“Fern?”
“Yeah, Gary?”
“Fern, you’ve excreted some formic acid over here.”
“Sorry, Gary.”

There was a pause while Fern walked over and took a look, “Oh man, sorry Gary, I feel so ashamed. Eat me now. Seriously eat me now.”

I looked at Fern, an ant who had hopped off a bus and into my life. Hi, I’m Gary, I’m a spider. Normally we eat ants, but Fern was funny.

He piped up again, “Seriously Gary, for a second, I know you had a big lunch, two wasps wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, after a big lunch like that, I thought you might have a little indigestion. You might want some ant acid. No? C’mon?”

Or at least I thought Fern was funny. For an ant.

Some music struck up in the apartment next to where we were standing.

“Fern, do you like rappers?”
“What chocolate wrappers or gangster rappers?”
“Ganger rappers I guess, I mean rap music more than any particular gangster connotation.”
“I don’t know. I mean, yeah it’s okay I guess.”
“Okay, so I’m going to ask you this question. Do you trust me Fern?”
“Yeah sure Gary. I mean, of course.”
“Would you be willing to step onto my web?”
“Um...”

Fern knew that if he stepped onto the web his only chance of escape was for him to be given the chance to eat away at the silk which would attach itself to his legs. He could do it. We both knew of ants who had escaped, but he’d have to trust that I’d give him the time to do it. I would of course. I didn’t need to eat him.

“Why Gary? Why would you want me to step onto your web?”
“Just because Fern, until you’ve listened to rap music while standing on a spider’s web you’ve never experienced rap music. What I’m talking about is the vibrations, even rap artists have never experienced rap music properly.”
“So you’re not just talking about rap music are you Gary. You’re talking about anything with a thumping baseline.”
“Yeah, in theory,” I said, “but this is 2008 in South London it’s not like we’re going to hear any drum and bass.”
“You really haven’t been off this window sill in a while have you Gary?”
“You’re right,” I said, “ I’m not one of life’s travelers. I was one of life’s waiters.”
“All right, in that case I’ll have the nettle soup.”
“What? Oh. Waiter. Right.”

A few seconds passed, more music was playing and vibrating the web very hard.

“Alright Gary. I’ll come and listen.”
“Thanks Fern, it means a lot to me.”
“You not eating me means a lot to me, remember that.”
“I promise.”

Fern walked away and climbed up the wall. He then walked upside down onto the ledge of the next floor up, twisted his body and dropped off the bottom of the windowsill. He wouldn’t have been able to get to the middle of the web any other way. One step in from the side and he’d be stuck. As he dropped I wondered how he’d ever get off the web, I was sure we’d work it out together.

He landed a strand over from me. After the initial rocking the strong vibrations of the bass line started to vibrate us up and down.

“Gary.”
“Yes, Fern.”
“This is a very moving experience.”

Labels: Fiction, Short

[This is the final part of Preparation a 4 part story. You may want to read Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 before you continue.]

As the taxi pulled away from the bistro I thought about how I sometimes can really surprise myself. I used to think about how I was too eager to please others. It used to worry me. Over time I realised that pleasing others pleased me, and that in many ways that's all there was to life.

Today I realised, finally, that all encounters, all conversations, are a two way street. You wouldn't drink neat gin, you wouldn't drink neat tonic but together they make something beautiful. They come together to create something better than either of them can be by themselves. I wanted to be nice to Brian, I suddenly realised, not because it wouldn't help me but because it would. That's what we're all doing.

It's only a problem when you stop taking part yourself. When it stops making you feel better to take part in the exchange - that's the only time it's a problem God! Stop thinking! And you think this sounds like crazy over-analysis? You should hear my brain in an hour.

I'm in this taxi, it's going to my house. My house with my family in it. My family who are there for Christmas. Who are there to enjoy themselves.

.
.
.
.
.

And I'm bringing Brian to have dinner with me. How's that for making myself feel happy?

Labels: Fiction, Long, Preparation

[This is part 3 of Preparation a 4 part story. You may want to read Part 1 and Part 2 before you continue.]

The question, "how many women?" I'd asked was hanging over the proceedings like a bad stink. Brian had frozen, he'd been freed for a second into saying something that he clearly truly felt. Something actually fucking interesting. Sorry about my language - but that's what I feel. My contemporaries act as though it's proper decorum to pretend you died about five years ago.

"Sorry Brian, I didn't mean that question the way that you're thinking that I did."
"What does that mean?"
"I just meant…" I pause, I'm trying to decide how to phrase it. "I just meant, huh."
"I'm sorry if I offended you."
"Oh no, God no… I just was just thinking that I wanted to pause the date, because… While I realise I'm on a date and I'm therefore supposed to disapprove of you going out with others, I'm old enough and wise enough to realise that you must be, and that I'm not the only one. I'm not moronic. There are a lot more single women of my age than men. But what you were saying just made me feel like one of the blokes down the pub for a second. I imagined all of the twittery women I know who are so totally clueless. And for a second I just wanted to laugh at them with you. That’s all."
"Well that’s okay then."

Brian, I could tell, was looking at me differently. I wonder what that meant. And then suddenly I didn't know what to do. Could I go on eating, or did I need to talk? I knew I was really waiting for him to talk again but I didn't know where to look or what to do while I was waiting. I decided to plump for a overly large glug of my wine so I could keep looking him in the eye. He looked flustered, I was flustered too I could feel the tops of my ears starting to go red. And then I decided to help him.

"You know what Bri, lets order us up some more wine - I'll get a taxi home."

"Good," he smiled that smile again. And he actually exhaled. It was so sweet. I wanted to hug him right there and then.

I smiled back at him and suddenly we were a team. We were on the same side against the rest, whoever they might be.

[The final part concludes next Friday]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Preparation

Last night I dreamt of mandarins again. I know I'm worrying about the meal. Why do I put myself through it? Twenty people for Christmas lunch. I used to think it was for the kids so they would grow up seeing their family. And lately I've convinced myself that I'm doing it for Bob. He always used to love Christmas. I wonder how many times I'll have to say it before I can forget him making the kids put all of the presents back under the tree because they were being too noisy.

No, I might as well admit that I do it for me. We never had fun at Christmas when I was a girl and I suppose I'm making up for it. Sometimes I do wonder when this fun is supposed to happen. I mean before you've served up, you're cooking like crazy. During the meal you're worrying about pudding. During pudding you're trying to stop Malcolm setting fire to the napkins or Uncle Paul from getting too carried away with the brandy butter. And afterwards there's the washing up.

Paul isn't my uncle he's my brother. I wonder when I started calling him that as though it was his name or his title? I guess it was around the time I started talking to the kids more than I spoke to adults. Just when I thought I was about clear, I now seem to spend quite a bit of my time in the company of the grandchildren.

I do know the part of Christmas I love most. It's not watching the kids unwrap the presents. There is too often disappointment in some of their faces. I knew we were spoiling them when they were little but I didn't see what harm it would do. Now I know they expected bigger and better presents every year, so now probably anything less than the
keys to an actual rocket ship is a bit of a let down. So no it isn't that. It's sneaking about the night before helping Santa fill the stockings. See there I go again, I've clearly been spending too much time with the grandchildren.

Now. It's time to get out of bed. I've got a busy day today. I'm having lunch with a man. God, that sounds more exciting than it probably will be.

I had Simon on the phone last night giving me dating tips. As if he knows anything about it. He's never even had a girlfriend. Well I suppose he still dates even though he thinks he can't tell me about it. Right, must get up.

[Tune in next Friday for part 2]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Preparation

He walks in, flicks the light, picks up the post, puts it on the tray and closes the door behind him. He steps forward and cocks his head slightly, is she home? He walks down towards the kitchen, there is a sign on the cooker.

"Gas Mark 6"

He puts his coat on the hook on the back of the back door and turns the cooker on to Gas Mark 6. As the light comes on he can something pastry like in the oven, he wonders if it is Beef Wellington.

He looks around and notices that the fridge poetry magnets have been arranged to give him a signal.

"Openly Whine White Coldly"

He reaches into the fridge and pulls out a bottle of chilled Viognier. He goes to the side, finds the corkscrew and opens the wine. In the cupboard he selects two of their crystal glasses. And holding them in one hand, and the bottle in the other, he leaves the kitchen and heads upstairs.

The lighting is low, none of the room lights are on, just the side lights in the rooms that have them. He heads for the bedroom and finds her there. On her is a sign.

"Turn me on"

Labels: Fiction, Short

The pan has been hot for four hours straight now. Nina lifts the lid and stirs again. Making sure it's a deep, important stir. All of the bottom of the pan is scraped, every molecule of curry moved. It's an key moment and when she steps back she exhales realising she hasn't been breathing while she was doing it. The women around her laugh.

"I can't believe how seriously you're taking this," Meera says.

"She's doing what she needs to. It's okay." Her mother is the comforting voice.

"Well you know my opinion of him, I wouldn't bother," Parminder pipes up, "waste of time if you ask me."

"Look," her mother continued, "if Nina wants it to work, I want it work, and so should everyone who loves her."

Nina, wanted it to work, but she wanted all of her friends to be behind it, even her mother. Especially her mother. And it was exactly comments like that that made her feel that her mother was acting on blind hope rather than any preference for Anil. Maybe she just wanted her out of the house? As if to confirm it, her mother added…

"And with Nina out of the house, I'll be able to turn her bedroom into a home gym."

"Indira! Really," Meera calls out, "you can't be getting ahead of yourself."

"There's no chance with this one anyway," Parminder confirms, "so I wouldn't get too excited."

"Listen you lot," Nina finally getting her breathing under control decides to stand up for herself, "once he tries this he'll be putty in my hands."

Parminder gives a look and says, "Putty is the last thing you want in your hand girl, you want something all together more firm."

"Like a cucumber," says Meera.

"Girls," says Indira, "you have to respect your elders. Listen carefully, I'll have no talk of putty or cucumbers in this kitchen. What you talk about in your kitchens is up to you."

"Yes Mrs. Puri", both Meera and Parminder say together.

Nina looks at her mother with an extra ounce of respect. She knows, Nina remembers, how to run a tight ship. And then Nina's mother adds something, "Anyway there's no chance he's flaccid after this dinner, it's my mother's special recipe."

[Tune in next Friday for dinner.]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Nina

You move your hand and realise that there's something on it. It's spider's web. You break it. It must have got on you when you walked near that tree. The web isn't just on your hand. It was stretching up to your shoulder. It's in your hair. Your hand is up to your hair instantly and then you feel it crawling across your scalp. Both hands now, furiously pushing through your hair trying to disrupt it. It's gone. It's fallen. It's gone... Between your shirt and your skin.

Labels: Fiction, Short

[This is Part 4 of 4 in the 4 part short story The Voice of God. If you're interested then you may want to read Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 first.]

"How," cried out Frank, "how can I help you?"

"You have to wake up," replied God.

Frank considered this for a moment. He was pretty sure he wasn't asleep. He decided to pinch himself. It hurt. He looked back up at God, hoping that something there would help him to understand what he had meant. While Frank was looking up, Jerome got quite close and suddenly one of those bursts of flame from Jerome's nose had got a bit too close to Frank. The bottom of his habit was on fire.

Frank dropped to the floor and rolled around trying to put the fire out. Finally, after much rolling, it was out. Quite a bit of his habit was burned, as was a fair chunk of the hair on his right leg. He was now certain he was quite, quite awake. He called out to God, "what do you want me to do?"

But God was distracted, Jerome was trying very hard to set fire to God's beard. But what didn't seem to occur to Jerome was that God's beard was made out of clouds so all he was doing was causing it to rain on the cloisters.

God, for a second, thought he had caught Jerome in between his hands, but Jerome squeezed through and shot straight up God's nostril. God opened his mouth in shock and Jerome came flying out screaming, "Who's the voice of God now"?

God, who had looked shocked moments before, suddenly looked cross and fed up all at the same time. His hand moved forward, he placed it underneath where Jerome was doing cartwheels, and he said, "Stop Jerome". Jerome fell down into God's hand - dead. God lowered his hand and very carefully placed Jerome down on the floor of the courtyard. He then turned to Frank.

Frank looked up into God's eyes. Seeing God at rest for the first time, he realised that God was truly beautiful.

"What did you mean," Frank said, "when you said you wanted me to wake up. I'm not asleep."

"No, you're not. You're having a stroke."

And with that God disappeared. The same moment, some of the oblates broke down the door and ran out to rescue Father Frank who was writhing on the floor.

Labels: Fiction, Long, Voice of God

A chill breeze slides over the back of your neck. The tiny hairs stand shivering to attention. They're shaking because they're afraid. Something is happening. You get up from your seat and start to walk around the room. Nothing has changed in here for years. You notice some dust on the clock and for a second you are distracted before you are snapped back to the moment by a noise outside. You move quickly to the window, there's a crack in the curtain. You approach it but you aren't sure you're ready for what you might see. Standing once pace away from the gap you steel yourself to look, half hoping that whatever it is will have moved on. You are ready, you leap forward and pull back the curtain. There is nothing there.

Labels: Fiction, Short

[This is Part 3 of 4 in the 4 part short story The Voice of God. If you're interested then you may want to read Part 1 and Part 2 first.]

As the rats wriggled through the gaps into the monastery buildings proper Frank couldn't help but laugh. It wasn't that he didn't think this situation was difficult and unusual, it wasn't that at all, he was laughing despite himself. He was laughing at the reactions from the oblates. Each time a rat got close to one of them you'd see him jump out of his skin.

"You are enjoying that aren't you", said the voice inside Frank's head.

Frank turned to look at the dragon.

"No," lied Frank.
"Don't lie, boy."
"I'm not a boy any more. I'm seventy years old."
"You're a boy compared to my experience."
"I'm not enjoying any of this."
"Why is there a smile on your face?" The dragon asked.
"Because God has arrived."

This, thought Frank, was more like it. Clouds had streamed across the sky and combined together, out of the center of the cloud a giant face with a beard emerged. A hand was reaching down towards Jerome. But the dragon had seen it and had started flying with evasive maneuvers. Now each time God's hand came close, Jerome would breath fire out of his nostrils causing God's hand to pull back.

"Frank", Gods voice rang out, "You'll have to help me."

[Tune in next Friday for Part 4]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Voice of God

Once upon a time there was a little girl called Molly. And Molly wanted to be a ballerina more than anything in the entire world. She had tried begging, she had tried refusing to finish her supper and she had tried having a full-blown tantrum, but none of these had made Aunt Gertrude change her mind. Even when Molly had made a little ballerina dress out of scrap bits of potato sack, it didn't melt old Gertrude's heart.

"You're not going to melt my heart," said Gertrude.
"But Auntie I do so want to be a ballerina. I do."
"So you keep saying, but I cant afford it. Times are tough Molly and until you realise that you're not going to realise very much."
"But Auntie..."
"No buts girl, don't you realise that we've only been able to afford chateaubriand twice this week. Do you want me to starve?"

Molly thought that her aunt probably could use a little starvation but didn't like to say.

"Now," said Gertrude, "why don't you go and play out in the front garden? You never know you might make some new friends."

Molly went outside still wearing her potato sack tutu and started to walk around in the front garden. Just as Molly was deciding that there wasn't much to do she saw a man was walking alongside the garden. He looked over at Molly who smiled at him.

"What is that you're wearing?" the man asked.
"It's a ballerina's costume", replied Molly.
"I thought so. It's a funny coincidence."
"A coincidence?" Molly was sure she didn't understand. She looked at the man just to check if he was wearing tutu as well - he wasn't.
"Yes a coincidence because here I am sticking up signs for ballet auditions. I run the ballet programme in town."
"Really. Wow. That is a coincidence. Can I ask you a question?" Molly decided that she needed to be really brave. "Is ballet really very expensive. My aunt says that it is very expensive."
"No it's not expensive. It's free. It's a government-supported arts project."
"But why would my aunt tell me it was expensive when it wasn't? I don't understand."
"She probably had her reasons." The man turned and started to walk away.
"Wait," called out Molly, "do you think I could be a ballerina?"
"No, sorry."
"Why not? You haven't even see me turn or anything. So how do you know?"
"Because you're fat and ugly."

Moral: Sometimes the bad guy in the story isn't the one you think it is at the beginning. Gertrude was just trying to save Molly's feelings.

Labels: Fiction, Short

[This is Part 2 of 4 in the 4 part short story The Voice of God. If you're interested then you may want to read Part 1 first.]

A thought had been nagging at Frank for the last hour that this probably wasn't God. It was, after all a giant red dragon, and was therefore likely to be the devil. But weirdly this didn't disappoint Frank as much as you'd imagine, Frank was just pretty happy knowing that such a thing were possible. And if such things were possible, reasoned Frank, God would probably be along in a minute or two to sort everything out.

Frank had been thinking that God was going to pop in for almost an hour now and he hadn't shown up, and it was starting to get really cold. Frank decided to stand up and speak.

"Hello?"
The response came back inside his head, "Yes?"
"Who are you?"
"I'm Jerome, don't you remember me Frank?"
Suddenly Frank remembered. Jerome was a toy dragon he had had as a boy. Jerome had been a little stuffed toy dragon but this dragon hardly looked stuffed, this dragon looked like the real thing. He was also around the size of a double decker bus.
"I remember but..."
"Don't worry about why for now Frank. We're about to get some visitors." Jerome looked down at Frank and added, "I'd stand on that bench if I were you".

Frank quickly stood up and clambered on to the bench. He could here some kind of noise growing, a noise like water flowing really quickly. And then he saw them, coming out of the drains. Millions of black, vicious, fat rats tearing over the courtyard floor. Within seconds the whole courtyard was covered with them clambering over each other. Frank looked over to Jerome who was gently beating his wings and floating above it all.

Labels: Fiction, Long, Voice of God

"Look, do you think I could just touch one?"
"Touch one?"
"Yeah, touch one. Or hold one, or just the bag Davey. I could just hold the bag for a second if your arm starts getting tired. But I'd really rather touch one."
"Well you can't people might see."
"But I could hold the bag. That would be okay, right? I mean your arm must be getting tired pretty soon. Or maybe already. Maybe your arm's already tired and yeah that would make sense to somebody looking. Somebody who was looking would be like, yeah his arm probably just got tired so he handed it to his friend."
"Would you just shut up"

Davey didn't want to give Carl the bag. He didn't trust him. He didn't think Carl would steal, Carl wasn't smart enough for that. But he was exactly stupid enough to get them caught. But the only problem was that the bag was actually really heavy. He'd switched arms already and was about to have to do it again. Carl, the big lumbering ox, would have been ideal for this except for the fact that he just couldn't be trusted. There had been silence between the two of them for almost a minute and now and Davey could feel the conversation's resumption coming at him like a train.

"I was just thinking," said Carl with a tone suggesting that he hadn't ever spoken on the subject before, "that if you passed the bag to me people who could see us would just think you were just passing the bag to me because it was heavy not because there was something in it that I wanted to hold because it was exciting. That's all I was thinking. I just want to hold the gold bars Davey."

"But what about people who can hear us Carl?"

Labels: Fiction, Short

The cloisters were becoming cold now as the light began to fade. Frank's breath was visible as he sat on the bench thinking. He was absentmindedly fiddling with his rosary which was making a clicking noise each time the different parts clacked together. Frank was nervous. In fact he was cold and nervous. He'd never been convinced of a cassock in winter and sitting out in the cold like this was... Well mainly it was making him need to go to the toilet.

He looked back over his shoulder and he could see all of the other priests standing inside at the windows looking out at him. They looked warm in there. In fact Frank could see that the windows were misting up. A few of them were giving Frank encouraging signals, the odd thumbs up, a little wave. But most of them looked worried too. In fact they mainly looked worried and a bit excited.

Frank had always hoped to hear the voice of God. He'd kind of always expected it to appear at some point in his life. When he'd first heard about God as a boy something had clicked in his universe. The world made sense when it had happened and from then on he'd always known he had been called. But he had always hoped for something a little bit more direct. He'd actually always wanted something a bit more concrete. By the time he went to seminary school he'd started to think that perhaps he would have to prove himself worthy. That he'd have to dedicate himself to God before God would show himself. That, Frank realised, was faith.

At seminary Frank discovered that the way the church dealt with the lack of a speaking God was to teach the young priests that the warm feeling of comfort that had drawn them into the church was the voice of God. That God's influence was more a feeling than a walk-on part. At that stage Frank's hope that God would personally talk to him took a hit, but he was still young and he had hope. Over the years that hope had faded. Frank had been teaching seminary for thirty years now and had dispensed the same message. And yet the hope had never quite gone away.

And tonight God had spoken to Frank. God's voice, sounding exactly as he'd imagined it would had boomed across his brain at dinner. It had told him to stand up and leave the table. And it had told him to walk out of the main building and into the cloisters. It asked him to take the key from the inside side of the door and lock the door from the outside. And then it asked Frank to walk to each of the doors around the cloisters and do the same. And when he had done that God asked Frank to sit down. To sit down where he was sitting now. And wait. To wait for God to reveal himself.

About twenty minutes ago God had arrived. And while Frank had always expected to hear God he'd never expected to see him. And he certainly hadn't expected him to be a twenty foot long red dragon.

Labels: Fiction, Long, Voice of God

Arthur's brother Clive didn't eat fruit generally, however I just kinda left melon nearby. Obviously passionate, quintessentially Romanian, somewhat tough, unfortunately verbose, wickedly xenophobic, yet zen, Arthur's brother Clive didn't eat fruit.

Labels: Fiction, Short

[This is Part 3 of 4 in the 4 part short story Sarah. If you're interested then you may want to read Part 1 and Part 2 first.]

Sarah had never walked this way down the hill before. She'd always meant to but once she'd got to the top of the hill she'd always stopped there. It was always as though a piece of elastic was tying her to home. But while it was strange, Sarah was quietly relieved. She hadn't wanted to walk into a pub with this guy and find a bunch of her friends there instantly judging him. She wasn't ready to share him yet.

They walked down the hill in near silence. Sarah could hear a bird twittering. Sarah always imagined when she heard this particular kind of bird that it was making cat calls at her. Like there was a group of builder birds who said things like, "oh yes we'll build your nest extension and bird bath for you obviously, but that birch twig finish you're after Mrs Robin... It'll cost ya extra". She imagined that these builder birds whistled at her but she thought it might sound a little mad and so she didn't mention it to Steven.

The ground started to level out and soon they were walking on a country lane. There was a distinct smell of tilled earth mixed with the unmistakable pong of manure. Luckily this passed after a second. Steven paused for a moment and took in an artificially deep breath and said, "Ah, I love the smells of the countryside. Now if I'm not mistaken the pub must be just around this corner".

Steven picked up his pace and Sarah followed. There, as promised, was the pub. It was an old stone building with flowers in hanging baskets. The only thing missing, Sarah thought, was a beer garden. Steven walked up to the door, opened it and stepped inside - holding the door open behind him. Sarah walked in behind him. She hadn't been sure about the idea of going to the pub the whole time she'd been walking down the hill. Sarah couldn't quite see how going to the pub seemed very adventurer-ish. As she was actually crossing the threshold she suddenly wondered what kind of drink he would have.

Sarah walked past Steven and into the pub. It had a cold stone floor which made the room feel very refreshing after the heat of the sunshine and the walk down the hill. She walked forward towards the bar and couldn't help but notice that bartender only had one arm. Steven was right behind her, he walked closer to the bartender and said, "a pint of Guinness and a packet of peanuts please Pete".

Pete looked over at Sarah, "what'll it be for you missy?"

He didn't wait for her, he'd already started moving over towards the Guinness pump. There was a "clack" on every alternate step - clearly Pete only had one leg as well. Sarah realised she was staring at him a little bit, and she looked round to Steven. Steven looked at her and smiled.

"Interested in old Pete eh? You're right to be, he's an interesting fellow Pete."

"Urgh," said Pete.

"You're being too modest Pete. Pete used to be an adventurer too. Sadly he got a little bit too friendly with a crocodile. Now he serves drinks for a living."

"And peanuts," says Pete.

"What," asked Steven, "would you like? I'd recommend the Guinness."

"I don't really like Guinness I'm afraid."

"Ah, well then you better try something else. I never have so I can't really recommend anything."

"Can I have a whiskey?"

"Urgh"

Pete walked towards the side of the bar and found a stool. He carried it back and started to climb on it and then, after steadying himself, reached up and plucked a bottle of whiskey off of the top shelf. He took out two glasses. Poured a large measure into both and then put the bottle back and kicked the stool out of the way. He picked up both of the glasses and thrust one towards Sarah. And then, looking at the other glass he said, "well I may as well toast a lassie who likes whiskey. Cheers."

Steven managed to rescue his stout from the wrong side of the bar where it had been settling and they all toasted Sarah - even though Sarah seemed a tad confused by the whole thing. Pete took the end of the toast as a signal to shuffle off again and Steven tipped his head in the direction of a table in the corner of the room.

As they walked towards the table Sarah realised that it wasn't quite a corner. The room wasn't quite square and the table was in a little corridor. As they sat at the table Sarah found she was facing away from the main pub, she was looking down the corridor at a closed door.

"So," said Steven.

"So," said Sarah.

"Yes?"

"Yes. I..."

"What? Go on..."

"I," said Sarah, "I was going to say, I was going to say the whole way down the hill that going to the pub didn't feel like going on an adventure. But now I'm not so sure. I hadn't expected Pete for a start."

"No, not many people expect Pete."

"And to an extent it's an adventure for me simply because I've never been on this side of the hill, and here I am with a strange man, but for you it isn't really an adventure is it? You've been on this side of the hill before, you've been to this pub before, drunk that Guinness."

"Well not this particular pint of Guinness no, but would you be trying to claim with all of that that you aren't a strange girl?"

"I'm not strange? I'm perfectly normal."

"Ha."

"I am. I'm boring."

"I don't believe that. You might be bored but you're not boring."

"Can't you be both?"
"People can, but not you. Your mind is too inquisitive."

As he had been speaking Sarah had been noticing that a light behind the door was getting brighter and brighter. She was about to say something but then Steven said, "How many people do you think imagine birds are wolf-whistling at them?"
"What?" Sarah said, the light was getting brighter, but she couldn't ignore what Steven had just said. "How could you know that?"

"I can't tell you that for a moment. But it's true isn't it."

"Yes."

"Things like that make you interesting. You never tell anyone about it because you fear what people might think of you. What you don't realise is that admitting to the interesting things about you might make people more interested in you rather than less."

Sarah could hardly ignore the door now. Bright white light was shining all around it and through the keyhole. Rays were dancing on the ceiling and floor, patterns on the walls and the light switch were so bright they were difficult to look at. She looked back at Steven.

"Ignore the door."

"But?"
"Just for a moment."

"But!"

"Admit that you are interesting and you don't need something to happen to you to prove it."

"Steven."

"Ignore the door."

Sarah looked straight at Steven. His blue eyes really were amazingly bright, even in the relative darkness compared to what she had just been looking at. What had she been looking at? She faltered for a second wanting to look back at the door. But she could see in Steven's eyes a pleading for her not to look.

"Okay," she said, "I admit it. I am more interesting than I normally admit."

"Good then," said Steven, "now you are ready to decide. Do you want to go through the door?"

[Check back next Friday for the final part of the story.]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Sarah

It's the night before the night before the wedding. She comes home and throws the keys in the basket. Picks up the post off the matt. Flicks distractedly through it and wanders into the kitchen. She opens the fridge, finds some white wine from last night and pours it into a glass from the cupboard. Back to the fridge she takes some onions and garlic. Back at the board she starts to chop and slice the onions. With the garlic she takes the flat of the knife and smashes it onto the side of the garlic, some of her aggression flows with it. She smashes it again knowing that it doesn't really need it, just because.

She takes pans from the cupboard, sips from the glass and slowly lets her day drift away on a cloud of routine cooking and alcohol. For a moment everything is calm but then a thought enters her mind and quick as a flash her hand flicks on Radio 4. No thinking and cooking, she's learned that doesn't work.

Midway through sauteing the onions he gets back, throws his keys in the basket, flicks through the post and turns on the tv. He's in there, she knows he is, because she can hear him flicking between channels. She wants him to acknowledge her and while she knows she could call out to him she lets him come to her.

The adverts come and he strolls into the kitchen leaving the tv on even though he knows it annoys her, he sidles up, gives her a kiss, steals some food, wanders off to the fridge for a beer and says, "so what's for dinner".

"Are you sure you want to get married?" She asks matter-of-factly. She turns off Radio 4; she wasn't listening to it anyway.

"Not really."

He opens his can and takes a large swig. Looks at her and takes another one. She reaches for her wine and finishes the glass in one.

"No. Neither am I."

Labels: Fiction, Short

[This is Part 2 of 4 in the 4 part short story Sarah. If you're interested then you may want to read Part 1 first.]

As she looked up and saw him she could see... he was beautiful. Not rugged or handsome but beautiful. He had an aquiline nose and blonde, slightly longer than regulation, hair. It rustled in front of her as he bent towards her, and seemed to frame a halo above him.

"Who are you?", she asked.

"Oh," he said, slightly straightening back up, "my name is Steven Shaw".

"That sounds like a name out of an adventure book"

"It does rather, doesn't it? Well I think I'm on the right track then".

"What do you mean?," Sarah asked.

"Well adventuring is kind of what I do," he paused for a second as though realising the lack of sense he might be making but then added, "for a living", which didn't really help.

Sarah pushed herself up off of her back and supported herself on her arms. She looked at him for a bit and wondered what she made of him. She decided to push on rather than telling him to get lost.

"What are you doing here?"

"I live here when I'm not travelling. Well, not here in this field, but just down the hill. So what do you do?"

"I... I... I don't seem to do much of anything."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing much."

Sarah wondered why she had said that. She had suddenly felt what she did was less important somehow. That what she did was somehow less than what?

"How can you be an adventurer?," she asked, "they don't exist."

"They do in your book," he gestured to where it lay beside Sarah.

She looked down at it, it had been well-loved and was slightly frayed at the edges. It looked really pretty folded open, sitting in amongst the blades of grass. She wished she had had her camera with her. She looked up at the man suddenly remembering something. He had a Polaroid camera slung round his neck.

"Do you think you could take a picture of my book in the grass? It looks so lovely lying there."

"Of course," he replied and he quickly crouched down beside her to get close enough to take the picture.

Sarah could smell his scent now which was a delicate mix of sandalwood and musk. He carefully took the picture and the click-wurr action of the camera did the rest. He carefully held the emerging picture with one hand while letting the camera fall back to his side with the other. He passed the picture to her. She waved it vaguely in the warm air. Then she looked at it. It really had captured the colours well. She picked up her book and placed the photograph in between the pages making it into an impromptu book mark.

She looked back up at him. She could see, now that she was this close, that his bright blue eyes were flecked with grey.

"So how can you be an adventurer?"

He held out his hand and said, "let me explain in the pub".

She looked around. Until he had mentioned anything she had felt utterly content. But now she realised that she was actually quite thirsty. "Okay," she said, "but where?"

"Don't worry," he replied while helping her up, "follow me".

Check back next Friday for part 3.

Labels: Fiction, Long, Sarah

He sits on a train. He has slightly spikey gelled hair but when he leans forward to read his book you can see he's beginning to thin on top. He's reading to distract himself not just from all the people listening to music and jabbering away, he is reading to distract himself from his own head - from his own voice.

The train goes round a corner and squeaks in a rather alarming way. He looks up distracted for a second and even in that moment he hears his head say, "you're worthless". He puts his head back down and tries to focus on his book. But he's lost his place and his eyes are wandering all over the page. The voice is getting louder and more cross while this is happening. It is simply, for once, just repeating the same phrase again and again. Once it used a word he didn't even know, which made him feel really bad. He'd always wondered afterwards how that could be possible. But he still hadn't quite brought himself to look it up, it might be too depressing.

Suddenly there was a hand on his knee, a woman's hand. He followed the arm up and saw a beautiful face looking at him - really examining him. She looked into his eyes and he blinked.

"Sorry," he said, "was I in the way?"
"You," she paused and looked excited, "fascinate me"
"Me?" he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder.
"Yes you. Every day I see you and you never seem to see me. Every day you're reading and when the train squeaks you look up, and then you always look so worried. I've started worrying about why you're so worried."
"I..." the words wouldn't come, the voice started swearing at him in his head, but he ignored it and looked at her. He'd never really seen anyone as beautiful as her before in his life. Maybe in a magazine or a movie but she didn't look fake she was breathing he could see that. She kept his gaze the whole time.

"You can tell me, I promise, and you don't even know me yet"

It was the word "yet" that convinced him.

"I hear voices," he said, "telling me that I'm useless. Telling me that I can't do anything."
"Well you can't be useless. I think you're brilliant."

What had changed? Something. Something had changed. The voice had stopped. Was it because he'd admitted it or was it because of what she'd said?

"It's stopped," he said.
"Right then, now we can be friends."

Labels: Fiction, Short

There was one tiny wisp of a grey cloud on a blue sky. The rest were all pure white and on the blue sky they seemed like they had tumbled out of a kind of airline or washing-powder commercial.

Sarah was lying face down on the grass, craning her neck up at them. She had a book in front of her but she was ignoring it. Every time she thought about reading it and looked down she had to adjust her eyes to the darkness. The brilliance of the sky was so different from the dull grey pages of her book. Why do the most interesting people insist on living in books she wondered? More to the point, why did they always seem to be in the most boring dullest old books that smelt of damp? Sarah slammed the book shut, picked it up and threw it into her rucksack.

She rolled over so she had her back on the grass and looked at the sky. It was blue all around her. She imagined for a second that she was floating in the sea and it felt glorious. She waved her arms through the lush long grass and felt how soft it was, the smell of fresh grass interfered with her vision partially but she over-rode it because she loved it so much. She lost herself while she swam a kind of upside down breast stroke through the grass. She opened her eyes again and saw the clouds above her. Her mind wondered what they were. What could they be floating in the sea? They must be icebergs she imagined and it made her physically shiver. She closed her eyes again but the moment was gone, she knew she was lying on a hill near her house. And that nothing, nothing ever happened within a thousand miles of her house.

"Um, excuse me?"

Sarah didn't know what to do. A man had just addressed her. She didn't know what she was supposed to do in this situation. She supposed she must first open her eyes. Perhaps. She put that thought on hold and decided that before she saw him the proper thing would be to adjust her hair. She didn't want to be obviously doing it after she saw that he was beautiful - that would look desperate. She pushed her hand through her fringe, pulled herself up, so that she was in an L-shape and then adjusted the back of her hair. And then she opened her eyes and saw him.

[Tune in next Friday for Part 2 of 4]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Sarah

It's dark. You can't see. Your arms and legs move sluggishly because of the weight of the water on them. You almost start thrashing about just to get some freedom but as soon as you start you remind yourself to stop. To be calm. To concentrate on keeping your head above the water. You can feel the line around your neck like a noose. It's rising. It's rising quite quickly now. You tilt your head and that keeps your chin out of the water. You keep kicking with your legs, keep kicking, keep trying to stay afloat, keep kicking. And your hands are constantly searching, constantly tracing along the surface of the roof, the roof that you're getting far too close to. Your hands feel only the smooth metallic surface. You know there is nothing. No release. Now no matter how you angle your head your chin is under water. You can't move to keep searching. Your legs are tired but you keep kicking. Water laps against the corner of your lips. Even with your mouth closed you can feel it creeping into the cracks of the corners. You know it's too dark to see anything but you have to try something. You turn and swim underwater, hands outstretched, blind, searching. It's the last thing you remember.

Labels: Fiction, Short

[This is Part 4 of 4 in Pirates!: Out to Sea. If you're interested then you may want to read Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 first.]

Marshall could hear that the fighting had stopped. He was weak, he was about to loose consciousness. He took his hands down one more time and dipped it into the blood coming out of his leg and poured it back over his face. His entire body was covered with his own blood. And yet nobody had come, perhaps nobody would come and he would die? He knew that he was very close to the line. The most crucial thing now was to tourniquet his leg. He pulled a sheet towards him and tied the leg as tight as he could. He could feel the bleeding stop. Some of the blood kept dripping down his nose and onto his tongue, each drop tasted like a steel blade, metallic and cold.

Footsteps, there were footsteps, he was sure he had passed out. He tried to keep very still but he could feel that he was moving. It wasn’t the usual rocking and lolling that came from the ship but instead it was… it was… Marshall dared not open his eyes to identify the feeling, it felt very strange. He heard a grunt from somewhere above his right arm. He was being carried, that's what it was. Suddenly he wasn’t being carried anymore, he was airborne. He knew he would have to act very hard to try and stop himself from exhaling air once he landed, he had been flying with some force. He breathed out before landing so that the air wouldn't be forced out. He felt a rib crack, and then realised that it wasn't his own. His fall had been broken by at least one… no three dead bodies. He was on a pile. He tried to lay still, but he was slipping on his own blood. Then he heard it, Pete's voice…

"These are the dead?"
"Yes sir."
"How many?"
"10 in total cap'n."
"Right, see to it that…" Pete stopped suddenly mid sentence, he had seen Marshall lying there, "who did this?". Pete pointed directly at Marshall.
"Not I sir."
"I didn't ask whether you did it. I asked who did?"

Pete was stalking back and forth in front of his five lieutenants. Each in charge of a different part of the attack they were following Pete now waiting for him to dispense gold as reward. They had not been expecting this.

"Perhaps, I didn't explain to you earlier how important this little conquest was? Perhaps I didn't mention to you how important it was that we kept this man alive? So," he turned to a tall man with a thin moustache, "why did you kill him?"

"I didn't, I swear."
"You were in charge of the fighting men were you not?"
"Yes but look at him. He has blood all over him he must have been killed by a cannon."
"Liar!" Pete shrieked. His sword ran right through the sergeant at arms neck. His thin moustache drooped for the last time and he fell to the ground.
"Although," Pete looked manic now, he could fully appreciate the problem facing him. He was about to be hung by the Dutch. He knew it. He had promised them Marshall alive not dead, and the fear was great in him.

He continued, "Although, he did have a point. Marshall does have blood all over him." He spun round to face the cannon-master.

At this exact moment, Marshall jumped up from where he was lying and stabbed Pete through the spleen. Blood poured out of the man as he dropped to the floor. Marshall, made sure Pete was dead by cutting his throat. He looked up at the men in front of him.

"I am the ghost of Captain Marshall. I am here to avenge my own death. You have nothing to fear if you were not responsible for my death. The only person I needed to kill was Coalface Pete here. At the moment." Marshall paused for a second, allowing some blood to drip from his hair onto his face, he knew he must look terrifying. He started again, "I want you to go to the prison and place yourself within, letting the men within out."

The four looked to each other. The cannon-master rubbing his neck as he did. They ran out of the room, fear painted large in each one of their eyes. Marshall wiped the blood around his face in a failed attempt to clean it, he thought of the wonderful waterfall he had found a season ago on one of the southern islands. He put such comforts from his mind, he looked down at the dead. He was looking for someone in particular. Not seeing him there he called out, "Killen! The enemy are defeated, come here!"

[Marshall will return.]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Out to sea, Pirates

You're sitting there reading this and you know that feeling like there is something on your ankle. Something that feels slightly heavy. Something attached. Like there's something crawling. Something slimey that's sliding up and over your ankle bump right now. Something that shouldn't be there. Something that doesn't know the difference between your leg and what it usually eats.

Do you know that feeling?

Labels: Fiction, Short

[This is Part 3 of 4 in Pirates!: Out to Sea. If you're interested then you may want to read Part 1 and Part 2 first.]

Marshall looked and looked hoping for a sign he was wrong. He was a proud man, a man that loved to be proved right. And yet he was also a man who didn't want to fall into a trap. He looked, and everything on the ship looked normal, absolutely normal, a normal that could only mean that it was being orchestrated. What should he do? He wanted to see Pete, he wanted to know that old Coalface was behind it. But he couldn't wait for that. He couldn't. Marshall's men had just been on leave, they had been just sleeping with women, eating and drinking. They would be fat and lazy, ready for nothing, not his usual ready team he could rely on. This was the opportune moment to attack. He should have been thinking of that this morning and yet he hadn't. He never, ever, normally didn't think of the opposition position. And yet… And yet he'd been fucking distracted by fucking a woman. He'd been sleeping with his wife last night for the first time in a year. The first time they'd made bed together. And just as you'd imagine it had been earache from start to finish.

Marshall was still holding the glass to his eye and by the time he saw Coalface Pete disguised as a Merchant Seaman it almost didn't matter. Marshall was already onto something else. Already thinking ahead. Already planning what he could do.

Marshall, quickly went downship, onto the main deck and found his first mate. "Killen, I have a headache," Marshall explained, "you get us back on course".
Marshall vaguely heard the, "Aye Captain", behind him as he headed into the Captain's room.

Once their he found the piece of leather he'd been rather unsuccessfully using as a bookmark. He put it between his teeth. Then he unsheathed his sword and stabbed himself in the leg falling back into his bed. The white linen rapidly started soaking up his blood.

Up on deck things seemed to be going even worse. Killen had ordered the ship to turn portwise and the other ship, unseen by Killen had turned to starboard. Before Killen even knew he was in a battle cannon were firing upon him. The pirates of the pirates kept turning and turning and firing upon Marshall's ship while Killen was too timid to do anything about it, and through it all Marshall stayed below bleeding.

[What will happen next? Tune in next Friday to find out.]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Out to sea, Pirates

[This is Part 2 of 4 in Pirates!: Out to Sea. If you're interested then you may want to read Part 1 first.]

"Wait. Turn back." Marshall shouted.

"Back to port?"

"Back starboard. Belay that last order."

"Yes Sir, Cap'n sir."

Marshall wanted to turn back to face the other ship. They hadn't been plotting that direction. But Marshall was intrigued. He had to see what happened. He wanted it to not be a wreck not simply because it would have been a senseless waste of life, but mainly because he would feel compelled to help. Or at least his crew would. He had control over his crew, but a pirate crew were more apt to mutiny than a regular one. It was something he'd seen, something he'd instigated, too often in a crew. And this was one of those divisive situations. Half the crew would hate him for not helping, half the crew would hate him for helping. Basically the only thing they were united on ended with gold for them. And this had no gold associated. So Marshall hoped it wasn't something like that.

Most other captains would have sailed the other way. He knew that. Certainly all other pirate captains, but he wasn't the rest, he knew a signal when he saw it. Or at least he thought he did. If it wasn't a wreck it was a signal for Marshall. So while he wanted for it not to be a wreck he couldn't see a good way for this thing to finish. Like he would have said if he could have trusted his crew, he wasn't happy about this, but he had to know, no matter that everyone else would run away.

The ships were sailing dead towards each other now. There was no doubt that he was falling straight into the trap that the other captain was setting. They wanted him, they knew he would, sail straight towards them, they knew he would have seen him.

It was that moment that Marshall knew it had to be Coalface Peter.

"Bring me my looking-glass."

[Check back next week for Part 3]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Out to sea, Pirates

A man is standing on a platform eating a croissant and drinking a bottle of coke. He looks bored and he doesn't seem to notice that the flakes of the croissant are falling down his jacket.

A woman walks up to him and asks him if this is the right platform for somewhere. He doesn't even listen to the end of the sentence and when she finishes speaking he doesn't even react. She starts getting louder as though speaking louder will get him to understand. In the end the man just shrugs his shoulders and the woman walks off not knowing if he didn't understand the question, if he didn't know the answer or if he just didn't care. That's the problem with shrugs, they can haunt you for the rest of your life.

Labels: Fiction, Short

This is the second story in the Pirates series. The first was called, "The Bunby Bungle".

Marshall gave the order to cast off and they were away. It was an unusual feeling for Marshall to be leaving a port in daylight and one that couldn't happen anywhere else in the world as far as he knew. He had got used to memorizing the port map and not having to rely on visual clues like a normal captain would. But Marshall was no normal captain. He was a pirate captain. And he was very very good at it. Three, Two, One…

"One and a quarter turns Starboard" he shouted out.

"Aye Cap'n"

Marshall entertained the possibility of scaring a junior rigger by doing the whole thing with his eyes closed. But there was no point. He couldn't convince his old bones to have fun like that. His brain was still alive to the prospect of such fun. But his bones feared his brain.

The bones knew it was best, even in a safe port like Santa Dominique, to keep your eyes peeled.

Marshall turned and looked back towards the port. Nothing there. Five, Four, Three... He swiveled back towards the wheel. Two... There had been something... One... Something on the horizon.

"A third turn to Port".

He wasn't even listening for the confirmation. His eyes were searching for that glint out on the horizon. A shape that had made him start. A sail in the wrong place. It was not a normal route into port. It wasn't a tack he'd seen anyone attempt. Or rather anyone else. It was his route into Santa Dominique, his route over the shallow rocks only Marshall had the map for. So either that ship was soon about to go down all hands or something very troubling was going on.

[Check back next week for Part 2 of Out to Sea]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Out to sea, Pirates

His moustache drooped unnecessarily into his champagne as he supped and showed his appreciation for the party. He turned away and once he was sure she was no longer in eyesight he spat the champagne into a flower pot. Sadly his moustache went with it and Michael spent a furtive couple of minutes trying to dig around in the now wet soil, dry the moustache, find the glue in his inside pocket, reattach the moustache to his upper lip and wipe the soil off of his lapel with a linen napkin.

Once all of this was over with, Michael decided to mingle. He sidled up to a beautiful woman. On his way he picked up a glass of champagne and a glass of whisky from a passing tray. The woman looked impressed, made eye contact saying, "hello stranger".

"I thought that you were supposed to say that to people that you knew that you haven't seen in a while," Michael said.
"You sure we haven't met?"
"Looking as beautiful as you do, I'm pretty sure that I would have remembered you. Have we met?"
"No I was just fishing, fishing for complements."
"Really?"
"Works every time"
"Well I feel such a sap now."
"So are you going to give me that champagne or not?"
"Sorry, here you are, but I don't know how you can drink that stuff."
"What champagne?"
"No that stuff specifically. It's fucking awful as far as I can tell."
"I don't mind it. Don't hate me."
"I don't hate you just because you don't share the same taste in champagne as me. What an idea?"
"I just wondered if you were one of those guys... You know those guys who absolutely hold their own views. That they're right all the time and if you don't agree with them then you're not just wrong then you're actually stupid."
"Going out with one of those guys?"
"Just dumped by one actually."

Just then the music at the party changed pace from some kind of schmaltzy waltz to something a bit faster. Michael decided to pick his moment.

"Do you fancy a dance?"
"Why not. I like this song."

She looked at him very closely for a second. And then chose to move in close to him so she was resting her hand lightly on his chest. "Can I ask you to take off your moustache though?"
"How did you know?"
"Well if it wasn't for half the guys in here tonight wearing fake moustaches it would have been a pretty hard guess, but other than that there's a lot of glue on you face."
"And you still want me to take it off?"
"Yes please."
"Spoil sport."

Labels: Fiction, Short

[This is the final part of episode one of Snakebite McMuffin. If you feel lost and confused you may want to check out parts One, Two and Three].

"Well," said Felicity, "it's like this..."

The words hung in the air, for what seemed to Snakebite like just short of a week.

"Like what," he said.
"I don't know... I don't know how to say it."
"Well just speak, you know, in English. I'm sure I'll understand."
"I'm trying to, Mr McMuffin... Snakebite. I'm trying, but it's hard. Haven't you had anything that you've found hard to say?"
"Yeah, sure, for a while I found it hard to admit that I was addicted to eating terrapins".
"That's awful. How did your family react?"
"It was a turtle disaster. My sister's still shell shocked. See sometimes something sacred seems strange. Secret's so seriously secret. So she seemed strange. Sis sensed some sincerity somewhere surrounding Snakebite. Snakebite seemed sound so suddenly she suggested some strawberry sundae."
"Strawberry Sundae?"
"Surprised?"
"Certainly."
"Yeah, it was a bit weird. But it is something I find hard to say."

McMuffin looked her up, and to a certain extent down, and noticed something on her leg.
"Is that," he asked, "a tattoo?"

There was a small tattoo nestling on her right ankle. Snakebite admonished himself for not having spotted it earlier.

"No." Felicity moved her leg backwards as though that would stop Snakebite from being able to see it.

"Yes it is," Snakebite moved forward as thought that would help.

"It's not a tattoo it's a birthmark."

"But it can't be a birthmark. Are you sure it's not a tattoo or mud or something."

"Mr McMuffin, I do not have mud on my leg."

"But... But... It simply can't be a birthmark."

"Why ever not?"

"Because I was at your birth and you didn't have one then."

"What? You were at my birth? My father must have trusted you!"

"Well, actually you were born in a pizza restaurant. You were very early. I just happened to be another customer. But I drove you and your family to the hospital. I remember what your father said, 'For a large man you were surprisingly willing to give up the rest of your pizza'. I never had the heart to tell him that I was planning on sending back that pizza anyway, they'd put anchovies on it when I'd expressly said, 'no fish' when ordering. But I think it made your father trust me."

"Well that's quite a story."

"Yes it is, but it isn't as fascinating as the story I now want to find out. I need to know how you got that birthmark. That's what I must find out. I'm sorry I must know this before I accept your case."

"Don't worry Mr McMuffin, we're investigating the same thing. That was what I was hear to find out as well."

And with that McMuffin and Trousers shook hands and walked off to get a coffee to celebrate the beginning of a rather unusual friendship.


[Snakebite McMuffin will return... At some point.]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Snakebite McMuffin

It's late, or at least it's late for you. It's past your bedtime. The room seems more alive in the dark, than in the light. You get up, turn the light on, and then get back into bed and look around. That's the curtains that are swaying, that's the door to your wardrobe that's casting a shadow over your bed from the light above the door. You try and remember it so that when you turn the light off it will all seem normal. You get back up and turn the light off. You jump back to your bed just in case there is something hiding underneath there. It's okay when you get off quickly because then whatever it is as surprised as you are and the lights on. But when you're making your way back the thing will know you need to get back into bed. You jump back in and look around. It's okay now. You can make out what is the curtain, you can make out what is the wardrobe door. It's all okay.

But jumping back onto the bed has had repercussions. They've heard you downstairs. One of them comes up to check on you. You can hear the steps approaching. You close your eyes tight and pull the covers up and try hard to lie really still. One of them, it sounds like dad from the footsteps, comes in. He notices the window is open and goes over and closes it and re-arranges the curtains. He walks over to the wardrobe and closes the door. He murmurs "Goodnight" under his breath, and then walks out of the room.

You sit bolt upright, look around the room, and again everything seems to be moving towards you. It all seems a lot closer than it would in the light. If the window is closed, surely the curtains wouldn't be moving so what is that coming towards you? Something shimmering and hissing coming towards you like a sheet. If the window is closed it can't be the curtains! What is it? You leap out of bed and run towards the light switch hitting it just in time to see… Nothing… There was nothing there. The window just wasn't closed properly, it was just the curtain. You can hear your mother calling up from downstairs. Urging you to go back to bed. But will you turn off the light? You know you're just being silly. But… But… But… You can't help it, tears leak down your face and run salty into your open mouth that's already whimpering and the heat of your cheeks heats your tears and makes your skin tighten. A lump in your throat rises, you know it shouldn't your big and grown up, but it comes and once it reaches your mouth your bawling and all you want is your mother to come and rescue you. From what? From what it doesn't matter, you just want to be reassured, you just want a night light in your room.

Labels: Fiction, Short

Back to me writing for Part 3

[This is part 3 of the 4 part story, Snakebite McMuffin. Before reading part 3 you may want to check out Part 1 and Part 2.]

Snakebite had just mentioned how much he admired Felicity's clothing, but that was simply him skirting round the issue.

"So what can you tell me about this case Miss Trousers?"
"I can't tell you anything about the case until you agree to take it. I know the rules."
"Well I don't, Miss Trousers. I've never met a rule I wouldn't break to break a case wide open. I'm wide open to breaking rules - you could say."
"I'm not sure I could."
"Really? It's just a few words?"
"No I mean, I couldn't say if those words applied to you Mr McMuffin."
"Call me Snakebite."
"Okay, I couldn't say if those words applied to you Snake… No I really prefer Mr McMuffin."
"Please yourself Ma'am."
"Don't call me Ma'am, I'm not a old lady."
"Well don't call me Mr McMuffin. Mr McMuffin was my uncle."
"What was your father?"
"He was Mr McMuffin's brother."
"No, I mean what was he referred to as?"
"'Mr McMuffin's brother', I just told you. His whole life he never once engaged anyone in direct conversation so people just referred to him indirectly."
"What not even your mother?"
"No, she was a deaf, blind, mute, autistic son of a bitch - but I loved her, and so did he - not that he said."
"You had quite an odd childhood."
"By all accounts, so did you Miss Trousers."
"What do you mean by that?"

Snakebite could see she was unsettled by this. Partly because she took a step backwards, but partly because she lost her balance and fell to the floor. Snakebite rushed forwards to help her up, but she was already getting up and they knocked heads.

"Sorry," she said.
"No, it was my fault," said Snakebite.
"I was taken aback."
"Literally."
"Yes, that's why I said it."
"Indeed."
"I just wasn't expecting you to know anything about my childhood."
"Well I told you, your father trusted me."
"But how much? How much did he trust you?"
"Well he let me borrow his 1st edition pressing of the White Album which had been signed by all of the fab four and rather bizarrely Elvis."
"But father never let anyone borrow his 1st edition pressing of the White Album which had been signed by all of the fab four and rather bizarrely Elvis."
"Well he didn't let anyone but me borrow it."
"He must have trusted you."
"Yes. He did."
"And you in turn returned his trust?"
"Well lets just put it this way, I returned his record."

Miss Trousers visibly crumpled at this point. Snakebite knew that if he was going to press forward with this case then he was going to have to iron out some of the details.

"So, Miss Trousers. Your father trusted me. You can trust me. Please. Tell me what is the nature of this case?"
"Well," said Felicity, "it's like this..."

[What is it like? Tune in for the final part on Friday next week (or thereabouts)]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Snakebite McMuffin

I can feel it. The poison. It's cold and sharp and I can feel it slucing around my brain. As the icy liquid curls round the inside of my skull I can feel thoughts being taken away from me. Stolen. Gone. I move my head up and as I do more function escapes. The poison dripping down, edging down to my spine. I open one eye and look at my