250 Words: Untitled

I hear what you are saying, Gordon, but we have given them so many chances already.  And they persistently disobey us and veer wildly off the tracks we lay down.  No matter how much good they do, it is all undone very quickly- before we can even offer congratulations.  I want to be nice, Gordon, but they won’t let me.

No, we must sweep it all away- put it down as one of our mistakes.  Lord knows there have been many before this.  Other projects that we have junked and filed away to forget.  At all sorts of stages.  Even this one had some previous versions, remember?  It’s fucking cursed, Gordon.  It’s only your soft spot that’s allowed this shambles to carry on.  Now look at it- fucking horrific, even you must admit.  Even you know it deep down, mate.

Remember Project [code removed]?  That went sour like this- exactly the same.  Folk fucking each other over, pyramids, poverty, similar projectile weapons.  Should have stopped that mess quicker too.  Fortunately they took the decision away from us.  No one likes to kill billions, after all.

No, fuck it, Gordon, that shit won’t wash with me.  We scrap it totally- go back and start with the same variables- steer the ship properly this time.  Give these humans anything and they will stamp on it immediately and without fail.  The planet the inhabitants call, “Earth,” must be destroyed henceforth.

Manuel!  Burn the atmosphere, wipe the canvas.  Let’s start again, shall we, lads?

250 Words: Naturally anti-social

He stands two feet away from his fellow commuters as they wax lyrical on the day's events.  Rather than join in he reads the free paper given to him outside the tube station.  On boarding the coach he walks nervously up the gangway looking hopefully for a free double seat,  desperate to hide in a bubble away from the chattier ticket holders.

At work he spent the whole day in his office cut off from the main body of workers, leaving them to talk and drink tea, feeling no desire to go join them; happy to keep his head down and get on with the assignments set.  Happy to come and go as if a ghost.

The man's DNA seems to be the root of the condition that keeps him awkward and shy.  Forever happy to sit on his own, forever intent with the company his mind provides- an intricate imaginary world of stardom and contentment.

Though a small spark buried deep inside his mind wishes it was different.  It wished his thoughts moved more quickly and enabled conversations that don't stutter along.  Wished he was more brave and held the knowledge of how to start a conversation with a stranger.  Wished he would just bloody grow a fucking pair.

However, the majority rules and a distance is faithfully kept.  Always at least an arm's length away from social contact. And always as close to mute as is humanly possible, a glazed look fixed as he lives deep inside himself.

250 Words: Episodes in the life of Edwinski (5)

Edwinski enjoyed his visits to the depths of the government buildings to see Paige, the man who supplied him and the other agents with much of their kit.  The man’s offices were a veritable treasure trove of cutting edge technologies not to be found anywhere else in the world, for Paige was in charge of a large staff who spent their days researching new ways to help covert operations run more smoothly.

On this occasion it was a new watch, “Unlike any watch you will find in shops, Edwinski, this,” said Paige, the watch in question draped over his forearm in the manner of a salesman (a persona this high-tech quartermaster enjoyed adopting),  “Y’see it is connected to one of our satellites hurtling around this hectic globe of ours; so it will always be correct, always synchronised with our clocks back here in HQ on one option; the other will adjust itself to whatever time zone you find yourself in.”

Edwinski had to admit this sounded pretty useful and spoke the word he always used to describe items handed over in these sessions, “Swanky.”

While within Paige’s lair, Edwinski forgot the outside world and reverted back to a childlike reverie, allowing himself to believe this toyshop was the dreamland he wanted it to be.

As he left the building Edwinski wondered how long it would be before this technology would be available on the open market.  Like the glow-in-the-dark watch face and the neon light, the answer was not long.

250 Words: This is the damage that a dream does

His armies of hope lie, starved to death, across the vale, their dunce caps still attached to their heads.  Waiting for burial the bodies start to turn, bleaching the once popular and pretty site with a foul stench.

In his room he shivers under his duvet.  On the side are several spheres that represent his dreams and memories.  Normally they float about the room lit in various colours (unless transparent)  but today they sit lifeless, a sort of misty grey while what was the largest of the group has been shattered across the floor.  In his hand is the largest shard, most of the blood now soaked into the sheets; a few drops resting on the surface, the final signs of what he has done.

The damage inflicted is why he shivers- arms, legs and chest cut with messages the least of his problems as his guts quiver, cut loose by the hand that normally feeds, in front of him, his left hand resting on them like they are some grotesque teddy bear.  One to be cursed for the shit created inside.  Others can use it to their advantage, spinning perfect public relations.  He sees only shit smeared across his face and hands and is unable to turn the dream spheres to reality, shattering each one by one, marking each breakage with a day in solitude.

Despite the violent end he squeezes the shard in one last futile wish, whispering quietly, “I’m in B8; please come find me, my love.”

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I adapted the title from this Hope of the States track.

Stories written for BBC Radio Kent Competitions (7)

As I drew back the curtains and looked across the fields, I felt sure something was different.  Even with the dusting of snow  it still didn't seem quite right.  I stood in the kitchen, coffee cup in hand, staring out like it was a puzzle like one of those funny pictures, for about a quarter of an hour, but still it alluded me.  So I put the untouched and lukewarm coffee down and out went in my slippers and dressing gown, determined I wouldn’t go to work with the mystery still at large. 

And that was how the end of my partner’s life began.  Looking back on it, I wish I had ignored the feeling, obviously, it’s just, I… I can’t help feel I never had a choice.  Did they know (whoever “they” are?) how curious I can be, how I can’t let anything go- whether it’s a creased duvet or an untidy room or even just a vague feeling?  Whatever, I went out there in the cold and wandered across the cold, hard ground glancing about me into the distance and at the ground, trying to spot the difference.  After failing to spot it from a simple scan, I took to scouring the furrowed ground to see if I’d subconsciously spotted something. 

I found it about 20 metres from the house, right in the bottom of a dip and surely out of view from the kitchen.  I thought nothing of it at the time, I was too intent on looking at it more closely and trying to figure out what it was.  And I was really cold.

The bureau in our office was usually uncluttered and right next to a radiator so I took it there to study.  I sat down on the chair, flipping up the roll-top as my bum made contact with the seat and placing my find onto the desk top before moving the chair soundlessly across the carpet so my legs were right under the desk, and closer to the beautifully warm radiator, where I could study it properly, whatever it was. 

I switched on the desk lamp to see it better, turning it around and around to introduce myself to its every side and its basic appearance.  Once done, I began to examine it more closely, using the magnifying glass I usually used for reading fine print, taking in its colour and textures, noticing the strange way it reflected light and the foreign text carved into it.  It was all so mystifying, though, that after half an hour I felt like I knew everything about its appearance but nothing about it, which was really infuriating.  I was getting hot and irritable, undid my dressing gown cord.  It was maddening.  I’ve already said how curious I can be.  Well, when that curiosity goes unsatisfied I can get quite nasty. I threw it down roughly, smashing it open, spilling the contents across my desk, mesmerising me with a simple beauty and elegance, like a perfect rose and a dew drop web.

When I touched it, it hurt. It didn’t burn me or cut me, it just hurt me somehow - right in the centre of my head, sharp as knives. I yelled in pain, holding my head in my hands and falling off my chair, skinning my knees a little as I skidded slightly on hitting the carpet. And then I was sick over my front and thighs and the pain went away suddenly just as Jenny entered the room wearing a look of concern and fear as I blacked out.

She was always much purer than me. Clearer skin, cleaner hair, prettier in every way and nicer too. Where I might fly off the handle, she would always stay calm. I don’t think I ever heard her say a bad word about anyone. She wouldn’t have thrown it down like I did, she’d have shown more patience and care, have carried on observing, maybe even got to the bottom of it or at least come up with a better solution.

I was woken by a man I employed to help in the fields.  He had seen me through the window, feared the worst and broken in. I asked him where Jenny was but he said he didn’t know. I stood and looked at the desk. It had been cleaned. “My turn to fear the worst,” I told him before passing out again from the general confusion and a headrush.

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250 Words: Mars and Clio

Mars seduced Clio in the inner sanctum of his temple.  He had first met her at a party for the Gods and Heroes where she danced with her sisters.  And where he spoke to her father, a Titan, whose name meant 'memory'.  He smiled as he watched her movement and began to plan his stratagem.

Soon after, Mars began appearing outside the houses where Clio did her work among the mortals and walked with her between jobs listening to the woes caused by those who summoned her help. Eventually he started to bring her pomegranates and to suggest clandestine meetings beyond his Corinthian columns.

Clio liked him because he focused on her.  Not like the mortal chumps who wanted her as a research slave sat upstairs writing out the relevant bullet points on the floor with charcoal from the fire.  Who swore and threw wine at her when their own feeble minds could not comprehend.

Mars was not like that.  He spoke to her of other matters, asked how she was, brought her gifts.  And when they made love she felt like nothing she had previously known.  No longer used, a thing to be hired and ordered about.  On the altar of Mars it was she that was worshipped and adored.

He wanted to ensure his legacy would continue on through history and he saw the muse as the way forward.  As he thrusted he thought of the wars that would be fought in his name and recorded in stone.

Stories written for BBC Radio Kent Competitions (6): His death was sudden and unexpected

While stoking the fire in The Oast, Alex looked up to see more than just hops.  There stood, largely hidden by his shadow, was what could only be described, judging by its ugly hybrid outline, as a monster. 

Alex stood slowly and carefully before side-stepping to his right to allow a better look at this strange newcomer.  It had the head of an owl whose eyes were surveying Alex coldly, checking for signs of fear; its face otherwise showed no emotion.  Alex had always liked owls, he thought it was cute how small their skulls were and had always wanted to poke a finger into the thick covering of feathers on one’s head to see how much of it would disappear.  Faced with an owl’s head now, he could do nothing but stare at the perfect (ie, muscular, hairless and spotless) male torso that started where the owl feathers ended, making the necklace that was the last feathers look like the neck of some hideous jumper.  Under other circumstances, this observation might have made Alex smile, but this mongrel had a gaping hole in his chest where a heart should be, the arms of a bear and the sexless front legs of a stag.  He guessed this monstrosity had no need for hands that could sew or write or build anything and was designed for something else entirely.  This thought made him sure he had smiled for the last time and dread filled his chest; and was confirmed by its shadow and from the small section of the wings he could see rising above the monster’s shoulders.  Alex would have said they were the wings of an angel if it weren’t for the fact that they were Raven black. 

“Hey,” Alex finally said, having taken in the scene and noticing the thing was being a little quiet.  It continued only to stare at him, unblinking, as if it was trying to bore through Alex’s head with telekinetic powers.  Alex tried again in a slow and awkward manner, “Hello, my name’s Alex, this is my house.  My girlfriend’ll be back soon…. Er, hey…” “I know.”  Its beak never moved, Alex heard its voice in his head, right in the very centre.  And very loudly, he was sure his teeth rattled.  And it was as cold and emotionless as its ornithological face.  “Why are you here, mate?”  He hoped this sneaked-in chumminess would go down well with this cold and nasty looking individual.  “I’m not your mate, Alex” said the God-like voice in his head, “I’m your death.”  Obviously it was not.  “Oh,” was all Alex could manage to begin with.  Then a second later, “But I’m only twenty-five.  And my girlfriend’s in the kitchen.”  “I know Alex, but the fates and your heart are working against you.”  Images of fast food and beer flashed through Alex’s mind and he looked down at his gut regretfully.  “As the condemned man, you have one wish.”  Alex could only laugh hysterically at this: the realisation that, no matter how nice he might be, how law-abiding, he was now as equal as any man moments before the trap-door opened and his neck was snapped.  Eventually he regained control and asked what almost every person asked their death for.  “So it shall be done,” the uncaring voice boomed in Alex’s head and he didn’t believe a word.  Its wings briefly flicked air away and Death and was suddenly on top of Alex, pinning the poor lad to the floor and stomping one hoof into his chest before dropping to his knees and starting to tear out his heart by swiping at his chest with its great paws.  The sharp stabbing pains running down Alex’s left arm were as excruciating as they were bewildering while his chest felt, quite simply, like death- final and empty.  Alex’s final thoughts were of his life and how it had all come down to this.  Once his breath had stopped, Death got up and left.  Only then did time start up once more.

***

Michelle came back from powdering her nose five minutes later to find her boyfriend gone from this world and lying, rather ironically, in a scene he had created for romance.  The doctors assured her that though the heart attack had been massive, his death had been very quick and relatively painless.

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