An intermittent conversation occurs between two ladies, somewhat aged, in a covered market café near the centre of a small town. They are sitting at a small round table near the counter; a few thin bags of shopping are around their feet; the other tables are largely empty. It's a cold spring day and they've kept their thick coats on. Each lady is picking at her meal, beans with two slices of toast, and occasionally sipping from a mug of tea.
Quiet words come from one, admonishing the other.
Quiet words from one, admonishing the other.
Omitted words from the other, the younger.
They sit, finishing their mugs of tea. The café is almost empty – the tables wiped, the chairs all neat – and waiting to close on this tranquil late afternoon.
One woman, the younger, slouched back in her chair, is quietly humming a discordant tune; an imitation of some forgotten pop song.
One woman, the older, fiddles with the cutlery on her empty plate and scowled disapprovingly.
Showing posts with label Micro Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Micro Fiction. Show all posts
Saturday, 14 July 2012
Thursday, 8 December 2011
I Hate Christmas – Homeless
He slumps hunched up in the doorway, dirty red coat drawn in tightly; a vain attempt to keep out the cold.
He mutters: “Bloody supermarkets did me in. Bloody supermarkets.”
Hours pass and no sleep; forever tired, exhausted, but no sleep. The city streets empty but the street lights glare on.
He mutters: “Bloody supermarkets. No one wants craft no more. Bloody supermarkets.”
A police car passes, stops, drives back. The policeman in the passenger seat gets out.
“Can't stop here.”
The man struggles blearily up.
“Name?”
“Santa, Santa Claus.”
“Fucking cheek. Now fuck off.” he raises his fist but does not strike. Just threatens. Just threatens!
Santa scurries off as best he can. The policeman gets back in the car watching.
“Just some gobshite,” he says to the driver.
Fifteen minutes later and Santa is back in the doorway. There's nowhere else.
A nearby club chucks the stragglers out. They cascade drunkenly down the street kicking trash cans, cars, each other. A taxi passes and they try to flag it down, it speeds up, drives passed, they scream obscenities as it turns the corner. They spot Santa, trapped vulnerably, in the doorway…
He mutters: “Bloody supermarkets did me in. Bloody supermarkets.”
Hours pass and no sleep; forever tired, exhausted, but no sleep. The city streets empty but the street lights glare on.
He mutters: “Bloody supermarkets. No one wants craft no more. Bloody supermarkets.”
A police car passes, stops, drives back. The policeman in the passenger seat gets out.
“Can't stop here.”
The man struggles blearily up.
“Name?”
“Santa, Santa Claus.”
“Fucking cheek. Now fuck off.” he raises his fist but does not strike. Just threatens. Just threatens!
Santa scurries off as best he can. The policeman gets back in the car watching.
“Just some gobshite,” he says to the driver.
Fifteen minutes later and Santa is back in the doorway. There's nowhere else.
A nearby club chucks the stragglers out. They cascade drunkenly down the street kicking trash cans, cars, each other. A taxi passes and they try to flag it down, it speeds up, drives passed, they scream obscenities as it turns the corner. They spot Santa, trapped vulnerably, in the doorway…
Wednesday, 7 December 2011
I Hate Christmas – Sledge Ride
Mrs Claus peeked out of her cottage door and onto the icy flat wastes. She looked out as the wind and sleet cut into Santa as he struggled to load up his sledge. She watched as he trudged between workshop and sledge with box after box. Standing there in her deep red overcoat she watched with the door slightly ajar. Then, as the wind became more bitter, Santa fetched the reindeer from the barn and started to hitch them up. Just as he finished she open the door more fully, poked her head out and called out:
“A little something before you go?”
Santa looked up, nodded, smiled; it wasn't often Mrs Claus was generous; it was better to show willing than risk retribution later. He entered the kitchen and closed the door behind him. A lovely respite from the wind.
“Stick your feet up,” said Mrs Claus, hot toddy in hand.
“Ta.” Santa sat by the piping hot stove, took the glass and had a little sip. The warm felt good inside. “Not too much now, plenty to drink when I'm on me round.”
“You sure you won't let me this year?”
“Na-na.”
“You're getting on, you said it was hard, you know, after last year.”
”Man's work my dear.”
“Still, I'm fed up all stuck here, waiting.”
“I know me dear. We's all got our jobs to do.”
Mrs Claus went to the stove behind Santa. He relaxed and took another sip. This hot toddy was a good one.
Santa looked down, something was tightening around his belly, a rope, another rope, he was pulled back tightly into the chair. His arms tightened, handcuffs snapped against his wrists and pinned his arms to the chairs arms. That delicious hot toddy fell to the floor. His legs, pulled, pushed and bound to the chair. He was about to call out when gaffer tape was plastered across his mouth. He uttered a muffled scream. It was all over in seconds then Mrs Claus was standing in front of him, hands on hips, smiling.
“It's my turn, don't you think,” she said, starting to button up her coat.
Mrs Claus put some more coal on the stove and prodded it with a poker.
“You'll keep nice and warm now,” she said.
Moments later and the front door slammed behind her and Mrs Claus was gone. Santa uselessly struggled in the chair, swearing fit as no child should hear, not that they would have heard anything more then muffled venom.
A blow for good old fashioned, do it yourself, women's liberation. After all Santa is old and far too fat to deliver the toys.
“Ye-heeeeeeeeeeee,” Mrs Claus sang out as the sledge took off, climbed, and disappeared over the horizon.
“A little something before you go?”
Santa looked up, nodded, smiled; it wasn't often Mrs Claus was generous; it was better to show willing than risk retribution later. He entered the kitchen and closed the door behind him. A lovely respite from the wind.
“Stick your feet up,” said Mrs Claus, hot toddy in hand.
“Ta.” Santa sat by the piping hot stove, took the glass and had a little sip. The warm felt good inside. “Not too much now, plenty to drink when I'm on me round.”
“You sure you won't let me this year?”
“Na-na.”
“You're getting on, you said it was hard, you know, after last year.”
”Man's work my dear.”
“Still, I'm fed up all stuck here, waiting.”
“I know me dear. We's all got our jobs to do.”
Mrs Claus went to the stove behind Santa. He relaxed and took another sip. This hot toddy was a good one.
Santa looked down, something was tightening around his belly, a rope, another rope, he was pulled back tightly into the chair. His arms tightened, handcuffs snapped against his wrists and pinned his arms to the chairs arms. That delicious hot toddy fell to the floor. His legs, pulled, pushed and bound to the chair. He was about to call out when gaffer tape was plastered across his mouth. He uttered a muffled scream. It was all over in seconds then Mrs Claus was standing in front of him, hands on hips, smiling.
“It's my turn, don't you think,” she said, starting to button up her coat.
Mrs Claus put some more coal on the stove and prodded it with a poker.
“You'll keep nice and warm now,” she said.
Moments later and the front door slammed behind her and Mrs Claus was gone. Santa uselessly struggled in the chair, swearing fit as no child should hear, not that they would have heard anything more then muffled venom.
A blow for good old fashioned, do it yourself, women's liberation. After all Santa is old and far too fat to deliver the toys.
“Ye-heeeeeeeeeeee,” Mrs Claus sang out as the sledge took off, climbed, and disappeared over the horizon.
Friday, 2 December 2011
I Hate Christmas – Flight Control
The tiniest little blip flickered on the Heathrow air traffic control radar. A vigilant controller just spotted it; after the haranguing from security they'd had only that morning on home grown terrorism.
Fighters were dispatched; and the unconventional aircraft was forcibly landed on the tarmac; quickly being surrounded by police vehicles and marksmen.
The reindeer were bundled off to the cat meat factory and Santa headed towards immigration; the sledge impounded.
Two years later and Santa is still in detention, identity unverified, and awaiting deportation – to where? who knows? – they cannot find a country that will have him.
Fighters were dispatched; and the unconventional aircraft was forcibly landed on the tarmac; quickly being surrounded by police vehicles and marksmen.
The reindeer were bundled off to the cat meat factory and Santa headed towards immigration; the sledge impounded.
Two years later and Santa is still in detention, identity unverified, and awaiting deportation – to where? who knows? – they cannot find a country that will have him.
I Hate Christmas – Christmas Business
It was a cold dark night and the road behind the cathedral was almost empty. There were a few parked cars, lightly covered with snow, and the occasional woman standing at corners plying their trade. A thin grey man slipped out of the shadows, crossed the slushy road hugging his dark overcoat around him, he hesitantly walked towards the nearest woman. Momentarily his pasty grey face was highlighted under the street lights.
On arriving at the corner he looked up and seemed to have second thoughts. She was fat, boy was she fat. Unwashed, the stench cut though the cold air. The harsh red dress she just about wore was dirty and tattered; the result of months of continuous grime.
“Business,” she said. “Come on big boy you know you want to. Only £10, for you special offer.”
Meekly she look him by the hand the they slipped up a back alley where the snow was undisturbed.
In the darkness of the back alley, and otherwise engaged, they did not see the men running towards them, batons in hand.
“Whore, scum,” they shouted. The woman, on her knees at the time, was smacked over the head, the baton swung down at the perfect angle for a vicious blow. “Take that you bitch.”
Then the rest piled in boots, batons striking the woman in a frenzy. The grey man stood, aghast, back pressed tightly against the wall, trousers down, shrivelled manhood exposed.
One of the men shouted: “Stop now, mustn't kill the whore, much as she deserves it.”
A few more blows and the rest stepped back. “Chief Constable's new policy on whores,” another of the men shouted at the battered woman, “zero tolerance, get up you bitch.”
The woman dragged herself up clutching the wall, semen still dribbling down her chin, blood gushing down her face, bruises everywhere. It was only then that it sunk in these were the police.
A constable shone his torch in the grey man's face. “Blimey you. Sorry sir, archbishop sir. The church really does take vice seriously this time of year. Better run along now. Sorry for interrupting, sir. Off you go, double quick.”
The grey man slunk off as fast as his thin legs would allow. The constable turned to the woman.
“Name?” he demanded.
“Mrs Claus.”
“In the circumstances we'll say no more. Why do you do this?”
“Someone's got to pay for all those bloody toys.”
On arriving at the corner he looked up and seemed to have second thoughts. She was fat, boy was she fat. Unwashed, the stench cut though the cold air. The harsh red dress she just about wore was dirty and tattered; the result of months of continuous grime.
“Business,” she said. “Come on big boy you know you want to. Only £10, for you special offer.”
Meekly she look him by the hand the they slipped up a back alley where the snow was undisturbed.
In the darkness of the back alley, and otherwise engaged, they did not see the men running towards them, batons in hand.
“Whore, scum,” they shouted. The woman, on her knees at the time, was smacked over the head, the baton swung down at the perfect angle for a vicious blow. “Take that you bitch.”
Then the rest piled in boots, batons striking the woman in a frenzy. The grey man stood, aghast, back pressed tightly against the wall, trousers down, shrivelled manhood exposed.
One of the men shouted: “Stop now, mustn't kill the whore, much as she deserves it.”
A few more blows and the rest stepped back. “Chief Constable's new policy on whores,” another of the men shouted at the battered woman, “zero tolerance, get up you bitch.”
The woman dragged herself up clutching the wall, semen still dribbling down her chin, blood gushing down her face, bruises everywhere. It was only then that it sunk in these were the police.
A constable shone his torch in the grey man's face. “Blimey you. Sorry sir, archbishop sir. The church really does take vice seriously this time of year. Better run along now. Sorry for interrupting, sir. Off you go, double quick.”
The grey man slunk off as fast as his thin legs would allow. The constable turned to the woman.
“Name?” he demanded.
“Mrs Claus.”
“In the circumstances we'll say no more. Why do you do this?”
“Someone's got to pay for all those bloody toys.”
Wednesday, 30 November 2011
I Hate Christmas – My Lovely Rudolph
“Just the one,” said the elf, “what harm can it do?”
Santa lay in a crumpled heap on the barn floor. He'd been sobbing.
The elf poured a little bit of something from the bottle he was holding into a glass and held it out. “Need to get started soon. Lots of kids waiting for you. Tonight's the night. The big one. Horrible little sprogs I think. But never mind.”
Outside the barn Santa's sledge was piled high, reindeer harnessed, all that was needed was the solitary designated driver – Santa.
“So this Rudolph turned you down, said 'he's not that kind of reindeer,' said 'lets just be friends,' said 'strictly no snogging, mistletoe or no mistletoe.' There are plenty of other reindeer in the… well, it can't be 'sea'. Agh yes… There are plenty of other reindeer in the wood.”
Santa blew his nose and the sledge and barn rattled. There was no Rudolph on the sledge.
“I know all about the Alcoholics Anonymous stuff; too much sherry. Not supposed to touch this but the state you're in, just something for the journey, to keep you going, what harm can it do? Need to get started soon, sun's going down.”
Santa started to cry.
“You just have to get over him; red nose or no red nose. He's not worth it… don't blubber I didn't mean it like that. Sorry. Just one little swig to get you through.” The elf held out the glass again.
Santa grabbed the bottle.
“Steady on there,” said the elf.
Blearily Santa woke up Boxing Day morning in a solidifying pool of his own vomit.
Santa lay in a crumpled heap on the barn floor. He'd been sobbing.
The elf poured a little bit of something from the bottle he was holding into a glass and held it out. “Need to get started soon. Lots of kids waiting for you. Tonight's the night. The big one. Horrible little sprogs I think. But never mind.”
Outside the barn Santa's sledge was piled high, reindeer harnessed, all that was needed was the solitary designated driver – Santa.
“So this Rudolph turned you down, said 'he's not that kind of reindeer,' said 'lets just be friends,' said 'strictly no snogging, mistletoe or no mistletoe.' There are plenty of other reindeer in the… well, it can't be 'sea'. Agh yes… There are plenty of other reindeer in the wood.”
Santa blew his nose and the sledge and barn rattled. There was no Rudolph on the sledge.
“I know all about the Alcoholics Anonymous stuff; too much sherry. Not supposed to touch this but the state you're in, just something for the journey, to keep you going, what harm can it do? Need to get started soon, sun's going down.”
Santa started to cry.
“You just have to get over him; red nose or no red nose. He's not worth it… don't blubber I didn't mean it like that. Sorry. Just one little swig to get you through.” The elf held out the glass again.
Santa grabbed the bottle.
“Steady on there,” said the elf.
* * *
Blearily Santa woke up Boxing Day morning in a solidifying pool of his own vomit.
I Hate Christmas – Christmas Kisses
Santa spun round, Mrs Claus had entered the bedroom and caught him admiring himself in the mirror; just as he was grooming his beard.
“Been shopping,” she said. “You look gorgeous, new suit.”
Trust her to notice; she would notice. This was the most expensive Santa suit in the shop and made from the plushest deep red velvet, all hand stitched and embroidered inside with gold, and trimmed extravagantly with the most exotic white mink.
“Looks nice.” Mrs Claus sat on the edge of the bed and admired him. “Got everything you want?” She crossed her legs provocatively.
“Not yet,” Santa said, daydreaming of Rudolph and the sprig of mistletoe above the barn door.
“Been shopping,” she said. “You look gorgeous, new suit.”
Trust her to notice; she would notice. This was the most expensive Santa suit in the shop and made from the plushest deep red velvet, all hand stitched and embroidered inside with gold, and trimmed extravagantly with the most exotic white mink.
“Looks nice.” Mrs Claus sat on the edge of the bed and admired him. “Got everything you want?” She crossed her legs provocatively.
“Not yet,” Santa said, daydreaming of Rudolph and the sprig of mistletoe above the barn door.
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
I Hate Christmas – Santa the Criminal
Santa Claus was getting fed up with this Christmas thing; really it was getting to be a bit of a bind. Do one good turn one year and everyone expects you to be shelling out forever. This year it was going to be different; Santa had taken a look at how bankers and those at the top of financial institutions behaved; he was as good as they; so he decided to operate in the same way.
The first house on Santa's itinerary this Christmas eve was that of Thomas and his parents. Santa had a look around; a TV set, that would be nice; a freezer, a bit heavy but he'd have it anyway; jewellery, just rubbish not even worth taking. As he loaded up his sledge Santa spotted a few other items worth taking: a laptop, some ornaments – the latter weren't worth much but they looked pretty. But the games console was old; even the elves wouldn't want that.
Just about to head back up the chimney when Santa realised he'd almost forgotten something. Santa reached into his bag and pulled out a box; he placed the box in the fireplace; unwrapped; a small model car; 50p from the local supermarket; fair's fair thought Santa.
And so it went on throughout Christmas night. TVs, computers, freezers, several bundles of cash, bank books and credit cards. At each house he left a small toy; the most expensive of which must have cost all of 70p. As the night wore on Santa became even more picky; he only took TV sets greater than 42 inches; jewellery had to be gold or have precious stones.
Poor Rudolph was exhausted; weighed down by all this extra weight. At the last house Rudolph kicked out at Santa; only missing his prime real estate by inches; Rudolph would get him next time.
Early Christmas morning Santa headed back to Lapland with his sledge piled high. Most of the stuff he'd nicked he could never used; but he'd enough to nip round the pubs offering cut price deals for hard cash; that would keep him occupied for the rest of the year.
Santa liked this new free market Santa.
The first house on Santa's itinerary this Christmas eve was that of Thomas and his parents. Santa had a look around; a TV set, that would be nice; a freezer, a bit heavy but he'd have it anyway; jewellery, just rubbish not even worth taking. As he loaded up his sledge Santa spotted a few other items worth taking: a laptop, some ornaments – the latter weren't worth much but they looked pretty. But the games console was old; even the elves wouldn't want that.
Just about to head back up the chimney when Santa realised he'd almost forgotten something. Santa reached into his bag and pulled out a box; he placed the box in the fireplace; unwrapped; a small model car; 50p from the local supermarket; fair's fair thought Santa.
And so it went on throughout Christmas night. TVs, computers, freezers, several bundles of cash, bank books and credit cards. At each house he left a small toy; the most expensive of which must have cost all of 70p. As the night wore on Santa became even more picky; he only took TV sets greater than 42 inches; jewellery had to be gold or have precious stones.
Poor Rudolph was exhausted; weighed down by all this extra weight. At the last house Rudolph kicked out at Santa; only missing his prime real estate by inches; Rudolph would get him next time.
Early Christmas morning Santa headed back to Lapland with his sledge piled high. Most of the stuff he'd nicked he could never used; but he'd enough to nip round the pubs offering cut price deals for hard cash; that would keep him occupied for the rest of the year.
Santa liked this new free market Santa.
I Hate Christmas – Santa the Terrorist
Inspector Haswell was perplexed. This year they had been extra vigilant with security; what with strikes, the occupy protesters, and just the general hatred that was around. The inspector wondered from room to room through the smoking embers. How had they gotten in? Why was there nothing on the CCTV? Why had no one seen anything right here in the centre of London and right in front of the world's press and TV crews?
There was a general commotion in the cabinet room. Inspector Haswell stood by the fireplace and watched. Forensics were swabbing and bagging anything that looked remotely like evidence. MI5 and MI6 were rushing around and acting like the useless idiots they were. Round the cabinet table were the charred bodies of the government still surprised by the explosion that had ripped them apart. How had anyone been able to plant a bomb right in the centre of 10 Downing Street and only a few days before Christmas?
He heard the cheer go out as the still smoking body of Nick Clegg was taken outside. Then the Inspector noticed something odd. He bent down; reindeer droppings; what! reindeer droppings; how can you explain reindeer droppings? They must have fallen down the chimney. No it could not be, surely not; not Santa Claus and a Christmas present to the nation. How could he put that in a press release and not be laughed at?
Far away in a lonely retreat the archbishop had just finished his prayers. In the kitchens everything was being prepared for his nights entertainment: the slap up dinner, only the six courses, after all he was on a diet; the scantily clad dancing girls; the silver platter piled high with cocaine; the boys for his night time amusement. Just time for a few tumblers of sherry and a doze in front of the telly. When there it was on the early evening news: explosion in Downing Street and all the cabinet killed. He watched the crocodile tears of the politicians and pundits and the tears of joy from everyone else. Then a malicious thought slipped into his mind: he stood up shocked; maybe there really was a god; he'd never acted as if there was one before; maybe his prayers really had been answered.
There was a general commotion in the cabinet room. Inspector Haswell stood by the fireplace and watched. Forensics were swabbing and bagging anything that looked remotely like evidence. MI5 and MI6 were rushing around and acting like the useless idiots they were. Round the cabinet table were the charred bodies of the government still surprised by the explosion that had ripped them apart. How had anyone been able to plant a bomb right in the centre of 10 Downing Street and only a few days before Christmas?
He heard the cheer go out as the still smoking body of Nick Clegg was taken outside. Then the Inspector noticed something odd. He bent down; reindeer droppings; what! reindeer droppings; how can you explain reindeer droppings? They must have fallen down the chimney. No it could not be, surely not; not Santa Claus and a Christmas present to the nation. How could he put that in a press release and not be laughed at?
* * *
Far away in a lonely retreat the archbishop had just finished his prayers. In the kitchens everything was being prepared for his nights entertainment: the slap up dinner, only the six courses, after all he was on a diet; the scantily clad dancing girls; the silver platter piled high with cocaine; the boys for his night time amusement. Just time for a few tumblers of sherry and a doze in front of the telly. When there it was on the early evening news: explosion in Downing Street and all the cabinet killed. He watched the crocodile tears of the politicians and pundits and the tears of joy from everyone else. Then a malicious thought slipped into his mind: he stood up shocked; maybe there really was a god; he'd never acted as if there was one before; maybe his prayers really had been answered.
I Hate Christmas – Vampire Santa
Santa had scrambled down the chimney and was surprise to find a completely empty room; there was a carpet, a few pictures; but no furniture, no curtains. Santa did not do mistakes.
But there it was on his list: 'Girl, Anna 7, Dolls House, Jigsaw' and, no doubt about it, this address, the satnav on his sledge was never wrong.
He looked around the room again; did that picture flicker; the large one above the fireplace; he went over to take a look and noticed the inscription: 'Anna Thompson Aged 7 – 1898'; she was a pretty little girl. Well that was it; some elf had made a huge mistake and would pay for it; well over hundred years late was a bit much.
Santa hated lugging dolls houses up chimneys. Down was not too bad; up hateful. He packed up the dolls house and resisted giving it a kick; some little horror could have it next year. He was just pushing his sack up before him, and trying not to swear, when the girl in the picture metamorphosed into a bat; swooped down; sank its teeth into Santa's neck. Santa flailed about striking the bat with his fist; the blood mingling with his red suit. Exhausted Santa fell to the ground. A few more thumps and the bat was dead. After a few breaths he reached towards his neck and pulled out the dead bat; dropping it on the floor; where it fizzled leaving only a brown stain.
Next year Santa will have an extra little present for all the children he visits. His fangs are already starting to grow.
But there it was on his list: 'Girl, Anna 7, Dolls House, Jigsaw' and, no doubt about it, this address, the satnav on his sledge was never wrong.
He looked around the room again; did that picture flicker; the large one above the fireplace; he went over to take a look and noticed the inscription: 'Anna Thompson Aged 7 – 1898'; she was a pretty little girl. Well that was it; some elf had made a huge mistake and would pay for it; well over hundred years late was a bit much.
Santa hated lugging dolls houses up chimneys. Down was not too bad; up hateful. He packed up the dolls house and resisted giving it a kick; some little horror could have it next year. He was just pushing his sack up before him, and trying not to swear, when the girl in the picture metamorphosed into a bat; swooped down; sank its teeth into Santa's neck. Santa flailed about striking the bat with his fist; the blood mingling with his red suit. Exhausted Santa fell to the ground. A few more thumps and the bat was dead. After a few breaths he reached towards his neck and pulled out the dead bat; dropping it on the floor; where it fizzled leaving only a brown stain.
Next year Santa will have an extra little present for all the children he visits. His fangs are already starting to grow.
I Hate Christmas – Goodbye Santa
Santa's dead. His reindeer are dead. And the elves, well they bit the dust long ago.
His sledge had been wheeled out on the snow last Christmases. Designed before flight was officially sanctioned. It looked decrepit, the one modern convenience was the gaffer tape that held much of it together.
Santa had finished the gifts for most of Europe and was just starting out for the States. Having shed much of his load he cracked the reindeer hard. High over a bleak rainy London he whipped the reindeer again. If the sledge was light then Santa was not. With all the mince pies he was feeling bloated. And this feeling was nothing to do with the vast amounts of sherry he'd consumed: no he was not drunk in charge of a sledge.
The Boeing pilot had no chance. In the dark he could not see Santa: no lights. And smack; the plane barely felt a ripple; a surprised Santa plummeted; the reindeer following.
His sledge had been wheeled out on the snow last Christmases. Designed before flight was officially sanctioned. It looked decrepit, the one modern convenience was the gaffer tape that held much of it together.
Santa had finished the gifts for most of Europe and was just starting out for the States. Having shed much of his load he cracked the reindeer hard. High over a bleak rainy London he whipped the reindeer again. If the sledge was light then Santa was not. With all the mince pies he was feeling bloated. And this feeling was nothing to do with the vast amounts of sherry he'd consumed: no he was not drunk in charge of a sledge.
The Boeing pilot had no chance. In the dark he could not see Santa: no lights. And smack; the plane barely felt a ripple; a surprised Santa plummeted; the reindeer following.
Thursday, 14 April 2011
Private
“Again?”
“You're beautiful.”
“So soon?”
“You're pretty face inspires me.”
“You're insatiable.”
“You're beautiful.”
“So soon?”
“You're pretty face inspires me.”
“You're insatiable.”
Tuesday, 12 April 2011
Friday, 18 March 2011
12 Little Words
I have been rather negligent with this blog for the last couple of months. With the best intentions of mice and those other things I hope to rectify this omission soon and have a few things planned.
In the meantime a couple of very, very short, even minuscule stories.
Enchanting
Wouldn't it be heavenly? White, blonde, vibrant black. The night? A day?
Lifetime
The smile. An effervescent kiss. What dreams... Suddenly gone... Waiting, still waiting.
In the meantime a couple of very, very short, even minuscule stories.
Enchanting
Wouldn't it be heavenly? White, blonde, vibrant black. The night? A day?
***
Lifetime
The smile. An effervescent kiss. What dreams... Suddenly gone... Waiting, still waiting.
Sunday, 16 January 2011
Forty Word Micro Fiction Stories
Car Park
The man in the dirty yellow, almost florescent, coat strode towards her.
“I told you: get out of here.” His breath froze in the still air.
Samantha limped towards her car.
“I'll be back,” she muttered, as she sped off.
Buzzing
The buzzing in her head squealed, screamed; it had returned, returned with avengeance. Was she never going to escape?
Hours and a few joints later; Samantha steadied her swimming mind. Were the previous years of nightmares about to repeat themselves?
The man in the dirty yellow, almost florescent, coat strode towards her.
“I told you: get out of here.” His breath froze in the still air.
Samantha limped towards her car.
“I'll be back,” she muttered, as she sped off.
***
Buzzing
The buzzing in her head squealed, screamed; it had returned, returned with avengeance. Was she never going to escape?
Hours and a few joints later; Samantha steadied her swimming mind. Were the previous years of nightmares about to repeat themselves?
Monday, 20 December 2010
Two Times Thirty Equals More
A couple more stories with exactly thirty words.
Nightlife
There was a noise. A soft metallic noise. He gazed. Nothing. Was that some movement? The dark made him unsure. He could not hide forever. Was that noise getting closer?
Weeping
They were arguing again. Upstairs. I listened, amused. He domineering; she feisty, relenting. Then something new. A thud. And crying. Tears so silent they were barely discernible. I ashamed, wondering.
Nightlife
There was a noise. A soft metallic noise. He gazed. Nothing. Was that some movement? The dark made him unsure. He could not hide forever. Was that noise getting closer?
***
Weeping
They were arguing again. Upstairs. I listened, amused. He domineering; she feisty, relenting. Then something new. A thud. And crying. Tears so silent they were barely discernible. I ashamed, wondering.
Monday, 29 November 2010
Four Times Thirty Equals Reject
There is a form of popular flash or micro fiction that is becoming increasingly popular. These are pieces with a specific word count. Some of the word counts I have seen include: 150, 50, 55 and even as low as 12 words. Sometimes the title is included in the word count and sometimes the title has to be a single word. Obviously the title become an important part of the story with words on such short supply.
The following little stories all have 30 words exactly, nothing more and nothing less. As well as a short title.
Passive–Aggressive
“You ready?”
No answer.
“Ready?”
A distant shuffling.
“They're waiting. We have to go now.”
Silence.
“I'm sorry. About earlier.”
A door slams.
“I'm coming in.”
The room is empty.
The Shortest Day
Home, a car park, a Chevrolet, no option other than peeing in a cup. Neighbours, a Ford, a Buick, a family in a trailer. My bed, blankets on freezing metal.
Thirty Something
Thirty heroes wondering, seeking thirty stories to tell. Searching for thirty foes to fight, thirty beautiful maidens to rescue. Unfortunately they have been through this many times, many, many times.
Parents
Granddad was snoring again. The windows rattled, the doors shook and nobody could hear the telly. I hid quietly in the corner. Waiting to emerge when the arguing had stopped.
The following little stories all have 30 words exactly, nothing more and nothing less. As well as a short title.
Passive–Aggressive
“You ready?”
No answer.
“Ready?”
A distant shuffling.
“They're waiting. We have to go now.”
Silence.
“I'm sorry. About earlier.”
A door slams.
“I'm coming in.”
The room is empty.
***
The Shortest Day
Home, a car park, a Chevrolet, no option other than peeing in a cup. Neighbours, a Ford, a Buick, a family in a trailer. My bed, blankets on freezing metal.
***
Thirty Something
Thirty heroes wondering, seeking thirty stories to tell. Searching for thirty foes to fight, thirty beautiful maidens to rescue. Unfortunately they have been through this many times, many, many times.
***
Parents
Granddad was snoring again. The windows rattled, the doors shook and nobody could hear the telly. I hid quietly in the corner. Waiting to emerge when the arguing had stopped.
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