tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88176814897066244862023-06-20T05:31:58.538-07:00Flash Fiction Forty Five 2014Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-51156820875723461012014-08-17T15:15:00.002-07:002014-08-17T15:15:43.561-07:0045) Literary Balls<div class="MsoNormal">
Two English students are sat in the Bristol Pear in Selly
Oak, Birmingham. Outside there is a light drizzle as a train rushes over the
nearby bridge. A bus nearly hits an old lady off her bike who tells the driver
where to stick the non-existent sunshine. One student drinks a cider. The other
a beer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’m thinking of writing forty five stories in a day,’ the
cider drinker says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Forty five stories?’ the beer drinker says, ‘That’d take
some literary balls.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They let the new found phrase hang in the air. They both
smile. It’s a keeper.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Who do you think has the biggest pair of literary balls?’
the cider drinker says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Someone Russian,’ the beer drinker says, ‘They published
their stuff even though they would be exiled from their home, friends and
family for doing so.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Plus it’s bloody cold there,’ the cider drinker says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The beer drinker nods.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s pretty cold in Birmingham too.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The beer drinker arches his eyebrow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘What’s your point?’ he says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Nothing. Nothing.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They both take long sips of their drink.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s just, forty five stories is a lot,’ the cider drinker
says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Really? You’re going to do this,’ the beer drinker says. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cider drinker shrugs his shoulders: ‘Do what?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Zamyatin had to leave Russia! You’re a middle class white
boy who’s writing for a bit of fun.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cider drinker mumbles something under his breath. The
beer drinker points to his ear.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I said I’m doing it for charity too.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Oh,’ the beer drinker says, ‘Then yes, you are completely
right. You definitely have more literary balls than a man who was forced out of
his country for life! Writing forty five stories for charity definitely means
you have the biggest literary balls of every writer who suffered war and famine
just to get their work published ever. Are you happy?!’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cider drinker sinks into his seat and takes a sip from
his drink.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘But they’re quite big literary balls, right?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The beer drinker finishes his pint and walks out into the
rain.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-90964630846657462092014-08-17T15:00:00.001-07:002014-08-17T15:00:27.474-07:0044) The Leopard Slug Next to the Bookcase<div class="MsoNormal">
Weird things could come out of books. As a Librarian, now
keeper of only his personal collection, Raphael knew this. He was not good for
much else other than looking after books, and as a result spent most of his
days indoors, only reading about the wonders out in the world. This made him
happy; the world spooked him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Naturally, the leopard slug startled him. It clung to the
side of Napoleonic History, a shelf which he rarely touched, but which led to
his books on volcanoes. Raphael liked volcanoes (reading about them, not
experiencing them). He spent the morning sat on a stool. For as long as he
stared the leopard slug did not move. Raphael sidled past it and grabbed a book
called <i>Volcanoes and Legends</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During his reading he was distracted by sobs. He glanced
around the corner to wear the leopard slug clung to the bookcase. Its body was retching
like a cat coughing up a fur ball. It was the leopard slug who was crying.
Raphael wished he could help, but he knew there was nothing that he could do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As he read through his book he came across the leopard slug
in his reading. A creature birthed when the fumes were released during an
eruption, the leopard slug thrives in the centre of volcanoes. Raphael learned
they were also sociable creatures and if this need was no satisfied it could
lead to depression.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The leopard slug sobbed, popping its slimy body up and down
the book case. Raphael could not concentrate with this noise. The obvious
solution was before him in the book. The notion of what he was thinking
terrified him, but so did having to spend the rest of his days with a damaged
soul. He closed the book and rang the local travel agent.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-28905995083406058752014-08-17T14:46:00.002-07:002014-08-17T14:46:52.150-07:0043) The Death of the Party<div class="MsoNormal">
A glass was chinked. Vincent stood at the head of the table,
his many violet rings clattering against the glass of red wind in his hand. He
swept his long black hair away from his eyes and bowed ever so slightly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Thank you all for coming, I hope you enjoyed your meals.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sniggers made the rounds from the shadowy figures sat at the
table.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Tell me Garesh, what did you say the dish was?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A hairy man wearing chain mail slammed his fist on the
table.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It were Simon, the baker’s son,’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He threw the head of the baker’s son into the punch bowl,
much to the amusement of the other guests.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Very good, very good,’ Vincent said, ‘Which brings me onto
the last formality of the evening. It’s time to announce the Death of the
Party.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dinner guests tapped their flagons against the table
three times.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘The votes are in. Garesh, your dinner was quite delicious
but you’ve just fallen short. Tonight you are third.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He cursed his luck under his breath and a long fingered
female stroked his arm as a gesture of commiseration. Garesh perked up at this
touch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘In second place is the darling Lara for her drowning of
Farmer Pitchfork by making him chase an illusion of his dead daughter into the
river.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lara was the long fingered female. She lapped up the
applause by waving to the table and leaning forward to reveal her cleavage.
Vincent lost himself for a moment. He was brought back by Garesh’s grumbling.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘And yes, so that makes the ultimate winner me,’ he said, ‘For
my castrating, skinning and crucifixion of the priest.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Garesh made the loudest clap with his gigantic hands. He had
wanted to win, but kudos had to go to Vincent this evening who drank up his
wine. There was no way anyone could top that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Actually Vinnie, I think you’re forgetting one death,’ Lara
said, stroking her fingers on her chin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘And who would that be my dear,’ he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lara tapped the glass. Vincent glanced around the room. He
was the only one drinking red wine. He clutched his chest as the venom blocked
his arteries. The glass shattered in his hand. His eyes flared red and
bloodshot. A croak escaped his throat before he fell forward onto the table. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lara looked around at everyone else. A golf clap was the
appropriate reaction. They would miss Vincent, but a good deceitful death was
always fun.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-19187409563927717242014-08-17T14:31:00.000-07:002014-08-17T14:31:02.893-07:0042) Estimated Time of Arrival<div class="MsoNormal">
The ticket inspector pressed out the creases in his blue
uniform as he stood at the golden platform. Puffy clouds hugged the railway
lines. The clock didn’t move. There were no trains at the station. The
inspector whistled to the tune of ‘We Three Kings’. He didn’t care that it wasn’t
Christmas.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, someone wandered onto the platform: a blonde young
lady with a centre parting and an untucked Gillingham football jersey. She
approached the inspector sheepishly who had his arms crossed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Took your time didn’t you,’ the inspector said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Thought you’d hold on a little bit longer did you? Got some
last words you needed to say eh? Well I’ve got a schedule to keep here.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The lady blinked twice. She rubbed her forearms to check
they were hers. She pinched herself. The inspector did not go away.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘What is this place?’ she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Oh bleedin’ hell,’ the inspector said as he rolled his
eyes, ‘This is the Holy Station, the gateway to Heaven. The trains run one way
and are normally on time.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He cleared his throat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’m sorry. The last thing I remember was laying in the
hospital, holding my mum’s hand-’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The inspector waved his hand in front of the lady’s face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You’ll have plenty of time to tell your story once you get
upstairs. Now if you just give me your ticket I’ll send you on your way.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The lady patted her pockets. Her forehead crinkled. She dug
into her pockets.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I don’t have a ticket,’ she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Oh,’ the inspector said, ‘Odd, don’t normally get many of
your getting through.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The inspector grabbed the lady’s hand and stamped it with a
black stamp he swiftly withdrew from his pocket. The girl’s hand read ‘VOID’ in
big red letters.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Enjoy your trip ma’am.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The floor opened up below her. She screamed as she fell into
the black pit below. The station surface was restored to full purity by puffs
of clouds covering the hole. The inspector went back to whistling.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-22584308111073036862014-08-17T14:17:00.004-07:002014-08-17T14:17:30.724-07:0041) Blue-Black Water and the Cracks in the Ice<div class="MsoNormal">
They had reached the mountain top where the Raddlelink
supposedly rested. The Raddlelink was a furry beast with the coat of a mammoth. The creature stood on its hind legs but ran like a
gorilla, with four tusks ready to gorge anything that got in its path. Its tale
was an ice breathing snake which froze its prey before melting through the ice
to eat the flesh in stages.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Raddlelink was truly frightening, which is why Wolff had
to find it. He had done the boring stuff like sleep with lions and wrestle a
bear. Now he wanted to become a legend. And the best way to become a legend was
to find a legend.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The surface of the mountain top was cracked. Deep inside it
looked like blue-black water was frozen and had formed an aqueduct. Beyond that
was something hairy and woolly. Wolff was sure this was where the Raddlelink
slept. According to the books, the only thing which could it was cutting of its
tail; that was where the brain was centred.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He picked away at the ice until there was a crack wide
enough for him to slip down. The ropes allowed him to abseil down into the
cavern and perch on the aqueduct. He took a picture with a camera; the
Raddlelink was massive, even when hunched over in its frozen state. He walked
along the frozen water and round to where the tail was, baring its isosceles
triangle fangs. Wolff leapt onto the tail. He slipped on the surface but
quickly regained his balance. He lit a flame near the base of the tail to start
melting the ice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The snake wiggled and stretched, shattering the ice around
it and causing Wolff to fall onto a lower aqueduct. Wolff took out his knife
and waited. He could hear the snake hissing and feel the chill of its breath
all around him. It coiled around the aqueduct Wolff stood on. Wolff charged
towards him, but quickly backtracked when the snake breathed frost at him. He
lit up another torch and once the snake had finished, threw it at his open
mouth. Wolff charged. The snake couldn’t muster up anymore frost so darted at
Wolff. The hunter rolled forward and clung to the snake’s neck. It writhed as it
tried to get Wolff up, but he clung on and brought the knife across the
unscaled flesh. The snake collapsed instantly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wolff took a couple of seconds to compose himself before
looking at his kill. There was no way he could carry the head back to base with
him. He took a picture and then marvelled at the rest of the beastly creature
still encased in ice. Imagine fighting the Raddlelink in its prime. He would
never know that joy.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-67252721189770325962014-08-17T13:56:00.002-07:002014-08-17T13:56:23.757-07:0040) Mr Ringtoss<div class="MsoNormal">
The Carny folk have many a tall tale to tell. My favourite
was of Mr Ringtoss. Maybe not the most glamorous of stories, but it has a
charm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His origins date back to a county fair in Florida around the
1990s. He was only just a man at that stage and had a young lass he wanted to
care for. At the ringtoss game was a large stuffed panda with huge blue eyes that
the lass desperately wanted. It were three rings to get the panda, so he threw
down the last five bucks in his pocket and picked up three rings. The game
owner laughed behind his stoic face because like his spine, he knew the game
was crooked. Yet the little UFOs spun in odd circles as if moving backwards
while moving forward and landed on the posts. All three of them. The game owner
jumped over the counter and called him a cheat for winning at a crooked game.
Realising his mistake, he tried to cover up his own misdeeds. The game owner
ended up in jail and kicked out of the carny troop for good.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although someone had tried to dupe him, Mr Ringtoss felt a
tremendous power had been bestowed upon him. Another fair came the following
month and once more he took up the ringtoss challenge for his darling lass. All
three landed without fail. This game owner was smarter than his predecessor,
and while he knew he had been played he smiled and gave the boy his toy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was an undeniable talent. County fairs came, as did the
amount of stuffed toys. Mr Ringtoss and his lass had so many that they started
selling them and making quite a bit of money. The idea came to Mr Ringtoss that
he should go on tour, finding carnivals and winning toys on the ringtoss. His
lass went along for the ride. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They rode around five states, playing ringtoss and having a
whale of a time. Life was very comfortable for the pair of them over the next
year. They built up a nice little nest egg for their future children and moved
in to a flat near the Everglades. They didn’t tour anymore, but when a county
fair came along Mr Ringtoss was sure to be there. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Without realising he went to the county fair where he had
first discovered his talent. Waiting for him was the game owner who had been
jailed. He didn’t wait for him at the ringtoss game. No, the back of an alley
was better for breaking a man’s arm. Mr Ringtoss cried out in pain, but the
game owner got away. His arm never recovered; the rings no longer floated like
UFOs but dropped like apples from trees.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
He and his lass lived out the rest of their days
comfortably. Yet she could tell you that a little spirit escaped from Mr
Ringtoss as the years went on. The last flicker of excitement in his eye was
lost when people started calling him Mr Robinson.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-49763741563511355262014-08-17T13:37:00.002-07:002014-08-17T13:37:57.781-07:0039) The Adventures of the Time Travelling Talking Pie<div class="MsoNormal">
No one could understand what the pie was saying. The
Ambassador of Time Peace (a role which had been created and filled within two
hours of the pie’s discovery) sat with his heads in his hands. He had been
working a desk job for the FBI a few hours ago. Now he was talking to a pie. He
could feel his grey hair falling onto his shoulders. The pie waffled through a
gap at the crest of the lid of the crust. Its breath smelt like blueberries.
The Ambassador reiterated to himself that he was talking to a pie.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘What I need to know…Pie, is how you found this microchip.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Ambassador lifted a green microchip, cut off at one
corner, to the pie. The pie mixed it’s blueberries around and moved its crust
lips as a response. The Ambassador ran his hand through his hair and felt the
strands nestle in between his fingertips.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The microchip was a brain controlling device that had not
yet been invented yet. The first concern regarding the pie was whether it was
made in Russia or not. The Ambassador insisted that Russian pies were not
particularly renowned, but a background check had to be run. The blueberries
were from a farm in California, but the pastry was a mystery. Therefore the pie
was still suspicious.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘What does a-’ The Ambassador stopped to groan, ‘What does a
Pie need with a brain controlling device?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pie’s gooey insides squelched in reply. The Ambassador
swore the noises were higher pitched, as if the pie were speaking with urgency.
Then the Ambassador reminded himself, he was interrogating a pie. He could be
at home with his normal human children and his normal human wife yelling at his
idiotic normal television set. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He took the brain control chip between his thumb and
forefinger. An idea came to mind. The pie’s crust trembled, as if it knew what
the Ambassador was about to do. He placed the microchip onto the pie’s surface.
This was probably outside of what was allowed but he had two excuses; he was
still getting used to the job and the suspect was a pie and therefore had no
human rights.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘English. Speak English,’ The Ambassador said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pie’s mouth moved slowly, the blueberries churning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Okay.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Ambassador clapped his hands together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘How did you get the microchip?’ he asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘From the future,’ the pie said, ‘It is all over for you.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Ambassador leaned forward with his palms together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Just what are you saying?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘The pie is the master race. The human’s time will end.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Ambassador felt his stomach churn like a collection of steamed
blueberries which had been lightly sugared. Then, one last time, he reminded
himself of the situation. He took the microchip off the pie and put it back
into the plastic evidence bag. The pie was placed in a Krispy Kreme doughnut box
and whisked away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Ambassador needed to go home. There had been a steak pie in the fridge for
him to eat when he got back, but he didn’t feel like eating it anymore. It
would stay good for another day; what was the harm?<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-23116719261827545972014-08-17T13:18:00.002-07:002014-08-17T13:18:08.301-07:0038) Jane and Jam<div class="MsoNormal">
I have never been married in my life. Nor do I ever wish to
be. I find love only in the miraculous jams I make. Or used to make. My brand
was locally renowned, about to break national and who knows how far it could
have gone. Jane’s Jam, smeared over every piece of toasts in the country. It
wasn’t to be. You see I lost sight of the bigger picture.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The reason my jams were so magnificent is because of a
secret ingredient. A rare sweet spice plant my grandfather found in the jungles
of Brazil many years ago. He brought a couple back and nurtured them in his
garden. He used to use the spice on pancakes, but it my mother and I who figured
out they were perfect for jam. My mother started the business but passed away
before it really took off. I quit school and took over the shop full time. It
was a sacrifice I was happy to make and it wasn’t long before I was making a
real nice profit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Money and happy customers are all well and good, but I
missed out on teenage experiences like first loves and underage drinking
because of the shop. So when Mr Young entered my shop one day and took such a
liking to me, it was only naturally that I was swept up by his charm. He had a
soft face and rounded ears like that of a chubby boy, yet was tall and thin. I
remembered his face and the way he spoke softly, though I probably would have
forgotten it after a few days if he hadn’t turned up the following morning. He
whipped out a business, far more sharp in his tone. This jam has to be bigger.
Let’s take it to the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The whirlwind sucked me up and away I was going. We went out
for dinner to discuss terms and a business strategy. We ended up flirting
outrageously. Well, he flirted with me and I giggled as he used every
superlative to describe me. That night I turned up to work late, if you catch
me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This happened on a nearly nightly basis for two weeks as he
slowly drained information about the company out of me. He knew there was a
secret, but for all his wine and kind words, I would not drop the name. He gave
it up and a week later presented me with a contract. I wonder if he knew it
would have been so easy to get the secret whether he would have tried this ploy
earlier. I signed it blindly and with that I signed away the secret. Section
1:1 which states Mr Young is a joint owner of the Jane’s Jams and Section 4:5
which states all owners must know everything about the product (or words to
that effect). Combine the two and Mr Young had what he needed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dinners stopped, as did the visits. A month later, Brazilian
Jam hit the shelves of every supermarket nationwide. I tried to sue but did not
have the finances or resources to scare Mr Young. I spend most nights at the
shop, trying to create new flavours and find a different way to use the spice.
I feel it is a useless endeavour. The only solace I can take is that the locals
say mine tastes better.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-78038172323164849312014-08-17T13:01:00.002-07:002014-08-17T13:01:23.364-07:0037) (Flash) Ode to a Purple Grape<div class="MsoNormal">
You are the one that I want, the one that I want, ooo-hoo-
hoo honey. You wear your colour so divine; it’s why I don’t peel you but eat
you up all in one. Who cares what the inside tastes like when I know what it’s
like to tease you between my teeth, with delicate squeezes of my jaw until pop.
The sweet juices flow onto my tongue and down my throat. Just one of you isn’t
enough. I always need more, at least fourteen so you can’t as one of my five a
day. Oh but in my head you are five out of five every day. Unlike your bastard
brother. Is he white, is he green? What’s the difference, neither suit a
creature of his stature. He’s a mouldy raisin, a shrivelled up mango, a kiwi
without the shag and who would want that? Not I. No, it is only you purple
grape. You are the one that I want, the one that I want, ooo-hoo-hoo honey.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-41286098124599176572014-08-17T12:52:00.001-07:002014-08-17T12:52:48.740-07:0036) The Cat That Could Only Talk to Dogs<div class="MsoNormal">
Depending on how one looked at it, Mittens was either the
smartest of his species and name, or the dumbest cat to have ever lived. His
youth was spent slinking in a garden next door to a young puppy. Mittens
watched the Labrador chase up and down the length of the garden collecting
tennis balls. He paid particularly close attention to how the Labrador celebrated
each collection with a bark. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Under the moonlight, Mittens would try to mimic the Labrador.
He patted a worn cricket ball he found in the shed and chased after it. After
retrieving the cricket ball, he’d place it by the imaginary owner’s feet and
bark. This is how Mittens learned to talk to dogs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Labrador moved away shortly after Mittens acquired this
arguably useless talent. The other cats ignored Mittens because he was too
energetic for them. After a lonely week, a new dog moved in next door. She was
a giant Alsatian with a thinning coat of fur. She spent her days moping in the
garden, occasionally howling at the moon in the hope someone might talk to her.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mittens watched the Alsatian from the fence of his garden, intimidated
by her size. He barked at the dog, whose eyes slowly rolled to where the cat
was. The cat barked again and the Alsatian walked over. They exchanged
greetings. Mittens asked how the Alsatian, who was called Tinker, liked her new
home. She whimpered. It was smaller than her old home (or maybe she was just
bigger she contemplated), her owner wouldn’t take her for walks and the birds
kept pecking her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mittens looked over to the fence where three blackbirds
stood very still. The birds had tried to torture him and the Labrador when they
were growing up. Mittens knew all it took was a little roughing up to get them
to back off for good. Yet Tinker seemed opposed to the idea of fighting. She
went back to sunbathing under the overcast and as Mittens left her the
blackbirds jumped along the fence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That evening, when Tinker was allowed inside, the blackbirds
stared into the house watching her sleep. They pondered the ways they could
annoy her; pull her tail, rip out her hairs, peck her ears. They croaked
quietly in amusement. One of the three finished croaking before the other two.
They glanced over to see Mittens with the bird’s head buried in its mouth. They
screeched at Mittens and took flight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tinker came to the door to see what the fuss was. She saw
Mittens playing with the bird at his feet, smiling. Tinker’s face dropped as
she slinked away from the window. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pair never spoke again and no new dogs ever moved
nearby. Mittens spent his days howling at the moon like Tinker had taught her.
He could talk to dogs, but he learnt to late that he didn’t know how to listen
to dogs.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-22259349500300308912014-08-17T12:09:00.001-07:002014-08-17T12:09:29.965-07:0035) Three Coins on the Moon<div class="MsoNormal">
The Space Rover crawls forward at a tremendously slow pace.
No more than five miles per hour. The lights are weak, meaning I can only see a
few feet in front of me at a time. It’s all craters and stuff. I must remain
vigilante though. On one of these craters is an alien symbol; a rectangle with
a zig-zag through the middle. Below that symbol is the last of the three coins
on the moon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first two were found in the late 90s by a Russian team
in secret bunkers under craters. Tests show alien bacteria on the coins which
was luckily not harmful to humans. They also found texts and scripts about the
three coins in the bunkers. Removing all three from the moon would open the
gate to paradise. It’s a guess more than a fact though. The scripts had to be
translated from a language no one was fluent in. Its made with the assumption
the aliens have the same language patterns as us. The Russians were meant to
come back for the third coin, but political troubles meant the project was
scrapped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I came across the research by chance. A work buddy sent me
the files as a dismissive joke. I read into it. I believed what I saw.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s always cold up here. I’m constantly shivering and it
makes me feel like I’m always about to throw up. I want to close my eyes, but
then I might miss the symbol.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I informed people with power about my intentions. At least,
I informed them I wanted to do some moon exploration as part of potential moon emigration
projects in the near future. They approved and shot me up. As soon as I got
here I went AWOL. Cut all communications. I can get back fine by myself. I’ll
answer the questions when I get home.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s there. A deep green mark on the surface of the moon. <i> </i>I
start the shovels digging. As they get deeper the ground gets blacker. Something
starts to ooze out. This isn’t a bunker, or a treasure. It’s a trap. The ooze
grabs my rover and solidifies itself around the track. I can’t drive away. The
wheels just grind against the stone substance. A black arm, like a squid’s
tentacle covered in oil, slaps the window to my rover. It’s going to break in. This
is not Paradise. We got it wrong. We-<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-88861498751787295572014-08-17T11:47:00.001-07:002014-08-17T11:47:10.088-07:0034) Little Green Wounded Warrior<div class="MsoNormal">
I leave my dying thoughts to the wind. I hope it carries
them far enough so my wife may hear them in our home by the lake. Goodnight
forever my darling, and goodnight to our sweet little daughter. May the lands
stay fruitful despite my absence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the warriors, present and past, who still wield the
shields of green. Do not give up hope through my demise. Let my spirit dwell in
the trees and the animals of this glade. May they allow me to guide them to
safety from the tanks with rolling pins for wheels, and may they allow me to
know their secrets so I may pass them onto you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the leaders who fight on the lines back home, in the offices
and in the courts. May your wit remain as the rich lawyers try to con you with
promises off preservation. Remember always that they are the liars who led us
into this three way war, between them, us and the Earth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And finally to the enemy in your fine suits and tall
skyscrapers. Come down to the ground level. See how the poor and in these blood
stained countries suffer. See how they work tirelessly for a wage that you
wouldn’t get out of bed for. See how we have tried to reason with you for just
a scrape of humanity, and see where it has got us. We are coming for you with
the same saws you used to cut down our homes and the same guns you used to mow
us down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
You call us eco-terrorists. You’re wrong. We are the Green
Warriors. And while my wounds may not ever heal, there is still time to save
Earth. I hope for a world for my daughter to live in, and so I pray that your demise comes before the planet's.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-44770367114556303222014-08-17T11:30:00.001-07:002014-08-17T11:30:38.673-07:0033) The Small Man and the Dried Biscuit<div class="MsoNormal">
His cardboard sign in the street reads like the title of a
Porno no one would really want to watch. Yet it seems perfectly clean. He is a
small man with a brown beard which serves as his blanket. His wears a blue gown
with golden threads. His facial features are perfectly straight. In front of
him on a red and white striped podium is a McVitie’s digestive biscuit. No
other information is given.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sit on a park bench over the road from him and watch for a
while. Many pedestrians wander by, some stop to observe but others rush on
before he asks them for change. He does not talk. The pigeons eye up his
biscuit but none have the courage to dart for it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After about ten minutes I go over to him and place a pound
coin down on the podium. I look at him, but he looks right through me. I hover
my hand over the biscuit, hoping he’ll palm my hand away with lightning
reflexes, but still he does not move. I pick up the biscuit. Nothing. Dangle it
above my mouth. He doesn’t care. On the bottom of the biscuit there is a piece
of paper cello taped. It’s a note which instructs me to turn the podium over. I
do as is told of me. Underneath the podium is a full packet of digestives,
minus one biscuit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The small man picks up the packet, bows before me and
wanders away. He leaves the podium, the sign and the single digestive that’s in
my hand. I can only assume this is some sort of proverb. I wonder how long he’s
been sat there, how long the biscuit must have been out in the open. I tip the
podium upright and leave the biscuit where it had been before. The pigeons dive
furiously at it.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-31589260801601715202014-08-17T11:13:00.001-07:002014-08-17T11:13:20.335-07:0032) Grabbing Thorns<div class="MsoNormal">
Their mothers named the Tiny Tykes despite the fact they
were ten years old and more than capable of looking after themselves. They let
their kids frolic in the field next to the housing estate as long as they came
home before six so they could have dinner and didn’t go further than the wooden
fence.. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Michael always led the way on their adventures because he
was scientific binoculars. Louise was aggrieved by this decision: while her
binoculars may have been made out of plastic, the only difference she could
decipher between hers and Michael’s was that his were heavier. Karen never
complained. She liked to follow, whether it be through shrubbery or books. She
always took one when they went on a picnic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their adventures were mostly created by their imaginations.
Yesterday they had fought a herd off devil cows and saved a town of gnomes who
spoke in rhyme. As they ran through the bushes they came across a new opening
beyond where the wooden fence normally signalled the boundary. Stationary
diggers were nearby, as were cement mixers and a brook with a small amount of
water flowing through.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘We should explore,’ Michael said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Louise grabbed his arm: ‘No, it’s beyond the fence. We can’t
go beyond the fence.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘There is no fence here,’ Michael said, opening his arms
wide, ‘Therefore we can roam!’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They both looked at Karen who shrugged, holding onto a
detective novel. Michael ran off before Louise could protest any further. He ran
parallel to the brook. The amount of water running over the pebbles was never
more than a dribble. They came to a barred gate which had newspaper glued
together with sludge. Behind the gate was a tunnel where the water was meant to
come from. Michael looked through his binoculars even though he was no more
than a few metres from the gate.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Team, we must clear this gate for the gnomes to get their
water.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘And how are we going to do that genius?’ Louise said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Michael scanned the area, first with his binoculars and then
without, the latter proving to be easier. On the other side of the brook was a
large tree branch. He skipped down into the river bed, jumped over the forks in
the trickling water and grabbed the branch. It was heavy, making him
unbalanced. He swung the branch into the gate and both him and the gate
recoiled with a shudder. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s not safe,’ Louise said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He put his hand up to her. This time he was more careful in
his approach and prodded the branch through the gap. There was something heavy
behind the sludge which needed to be dislodged. He got the branch underneath it
and started levering.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Look,’ Karen said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A large hole of water gushed out around Michael’s feet. His
trainers were caked in black water, but he had achieved his goal. As she stood
triumphantly, he was taking by surprise at how quick the rest of the water
burst out. It was like being hit by a water canon. Michael was knocked over and
banged his head on the river bed. Neither Louise nor Karen could react quickly
enough to stop Michael submerging underneath the sewage. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Karen went pale. Louise yelled at Michael to quit joking
around. His binoculars floated to the top. Michael remained below.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-38718735374557182152014-08-17T10:50:00.001-07:002014-08-17T10:50:53.350-07:0031) Knife Play<div class="MsoNormal">
Fernando was the best at this game. Rolling the hilt of the
knife over and under his palm while his prey sat across the table from him. It
was a simple game he invented for just these special occasions. The rules were
simple. His prey had to close their eyes and guess when the knife was in his
palm. They got one guess. If they got it right, they would be given the knife
to roll around. If they were wrong, they died. If they didn’t close their eyes,
they died. If they dropped the knife, they died. Fernando had never lost.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During the times Fernando wasn’t slicing and dicing, he ran
a drugs cartel from Mexico to America. Most of his prey were fools who thought
they could outsmart him. They always ended up in front of him. Sometimes, if
Fernando was really lucky, he landed a big fish; CIA or FBI operative trying to
bust his business wide open. Fernando didn’t like that one bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the seat opposite was one of these hotshot agents,
glasses snapped in two resting on his nose. He was a kid, far younger than him,
far less experienced. Fernando rolled the knife over in his hand. The rules of
the game were already explained to him. The agent took a deep breath and closed
his eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fernando barely rolled it over the back of his hand once
when the agent called it. It was in his palm. It was best to call it early
before losing track of the rhythm of the knife. Fair was fair. He gave the
agent the knife and closed his eyes. Fernando also called it early. He opened
his eyes and saw the knife was flat on the back of the agent’s hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fernando revealed his yellow teeth. The agent rolled the
knife into his palm and lurched forward to stab. The chains around his mid rift
held him back. Fernando laughed. The hidden rule of the game was Fernando’s
favourite. Always bring a gun to a knife fight.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-60372585707051988172014-08-17T10:36:00.000-07:002014-08-17T10:36:00.034-07:0030) The Girl with the Purple Tuba<div class="MsoNormal">
I have never, nor will I ever again, meet some who makes playing
a tuba look cool. She was in the school band, crimson red hair and a nose ring.
She was the anomaly to the glasses and acne. The best part was she knew it. She
would throw her purple tuba around like it was her dance partner and boss the
solos. Everyone would scowl and roll their eyes at her energy, but I smiled
like a goof. After watching her perform I would go home and play air tuba to
all the guitar solos in my CD collections.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sad thing was, though she had caught my eye, I never
seemed to catch hers. She was in the year above me and there were plenty of
more <i>mature </i>guys that she could kill
time with than me. I persevered though. I continued going to the shows and each
time went to more extreme lengths to be noticed. It started with bumping into
her, though that seemed to piss her off when I nearly knocked her precious tuba
out of her hand. Next was saying very loudly how I liked a band I knew she
definitely liked, though I think she knew I definitely did not like that band
as she demanded me to name my favourite song of theirs. I came up blank
(ironically, the title of one of their songs). My final trick was dying my hair
purple: she ran from the stage to her car and drove off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if it had ended there, all would have been fine and
good. An embarrassing life lesson well learnt. Except I hadn’t learnt. I still had hope. I still had her sister; the
girl who played the clarinet of doom. Her instrument was named so because the first
two shows she ever played it at, an audience member died: one in a car crash on
the way home and another of a heart attack in the bathroom at the interval. She
was plainer than her sister; a rounded nose with no piercing and mousey brown
hair tide neatly into a ponytail. She didn’t play with nearly as much passion
as her sister. However, the one thing she did have going for her was that she
liked me. I pandered to this, going on walks, watching films and even hand
holding. After a couple of weeks of dating, she invited me over to her place.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll fast forward the meeting parents and the description of
the double garage driveway and skip to the important parts. First, when purple
tuba girl walked in, she was mad. Tears running down her face mad. I was in the
living room with her sister at the time watching a quiz show on television with
her parents. I sensed an opportunity and excused myself to go to the bathroom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my head, this is how this played out: I knocked on her
door, she runs into my arms and cries all her problems away, she realises I’m a
lovely guy and for my reward we have loud and long sex. I know there are just
so many problems with this plan, but I was a horny teenager. Rather than have
you shake your heads at me, let me tell you how it played out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pressed my ear to the door. I couldn’t hear anything. I
knocked and still nothing. Maybe she’s not in? But to see her room would be
great. Just a quick peak. Her room was a tip: photos of boys littered
everywhere, many skull designed earrings scattered across her desk and… Pants.
Actual female underwear. I WAS A
TEENAGER. I picked them up, lacy and black. They felt so soft in my hand. For
some reason I had the uncontrollable desire to rub them on my face (STUPID, STUPID
TEENAGER) And then a scream. In a towel, back from the bathroom, was the purple
tuba girl.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Long story short, I was never allowed back in their house
again. Her sister broke up with me and told all her friends I was a cheating
pervert, while the guys spread rumours about the naked body I supposedly saw. I
didn’t go to anymore band concerts. Purple tuba girl got a scholarship
somewhere good and went to play in Italy for a really classy band. She doesn’t
have the nose ring anymore. She’s moved on.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-85083627027795441972014-08-17T10:06:00.002-07:002014-08-17T10:06:44.388-07:0029) Amending the Genetic Code of the Quagga to Enable Flight<div class="MsoNormal">
Day 1<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been given clearance and funds to support my new study.
It’s like nothing before, essentially bringing an extinct animal back from the
dead. The quagga was the director’s choice of animal: his daughter prefers them
to Dodos, and although I think this experiment would have a better effect on
the flightless bird, it could be interesting to see the effects on what is
essentially a yellow zebra. First things first I need to alter the DNA of
zebras and force breeding in order to get a suitable test quagga. It sounds
horrible and complex, but it’s harmless. The zebras are almost non-existent
anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Day 15<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suitable zebras with genes that can be easily modified have
been contained and have already started breeding. Looks like love at first
sight. Kind of sweet. The zebra should be pregnant soon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Day 34<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was quicker than expected. Just have to wait nearly a
year now although genetic changes will have to be made in the next few months.
This is plenty of time to amend the genetic alteration machine. It’s this kind
of technology that could lead to us one being able to change the eye colour of
children. I however, plan to use it to give birth to a dead animal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Day 112<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The machine took a little longer than expected to prepare,
but I managed to alter the DNA just before the critical deadline. Hopefully the
pregnancy runs smoothly and at the end of it we should get our quagga.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Month 14<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geoffrey was born today. A healthy young. Most importantly,
definitely a quagga. There are two odd bumps around his front hip sockets. It
could be quite possible that I’ve bred the first real life Pegasus. Geoffrey’s
mother is apparently quite distraught she can’t see her son. The sacrifices for
science.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Month 17<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geoffrey has developed the skeletal structure of wings. They
currently look like tiny bony talons. It doesn’t seem to be affecting his
development of growth either. Hopefully it won’t affect his ability to run or
charge in the long run either. One interesting development is that it doesn’t
mind eating meat. Unusual, zebras are herbivores. Will need to keep an eye on
that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Month 19<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geoffrey is becoming aggressive, slamming his head against
his change and screaming at his carers. He only just about lets me feed him,
and he will only eat rabbits and other creatures. His wings have gained
feathers, but his front hooves have become infected. They’re turning fleshy and
yellow. I worry for the poor creature.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Month 20<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I fear Geoffrey is not a Pegasus. The hooves turned into
talons and his chest, along with his wings, are covered in brown feathers. He
is a Gryphon. He lets no one near him any longer. We throw food into his pen
but he leaves it untouched. I do not believe he is long for this world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Month 21<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Geoffrey escaped last night. He has been biding his time and
saving his strength. His talons are mightier than I anticipated. He was able to
crush the bars and used his wings to fly away. He was last spotted flying south
across the sea towards the Equator, yet no one has seen him since. It is
possible Geoffrey has a yearning to return to his Zebra species in Africa. As a
carnivore, I can’t imagine he’ll be welcomed back into the tribe. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
If this experiment has proved anything, it is that animals
can, in some form or another, be brought back from the dead. The director has
given me clearance to perform the experiment on a dodo. I am sure the results
will be satisfactory this time around.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-25045442927756562462014-08-17T09:43:00.000-07:002014-08-17T09:43:03.598-07:0028) Double O<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Which one was the best?’ I say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can see Daniel’s mind tinkering despite the fact he’s
fumbling for something under his bed. Roy jumps on the bed with his shoes on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Daniel Craig, easy,’ Roy says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Daniel’s mum yells upstairs to tell him to stop jumping on
the bed. He grabs a torch from under his bed, switches it on and off and then
places it on his bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Really? Have you seen any of the classic Bond films?’ I
say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Sure, I’ve seen Die Another Day. And Brosnan doesn’t know
his glock from his co-’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘What about you Daniel?’ I say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘George Lazenby,’ he says, searching through his draws for
something.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘He barely counts as a Bond,’ Roy says, jumping on the bed
again. Daniel’s mum yells for him to stop.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘He’s obscure,’ Daniel says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Okay, okay. If you were going to be a Double O, what would
your number be?’ I say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Easy,’ Roy says, splaying his legs out on the bed before
me, ‘Double O sixty-nine.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Really?’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I frown at him. He retaliates by licking his lips.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Jesus. What about you Daniel?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Daniel is more interested in grabbing a plastic box on top
of his wardrobe. I don’t know why he wants it as all that’s in there is a tent
and a fold away chair. I ask him again and this time he looks down at me after
successfully pulling the box down after him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Dobule O zero.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Lame,’ Roy says, but I wave my hand at him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s like George. A bit obscure, a bit hidden,’ he says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
He lifts up a black bag off the floor. It is filled with
things he’s been packing during the entire conversation. I only notice this
now.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-82538740536592678522014-08-17T09:26:00.001-07:002014-08-17T09:26:33.535-07:0027) Pirates Take My Baby Brother to the Orphanage<div class="MsoNormal">
There yar some tings you nevar farget. That night at the
orphanage be one of them. Arr captain pointed to the place on the map when we
asked where Davey Jones’s pendant be. It made sense at the time; hiding it at
sea would be too obvious. Hiding it in an orphanage on the coast, the bordar of
his domain and the place he dare not tread. It all clicked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It be, or were, a large place. Little steeple for ringing
bells. They used it when we cannonballed the hell out of thar glass windows and
hollow bricks. Fire spread quickly. Nevar stood a chance. When we went inside
to plunder, thar be nothing but cold, white bodies. We showed the captain arr
work. He started blubbering like a baby pushing his head into my chest. Poor
soul. A deckhand put him down for a nap and we looked for the pendant.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The pendant was narwhere. We did find some interesting
documents regarrding arr captain. We know whar his brothar be. A land lubber,
lives on a farm. Not a life for a pirate like arr captain. We decided we’d keep
an eye on him until he be ready to make his own decision. Would you want to go
back to a family who abandoned ye to the like of me? Some child murderar! Yarh,
I’ve done bad tings in my time, but that was the warst.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
But forget all that. Tell me stranger, where do I have to
cut this little baby’s throat to get to Davey Jones’s pendant?<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-19483057782112935792014-08-17T09:09:00.002-07:002014-08-17T09:09:33.851-07:0026) The Last Slice<div class="MsoNormal">
AND THEY’RE OFF.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mother has just served up the pizza and garlic bread.
Mmmm-yummy looks like pepperoni tonight. The kids have gotten in before Dad, a
good tactical move. Looks like the younger brother is starting the night with a
single slice of pizza and two bits of garlic bread, those sort of conscious good
manners will cost you in this sport. Meanwhile the eldest sister as taken two
bits of pizza and THREE pieces of garlic bread. Unbelievable. Wait a minute,
the son has contested the decision and it goes to the umpire. Yes, mother agree
that the daughter had made a selfish play and must return one slice of pizza
and a piece of garlic bread. It was a risky move and she’s been caught out!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now Dad gets his chance to shine, with his daughter
already being reprimanded for being greedy how will he play it? Looks like his
playing the smart game; two pizza and two garlic bread. Should tide him over
until the second period. Mum gets in last and takes the same amount as Dad as
she heads into the dining room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So after the first period of intense action we have three
pieces of garlic bread left and another six slices of pizza. Let’s move over to
the dining room and see what’s happening there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It seems like the sister is distracted by her sulks of
protest and it is costing her precious eating time. The brother has already got
through his two bits of garlic bread and is well on his way to completing his
slice of pizza. But the strong favourite Dad is well ahead; no garlic bread
remains on his plate and only one bit of pizza to go. Mum is keeping a steady
pace which may bode well in the late game.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Look here! The brother has made a charge for the kitchen and
has been intercepted by Dad who barges him out of the way. It wasn’t subtle at
all, right under the watchful eye of the umpire. What is she going to call
here? Yes a penalty to the son which means he gets first pick of the food
items. And it looks like he’s going heavy, 3 slices of pizza and one bit of garlic
bread. Dad tries to contest but Mum is already back in the dining room. Dad
take two slices of pizza and none of the garlic bread either. If they both
finish their plates they’ll be on four slices of pizza and two garlic breads.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh and it’s all gone horribly wrong as we return to the
dining room. The daughter has been adjudged to be ‘moody’ and is complaining
about the decision earlier. What’s this? Oh my, she’s been sent off to her
room. What a silly reaction from the daughter, that will cost her the match.
You can see she’s disappointed with herself as she storms out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The brother and Dad are keeping good pace, but Dad has the
advantage having already taken on a larger bulk earlier in the competition. His
son’s complacency might be enough to give him the win here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More drama! As we turn to the kitchen cam we can see the
sister sneaking in and stealing the remainder of the garlic bread. That leaves
just the last slice of pizza left. That will be the deciding factor between
these two competitors tonight. The umpire who has been on such good form this
evening has let an important incident slip under her radar. I’m sure there’ll
be post-game ramifications for the daughter, but for now she gets away with it.
In fact she’s just gone into the kitchen now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ll join her later as shockingly, Dad appears to be
choking on his pizza. His face is going red, and while it doesn’t appear fatal
it is halting his tremendous pace! This has given the son a wonderful
opportunity which he is gratefully accepting as he begins scoffing the crust of
his last pizza. Dad has recovered and is also down to his last crust. It’s neck
and neck, who’s going to do it. And experience prevails, Dad finishes his
expertly and rushes to the kitchen. It’s unlucky for the youngster, his day
will come but today Dad will take the last slice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh no! I am wrong. Stick a black bin bag in my mouth because
I’m talking rubbish. The last slice has gone. Dad is completely bemused. He’s
checking under the plates, under the table. Did the daughter also nab the last
slice of pizza? Let’s check our replay cams. Nope, just the garlic bread. Then
who has it? The son comes out, and he too is baffled. Let’s turn on the living
room cam.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s remarkable! I have never seen anything like this. Mum
has taken the last slice of pizza AND taken the television so she can watch
Casualty at the same time. My word, you watch this sport for so many years, and
you think you’ve seen it all, then a wonder play takes you by surprise. I’m
gobsmacked. I have no more words for you tonight ladies and gentlemen. Join us
next time for more cracking action.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-46582403983172962952014-08-17T08:45:00.002-07:002014-08-17T08:45:51.856-07:0025) Tom Who Had Good Table Manners<div class="MsoNormal">
Tom who had good table manners went on a date with a girl
named Kate. Kate wore a cream coloured jumper and had her hair tied up in a
bun. Tom assumed that based on Kate’s appearance she, like himself, was very
good at eating at classy restaurants. Tom was incorrect.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kate had never been on a date at any other place than Pizza
Hut, who once had the slogan ‘We won’t mind if you put your elbows on the table’.
This appeared to be the motto of Kate’s life. When they had a glass of red wine;
elbows on the table. Checking out the menu; elbows on the table. Even when
cutting with her knife and fork, when it would be advantageous to have her arms
in the air, the table was occupied by her elbows.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, Tom is completely unreasonable. No one’s perfect
after all. Yet Kate seemed impressively imperfect when it came to getting
solids and liquids from the table to her mouth. Before the menus had reached
them Kate had spilled wine down her cream top. It was joined by the crumbs from
the extra two rolls of bread she asked for and tomato ketchup slipping out of
her children’s menu cheeseburger (everything on the menu had ‘salady crap’ in
it).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After the main course, Tom went to the bathroom to calm
down. The veins around his temples were throbbing and he was disgusted to see a
strand of hair had parted from his sweeping fringe. He would apologise when he
returned. Except when he returned she was picking the remnants of her kids
sized burger from her teeth with the corner of the menu.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘WHO DOES THAT?’ he yelled before he had taken his seat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The piano which had been part of the background noise was
suddenly noticeable because it had stopped. People stared. An old lady shamed
the young man for a lack of table manners. Tom took his seat and apologised to
Kate.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You know what,’ she said, pausing to belch, ‘I think I’m
going to take off. Lovely to meet you and all, but you’re just a bit rude
really.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tom wielded his fork like a trident; it took every fiber of gentlemanly
conduct not to launch it at the back of her head. The waiter with a thing
curling moustache came with the bill shortly after.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’m afraid we’d like you to leave. Please pay the bill and
go. Your kind are not welcome here.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tom stabbed the table with the fork and looked at the bill. <i>Thank god all she had was a sodding kids
meals. Should have taken the stupid cow to McDonalds. </i>Tom was never quite
the same again.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-36014575260885859542014-08-17T08:28:00.002-07:002014-08-17T08:28:22.356-07:0024) Banana Pants<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You must be kidding me Sebastian,’ I said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sebastian snapped his fingers at me. The bangles on his
wrist jangled as he picked them up again from the white table and waved them in
the air as if it would make them more appealing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Darling, do you see what I have here or are you blind?’ he
said, rolling his eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They were tiny shorts, neigh, underwear made from banana
peels. The bright yellow colour was already browning in his hands. I imagined
feeling slimy residue around my hips and shuddered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘This is too much,’ I said, ‘I mean Lady Gaga barely pulled
off a meat dress. I am a young singer who has only just gotten her first number
one. The most adventurous thing I ever wore before the fame was a pair of
leopard print leggings. Sebastian, you have been a star, but I cannot wear
those.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sebastian dropped the pants on table and rushed up close to
me, flailing his hands around my face. I hated it when he did that; it was his
way of taking control of the situation. He pressed his fingers on my lips as I
opened my mouth to talk.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Darling, listen,’ he said, ‘I have been in this job for
over fifteen years. And what turns a little girl with a one hit wonder into a
chic superstar is fashion. Daring, adventurous fashion. These pants will make
you a star. Everyone will say ‘Hey did you see that girl with the banana pants?’
and then they’ll listen to your music.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I bit my lip. I imagine the thin strands in the inside of
the peel getting stuck to the back of my calves as I walked down a red carpet.
The press would have a field day. I shook my head again. He pressed his hands
lightly on my shoulders to make me sit on a silver stool. His nose was pointier
up close, his eyebrows more jagged.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Look darling, if you don’t wear the pants, I won’t design
anything for you ever again. Which is a shame, because I want you to only wear
what I make. So that would mean I’d have to tell all my big friends not to work
with you. Then you’ll have no one. And that’ll make me sad. But it’ll make you
sadder.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His breath was minty and stung my nostrils. My arms trembled
at my side. I looked over his shoulders at the pants.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I guess I could try them on.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sebastian clapped his hands together in my face. I jumped
back on the stool and tried to catch my breath as Sebastian’s devil bangles
jingled while he skipped to grab the pants.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-61900776825103343352014-08-17T08:11:00.001-07:002014-08-17T08:11:02.983-07:0023) When the Post Office Moved My House<div class="MsoNormal">
It had been a lovely two week trip to the Canary Islands. It
was what Dora had needed. The weeks leading up to it involved many arguments
with her ex-husband about the miscommunication of dates he was available to
look after their sun while she was gone. Prior to the agreement, her son
William had been stubborn and awkward about living with his ‘scumbag father’
for two weeks. He worked the possibility he may not have to stay with him for
everything it was worth and every evening ended in a row. Despite how badly his
son had acted out, she looked forward to seeing him again. All mothers could
only stay angry for so long. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The taxi stopped in the cul-de-sac of her address and looked
out of his front windscreen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Are you sure this is right love?’ he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dora saw the street sign out of the window to her right and
told the taxi driver they were at the correct address. She paid the driver,
told him to keep the change and lugged her suitcase out onto the pavement. The
taxi reversed wildly and bombed down the street. It was able to get away before
Dora realised her house was no longer there. Everything else about the
cul-de-sac was the same; Numbers 1-2 and 4-7 were there, but number 3 had
vanished. Even the garden, including her decking, was gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The elderly man who lived next door came outside waving a
red ticket in the air. He scratched his head as Dora examined the ticket. It
was from the post-office about a missed delivery. The elderly man explained
they had collected her house hours after she went on holiday; he assumed she
had decided to move somewhere new. As Dora rang for a taxi, neither her nor the
elderly neighbour having a car, the elderly neighbour continued to scratch his
head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The same taxi driver from before screeched around the corner
and drove her to the post office. Dora could see her house in the storage space
behind the main reception. She paid the driver, asking for the change this
time, and handed in her ticket a woman who wore her beige trousers up above her
belly button. She squinted at the ticket and nodded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Ah yes, so a Mr William Battersby-Robson sent this parcel
to the address of Mr Roger Robson, who then tried to send it back to Mr William
Battersby-Robson who was unable to collect the parcel,’ she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘The parcel is my house!’ Dora said, ‘I want it back now.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The woman behind the desk stared vacantly at Dora for a
couple of seconds, then snorted oozing phlegm into the back of her throat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’m afraid we need the identification of Mr William
Battersby-Robson as he is the recipient of the parcel.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dora rang William immediately. It went through to his answer
phone: <i>Hi, I can’t get to the phone right
now as I’m soaking up the sun in a foreign country. If this is Mum, I hope you
enjoy sleeping somewhere you don’t want to for a while. To everyone else, leave
me a message and I’ll get back to you.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dora realised mothers could stay angry for a lot longer than
she thought possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-9016732937284167002014-08-17T07:49:00.002-07:002014-08-17T07:49:11.166-07:0022) I Like Penguins<div class="MsoNormal">
It was all he could say these days. The warning signs came a
couple of years before he was put into the asylum when he talked nonsense about
penguins, like how they always wore tuxedos to look smart. His friends thought
it was wonderful that he had adopted a penguin; it was a cry for help.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When September came around he started a job in a new place.
He had friends, old and new, in the city but it was living alone that he couldn’t
get used to. The neighbours complained about fishy smells and squawking at
unholy hours of the morning. When questioned, he reasoned that he must have
left the fridge open and the television on and apologised for the trouble he
had caused. Yet the rumours he had been keeping a penguin in his apartment were
deemed true when one of his neighbours, while walking their dog, saw him
wandering around the park with a penguin in a leash. The adopted penguin was
returned to the zoo, and he was taken for a mental check-up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was an obsession, the test found. There was something
unnatural about his like for penguins. The examiners asked for details about
his past; was there a traumatic story in his past about penguins. His tale
about eating cold lasagne and then watching an episode of Pingu afterwards did
not impress them. He was declared mentally unwell and sent to a home just for a
little while for some rest.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He would have been fine. The modern world had taken its toll
on a fragile mind and some time away would have restored all functions back to
normal. Unfortunately, there was a miscommunication between the mental
examiners and the home and he was given a strict routine of exposure to
penguins rather than being denied penguin related material. This meant watching
penguin documentaries, taking bath with wind up penguin toys that paddled in
the water, eating penguin shaped potato waffles and going to bed with a life
sized penguin toy to spoon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a month on this routine, the examiners came to see how
he was getting on. They were horrified at the mistake which had been made.
Though they tried an aggressive anti-penguin program by making him listen to
tapes of sea lions snarling, the effects of the previous treatment were irreversible.
Loved ones were informed, and as they cried for his well-being he replied with
three words.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I like penguins.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8817681489706624486.post-68048978358980474142014-08-17T07:32:00.002-07:002014-08-17T07:32:22.332-07:0021) The Sock Man<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Sock it, Sock Man,’ Muscle Man said, flexing his abs as he
laughed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This happened at every meeting. Sock Man would try to
contribute to the discussion of superheroes and then Muscle Man would flex one
of his many muscles and tell Sock Man to shut up. He was the nerd of the group,
and this was in a group which included Textbook Woman. The problem was, because
Muscle Man probably had the most useful skill out of all of them, his word was
gospel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I just think if we spent money on better technology to
track criminals rather than gym equipment-’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I said keep it shut,’ Muscle Man said, ‘We’re putting the
money aside for a new swimming pool. Kelp Girl thinks it would be beneficial to
her abilities.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A girl with lank, green hair drooping over her eyes smiled
at Sock Man as he went to complain. She looked like a fragile teenage girl who
had built up a lot of courage to ask Muscle Man for the pool. Sock Man
readjusted his sock mask and sat back down in his chair. The meeting went on
like this with wasteful suggestions and boasting about arrests. Sock Man wished
he had a better power. The best work he had done was give German’s gangrene
during the war. It was difficult using a power which required to have no shoes
on at all times to use effectively.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The meeting was adjourned with Muscle Man inviting everyone
to his for a hot tub party. Sock Man was invited to these, but the one time he
went he had been ridiculed the whole evening for not taking off his socks to
get in the hot tub. He went home, watched television and fell asleep in front
of the gymnastics; he liked watching sports which didn’t require shoes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he woke up, the wrestling was on. As he yawned and
rubbed his eyes he saw the fight was between The Rock, a muscular tanned man
who was the spitting image of Muscle Man, and Mankind, a chunky curly haired
man who wore a brown leather mask and a tie. The Rock was pounding Mankind with
heavy hooks until Mankind was knocked to the floor. The Rock tried to use his
special move, The Rock bottom, which involved riling up the crowd and then
running from rope to rope of the ring before performing an elbow drop. Before
he could make it back in time, Mankind got up and used his special move; he had
a sock on his hand which he stuffed into The Rock’s mouth, effectively choking
him. The Rock tapped three times, signalling that he submitted. The ref’s bell
rang and Mankind was declared the winner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It all became clear.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Sock Man arrived at Muscle Man’s house it was already
dark inside. He rang the doorbell anyway. Sock Man heard a bottle roll down the
stairs and loud swearing from inside. Muscle Man answered the door in a red
robe. He held onto the doorframe with his large hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Sock Man, what the hell do you want?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sock Man lifted his hand up; on it was a sock with plastic
eyes and a smiley face drawn in pen. It swayed in the air like a tamed snake,
then darted like a viper at Muscle Man’s face. His screams were inaudible.
Muscle Man tapped three times on the floor. There was no referee. There was no
bell. But there was a winner.<o:p></o:p></div>
Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05024676376925442924noreply@blogger.com0