et al and give her daughter a piece of her mind.
“How dare you speak to me like that, after all I do for you? Get to your room now. I will not be spoken to like that. NOW.”
Without a further word Bethany left the room, slamming the door behind her.
Laura cleared the table before settling down in her armchair with a cup of tea and the Sunday paper. As the quality time with her daughter that she had hoped for clearly wasn’t going to happen she would have to make do with some quality time with herself. She flicked past the usual sensationalist articles about footballers’ indiscretions and philandering politicians, the same old stories as last week just with different faces. A ‘heart-warming’ spread showing the beaming faces of families who had triumphed against adversity put a grimace on her face; did the publishers not realise that by devoting column inches to these paragons of virtue they would serve to make ordinary Mums struggling with ordinary issues feel even more inadequate than usual? Laura turned the page with disdain.
On the next page there was a picture of a couple, ordinary looking people stood in front of a tired council house. They were nothing special to look at, but their sad faces were known by the nation, had been for well over a decade now along with the photo of a dribbling baby that they clasped tightly in every shot.
As today was Mothers Day, a new image had been released to the press using the latest technology to show what Lisa Davies would look like today. The silent majority were convinced that Lisa had been dead over a decade now and questioned whether it was really right for the tabloids to keep covering the story in this way, milking the tragedy for all it was worth and giving the sad faced parents false hope in the process. Laura had certainly had enough of the story; was there anything at all in this rag resembling actual news?
Hearing footsteps coming down the stairs Laura folded the newspaper and tossed it on to the open fire at her side. She regularly asked herself why she bothered wasting her money on such trash when it always ended going up the chimney, but it was a matter of habit and the morning stroll to the newsagents a welcome excuse for a bit of fresh air.
“Mum?”
The door creaked open and Bethany sheepishly entered.
“I thought I’d told you to stay in your room;” Laura said in what she intended to be a stern manner, but which was rendered ineffective by the smile that darted across her face the instant that she saw the envelope clasped in her daughter’s hand.
“I’m sorry about earlier Mum, I didn’t mean it. Happy Mother’s Day”.
Laura opened the envelope and was greeted by a card showing a cartoon bear holding a bunch of flowers underneath a banner reading ‘World’s Best Mum’.
“Come here, sweetie.” Bethany sat on the arm of the chair and Laura her pulled into a tight hug. “Thanks, it’s really lovely."
Bethany squirmed, embarrassed by the outpouring of emotion.
“That’s ok Mum, it’s nothing.” She wriggled free of the embrace and slid off the chair. “Is it ok if I head back to my room now? I’m going to get on with my homework.”
“Of course, Bee. You do that.”
As Bethany left the room Laura wiped a tear away from her cheek. She’d never believed it until she became a parent herself, but she knew now that it was true that no matter how petulant their behaviour and venomous their words, a mother’s love for her child is unwavering. Although it was inevitable that they would not always see eye to eye, she could say without any doubt that she loved Bethany just as much today as the day that she was born. The day that she was born - and the day that she snatched her from the hospital.
Thursday, 4 March 2010
Tobias Flutterbutt's Muse #fridayflash
Something a little different, an edited version of a story written for Leeds Writers Group...
Tobias Flutterbutt’s Muse
My name is Tobias Flutterbutt, descendent of the Yorkshire Flutterbutts and no relation, I hasten to add, of those Lancastrian scallywags that cast shame on what is otherwise a good and honourable name. I am an amanuensis by trade, scribe and confidant to the illustrious Eleanor DeMontfort. On the morning of which I speak Milady was resplendent in pearls and divine velveteen gown in anticipation of the arrival of an old friend, the famously reclusive Duke of Winfordshire. I have never been one for gossip, however if rumour is to be believed, Milady and the Duke were once more than just friends. The fondness with which she spoke of sharing her formative years with the one she affectionately named ‘Dukie’ did little to scotch the rumours, and she implied on several occasions that if not for their disapproving parents they would no doubt have lived as husband and wife.
I was busy opening Milady’s letters when she called to me; ‘Tobias, dearest, come along’.
With my usual expeditiousness I scurried to her side, where I was disheartened to see an unbecoming frown on Milady’s face.
‘We have a terrible situation. Dukie is due within the hour and I have run out of rouge. My usual winsome glow is, I confess, aided by a wonderful product I have shipped over from Paris, however given the lack of time could you please hurry to the Apothecary to pick up something to protect the dear Duke from my unsightly pallor?’
As a loyal employee I agreed immediately to attend to Milady’s demands. I personally was very keen for her to engage in an ‘affaire de coeur’; although not one for gossip I heard the Duke inhabits a palatial countryside property which would be a definite improvement on the ramshackle house that I currently call ‘mon maison’.
I was strolling towards the village to purchase the rouge when I first saw her. As a small community it is always an occasion when outsiders enter our fold, and dressed most peculiarly in gentleman’s breeches and hunting jacket that in spite of their masculine appearance somehow made her look only more pulchritudinous, she was certainly not local. As I dashed past I tried to avoid eye contact with the intriguing stranger; I had Milady’s demands to attend to and no time for idle conversation. When I reached the Apothecary however I could not help but turn to take one last glance at her, a vision of delight standing nonchalantly with a thin cigarette between full lips.
The Apothecary was bustling with ladies collecting assorted potions and lotions intended to gift them with eternal youth. If I were not such an honourable man then I would tell you that for many it is far too late to escape the savage hands of time - a trowel or a paperbag may be the only way to mask their true age. As I waited to collect Milady’s blush, my mind could not help but wander back to the stranger I had just encounted; although we had not exchanged a word she had ignited a veritable mardi gras in my heart. As I left the shop I decided that much as my duty to Milady was important, I could not deny myself the opportunity to acquaint myself with the mysterious outsider – I longed to be the cigarette between her lips, and pictured myself as Apollo and she as my muse, the inspiration who would allow me to fulfil my true poetic vocation.
I moved with haste back to where I had seen her but alas she was gone, the only indication of her ever having been there a discarded cigarette, a souvenir which I still carry to this day. I must have passed hours stalking the village for her as the sun had been low in the east when I started my search and was now journeying west. To be truthful I had completed forgotten the original purpose of my trip in spite of having clasped the dainty pot for the duration. Eventually I had to concede defeat and return, tail between legs, to Milady. Although she was a romantic soul herself I did not know how she would react to my disloyalty; she had been desperate to make the best impression on the Duke and I had failed in my duty to help. As I entered the house however I breathed a sigh of relief as I heard joyous laughter coming from the dining room; it sounded as if all were going well in spite of the lack of maquillage.
Although not one to pry, I was eager to finally catch sight of the man who sent Milady’s heart a-flutter, so trying not to interrupt the revelry, I peered around the door. My silent intention however was not fulfilled as the unexpected vision before me provoked me to drop the pot of powder, smashing it and sending a cloud of magenta all over the room. Sat next to Milady and with a hand affectionately stroking her thigh was the ‘Duke’ and I suddenly discovered why he was so notoriously reclusive – Dukie was not a Duke at all, but a Duchess!
‘Hello Tobias’ said Milady calmly. ‘Whatever took so long? Anyhow, meet my darling Dukie.’
In that instant I saw that she who had been my muse for all of two hours had been serving the same purpose to Lady Eleanor since childhood. Rouge or no rouge, I could see that ‘Dukie’ was clearly besotted with Milady from the way that her facial expression perfectly mirrored my own. The very next day Milady and Dukie set off together on a voyage to a Greek island – Lisbos, I think they call it -where, they informed me, no one would bat an eyelid at a lady in breeches. Lady Eleanor left me in charge of the house whilst they are away, though whether they will ever return I do not know.
Why, you may ask, as a man who despises gossip, have I chosen to publish this article to the world? I write, dear reader, not to titillate but to immortalise the memory of my muse. There is no stronger emotion than unrequited love and no greater inspiration than emotion, and I believe that the mark she made on my heart will keep me in poetry for the rest of my days.
Tobias Flutterbutt’s Muse
My name is Tobias Flutterbutt, descendent of the Yorkshire Flutterbutts and no relation, I hasten to add, of those Lancastrian scallywags that cast shame on what is otherwise a good and honourable name. I am an amanuensis by trade, scribe and confidant to the illustrious Eleanor DeMontfort. On the morning of which I speak Milady was resplendent in pearls and divine velveteen gown in anticipation of the arrival of an old friend, the famously reclusive Duke of Winfordshire. I have never been one for gossip, however if rumour is to be believed, Milady and the Duke were once more than just friends. The fondness with which she spoke of sharing her formative years with the one she affectionately named ‘Dukie’ did little to scotch the rumours, and she implied on several occasions that if not for their disapproving parents they would no doubt have lived as husband and wife.
I was busy opening Milady’s letters when she called to me; ‘Tobias, dearest, come along’.
With my usual expeditiousness I scurried to her side, where I was disheartened to see an unbecoming frown on Milady’s face.
‘We have a terrible situation. Dukie is due within the hour and I have run out of rouge. My usual winsome glow is, I confess, aided by a wonderful product I have shipped over from Paris, however given the lack of time could you please hurry to the Apothecary to pick up something to protect the dear Duke from my unsightly pallor?’
As a loyal employee I agreed immediately to attend to Milady’s demands. I personally was very keen for her to engage in an ‘affaire de coeur’; although not one for gossip I heard the Duke inhabits a palatial countryside property which would be a definite improvement on the ramshackle house that I currently call ‘mon maison’.
I was strolling towards the village to purchase the rouge when I first saw her. As a small community it is always an occasion when outsiders enter our fold, and dressed most peculiarly in gentleman’s breeches and hunting jacket that in spite of their masculine appearance somehow made her look only more pulchritudinous, she was certainly not local. As I dashed past I tried to avoid eye contact with the intriguing stranger; I had Milady’s demands to attend to and no time for idle conversation. When I reached the Apothecary however I could not help but turn to take one last glance at her, a vision of delight standing nonchalantly with a thin cigarette between full lips.
The Apothecary was bustling with ladies collecting assorted potions and lotions intended to gift them with eternal youth. If I were not such an honourable man then I would tell you that for many it is far too late to escape the savage hands of time - a trowel or a paperbag may be the only way to mask their true age. As I waited to collect Milady’s blush, my mind could not help but wander back to the stranger I had just encounted; although we had not exchanged a word she had ignited a veritable mardi gras in my heart. As I left the shop I decided that much as my duty to Milady was important, I could not deny myself the opportunity to acquaint myself with the mysterious outsider – I longed to be the cigarette between her lips, and pictured myself as Apollo and she as my muse, the inspiration who would allow me to fulfil my true poetic vocation.
I moved with haste back to where I had seen her but alas she was gone, the only indication of her ever having been there a discarded cigarette, a souvenir which I still carry to this day. I must have passed hours stalking the village for her as the sun had been low in the east when I started my search and was now journeying west. To be truthful I had completed forgotten the original purpose of my trip in spite of having clasped the dainty pot for the duration. Eventually I had to concede defeat and return, tail between legs, to Milady. Although she was a romantic soul herself I did not know how she would react to my disloyalty; she had been desperate to make the best impression on the Duke and I had failed in my duty to help. As I entered the house however I breathed a sigh of relief as I heard joyous laughter coming from the dining room; it sounded as if all were going well in spite of the lack of maquillage.
Although not one to pry, I was eager to finally catch sight of the man who sent Milady’s heart a-flutter, so trying not to interrupt the revelry, I peered around the door. My silent intention however was not fulfilled as the unexpected vision before me provoked me to drop the pot of powder, smashing it and sending a cloud of magenta all over the room. Sat next to Milady and with a hand affectionately stroking her thigh was the ‘Duke’ and I suddenly discovered why he was so notoriously reclusive – Dukie was not a Duke at all, but a Duchess!
‘Hello Tobias’ said Milady calmly. ‘Whatever took so long? Anyhow, meet my darling Dukie.’
In that instant I saw that she who had been my muse for all of two hours had been serving the same purpose to Lady Eleanor since childhood. Rouge or no rouge, I could see that ‘Dukie’ was clearly besotted with Milady from the way that her facial expression perfectly mirrored my own. The very next day Milady and Dukie set off together on a voyage to a Greek island – Lisbos, I think they call it -where, they informed me, no one would bat an eyelid at a lady in breeches. Lady Eleanor left me in charge of the house whilst they are away, though whether they will ever return I do not know.
Why, you may ask, as a man who despises gossip, have I chosen to publish this article to the world? I write, dear reader, not to titillate but to immortalise the memory of my muse. There is no stronger emotion than unrequited love and no greater inspiration than emotion, and I believe that the mark she made on my heart will keep me in poetry for the rest of my days.
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....)
Hungry
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.
'Daphne?'
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.
Hungry
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.
'Daphne?'
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.
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.
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....
LAST MEAL
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....)
LAST MEAL
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....)
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