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.”
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flash fiction. Show all posts
Thursday, 1 July 2010
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...”
Sunday, 16 May 2010
A Very Savage Affair
Today is an exciting day as it marks the publication of the first Leeds Savages e-book, 'A Very Savage Affair'. The Leeds Savages are a modern day reincarnation of a group of writers, artists, musicians and 'kindred Bohemian spirits' first formed in 1898 and since their re-launch in early 2010 have been coming together to produce and share all kinds of creative works.
The e-book contains....
55 Pages
59 Fabulous pictures
17 Great stories
6 Stupendous Poems
1 Fiendishly hard crossword
and is completely free of charge! I urge anyone and everyone to download it and check out the diverse and original works by some very talented people (plus a couple that I threw together).
Download the e-book NOW at http://leedssavage.com/publications/ - you won't regret it!
The e-book contains....
55 Pages
59 Fabulous pictures
17 Great stories
6 Stupendous Poems
1 Fiendishly hard crossword
and is completely free of charge! I urge anyone and everyone to download it and check out the diverse and original works by some very talented people (plus a couple that I threw together).
Download the e-book NOW at http://leedssavage.com/publications/ - you won't regret it!
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, 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.
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.
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