Mr Power

This is a short piece I wrote a couple of months back for a writers group session on the topic of 'Mr Power' - a 'bedtime story' of sorts......

Mr Power

By the time Marian belatedly sidled on the bandwagon it seemed like the world and his wife had been swept off their feet by the enigmatic Mr Power. Even Doris at the WI, who had celebrated her 90^th birthday some years ago, was a card carrying advocate of his work. “You really must read it, my dear. Turns out that even this old dog isn’t beyond learning a few new tricks; whoever would have thought it?” Doris turned her gaze lovingly towards the side of the room where her fourth husband was loudly snoring; his nose hairs fluttering with each shallow breath like grass blowing in the wind

“Honestly; you wouldn’t believe how things are for me and Ernie in the bedroom these days; I only wish that that Mr Power had been around 70 years ago!”

Marian raised an eyebrow but kept her scepticism to herself. She’d learned by now that there was no point in so much as challenging the converted; better to let them evangelise away whilst diverting her thoughts to something else; say the latest plot twist in her favourite Scandinavian crime drama or what she needed to pick up in this week’s big shop. As a small trail of drool crept down Ernie’s chin and pooled in his jowls; Marian wondered exactly how much benefit he could really be obtaining from Mr Power’s teaching.

For months it had seemed as if she couldn’t turn on the TV or open a newspaper or magazine without that blasted book being mentioned. She’d always like to think herself something of an intellectual; certainly not the kind of person who was swept up by popular culture. Her daughter Penelope had on multiple occasions accused her of being a snob, but Marian herself hated that word, preferring the altogether more genteel ‘discerning’.  In her experience if something was wholeheartedly embraced by the masses that wasn’t generally an indication of merit; more a suggestion that it was pitched at a level suitable for those with the most rudimentary level of education.

The main point she had grasped around the phenomenon was that although readers were encouraged to rhapsodise to their family and friends about how great the book was, it was strictly forbidden to speak of the nature of Mr Power’s philosophy or methods. There were a few key expressions that she’d heard time and time again, but little beyond what sounded like new age mumbo jumbo. Nonetheless as she went about her day to day business she found herself studying the expressions and body language of everyone in sight; trying to figure out who had ‘harnessed the power of their Sacred Spaces’. Julie in the Post Office certainly had, a well thumbed copy permanently sat on the counter so that she could ingest snippets in between dishing out pensions and renewing tax discs. Marian had only gone into the branch to buy a book of stamps, but it was a good fifteen minutes before she re-emerged into the sunlight after making the schoolboy error of asking Julie if she was enjoying the book. “Granted it’s dark;” Julie had whispered after ten minutes of effectively saying yes in as many different ways as possible; “but don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.  I didn’t think it was for me but I was so wrong. I didn’t feel comfortable with all that ‘restraint’ business at first; and as for the blindfolds; well I’d only come across them at kids’ parties before. But once you’ve experienced that kind of pleasure, believe me you won’t be able to go back to your old ways.”

On the day on which the headlines proclaimed that Mr Power’s Bedroom Secrets was now the highest selling paperback of all time; Marian decided that she’d been biting the bullet for long enough. Even though she knew that she could obtain a copy for half the price in the supermarket; she made her way to the only local independent bookshop that had managed to weather both the recession and the exponential growth of certain internet retailers. She slowly browsed the store, marvelling in the fact that this small room contained more books than she would ever be able to read in her lifetime. It was a shame that most of these works would never reach a wide audience; alas these days it seemed that the majority of people preferred to pick up their reading material in the same basket as bananas and loo rolls. It wouldn’t be so bad if the mass merchants were peddling literary masterpieces; but a textbook for optimal bedroom performance becoming the nation’s favourite talking point? So much for traditional British reserve.

Eventually her path reached a small crowd of customers and in the middle of them a table piled high with the volume that was currently outselling everything else in the entire shop added together. Fingering the cover of the infamous tome she felt in spite of herself a frisson of excitement. She doubted that the eponymous Mr Power had been christened with that moniker; however the unmistakable red and yellow cover probably wouldn’t make the same impact if it were to bear the name of Smith, Jones or Brown.

“Go on, buy it;” urged a bearded man of undeterminable age, who seemed to take the very fact that she was holding the book as reason enough to lay his clammy hand on her arm. “It’ll change your life, honestly it will. Since I opened that book I’ve never looked back; my partner even says it’s taken 20 years off me! And it’s not just for the bedroom either; we’ve been at it in the sitting room, on a flight to Alicante; why, I’ve even given it a go in the office!”

Marian snatched her arm away. The man had exceptionally hairy arms that reminded her of a baboon; she wondered whether his partner actually liked the fact that he looked like he belonged in a zoo, or whether he had some other qualities which compensated for it. His endorsement was almost enough to make her flee the shop empty handed, but with the memory of her daughter’s words echoing around her mind – “Don’t be a snob, mother” she reluctantly walked to the sales counter and handed over her £8.99.

That night Marian retired early; carrying her brown paper shopping bag upstairs whilst her husband watched Match of the Day. She slipped into her best silk nightie and dimmed the lights, plumping up the pillows before slipping under the polyester duvet. Time to see what all the fuss was about.

“This book will teach you to harness the power of your most sacred space. Through a combination of techniques you will achieve the status of master practitioner and your bedroom will become a temple devoted to the most precious activity we can experience both as individuals or within a couple; pure, uninterrupted sleep.”

Sleep? SLEEP? Marian laughed out loud. She’d been hoping for athletics beneath the sheets, a few ideas to spice things up after a lifetime of the monotony of monogamy. She felt like she’d been had, conned, but she could hardly demand her money back for lack of sauce.

“John, are you coming up?” she shouted. “Fancy a cuddle?”

“Just watching the last match, love;” came the reply from downstairs. “I’ll be up in five.”

Five minutes turned to fifteen but John was sure that Marian wouldn’t mind; she could sit there in bed with a book for hours; reading had always been her favourite pastime.

“Alright love?” he called out as he checked the doors and turned off the sockets; but there was no response. Upon entering the bedroom he found Marian laid on her back with her eyes closed and a blissful smile on her face; and at her side was a copy of that book that everyone seemed to be reading these days. He carefully picked it up, trying his hardest not to disturb her, as Marian was a light sleeper at the best of times and it was most unusual her to drift off without tossing and turning for hours. He climbed in beside her and flicked off the light; a smile on his face. Cuddles could wait; after twenty years of marriage to a fidgety insomniac, sleep, blessed uninterrupted sleep, was the best bedroom activity in his book.   

 

Whodunnit?!

The theme of this weeks creative writing group was 'Whodunnit'; here's my effort at a short story on the topic....


A crime had been committed in Broadley Avenue last night, of that there was no doubt. What was in dispute amongst the residents was the exact nature of the said offence.

“Disturbance of the peace” proclaimed Audrey Daley from the throne of her mobility scooter. “The amount of banging and clattering that was going on in the street; my poor Roger didn’t sleep a wink.”

A small mutt gazed dolefully out of the basket, whimpering as if on cue.

“There, there Roger” said Audrey’s neighbour Eric Jones. Although Eric personally couldn’t stand dogs he’d always held something of a soft spot for the redoubtable Mrs Daley, and it was with this in mind that he forced himself to stroke the hairy beast.

“There was certainly some kind of affray;” Mr Jones declared to many nods of agreement from the crowd that was continuing to mass on the meticulously tended lawn of number 23. “Raised voices, foul language, certainly nothing I would repeat in the company of ladies. The kind of behaviour you might expect in the estates, perhaps, but certainly not what we’re used to round here.”

“I didn’t hear anything” said Patricia Fleming; “But I can tell you for a fact that there was some kind of pervert on the prowl last night. Why, I had my best undergarments hanging out to dry and when I went to fetch them in after watching the end of my soaps they’d disappeared from sight! The dirty scoundrel hadn’t touched Albert’s Y-fronts; they were only interested in my flowery bloomers!”

The thought of a pervert in their midst sent the ladies of Broadley Avenue into a chattering frenzy.

“Certainly sounds like a most unsavoury character;” proclaimed the most recent new addition to the avenue. Jacqui was a bottle blonde whose addiction to injecting botulism into her face and weakness for toyboys several decades her junior did little to mask the fact that youth was long behind her. She languidly swept her peroxide fringe out of eyes whilst pouting at Bill; something of a silver fox and although several decades older than her usual prey the only man on the street that she considered worthy of her well honed flirting skills. “And I thought this was such a lovely safe neighbourhood....”

Bill forced out a small smile, not having the heart to tell Jacqui that her talents were wasted on him. Pedro the postman had been providing Bill with a very efficient early morning service for a number of years, although they’d both cursed the day that they scrapped the second post.

“Not just an unsavoury character, Jacqueline, but an outright criminal!” butted in busybody and resident of thirty years Wendy Walker. “The most terrible damage was inflicted on my hedges last night. You all know how much time and effort I put into trimming my ornamental bush; it’s not for nothing that I won the Winfordshire Topiary Championships in 1989, 1994 and, on appeal, 1997. What kind of man would do such a thing?”

“Who’s to say that it’s definitely a man though?” pondered Bill. “It could be a woman...”

“A lady knicker pincher? Pretty unlikely I would say;” argued Patricia. “Oh, the very thought of some stranger getting his filthy hands on my drawers; it’s enough to make me shudder.”

“The thought of her drawers makes me shudder too;” whispered the long suffering Albert to his neighbour and drinking companion of many years Eric. “But not in a good way. Whoever it is that’s been on the rampage, they’re welcome to her extra extra large smalls.”

Tony and Albert’s mirth was met with disapproving stares from the assembled ladies. “Not sure what you’re laughing about;” said Wendy sternly. “This is a very serious matter.”

“AGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

A wail came from five doors down. With the maximum speed possible on Zimmer frames, mobility scooters and dodgy hips, the group made towards its source.

Penny, the owner of number 11, was stood on her drive in front of a large red stain.

“I just came outside to see what was going on and; and; and this!”

“Is that?”

“It looks like...”

“Blood?”

“Blood!”

Screams and gasps filled the street. “I’m calling the police!” exclaimed Wendy, fumbling in her handbag to try to find the mobile phone that her daughter had passed on to her but she never actually bothered to turn on.

“Wait a second;” said Bill; pressing a single finger to his lips. “Can you hear something?”

Ignoring him, the women kept on shrieking.

Eschewing Bill’s polite style Albert bellowed; “Look, for one godforsaken second can you ladies just shut up?!”

In an instant, silence fell on the street. A good ten seconds must have passed before Jacqui whispered “I can’t hear anything?”. The rest of the group were in the process of opening their mouths in a chorus of agreement when a loud sneeze came from inside the garage.

“He’s in there! The pervert’s in there!” Patricia cried.

“The dog disturber!”

“The noisy hoodlum!”

“The bush saboteur!”

“The murderer!” Penny shrieked hysterically.

Wendy pressed her mouth to the garage door. “The police are on their way; there’s no point in trying to escape” she shouted, although in reality she had still failed to locate her phone, and was beginning to question whether it was even in her cavernous bag at all.

“Right, let’s find out exactly who we’re dealing with;” declared Eric. “Put your hands up, whoever you are, we’re going in!”

The women gasped as the men edged forward. Eric turned the handle of the door then pushed it open with a single determined shove. Audrey, Wendy and Patricia covered their eyes, afraid of what they might see, and even Roger, who certainly would never have made a guard dog, buried his head.

Jacqui leaned forward with morbid curiosity whilst Penny peeked through her fingers, fearful of what dreadful act had been committed on her property.

“Derek?! Derek!” repeated Penny. “What are you doing here? I thought you were still working down in Banbury?! You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards!”

“Happy anniversary, love;” said Penny’s husband, stepping out of the garage sheepishly, a pale red liquid trickling between his legs. Draped from the ceiling was some DIY bunting made from some flowery material that was suspiciously familiar to Patricia; and the bucket normally used to wash the car housed a particularly feeble attempt at a flower arrangement which creatively combined some of Penny’s own begonias with the phallic horn of Wendy’s unicorn hedge. “I came back a night early to try to surprise you, but whilst I was trying to set things up I managed to get myself locked in!”

“Derek Fish, you’ve always been a tight bastard but this truly takes the biscuit!” Penny exclaimed.

“Oooh, language;” injected Eric. “Clearly runs in the family.”

“Too bloody right it does;” Derek replied; “and I was certainly cursing last at 4 o clock this morning when I tripped over that bleeding ugly garden gnome you insist on keeping guard outside your house, Eric. I’d parked round the bloody corner so Penny didn’t realise that I was home; didn’t realise that the 1 minute walk from Chapel Drive would be so fraught with danger, did I?. And the air certainly turned fifty shades of blue again when I was trying to string up this bollocking bunting that our Penny’s so fond of and managed to knock a whole crate of Mateus Rose on the floor. It’s your favourite too, isn’t it Pen?”

Blushing redder than her usual tipple of choice, Penny gave the slightest of nods.

“Well, get on your way, the lot of you, get back to your Daily Mail’s. There’s nothing more to see here;” Derek said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“And having heard all your accusations” – he looked from face to face before landing on his wife – “I might as well prove them true. After what I’ve bleeding put meself through last night I could really MURDER a beer.”

Cocktails and Dreams

A short story written for a Leeds Savages writing group task....

'COCKTAILS AND DREAMS'


The right honourable Michael Faraday, Member of Parliament for Winfordshire South, examined the room service menu enthusiastically. Although hungry he turned straight to the drinks page, desperate for something strong to relax him after a long day of false smiles and forced platitudes at an extremely dull regional trade conference. The names of some of the beverages made him raise his conservative brow - he could just imagine the gossip if he were to try and claim a Slippery Nipple on expenses. Singapore Sling, Sex on the Beach, Dark and Stormy - the exotic names on the page before him seemed somewhat out of place in the bland, soulless service station hotel, and eventually he decided to pass over the cocktails in favour of a dependable Best Bitter.

Order placed he opened the window slightly in an attempt to get some fresh air into the stuffy box of a room, then kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed, flicking on the television in pursuit of some entertainment to accompany the pie and a pint that would soon be making their way to his room. Flicking through the channels Michael was disappointed to find the schedule dominated by identikit light entertainment shows showcasing the dubious talents of supposed celebrities ranging from women who had apparently attained fame purely by bedding some spotty faced football player to failed politicians who were now prostituting themselves on the 21st century equivalent of Its a Knockout in a desperate effort to pay the bills. “There but for the grace of God go I” he muttered under his breath as he watched a former Home Secretary tumble head first into a vat of slime as a braying crowd pointed and laughed. With a knock on the door signalling the arrival of his order Michael turned the television off again; he’d rather eat in silence than have his enjoyment of dinner sullied by that audio-visual claptrap. Not that dinner turned out to be particularly enjoyable; the pie crust was soggy and the supposed steak filling undistinguishable from cat food. Even the eagerly anticipated pint was a flat, weak disappointment.

In an effort to improve the evening Michael decided to hire a film; maybe the kind of guns and profanity filled thriller that his wife would usually forbid from being shown within their house. Michael lifted the leaflet listing the current movie choices from its position on the bedside cabinet and scanned down an uninspiring list heavy on rom-coms and light on action. The adult movies selection was somewhat tempting, although he did question whether Naughty Nurses 8 would live up to the high standards set by its apparently award winning seven predecessors. He was about to discard the leaflet and settle for an early night when the back page caught his eye.

“New and Exclusive to Sleepy Inns – Dreams to order. With the unique Dreamtime Headset you can enjoy the dreams of your choice. Want to be an action hero, or share an intimate experience with a top model? Now at last you can live your dreams, all thanks to Sleepy Inns and Dreamtime Incorporated.”

Intrigued, Michael read on.

“To order your Dreamtime Headset just dial 7 from the in-room telephone and it will be delivered to your room preloaded with thirty dreams to suit all tastes. Excellent value at only £29.99 for eight hours use.”

Picking up the phone, Michael figured that given how exceptionally boring the day had been so far there was nothing to lose by checking out this new innovation. As an avid reader of the Times Technology Supplement he was surprised that he’d not heard about it but given the pace at which new gadgets were flooding the market these days maybe he’d just skipped the article en route to the Style magazine, which had always guiltily been his favourite part of the paper. “A Dreamtime Headset please. And if you could please bill me separately that would be splendid, I’ve a feeling that the constituents wouldn’t be too pleased if I were to claim intimate experiences with top models on expenses, har har!”

The Dreamtime machine looked somewhat like an early Sony Walkman, consisting of some flimsy looking headphones on a narrow metal band attached to a plastic box with a small digital display and a couple of round buttons. Also attached to the box was a fabric eye mask similar to those handed out on long flights in an attempt to induce sleep in a cramped, brightly lit cattle class seat. All in all the set up looked rather clunky and dated, certainly not what one would expect from cutting edge technology these days. Along with the device Michael had been provided a thick instruction manual, but being a typical male he decided that reading this would be an unnecessary waste of time; after all, with such basic aesthetic design how difficult could it be to operate?

Michael tentatively pressed one of the buttons and the digital screen lit up with the words ‘Jet Fighter Experience’. He pressed the button again and the display changed to read ‘Great Barrier Reef Diving’. Another press and the screen flashed with ‘Adult Movie Star experience’. With a blush Michael quickly pressed the button again; much as that particular choice sounded tempting, it was possibly more than his heart could take. He decided to settle with the next option, ‘Serengeti Nights’. He’d always fancied going on safari, but Mrs Faraday’s general refusal to venture anywhere hot, dusty and lacking in a local branch of Marks and Spencer had sadly curtailed his thoughts of travel.

Eye mask and headphones on, Michael settled back on the bed and pressed the red ‘start’ button on the Dreamtime box. In an instant he felt a warm African wind caressing his face and could hear the sound of chirping birds and chattering insects dancing through his ears. He was surrounded by lush green plains and swirling clouds of abrasive sand that scratched at his cheeks. “My goodness, this is wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Why on Earth hadn’t I heard about this before? This really is quite spectacular.” He spent what felt like a good hour but could have been as little as a minute in the real world exploring the terrain, taking in the sights, sounds and even smells of a distant continent from the comfort of his Sleepy Inns memory foam mattress. The experience was so convincing that he was hungry for more, and without removing his eye mask he fumbled with the ‘next’ button on the device to see where it would take him.

The heat rushed away, replaced by an incredible sense of lightness. All around Michael could see unimaginably deep darkness shot with flecks of flaming gold, and beneath him an instantly familiar sphere of vivid blue, green, brown and white. “I’m in space;” he gasped. “I’m in space!” He spun around a few times, revelling in the sensation of complete weightlessness, but having never been enthusiastic about pursuits that involved one’s feet leaving contact with solid ground he could not help feel uneasy with this most ultimate isolation. A swift press of the button and he was relieved to feel his buttocks make contact with a comforting albeit butt-bruisingly hard wooden chair. A rancid fusion of sweat, beer and cigarette smoke invaded his nostrils and the deafening silence of the heavens was replaced with a pounding disco beat as barely inches in front of Michael’s face a slender young woman with unnaturally tanned skin gyrated in the skimpiest of knickers. Although this was a far from unpleasant experience Michael felt that this was not the best use of his Dreamtime given that he’d frequented the genuine Stringfellows only a couple of weeks previously, so he pushed the button once more, eager for a less everyday experience.

Whereas previously pressing next had instantly transported him from one fantasy scenario to the next, this time nothing appeared to have happened – the girl was still in front of him performing some feats of exceptional flexibility to a mash up of 80s tunes. Frustrated, he jabbed at the button repeatedly. “Come on;” he exclaimed, agitated, “I paid good money for this thing. I could get a private dance at the Sapphire Lounge for a tenner, so why would I spend three times that on a virtual version?” A few more jabs at the button and the whole world suddenly seemed to slow down until the girl before him was frozen still with one leg behind her head and an unconvincing expression of mock ecstasy on her face. The scene then sped up and the woman continued to grind and thrust as if possessed by demonic forces. Michael tried to prize himself from his chair but was rooted to the spot.

He pressed and held the button, hoping that it might reset the box and free him from the seedy situation. After holding it in for a few seconds everything went blank and it looked as if he had succeeded in escaping from the monotony of a virtual version of what was an artificial encounter at the best of times. Respite was however brief as with a trio of shrill beeps the box sprung to life again and Michael found himself back where his dreamtime experience had started Serengeti style. Although the warmth was familiar from his earlier visit, the whole atmosphere seemed a bit different this time; the chorus of birds and crickets seemed to have calmed, replaced by what sounded like a gentle purring. Michael spun around and found himself face to face with the source of the noise; a disturbingly real and not at all dreamlike lion bearing some extremely realistic teeth flecked with the blood and flesh of the last creature to have had the misfortune to have crossed its path.

Michael tried to remove the eye mask from his face but seemed to have lost all control of his real world self, the machine having transported him to that deepest stage of sleep where dream and reality are inextricably blurred. With his carnivorous feline opponent close enough to flood his lungs with its nauseating halitosis, Michael turned and started to run as fast as he could. He could feel the breath of his pursuer on the back of his neck when suddenly he tripped on some uneven ground. With a loud expletive he tumbled down – and then up. It felt as if he were falling but rather than moving closer towards terra firma he was being torn away, zooming at such a speed that within seconds he had burst through the atmosphere of the earth and was back in outer space. This time however the galaxy was not unnervingly silent, for the seedy stripclub soundtrack appeared to be echoing around the heavens, interspersed with the deep growls of the fearsome lion which didn’t seem to be the slightest bit bothered by its unusual surroundings. The only thing that provided a small amount of comfort was the fact that he now appeared to be wearing a bulky space suit, though quite how much protection that would provide from jaws of steel which were soaring towards him was something that he was not keen to find out.

If only he’d read the instruction manual he would have known the simple combination of buttons that would reset the device, but as Michael’s head was consumed by a whirling blur of lions, strippers and shooting stars, it felt increasingly like was he was trapped in a nightmare from which there was no hope of escape. Never again would he bemoan poor in-room entertainment; a cup of tea, a good book and an early night, that was the way forward.

It was 6am and the sun was just beginning to rise when duty manager Sharon Sands found the body of the right honourable Michael Faraday, former Member of Parliament for Winfordshire South, tangled in a duvet in a bush four storeys below the open window of room 314. Mr Faraday was naked other than for a pair of grey briefs but there was no evidence of foul play other than a few scratches across his face and torso which appeared to have been self inflicted. The coroner later concluded that Mr Faraday had not been awake when he had tragically fallen to his death, and although the distraught Mrs Faraday had no recollection of her husband having ever sleepwalked in their 34 years of marriage she was relieved that there had been no foul play. Once she had come to terms with her unexpectedly premature widowhood, Mrs Faraday realised that out of tragedy a wealth of opportunity was born. Michael had always been steady, dependable and trustworthy but he had never been the most exciting of men. Maybe now was the time to live her dreams; after all, what harm could it possibly do?

A festive story

Here's a festive story written for today's Leeds Savage writers group meeting. Unfortunately I won't be there in person as I'm not risking leaving the house again after the four mile journey home this afternoon took three and a half hours - damn you snow!!!

Speaking of which, here's the view from our front door....



A HAPPY BURGER CHRISTMAS


Jim had never enjoyed Christmas - even as a child the forced jollity and feigned festivity had grated on him, and as an adult he had adopted a distinctly Scrooge like attitude to the season. Why should he be expected to waste his energy on spreading love and goodwill to all men given that in any of the other 11 months of the year most of them would not give him so much as a smile when he served them their fries? He had not, mind you, taken on the job at Happy Burger due to a love of customer service; to be honest he hated it when a pimply beef lover tried to engage him in an inane conversation about the weather or enquired into his plans for the weekend. If he had his own way there would be a large sign on the counter instructing customers to place their order, pay up and shut up. No small talk, no problem.

It was an entire month before the start of advent when the ‘C’ word was first uttered in the Craven Road branch shift managers’ meeting. The guilty party was the store manager Gemma who was, with her unfailing love of towing the corporate line, the diametric opposite of Jim, whose sole objective was to get through each day without giving in to the urge to swear at the customers or pummel the numbskulls that he supervised.

“Great news guys!” Gemma announced with her usual irritating enthusiasm. “This year Happy Burger are going to put last year’s politically correct ‘Winterval’ disaster behind them and let us celebrate Christmas properly! There’s going to be a special festive menu on offer and head office are going to award a special prize to the restaurant that they think has best embodied the Christmas spirit! I’m sure you’ll all agree that it’s going to be brilliant.”
Jim rolled his eyes and turned to the colleague at the side of him. “Bah humbug! If she thinks she’s going to get me flipping quarter pounders in an elf outfit whilst singing Silent flipping Night she’s got another thing coming.”

“What’s that Jim?” Gemma replied with a straight face. “You’re volunteering to dress up for us? What a wonderful idea! And speaking of wonderful ideas, I would recommend that you all get your thinking caps on as I’m going to be offering an extra day of paid holiday for the employee who comes up with the best festive idea by the twelfth of December. Let’s show head office what Craven Road is made of!”

At these words Jim suddenly shook off his usual indifference. “An extra day of holiday you say? Let’s get this festive show on the road then!”

That evening Jim set about brainstorming ideas that could win him a priceless day away from the greasy stench and oppressive heat of the Happy Burger kitchen. Certain things he immediately discounted as being off limits, notably dressing up in any kind of fancy dress or putting on any kind of public performance. Working in Happy Burger was by itself demeaning enough without the need to stoop to such a level. What else then could he do to give Craven Road a Christmas that it would never forget?

Santa, Rudolph, Elves – in Jim’s opinion a load of gubbins, twee nonsense for children and others of the same mental age.

Turkey, Crackers, Mince Pies and Pud - festive perhaps, but all a bit clichéd and nothing that you wouldn’t find in some shape or form at every eating establishment from Kebab City upwards at this time of year. What Jim needed to do to bag that holiday was something different, something that hadn’t been done before. Then it hit him. Sprouts – what could be more Christmassy than sprouts? After all, Jim couldn’t recall any member of his family who would eat them on any other day of the year, something that couldn’t be said for turkey, spuds and all the other accoutrements. Everything from pizza to pasta was given the turkey and cranberry spin come December, yet he’d never seen a sprout seasoned bag of crisps or sprout stuffed sandwich. Underrated and unloved compared to the other goodies on the Christmas dinner table, why not make sprouts the star attraction for a change?

Obtaining the required volume of sprouts to bring Jim’s plan to life proved to be no easy task. Every supermarket in the vicinity had its supplies exhausted as he loaded case after case into the back of his clapped out car. Eventually, after six round trips and a few odd looks Jim had sourced enough of the vegetables to construct his masterpiece. The next challenge was to peel all ten thousand sprouts; the late shift workers who usually wiled away the hours with a copy of the Sun and a lot of lengthy cigarette breaks being forced to participate by the cracking whip of their usually indifferent and ineffective supervisor. Come the end of the shift Jim would hide the work in progress at the back of the industrial fridge safely away from Gemma’s prying eyes; the likelihood of the boss ever actually lugging around the boxes of frozen buns and processed meat being a longer shot than a white Christmas.

The eleventh of December came round and rather than locking up with his usual haste at the end of the night, Jim retreated into the warehouse to set about building a burger unlike any that he had ever served before. Given that peeling and boiling the sprouts had taken a good week some of them were now frankly past their best, but as this was a meal designed for viewing rather than eating he didn’t foresee that as being a problem. Rolling up his sleeves he pounded the vegetables and fashioned them with the help of sticky egg into something akin to a giant green cow pat almost 6 feet in diameter. The internet had informed him that the world’s biggest burger of the carnivorous variety had weighed in at a whopping 15 stone, but nowhere had he found any stats for the biggest veggie pattie. His fellow workers may have made Gemma smile with their cutesy angel outfits and homemade mince pies, but had they put in Craven Road in the Guinness Book of Records? No sirree. Jim was confident that his efforts would not go unrewarded and that that extra day of holiday was as good as his. The irony of the fact that he had put in a good twenty hours of overtime was not lost on him, but the look on Gemma’s usually patronising face when she begrudgingly declared him winner would surely make it all worthwhile. The official from the book of records was due to arrive at 8am, the same time that Gemma and the morning shift would be rocking up to get the happy hash browns sizzling for the commuter crowd. At 3am, finally satisfied with his handiwork, he sellotaped a printed sign beneath the counter where the creation sat which read 'The world's biggest veggie burger'. As an afterthought he scribbled 'Merry Christmas Boss' underneath in Biro. If immortalising the Craven Road branch in print was not enough to win over Gemma then, much as it pained him, maybe a bit of uncharacteristic ass kissing would seal the deal....

Before locking up and heading home for a couple of hours sleep he took a photo of the gigantoburger on his phone. A true work of sprout based art.

As he approached work Jim was surprised by the massive crowd hanging around. He had expected the news of a world record having been set on Craven road to pull in plenty of customers and locals keen to have a nose, but had not anticipated it spreading so fast. He pushed past not one but several tv crews and journalists, eager to find Gemma and made her concede that his effort was undeniably the best. Her Young Manager of the Year award may have made a tiny column on page 23 of the Winfordshire Evening News, but today he, Jim Gordon, was going to make the headlines.

At last he saw Gemma heading towards him through the chattering crowd. As their eyes met the look on her face was certainly memorable, but not in the manner in which he had expected. She was covered in what appeared to be soot, and her usually pristine cream Happy Burger tunic was black. Jim was taken aback when she threw herself into his arms; he'd thought that the burger might raise a wry smile from his boss, but physical contact was something he had neither expected nor desired.

"Oh Jim, Jim, it's awful!" she sobbed into his chest. "Its completely destroyed, totally gutted!"

It was only at that point that Jim noticed through a gap in the crowd that where his place of reluctant employment had once stood was now a smoking mass of bricks, mortar and Formica.
"What the?" he exclaimed.

"It was a gas explosion" Gemma replied. "An abnormally high build up of methane apparently. I flicked on the light switch and the whole place went up in an instant. Thank goodness there were no customers around or who knows what could have happened!"

"Very lucky indeed" Jim replied solemnly . As Gemma continued to weep onto his shirt he was surprised to find that her hair smelt strangely nice; granted the explosion had given the air a fragrance reminiscent of farts or, dare he admit, sprouts, but at this unfamiliarly close proximity Gemma seemed a little less like a whiny dictator and a bit more like - shock horror - a reasonably attractive girl. He was just contemplating this turn of events and taking another sniff of Gemma's locks when he noticed a familiar looking piece of paper floating towards him on the wind. In a smooth move that would have impressed James Bond he grabbed the note with one hand and pulled Gemma into a tight embrace with the other. Fair enough ass kissing wasn't usually his style, but in the spirit of the season maybe this time he would make an exception. His culinary creation may not have had quite the desired effect, but as it was this was far better than he could ever have planned - not just one day off but no more flipping burgers for the foreseeable future. He screwed the paper up in his hand and tossed it in the gutter before whispering in Gemma's ear 'Merry Christmas Boss. I know we’ve had our differences and all, but given that it looks like we’re going to have a fair bit of time to kill over the Christmas season, do you fancy going sprout some time?'



'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...”

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.

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.

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.

'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.

Beware Geeks Bearing Gifts... #fridayflash

'The paramedics found it strange that before they had even arrived on the scene someone had left a bunch of flowers next to the tragic accident...'

It had been a tiring week and Laura wasn’t looking forward to the drive home. Whilst consultancy work was well rewarded, she was fed up with living out of a suitcase and could barely remember when she’d last spent seven days in her own bed.

At 5pm on Friday Laura shook hands with the finance director and thanked him and his staff for their hospitality, a false expression of gratitude given the icy reception that she had received over the past five days from all but one employee, a lanky IT technician who had taken it upon himself to interrupt her every two minutes asking if she wanted yet another cup of weak, unpleasant tea. It was pouring with rain and the winter sky was already black so she ran to her car, coat over head. She threw her bags into the boot and was just about to climb in when she realised that she had left her scarf inside. She was tempted to leave it, every minute she delayed setting off adding another minute to the time until she would be back in her flat with the bottle of chardonnay that had been chilling all week in anticipation of her return. The scarf however had been a gift from her mother and would no doubt be expected to be paraded in front of her at their next meeting, so reluctantly she ran back inside, leaving the engine running in an effort to shift some of the ice glazing the windscreen.

Within two minutes Laura was back in the car and the ice had cleared sufficiently for her to set off. Eyes heavy from too much work and not enough sleep, Laura cranked up the radio in an attempt to keep herself alert. As the DJ played an eighties classic she started to sing along, head bobbing in time to the music. She would never sing in front of an audience, the thought of karaoke mortifying, but nothing could beat belting out a cheesy song safe in the knowledge that no one could hear.

As her route snaked into the country, Laura turned her headlights to full beam. In such treacherous conditions she hated this kind of road; windy, unlit and full of potholes.
Fortunately she only had a couple of miles to go before the motorway that would carry her all the way home. The rain seemed to be getting even stronger, and Laura turned the radio up further in an effort to drown out its hammering rhythm.

Coming around a bend at considerably more than the speed limit Laura was suddenly faced with a red traffic light on a crossroads immediately in front of her. Slamming on the brakes she managed more by luck than judgement to screech to a halt parallel to the light, the lack of traffic that she subsequently noted in every direction making her wish that she hadn’t bothered.

There was a loud thud from the back of the car which she assumed was her suitcase in the boot careering forward. This assumption was however quickly proved wrong as she heard an expletive come from behind her seat, and felt a hand grab at her knee. Screaming, Laura looked up into her rear view mirror to see a shadowy figure peering at her. Her first instinct was to get out and run, however it had been at least a mile since she had last passed a house and other road users seemed to be few and far between, so she decided that running away from a would-be murderer was not the wisest idea. On the passenger seat was her handbag; a huge leather contraption which held not just keys, wallet and phone but also a spare shoes, a litre of water and a fat novel. Recalling how her boyfriend had always said how she would do herself damage lugging around that vast weight all day, she decided the best course of action was to test its to potential to do damage to someone else. Laura grabbed the bag and swung it with all her strength at the unwelcome passenger, hitting him squarely in the nose, which started bleeding all over her upholstery.

“Ouch!” squealed the would-be murderer in a frankly unfrightening manner. As he looked up, blood continuing to spill everywhere, Laura suddenly recognised him and felt her feeling of terror give way to immense anger.

“You? What the hell are you doing in my car? I could have crashed and killed us both!”

The IT guy looked somewhat pathetic as he tried to stem the flow of blood with his sleeve.

“I’m so sorry, I never meant for this to happen! I followed you out as I wanted to give you my number – and these”

He bent down and pulled out from underneath Laura’s seat the most bedraggled bunch of flowers that she had ever seen.

“It was raining so hard that when I saw you run inside I thought I’d sit in the car until you got back – to protect the flowers, you see. Then when I saw you coming back I got nervous, and for some stupid reason decided to hide. I hoped you’d go to the boot or something so that I would get a chance to sneak out without you noticing, but that never happened. I was planning on making my getaway as soon as you stopped; I never meant to scare you, I promise!”

With fury in her eyes Laura swung the bag at him again.

“You weirdo, I wouldn’t have wanted your flowers before and I certainly don’t want them now. Get out, now! Before I call the police...”

As the IT guy clambered out the car Laura pushed her foot to the floor, desperate to get to somewhere well lit and where she could compose herself. As tears flooded her eyes she saw nothing other than the road ahead, the road that would lead her to civilisation and away from the creep who had scared her half to death. By the time headlights illuminated her face and the bellowing horn filled her ears however it was too late – he may have scared her half to death, but it was the ten tonne articulated vehicle speeding towards her would take her all the way.

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.

'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.

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.