This multi award-winning short story is probably the one I enjoyed writing the most. The first Fast Fiction Friday for quite a while, I hope you enjoy reading it. (©opyright, as always, remains solely with me, the author.)
(Removed to make space. If you'd like to read it, let me know via the Comments box.)
Showing posts with label fast fiction Friday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fast fiction Friday. Show all posts
Friday, October 22, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Fast Fiction Friday 9
Apologies for the delay, but here it finally is - The Wrong Room. ©opyright, as always, remains solely with me, the author.
THE WRONG ROOM
His current name is John. John Dale. An ordinary name, an invisible name, plucked from the air for that very reason. He lives inside his head and rarely speaks. He keeps himself to himself. It wasn’t always so, not before that last night in Basingstoke.
He sits at a corner table for one, on a busy terrace overlooking a sea the same shade of blue as the Miro print on the whitewashed wall behind him. Though he belongs now on the fringes of society, he seeks the company of crowds. They shield him, like a locked door, from the horror lurking in the basement. They keep him anchored in the present. For a while, at least. Alone at night, in cheap no-questions-asked hotels, the past always wins, unless he’s drunk himself into oblivion.
A black and white figure in a ridiculous oversized sombrero flits by his table, a tray of chinking glasses held aloft, blond sweat-dark hair fastened in a stubby ponytail. John lifts a hand to his own hair, blond too beneath the mouse-brown L’Oréal.
Hey! Waiter! Any chance of some service here? Natives gone for a kip and left you to it, have they? Bleeding siestas. Good job you student types come here for the summer or we’d all die of thirst.
Do they make you wear that hat for the tourists, then? Or was it your idea, to keep the sun off? Can hardly see your face. Good idea if you’ve only just arrived, mind. Sun’s bleeding strong here, even in the late afternoon. Course, I’m used to it. Almost a native now.
Hey! I was here before them. Or was I. Maybe not. And anyway, they look like they need a drink even more than me. Frying on the beach all day, I expect. Can smell the suntan oil from here. Deep meaningful looks and holding hands under the table. Just wait till later, when the pink turns red. That’ll put an end to the shagging for a day or two.
Speaking of which, it’s been a long time. Two years, to be exact. Can’t get it up any more, not since… Hey! Where the hell are you going now? No, no, you’re right. That old couple was already here when I sat down. Germans, aren’t they? Or maybe Dutch. Never was much good at languages. Well, what’s the point? Everyone speaks English. Except the bleeding French. They do it on purpose, you know, to piss us off. If I’d known, I’d have bought a phrase book at Dover. Needed all the help I could get, with the cops on my tail.
Ah! You’ve noticed me at last. An apologetic glance that says ‘on my way’. And about time too.
What the…? No, it can’t be… But it is, it is! Those amazing violet eyes, just like your ma’s! Scarred chin. Happened when you fell off your trike that time. Jesus Christ, you’ve come searching for me like I always feared you would. Close up, you’ll see through the dyed hair and brown contacts, right into my soul, what’s left of it. I have to – need to – get up and run. Run and run, across the sand and into the sea and swim to Africa. But I can’t. I’m frozen solid from the inside out.
I love you, son. Please believe that. And I loved your ma, even after what she did. If I hadn’t got wrecked again that night, maybe we could’ve worked things out, me and her. She always said drink’d be my downfall and she was right.
All that blood, so much blood. Everywhere, it was. Splattered up the walls, soaked right through the mattress. The Butcher of Basingstoke, they called me. Bleeding tabloids.
I had no idea. No idea your ma was having an affair. I should have done. Even your Uncle Jack knew, and he was permanently bladdered. He told me, in the Feathers that night. Her boss, he said. Been going on for months. When I got home, there he was, her bastard loverboy, stretched out in our bed like he belonged there. At least, that’s what I thought. Bleeding drink messed up my radar good and proper. You have to believe I didn’t know. I didn’t know. Please, if you leave me be I promise I’ll never touch another drop, I promise I promise…
I can’t stand it any longer. Do what you’ve come to do. It can’t be worse than all those terrible dreams and sleepless nights. Put me out of my misery. I’m ready, ready as I’ll ever be. Just make it quick, please make it quick…
Wha…? I don’t believe it! You don’t look anything like my boy! Apart from the hair. Not even a hint of a scar. And I could’ve sworn, bleeding sworn…
Is this my punishment, God? For running away? Don’t you think I hurt enough already? Don’t you? It was an accident, for Pete’s sake! I didn’t mean to kill him. It was the wrong room, the wrong bleeding room oh God...
Don’t fuss, waiter, don’t fuss. Yes, I expect I do look like I’ve seen a ghost. For a minute there I thought…
He lowers his wet face into shaking hands and forces down bile. Words form, fat and ungainly, on a tongue that feels and tastes like a slab of bloodless liver. “Get me a large scotch and I’ll be fine,” he croaks. “No, wait. On second thoughts, bring me the bleeding bottle.”
THE WRONG ROOM
His current name is John. John Dale. An ordinary name, an invisible name, plucked from the air for that very reason. He lives inside his head and rarely speaks. He keeps himself to himself. It wasn’t always so, not before that last night in Basingstoke.
He sits at a corner table for one, on a busy terrace overlooking a sea the same shade of blue as the Miro print on the whitewashed wall behind him. Though he belongs now on the fringes of society, he seeks the company of crowds. They shield him, like a locked door, from the horror lurking in the basement. They keep him anchored in the present. For a while, at least. Alone at night, in cheap no-questions-asked hotels, the past always wins, unless he’s drunk himself into oblivion.
A black and white figure in a ridiculous oversized sombrero flits by his table, a tray of chinking glasses held aloft, blond sweat-dark hair fastened in a stubby ponytail. John lifts a hand to his own hair, blond too beneath the mouse-brown L’Oréal.
Hey! Waiter! Any chance of some service here? Natives gone for a kip and left you to it, have they? Bleeding siestas. Good job you student types come here for the summer or we’d all die of thirst.
Do they make you wear that hat for the tourists, then? Or was it your idea, to keep the sun off? Can hardly see your face. Good idea if you’ve only just arrived, mind. Sun’s bleeding strong here, even in the late afternoon. Course, I’m used to it. Almost a native now.
Hey! I was here before them. Or was I. Maybe not. And anyway, they look like they need a drink even more than me. Frying on the beach all day, I expect. Can smell the suntan oil from here. Deep meaningful looks and holding hands under the table. Just wait till later, when the pink turns red. That’ll put an end to the shagging for a day or two.
Speaking of which, it’s been a long time. Two years, to be exact. Can’t get it up any more, not since… Hey! Where the hell are you going now? No, no, you’re right. That old couple was already here when I sat down. Germans, aren’t they? Or maybe Dutch. Never was much good at languages. Well, what’s the point? Everyone speaks English. Except the bleeding French. They do it on purpose, you know, to piss us off. If I’d known, I’d have bought a phrase book at Dover. Needed all the help I could get, with the cops on my tail.
Ah! You’ve noticed me at last. An apologetic glance that says ‘on my way’. And about time too.
What the…? No, it can’t be… But it is, it is! Those amazing violet eyes, just like your ma’s! Scarred chin. Happened when you fell off your trike that time. Jesus Christ, you’ve come searching for me like I always feared you would. Close up, you’ll see through the dyed hair and brown contacts, right into my soul, what’s left of it. I have to – need to – get up and run. Run and run, across the sand and into the sea and swim to Africa. But I can’t. I’m frozen solid from the inside out.
I love you, son. Please believe that. And I loved your ma, even after what she did. If I hadn’t got wrecked again that night, maybe we could’ve worked things out, me and her. She always said drink’d be my downfall and she was right.
All that blood, so much blood. Everywhere, it was. Splattered up the walls, soaked right through the mattress. The Butcher of Basingstoke, they called me. Bleeding tabloids.
I had no idea. No idea your ma was having an affair. I should have done. Even your Uncle Jack knew, and he was permanently bladdered. He told me, in the Feathers that night. Her boss, he said. Been going on for months. When I got home, there he was, her bastard loverboy, stretched out in our bed like he belonged there. At least, that’s what I thought. Bleeding drink messed up my radar good and proper. You have to believe I didn’t know. I didn’t know. Please, if you leave me be I promise I’ll never touch another drop, I promise I promise…
I can’t stand it any longer. Do what you’ve come to do. It can’t be worse than all those terrible dreams and sleepless nights. Put me out of my misery. I’m ready, ready as I’ll ever be. Just make it quick, please make it quick…
Wha…? I don’t believe it! You don’t look anything like my boy! Apart from the hair. Not even a hint of a scar. And I could’ve sworn, bleeding sworn…
Is this my punishment, God? For running away? Don’t you think I hurt enough already? Don’t you? It was an accident, for Pete’s sake! I didn’t mean to kill him. It was the wrong room, the wrong bleeding room oh God...
Don’t fuss, waiter, don’t fuss. Yes, I expect I do look like I’ve seen a ghost. For a minute there I thought…
He lowers his wet face into shaking hands and forces down bile. Words form, fat and ungainly, on a tongue that feels and tastes like a slab of bloodless liver. “Get me a large scotch and I’ll be fine,” he croaks. “No, wait. On second thoughts, bring me the bleeding bottle.”
Friday, August 20, 2010
Fast Fiction Friday 8
Today's short story, Locked In, Locked Out, has won several prizes. The chief judge of one competion commented as follows: "Of 338 entries, Locked In, Locked Out jumped to the front of the queue. This story has everything; sadness, tragedy and humour, not a word wasted and it has a great ending.” I hope you enjoy it as much as he did. ©opyright, as always, remains solely with me, the author.
(Removed to free up space. If you'd like to read it, let me know and I'll pop it back up. Alternatively, take a look at some of my very short flash fiction pieces. :-)
(Removed to free up space. If you'd like to read it, let me know and I'll pop it back up. Alternatively, take a look at some of my very short flash fiction pieces. :-)
Friday, August 13, 2010
Fast Fiction Friday 7
Comments or constructive crit welcomed. ©opyright, as always, remains solely with me, the author.
UNFORGIVEN
In the vomit stink from the toilet bowl she opens up the plastic bag, its contents reeking of catastrophe. Max’s phone nestles there, in fabrics washed, pressed, brushed with love before he drove into the winter bearing clown-wrapped gifts for his grandson.
Numb fingers scroll through the phone’s address book, unsteady and unready, till she finds what she’s looking for.
“Dad!” exclaims the remote voice. “Where on earth are you? We had to light Ben’s candles without you, or Mum would’ve been late for work. Are you still coming?”
Head fizzes and hospital sounds recede. She leans against the toilet door, afraid she’ll faint. “Susie, it’s Helen, your dad’s…” The word ‘wife’ sticks in her throat.
Through Susie’s screamed insults, Helen somehow manages to tell her of the car accident. “I’ll ring again when the funeral’s arranged. I’m so sorry, pet.”
“Don’t you pet me, you cow! I’ll arrange my dad’s funeral, not you, you husband-stealing bitch!”
A handheld circular saw is set between the corpse’s thighs. With the noise of a hundred giant mosquitos it splits the spine like a tree branch, pausing only when it reaches the grey-beard chin. Then, guided by the vertical centre of the cold dead face, it continues till the spinning blade clears the hairless crown in a whirl of tiny splinters. With surgical precision, the organs are removed and bisected. Two coffins await the undertaker’s handiwork...
Half-wishing it could be so, Helen burrows into the yawning plastic bag and hides her face in the Jazz-scented folds of Max’s car coat. She cries till there’s no mascara left.
©
UNFORGIVEN
In the vomit stink from the toilet bowl she opens up the plastic bag, its contents reeking of catastrophe. Max’s phone nestles there, in fabrics washed, pressed, brushed with love before he drove into the winter bearing clown-wrapped gifts for his grandson.
Numb fingers scroll through the phone’s address book, unsteady and unready, till she finds what she’s looking for.
“Dad!” exclaims the remote voice. “Where on earth are you? We had to light Ben’s candles without you, or Mum would’ve been late for work. Are you still coming?”
Head fizzes and hospital sounds recede. She leans against the toilet door, afraid she’ll faint. “Susie, it’s Helen, your dad’s…” The word ‘wife’ sticks in her throat.
Through Susie’s screamed insults, Helen somehow manages to tell her of the car accident. “I’ll ring again when the funeral’s arranged. I’m so sorry, pet.”
“Don’t you pet me, you cow! I’ll arrange my dad’s funeral, not you, you husband-stealing bitch!”
A handheld circular saw is set between the corpse’s thighs. With the noise of a hundred giant mosquitos it splits the spine like a tree branch, pausing only when it reaches the grey-beard chin. Then, guided by the vertical centre of the cold dead face, it continues till the spinning blade clears the hairless crown in a whirl of tiny splinters. With surgical precision, the organs are removed and bisected. Two coffins await the undertaker’s handiwork...
Half-wishing it could be so, Helen burrows into the yawning plastic bag and hides her face in the Jazz-scented folds of Max’s car coat. She cries till there’s no mascara left.
©
Friday, August 6, 2010
Fast Fiction Friday 6
This week's tale is Better Than Chocolate. An early version was published in Scribble magazine a few years ago, not long after I'd found the courage to show my own scribbles to the world for the first time. Rather longer than my usual FFFs, but a light-hearted easy read that should (hopefully!) give you a laugh on this wet and grey Friday.
Removed on Sunday to save on blog space. If anyone fancies a read, ask via the comments box and I'll put it up again. Alternatively, check out FFF 5 in the archive. :-)
Friday, July 30, 2010
Fast Fiction Friday 5
©opyright, as ever, belongs solely to me, the author. Comments most welcome.
NOBODY DIED, DID THEY?
When I showed you the inventory, missing treasures highlighted, I first supposed you’d borrowed them, had forgotten to return them to the shelves. But your darting kohl-rimmed eyes told a different tale.
Blind rage replaced numbing shock and I thrashed you with my latest copy of Book Collector – packed as ever with valuations and Wanted ads – till it fell in tatters from my aching hands. You cowered in a corner, cloaked in your oh so silky copper hair; hair you’d wrapped around my waking cock only that morning, like a Waterhouse siren in a pornographic shampoo ad.
By the time I’d finished vomiting, you’d fled. I heard your car accelerate away, the silver sporty job you’d begged for, couldn’t live without. That Frostrup growl had me reaching for the bank cards every time.
As you sit here now – taped to a dining-chair, napkin stuffed in your lipsticked mouth – it seems incredible that when the phone rang I prayed it was you. Oh yes, part of me longed to plunge these shiny blades into your throat – see how they glitter in the candlelight? – yet another, bigger, part wanted you back.
But it wasn’t you; it was your mother: “All this fuss over a few old books," she said. "For heaven’s sake, nobody died, did they?” When she paused to suck on her cigarette, I heard you snigger in the background.
After a long, punch-drunk moment I feigned acquiescence, remorse. And you thought I’d welcomed you home with open arms. Hah!
Now, now, stop panicking; I’m cutting tape not flesh. Now I’ve got what I need to keep me warm at night, you can piss off. And stop that crying. You’re no Sinead O’Connor, but it doesn’t look half bad.
©
NOBODY DIED, DID THEY?
When I showed you the inventory, missing treasures highlighted, I first supposed you’d borrowed them, had forgotten to return them to the shelves. But your darting kohl-rimmed eyes told a different tale.
Blind rage replaced numbing shock and I thrashed you with my latest copy of Book Collector – packed as ever with valuations and Wanted ads – till it fell in tatters from my aching hands. You cowered in a corner, cloaked in your oh so silky copper hair; hair you’d wrapped around my waking cock only that morning, like a Waterhouse siren in a pornographic shampoo ad.
By the time I’d finished vomiting, you’d fled. I heard your car accelerate away, the silver sporty job you’d begged for, couldn’t live without. That Frostrup growl had me reaching for the bank cards every time.
As you sit here now – taped to a dining-chair, napkin stuffed in your lipsticked mouth – it seems incredible that when the phone rang I prayed it was you. Oh yes, part of me longed to plunge these shiny blades into your throat – see how they glitter in the candlelight? – yet another, bigger, part wanted you back.
But it wasn’t you; it was your mother: “All this fuss over a few old books," she said. "For heaven’s sake, nobody died, did they?” When she paused to suck on her cigarette, I heard you snigger in the background.
After a long, punch-drunk moment I feigned acquiescence, remorse. And you thought I’d welcomed you home with open arms. Hah!
Now, now, stop panicking; I’m cutting tape not flesh. Now I’ve got what I need to keep me warm at night, you can piss off. And stop that crying. You’re no Sinead O’Connor, but it doesn’t look half bad.
©
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