Category Archives: Flash Fiction

Short stories, less than a thousand words or thereabouts…

Vivid Imagination – Flash Fiction short story from ‘Flashbulb Moments’

Vivid Imagination

It was reasonable to assume Melina Jackson was her name given that was the only female name on the list of doorbells.

FlatcapThe flat-capped, raincoat wearing man liked to stalk his victims first. He deliberately cultivated an unassuming, almost invisible appearance for the initial stages of his work for obvious reasons, ensuring that any possible description of him would be as nondescript as that of the nearest lamppost. The knife-wielding sociopath was most meticulous in his planning, proud indeed of his attention to detail. But then, of course, he had to be otherwise his career would most likely have been a short one …

*

The mere presence of Bartholomew Brown was enough to make the skin crawl – if he wanted. Mostly though, he was the most affable and charming man you could ever hope to meet.

He preferred to be called Mr Brown rather than Bartholomew – Bartholomew sounded too Bohemian, too pretentious, he thought. Mr had more of a cold and enigmatic feel to it, for, beneath his superficial charm, Mr Brown possessed the most twisted imagination ever; perhaps that was what compelled him to do what he did?

If you were foolish enough to ask Mr Brown about his interests, just five minutes into the reply would be enough to have the strongest of stomachs heaving and ready to expel their contents in a fit of projectile vomiting. You see, Bartholomew Brown was no ordinary man.

Flatcap2Over the past twenty-five years, he’d been responsible for the bodies in the canal murders, the butchering of seventeen prostitutes, and the cold-blooded murder of six unfortunate serial killer hunting detectives. And those were just what he considered his most notable successes; there had been many others, but they had been when he first started out, so he forgave himself for those initial somewhat sloppy and amateurish efforts. He’d long since perfected his craft though and was again looking forward to satisfying his darkest fantasies.

The next one was to be a woman by the name of Melina Jackson. Oh yes, she would make a fine victim, he thought, what with her sun-kissed red hair, those ‘come to bed and ravage me’ eyes, and the short, slutty skirt and high-heels that just screamed whore from head to toe. This one deserved a slow death, as painful and bloody as any to date. Mr Brown was determined to excel himself this time.

Sexy women waiting for customers at night street;… Melina Jackson left the upmarket hotel by the back entrance, her business done with her latest trick, her third of the night. With a bra stuffed full of cash, she walked along the dark side-street, intending to call a cab from the nearby taxi rank. It was only a short distance but enough to provide her assailant with sufficient cover to hide in the shadows before stepping out to confront her.

The serrated knife entered her breast at the same moment he looked into her eyes. A hand clasped her mouth before the merest hint of a scream could escape her ruby red lips. Her mutilated body would probably be found by an early morning street cleaner or perhaps even earlier, some late-night reveller turning into the dark street to take a piss …

Oh yes, Mr Brown was happy with his efforts with this one, of creating a scene of bloody carnage to rival that of the very best efforts of Jack the Ripper.

Thank god it was just Mr Brown’s vivid imagination, that the details of Melina Jackson’s death were simply the ones staring back at him from a computer screen, and later, some anonymous reader’s Kindle or while scrolling a Dark Web fiction forum.

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Finally satisfied with the level of detail he’d achieved in his latest serial killer story, Mr Brown typed … The End.     

*

Bloody knife in kitchen sinkFinishing a story always gave Mr Brown another craving too, an almost ritual one of making himself a sandwich. He was about to cut himself a couple of slices of bread when he stopped himself … Mr Brown frowned, silently annoyed at himself; there was still blood on the serrated edge of his carving knife … even after twenty-five years, Mr Brown could still be sloppy.

***

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read many more like it, check out my latest collection of short stories on my Amazon author page links below:

Amazon UK:   Amazon US:

BookAdd9zzz

 

 

Unrequited Love – flash fiction short story

 

 

Unrequited Love

Vector silhouette of a woman.Lucy Brannen simply adored Tommy, and why shouldn’t she? He was a handsome fella, what with his thick, jet black hair, and eyes that could entrance the most reluctant heart.

Everyone loved Tommy; Lucy’s parents, her friends, and even complete strangers too immediately took to him. It was something Lucy understood and accepted, having fallen for Tommy’s charms more than two years before. Yes indeed, Tommy was something special, even if his demands and attention-seeking sometimes made her feel invisible. She had some sympathy now for how new mothers must feel when everyone’s attention and compliments were all directed towards the baby, like the mother wasn’t even there other than as some glorified slave … where was the appreciation and attention she deserved? Whatever her occasional misgivings though, Lucy continued to dote on him, attending to Tommy’s every whim, everything from preparing his meals right down to even trimming his nails, nothing being too much trouble for her. All she asked in return was the occasional show of love and affection, to be treated as something a little more special than his personal servant.

It wasn’t entirely true of course; Tommy did treat her to the occasional glimmer of attention, snuggling up to her when she least expected it or gazing into her eyes, enchanting her all over again. But such emotional shows were few and far between, and invariably seemed to coincide with when he wanted something, like a snack from the kitchen; as smitten as she was, Lucy was not stupid, fully aware the relationship was utterly and completely on his terms, and not hers.

The truth was, Tommy treated their home as little more than a hotel, often lounging around all day while she went out to work. The least she could have expected was for him to be there for her after a hard day’s work, but no, Tommy was a law unto himself, coming and going whenever he pleased, and at all hours of the night.

Lucy often wondered if Tommy would even notice if she just left, walked out and never came back, at least apart from the need to get himself another dogsbody? She knew she never would though; Tommy meant too much to her, and besides, what would have been the point? Tommy knew his worth and would have been sure to land on his feet elsewhere, perhaps even with that little blonde next door, the one always paying him compliments and attention.

There was one person though who wasn’t seduced by Tommy’s charms, and that was Lucy’s best friend, Clara. She treated Tommy with the same indifference he pretty much treated everyone else. When Tommy and Clara were in the same room, you could almost feel a literal drop in temperature, such was the coldness between them. It was not surprising then that whenever Clara visited, Tommy would either make himself scarce all together or at best, somewhat rudely go and feign sleep in another room.

And so it was today when Clara called, Tommy just huffed his annoyance and flounced out past them when Lucy opened the front door to her friend.

 

“Sorry about that, he’s in a bit of a mood,” Lucy apologised.

“Don’t apologise for him, he’s always in a mood,” Clara reminded her in reply. “If he wants to behave like a spoilt brat, that’s his problem.” Lucy just shrugged, her loyalties torn as they always were.

“Look, Lucy, I’ve no sympathy,” Clara bluntly told her. “I told you at the start … if you wanted slobbering affection, undying loyalty and the rest of it, you should have bought a dog … Cats are different.”

*

Tommy surveyed his kingdom from atop the mahogany bookcase, having snuck back in via the cat flap. Satisfied that all was well, he looked down on his devoted human.

Even though Clara had now left, Tommy was in no mood to jump back into Lucy’s arms. No, he would make her wait for another snippet of the attention she so desperately craved and needed from him, and why not, she was after all his slave, as all humans were to their feline owners.

Clara on the other hand, she clearly had no understanding of the honour and privilege it was to belong to some feline God or Goddess, never having shown him the deference he was entitled to, not even so much as kneeling before him to present some delicious offering. Her presence or lack thereof was therefore of little interest to him, assuming her to be one of those evil creatures that didn’t bow down to their feline masters or mistresses, or worse still, she might even be … a dog person … urghh, was all Tommy could muse to himself at the thought …

Tommy leapt down from the bookcase, landing beside Lucy on the sofa. He had kept her waiting long enough, a suitable penance he thought for giving some of her attention to another. Nonetheless, he snuggled beside her, again gazing up into her eyes, allowing the soft touch of his fur to brush against her bare skin. He even allowed her the rare privilege of stroking and caressing him.

Any thoughts of replacing Tommy with some slobbering little puppy as Clara had suggested instantly evaporated, Tommy’s mastery and ownership of her once again more assured than any cage or set of chains could ever do.

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***

Enjoyed this story? Would like to read more? Then stay tuned for the publication of Flashbulb Moments towards the end of this year …

Azzz

 

Guest short story reblog … A Killer in the Mist by Tom Benson …

As regular readers of my blog will know, many of my flash fiction and regular short stories have karma and retribution themes to them. Another author who also writes some of the best revenge/retribution you could ever hope to read is multi-genre writer/author, Tom Benson.

Tom’s first book of such short stories, Smoke & Mirrors, is a real classic of the retribution genre … At around the 750-word mark, Killer in the Mist falls into the longer end of the Flash Fiction category, but like all good flash fiction, it packs in way more entertainment and content than it’s relatively short length would suggest.

Am delighted to say, Killer in the Mist will be appearing as a ‘guest’ story in my Flashbulb Moments F/fiction collection later in the year

***

A Killer in the Mist

 

picAThe evening fog was getting heavier, so Philip flicked his headlights down to dipped beam. Unknown, unlit countryside and the earlier incident had been bad enough.

“You agree, don’t you?” Philip glanced at his passenger. “We couldn’t have done anything else.”

“Whatever ….” Lauren said, not looking at her married lover.

“What do you mean, whatever? If I’d stopped, there would have been questions, and names would be required.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide.” The teenager peered into the illuminated grey mass ahead.

Click HERE for Tom Benson’s original post and full story …

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Please, Granddad … Flash Fiction story.

A little ‘Flash Fiction’ piece, part of another little project I’m working on for later in the year, hope you like it …

 

Please, Granddad …

I’d been pretty darned healthy my whole life and fit too – a long stint in the army had seen to that! Even after I joined civvy street, despite a brief period of being a complete and utter slob for a few months following my freedom from the discipline of military life, I stayed active. The one blot on my otherwise healthy lifestyle though was the fact that I smoked. We all did back then. Most of my friends, including many from my army days, had long since given up the filthy habit. I hadn’t though. It had never occurred to me to even try. The fact was, I enjoyed smoking. And why shouldn’t I? I mean, I was a damned sight healthier than most of my non-smoker friends. Maybe it was just good genes; my grandparents had both smoked all their lives and lived well into their eighties. And what would the National Health Service do without the exorbitant taxes I paid on every puff I took? It was us smokers who practically financed the NHS, I told myself.

smoking6And then I got the news, the diagnosis that nobody wants to hear. I had Stage Two Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma. I had no idea what stage two or non-whatever it was actually meant other than it was cancer. I couldn’t help thinking the worst. For it to be stage two meant there was a stage one, and that stage two must be worse?

            The news hit me hard. Why me? Apart from the smoking, I had always looked after myself. I drank only moderately, I got plenty of exercise, cycled, and hell, I even climbed bloody mountains.

I was 57. I knew I was no spring chicken, but I’d hoped for maybe another 20 good years of life, or at least long enough to see my grandson grow to be a man.

Was I just one of the unlucky ones, or had I only myself to blame? I’d never really believed my own rationalisations about smoking. I knew damned well it was bad for me.

            My doctor didn’t approve of smoking. Well, they don’t, do they? But he knew it was a typical reaction to blame oneself. He reassured me it was just one of those things, that the smoking had nothing to do with it. I was sure it was through gritted teeth he admitted that last bit. I was grateful though. Still, whether it had anything to do with or not, I was going to give up anyway.

smoking1I failed miserably – quitting cold-turkey, nicotine patches, vaping – nothing worked. I was a confirmed addict, even with the threat of death staring me in the face. I gave up trying to ‘give up.’

 

smoking2It had been several months since my last chemo session. I’d deliberately not visited my family for over a year. Of course, I’d seen my son and his wife when they visited me in the hospital and at a few other times. One thing I was adamant on though, young Patrick, my grandson wasn’t to see me while I was going through the barrage of treatments I was having.

I knew it upset him not being able to see me. It worried me that he’d think I’d stopped loving him. But what could I do? Seeing me completely bald, no eye-brows, sickly and gaunt looking, it wouldn’t have been right for a wee lad.

 

Since my last treatment, my hair had grown back, and I’d put most of my weight loss back on (and even a bit more). I just couldn’t wait to see my grandson for the first time since I had started the chemo and radiotherapy treatments. My son and his wife were spending the day with friends, leaving Patrick and me to some quality grandson and gramps time together.

We’d spent hours just playing, laughing, and watching films together until I was pretty exhausted. Amid all the fun we’d been having, I’d gone without nicotine for several hours now …

 

smoking3“Now you sit here, Little man, and watch your cartoons while Granddad goes for a smoke.”

“Please, Granddad, please don’t smoke. I don’t like it.”

            “It’s okay, Patrick, I’m going outside to keep all the smelly smoke out of the house.”

The look on his face told me his reaction had nothing to do with the smell of cigarette smoke. I sat beside him on the couch, putting an arm around his shoulder.

“What’s up little buddy?”

“I’ve missed you. I don’t want you to be ill again.” It was beginning to make sense now.

“Aww, you don’t have to worry about that. It was something quite different that made me ill. The smoking won’t make it come back.”

He stared at me. I could see he was trying not to cry.

“Smoking’s bad for you. It makes you have cancer.”

That last bit startled me. The little lad was only six, but he already knew the word cancer. He certainly didn’t know exactly what it meant, but clearly, he knew it was bad. By now it was me trying not to cry.

“Smoking didn’t cause my cancer, Patrick, really it didn’t.”

I held him a little tighter, hoping that might reassure him. He was having none of it.

“Promise you won’t smoke again. Please, Granddad … I don’t want you to die.”

smoking4By now, the wee lad was sobbing. Now you all know the feeling: You feel your throat tightening, and a screwing up of the eyes as they fill with tears. You breathe a little harder. You take an almost ‘gulp-like swallow, and then another. All the while, that ‘welling up’ feeling overcomes you, right down to the pit of your stomach.

            “You win. I promise.”

I’ve not smoked since …

smoking5

 

***

Short story – Never-Ending Wrong-Turn

Story no: 87 – First draft of another of my little under 1000 words flash fiction tasters –  Just one from one of my upcoming short story collections …

coma8

 

Never-ending turn-off …

coma5It had been a long drive and Mason Garvey was tired. The rain and poor visibility had meant he had had to concentrate harder on the road than that for his more usual leisurely driving trips, adding even more to the fatigue he was feeling.  He really should have stopped and parked in a lay-by or one of the motorway services. Instead, he thought it better to simply increase his speed and carry on driving through the night; the thought of splashing out on some dingy hotel room or spending an uncomfortable night in his truck in a lay-by didn’t appeal as much as his own nice warm comfy bed. He was especially anxious to get home too for some much-needed sleep. He wanted to enjoy the celebrations on the eve of the end of the millennium the following day.

Just another two hours and he would be home if he didn’t drop below 70 mph. That might have been okay if he was still on the motorway but he wasn’t. He was on a country road with lots of twists and turns and overhanging foliage. The rain was coming down harder, and there was only the glare of his headlights to see by.

The benefit of hindsight is a wonderful thing. We can learn so much from it, much like experience. Sadly, it wasn’t much use to Mason Garvey or going to change what had happened.

coma6It was just a fraction of second between taking the corner too fast and ploughing into the motor-cyclist whose body and bike were now lying sprawled some twenty feet away from his 4 tonne Bedford lorry. Mason reached for his phone, ready to dial 999 … and then he stopped himself … he needed to think, clear his head.

He’d been driving too fast. He’d been drinking. The motorcyclist had had right of way.  Did he really want to risk a lengthy prison sentence? And for what? For hitting someone he didn’t know during a momentary lapse of concentration, someone stupid enough to be riding a motorbike on the road at night and in the rain? Already Mason was rationalising a decision that suited him best.

coma4He looked around his truck for signs of damage. It was pretty old, already sporting its fair share of bumps and scrapes, ideal camouflage for a few additional bumps and scratches to the paintwork the accident might have caused. He looked too at his road atlas; he was no longer bothered about getting home in any reasonable time, just getting there via a route that avoided for as long as possible any likely CCTV or other monitoring equipment. There appeared to be a turn-off a few miles ahead. He got back in his truck to continue his journey, not even bothering to check on the motorcyclist to see if he might still be alive?

The accident seemed to have given him a second wind fatigue wise. A few minutes later he spotted the turn-off. He’d reached it quicker than expected but didn’t give it much thought. The turn-off looked more like a dis-used track than the ‘B’ road indicated on the map. He wasn’t complaining – it would lessen even more the likelihood of anyone spotting and remembering his truck. He continued down the old road. It was a real test of his driving skills, navigating the meandering stony and uneven single track. The trees and foliage appeared to close in on him the further he went, though never quite enough to halt his progress.

It was over an hour before the road appeared to widen again. He’d feared that he had got himself lost, already sure this wasn’t the ‘B’ road he had meant to take. Seeing the turn-off coming to an end, he increased his speed, anxious to leave the somewhat eerie road he was on …

It was just a fraction of second between taking the corner too fast and ploughing into the motor-cyclist whose body and bike were now lying sprawled some twenty feet away from his 4 tonne Bedford lorry. Mason reached for his phone, ready to dial 999 … and then he stopped himself … he needed to think, clear his head.

Mason Garvey got out of his truck, already regretful of trying to get home in such a hurry. He wished too he hadn’t stayed on for those last few drinks with his mates. There was something familiar about the scene but he was still dazed by the shock of what had happened and put it from his mind. But whatever his state of shock, he had enough of his wits about to know there was no way he going to do a lengthy stretch in prison for some bozo he didn’t know.

coma2He was in luck. According to his map, there was a turn-off just a few miles away that would take him most of the way home without re-joining the motorway. He reached it quicker than he thought … it was an eerie looking road. Mason wondered if it was the same one on the map? He didn’t care. It was leading away from the dead motorcyclist, and that was all he cared about.

The Rhondda Gazette

coma7‘… A motorcyclist was killed in a hit and run collision late last night or possibly the early hours of the morning. The man believed to be the other driver was found unconscious a few miles away having driven his lorry into a tree along a dis-used farm track, presumably in an attempt to avoid discovery and prosecution. Forensics confirmed the unconscious man’s lorry to be the vehicle to have hit and killed the motorcyclist …’

*

Mason Garvey remains in a coma to this day.  He remains trapped in his own mind and body, perpetually reliving the events of that rainy night, each time remembering and interpreting them a little differently … all except the ending, that remains the same. That remains his punishment.

coma1

The Great Bank Robbery…

ImageImage

There’s an old saying, ‘We all make mistakes,’ and of course, we all do: big ones, little ones, silly ones, and often, stupid ones. And once and a while, someone makes one that is as ‘big and stupid ‘as they come…

The plans were all laid. Big Ron had a gotten together quite a crew for this one: There was little Mickey ‘Wheels’ Tanner, the best getaway driver short of Sterling moss. Jack Dawkins, the explosives expert, electrics and alarms man, Peter Hills. And last but not least, that well known hard-man, Hatchet Harry, had been brought in to add a bit of muscle; any problems with wannabe heroes, and Hatchet Harry was more than willing to shove a sawn-off shotgun down their throat – and pull the trigger too if they thought he was bluffing.

Rumour had it that this was a rather exclusive bank, very discreet, catering to the stars, politicians, the super-rich, and even senior members of the Royal family. Located in the heart of London’s exclusive Mayfair, it was an old Victorian building, with little to indicate what is was other that a shiny brass plate, saying simply, The Bank.

Big Ron had high hopes for this one. With that sort of clientele there had to be serious money to be had, not to mention jewellery, bonds, and god knows what sort of secrets the rich and powerful preferred kept secret…

“So, we’re all clear then, we go through the adjacent wall. Pete here has already traced the in-wall alarm wires so there’s no probs there.” Big Ron said.

“And I’ll be waiting right outside with the motor running.” Peter Hills assured them.

“Yer’ bloody well better be!” Added Hatchet Harry.

“I still don’t get why there ain’t more security though, I mean like, if there’s really as much as yer’ reckon there is?” Hatchet Harry said. He might have been the hired muscle but he was far from the stupid oaf many thought him to be…

“It’s as I explained,” Big Ron began, “‘it’s because of who the customers are. They don’t want people, you know, the public and the Press and stuff knowing their business. And a load of armed guards and security cams and stuff would attract too much attention.”

Hatchet Harry nodded, still not fully convinced, but sufficiently tempted by Big Ron’s promises of untold money to put aside his doubts.

“Right then, let’s do it.

It had been a well-planned job, right down to the last detail. Big Ron had leased the adjacent basement office for the past six months, at no inconsiderable expense. Every penny he had, had been invested in this one last caper. And things were progressing nicely…

“That’s it, we’re in,” declared Jack, the explosives man, “an’ you’re sure we haven’t tripped any of them alarm wires, Pete?”

“No chance.” Pete Replied.

“Stop yakking and let’s get in and out, pronto!” Said Big Ron, following the two of them through the hole in the wall, closely followed by Hatchet Harry.

“Who the hell…” A voice boomed at them, “Where… How did you get in here..?” Hatchet Harry was the first to respond…

“Down on the floor. Now!”

The night security guard did as he was told; when Hatchet Harry told you to do something, you did it.

“Right, Pete, start on opening those deposit boxes,” Big Ron bellowed.

“Wh… What is it you want here?” The security guard stuttered, turning his head to look up at them all.

“Are you serious? We want what’s in all those cash filled deposit boxes.” Hatchet Harry replied.

Despite the obvious danger he was in, the security guard couldn’t help but let out a muffled laugh: “That’s what this is about, money?” And again he laughed.

“First one’s open,” Peter Hills declared.

“And?” Asked one of the others.

“Erm, I’m not sure… Just some test tubes and, erm, petri dishes I think they’re called.”

The others looked around at each other in disbelief, and then to the security guard:

“There’s no money in any those boxes.” He said

“No money!” Growled Hatchet Harry, not at the security guard, but at Big Ron.

“What do you mean, no money?” He said again, turning back to the security guard who was still lying prone on the ground…

“This isn’t that sort of bank, it’s a blood and tissue bank, you know, genetic material, stem-cells, stuff like that, to help the rich and famous to stay young and healthy when they start to get old and sick. They’re the only ones who can afford all this.”

Hatchet Harry turned again at Big Ron, shot-gun in hand…

“It’s not my fault, how was I to know that?” Big Ron pleaded.

It didn’t matter; Hatchet Harry raised the gun a little higher and fired a shot straight in Big Ron’s head…

********************

“Pretty bad mess we got here.” The detective in charge was saying.

“Yeah. Who’d have thought Big Ron would end up making a deposit in the very bank he was trying to rob?” His colleague added, looking across at the mass of brain tissue and scull fragments splattered across the front of the tissue deposit boxes of the vault…

Freedom….

After getting some very nice feedback on my last two Flash Fiction pieces I’ve decided to write a few more. One, because they’re fun to write, and two, they provide a welcome distraction when I get stuck on some of my longer pieces and the novel I’m working on.

After more than ten years, Billy Jenkins was free – no more watching him all the time. No more not being allowed to go beyond a certain distance, no more stupid grey trousers or lights out at a certain time – free to roam as far as the open road would take him.

For more than the past decade, almost every minute of his life had been controlled, monitored, and spied on, everything from what he wore, his behaviour, right down to the food he ate. Many’s a time he had considered trying to make a run for it, but he knew they’d simply bring him back, that he’d have to start over, convincing them he should once again be allowed the few small freedoms and choices that made his life a little better.

Billy was relishing the first day of his new found liberty. He finally understood when he heard people say, ‘there’s a whole wide world out there’, and here he was, a part of it, free to savour every moment of it.

The sheer thrill of hurtling down the road, weaving in and out of the slow moving traffic, the wind in his hair, no one to nudge him this way or that, it was hard to remember feeling so good.

And why shouldn’t he? He had earned it, proved he was safe to be let out. It wasn’t as though he’d never been free before; they had let him out a couple of times before, but always with restrictions, limitations, escorted everywhere, so much so he felt like a dog on a leash. Not any more though, he thought.

He slowed down, just long enough to smile and whistle at a girl walking along the pavement. She chuckled and smiled back. He would never have been allowed to do that before. And then he sped up again, he wanted to try and beat the lights, which he did. He’d never been so far before, not on his own, unsupervised, but no one was stopping him now, so he continued, on and on the rest of the day.

“Hi Billy, you had a good day did you?” His dad asked.

“Sure did dad,” Billy replied, “I must have ridden a hundred miles on the buses this morning, and ridden another hundred on the bike.”

“That’s great son, you’re growing up so fast it’s hard to keep track of you.”

Young Billy Jenkins hadn’t returned back home till nearly eight in the evening, the latest he’d been allowed out on his own in all his eleven years on the planet, but it was his birthday, and he’d gotten a racing bike. That, and the free to travel bus he was now old enough for, had opened up the whole wide world for him that day…

“That as maybe,” his mother interrupted, adding,” But it’s time for your dinner, then bath and bed young man.”

Billy sighed, knowing there were still a few more rules he had to abide by for now…

Starship Shooters…

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Jake Hogan was the best starship fighter pilot in the Federation of the Outer Worlds, but even he was nervous of the odds this time. Coming into view from behind the asteroid belt, he could see the armada of enemy ships closing in, shields up, weapons all primed for firing, led by the only opponent to have ever bested him in one on one space combat. And here he was, facing the same opponent at the head of a fleet ten times the size of his own.

Outnumbered and out-gunned, he directed the Federation fleet ships to the pre-calculated strategic positions to provide his home world Atarious, the best chance of surviving the coming battle. This was going to be a David and Goliath fight, of skill verses overwhelming fire-power…

Along with four other attack craft, Jake Hogan started to zig zag in and out of the asteroids that lay between them and the enemy. He was grateful now for the armament upgrades his and the other ships had been fitted with: laser light cannons, photon Q-bombs, jump drive positioning, every conceivable defensive and attack capability he could hope for. But would it be enough?

POW! POW! POW! The enemy hard started to open fire, blasting a path through the asteroids. One of Jake’s fellow fighters was hit by some of the debris and was now out of action. Jake himself had to dart away pretty sharpish to avoid being hit. The three remaining ships of his fighter squad closed in around him, providing cover fire as he re-directed fire at the enemy lead ship…

Ratter Tat Tat !!! “Bastards!” Jake cursed to himself… Enemy scout ships were trying a flanking manoeuvre, spewing out bursts of laser fire to force Jake’s fighter squad from their attempts to strike at the heart of the enemy fleet. Jake and his fellow fighters scattered in different directions, littering the battle field in their wake with photon mines, primed to explode as the enemy scout ships tried to follow. With sweating hands, Jake swung his ship round to face the pursuing ships and opened fire, setting off the mines. Blinding flashes of light exploded all around. The pursuing ships were blown to bits, the rouse had worked. But the bulk of the enemy fleet still lay protected by the remaining asteroids. Jake gathered the Federation fleet ships for an all-out attack.

“Launch Q-bombs!” Jake ordered. And with that, every last Federation ship launched the equivalent of a thousand bombs, each a thousand times more powerful that the most powerful of the primitive nuclear weapons of the twenty second century. Jake knew the Q-bombs alone couldn’t destroy all the enemy ships, but she shattering of the asteroid belt would provide the additional destruction to ensure complete and utter victory for the federation…

“Yes!” Jake screamed, “Take that you fucking alien bastards!!!”

“What’s all the noise about Jake?” Jake’s older brother asked.

“I just got a high score… This new X-box online game is fucking awesome!”

Sperm Bank Donor…

To write regularly, all writers need fresh inspiration from time to time. Where it comes from isn’t always obvious, but often it comes from the strangest of places. The inspiration for this story came from the classified ads of my local paper… I wanted to write something a little wacky
and off the wall, so here it is…

Image  Image

Sam saw the ad in the paper for sperm donors – twenty pounds per ‘sample’. With money being a bit tight – well, when wasn’t money tight for a student – easy money, Sam thought. Sam noted down the address. It was only a short bus ride away, no reason to delay…

“I’m Sam Hillman, here about the ad.” Sam informed the receptionist.

“What ad. is that?” She asked.

“The one in the paper, twenty pounds for sperm donations.” Sam replied.

The receptionist frowned and gave Sam a somewhat quizzical look:

“The sperm donors wanted ad?.. That’s definitely the one you’re here about?”

“Yes, that’s the one.” Sam replied, wondering at her obvious scepticism.

“Erm.. Could you wait here a moment while I get my supervisor, please?”

“Yeah, sure.” Sam replied, and took a seat in the waiting room as the receptionist disappeared through a door behind her desk. Five minutes later, an older man in a white coat returned with the receptionist…

“Well? You see what I mean don’t you?” Sam heard the receptionist whisper to whom Sam presumed must be one of the clinic’s medical staff.

“Yes, well, I’ll take it from here.” Sam heard the man in the white coat whisper back.

“Well Sam, it is Sam is it?” The white coat asked.

“Yes, that’s right,” Sam confirmed, adding, in anticipation of the next question, “here about the sperm donors wanted ad.”

“Ah …Yes, so my colleague said.” The white coat said. Sam could see he was a little perplexed: “Is there a problem?” Sam asked.

“Err… Well, I’m not sure… You have read the ad? You… do understand… what it entails don’t you? What… exactly… we need from you.”

“Yes, of course I do, why wouldn’t I?”

Sam was getting quite frustrated at all the questions, thinking it would all be over and done with by now, and twenty pounds the richer…

“Yes, of course, why wouldn’t you, what I meant was…” The white coat paused, not quite sure how to continue…

“Yes?”

“Well, I’m really not sure how to put this,” the white coat said, now almost stuttering to get his words out, “are you absolutely sure about this? What I mean to say, rather, what I’m trying to say is, I mean, is that, well…”

“For fucks sake,” Sam exclaimed, “what is it you’re saying?”

“Well, to be a sperm donor…” The white coat paused before continuing, “there are… certain requirements… that have to be met, that the donor has to meet first.”

Sam was trying desperately hard to remain calm and composed, despite the white coat’s seemingly determined efforts to prevent that…

“Will you please, just please; tell me what the problem is?” Sam asked in the most condescending voice imaginable.

“The problem, as you put it,” the white coat began. He paused for a moment, then adding:

“Is that… Err.. You’re a woman!”

“And?” replied Sam.

“Isn’t it obvious? You need to be a man! To have testicles!”

Sam laughed before answering: “Well I might not have testicles, but my boyfriend certainly does. And like most boyfriends, he’s a lazy sod. That’s why I’m here instead of him.

And on that note, Sam, short for Samantha, promptly produced a small vial with the required sample…

Behind the Sofa…

My first attempt at what I would call a ‘proper’ flash-fiction piece. I hope you enjoy it…

The room was pitch black but for the small light source at the end of the room. Tom was scared, very scared. He crouched down out of sight of the man brandishing the dagger, who appeared to be looking for something or someone

Tom’s eyes were tightly shut. He knew he should keep them shut and stay out of sight till the man left but curiosity kept prizing them open, just a squint, while he ever so slowly edged his head to the side to catch a glimpse of what was happening…

The dagger was glistening in the man’s hand. Tom watched the man as he continued to silently search through the room, opening drawers, moving furniture, determined to find what he was looking for, or maybe some clue to finding who he was looking for.

Whatever it was, Tom was sure this man was dangerous. Tom tried holding his breath so the man wouldn’t hear his breathing. He needn’t have worried, for that moment the room erupted into life as another figure burst through the door, laughing and hissing like a snake. The man with the dagger jumped back, pulling a religious cross from his jacket, which seemed to stop the other man in his tracks. The other man hissed again, but he had stopped laughing as he raised his arm, holding his black cloak up to shield his eyes.

Tom didn’t understand what was happening but he knew it wasn’t good, that his own life would be in danger if he should be discovered. He knew he should never have come downstairs. Tom’s eyes closed tightly shut again as he instinctively curled into a foetal position, praying that it would all soon be over. Tom could hear the two men shouting and arguing, and then a crashing sound and a cry of pain. Tom curled his body up even tighter, his hands clasped over his ears to try and block out the sound…

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist one last look round the castle,” the man in the cloak hissed, “It’s time we put an end to this…”

The room immediately lit up as if it were ablaze. Tom feared the worst as he heard that familiar scream…

“Tommy!” Screamed his mother, “How many times have I told you not to creep down at night to watch horror films, you know they give you nightmares.”

Four year old Tommy crept from behind the sofa, his tearful wide-eyed innocence more than a match for his mother’s initial anger, and skedaddled back to the safety of his own warm bed…

This was a sort of twist on those early episodes of ‘Doctor Who’ that so many of my generation would tentatively watch from behind the sofa, worried that the monsters on screen might just be real. I made the TV program a horror film, as a Doctor Who episode probably wouldn’t be shown late at night…

 

 

 

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