[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

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

[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

[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

[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

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

[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

[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

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

[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

[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

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

[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

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

In a surprise twist, Part 2 of this story has been written by Nick. I hope to get a third outsider to write part 3. If you fancy giving it a go, then either drop me an e-mail or leave me a comment on this post. In exchange for Nick writing part 2 of this, I will be writing a post for Nick's Stranded Cinema which should hopefully be appearing today and tomorrow, I'll post the link in the comments here. But for now, on with the story.

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

‘Oh, your father trusted me, Miss Trousers. But that’s exactly why he never hired me. If you trust someone, it makes you vulnerable.’

Snakebite could see he now held the upper-hand, although neither of them were playing cards. She didn’t know the true nature of his relationship with her father, the old bastard. Perhaps it would be better to keep that to himself. After all, where had she come from? Trouser had never mentioned her to Snakebite before, only that she went to school ‘out of town’, and there were rumours she wasn’t even his daughter.

‘Even so, Mr McMuffin, he never hired you. But I want to. Will you take the case?’

He paused, and reached towards the draw where he knew his bottle was waiting for him. But no, that could wait. He needed a clear head. And besides, if he had a drop, he’d have to offer her one. His stuff was too hard to get hold of to go dishing it out to some dame, even if she was heir to the Trouser millions.

‘What does the case involve?’

She frowned and shook her head, taking her gloves off and sitting seductively on the corner of the desk in front of him.

‘Now, detective, I read on your door the motto of this agency: No questions. Only answers.’

‘With so much money involved, someone’s gonna ask questions. It might as well be me. If I so much as smell a suit, I’m not interested.’

‘Trust me, there’ll be no lawyers involved. Now, will you take it?’

She reached her hand out across the desk to be shook, confirming the deal. Snakebite let her hang it there for as long as possible. He looked her in the eyes. Damn she had pretty eyes, just like her mother. He turned away and stared at the clock on the wall. It had stopped ticking a long time ago, almost three years now. The glass was cracked. The small hand was on 5 and the long hand rested just after 8. Her hand was starting to waver, somewhere between 3 and 4. He took it in his gently.

‘I’m not interested.’

She withdrew her hand sharply.

‘Now I’d heard you were eccentric, Mr McMuffin. But this case, I don’t need to remind you, could help you pay off a lot of your debts.’

‘I don’t have money problems’ he said, smiling to himself ‘just a lot of friends who always make me buy the drinks’.

‘Then perhaps I can interest you in something else.’ She leant over the desk, arching her back, and whispered sensually in his ear: ‘Something your friends can’t give you.’

A bead of sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes. He blinked, but remained still. It was hot. He really should get the air-conditioning fixed in his office. ‘What air-conditioning?’ his secretary had asked on her first day there. ‘The windows’ he replied.

‘I’m still not interested. The stakes are too high, and I don’t have a ladder.’

She frowned and moved away, slowly stood up, straightened her skirt and turned her back to him.

‘Very well, detective. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.’

Snakebite knew what was coming. He slowly reached his hand out to the draw on the other side of his desk and began pulling it open.

‘I thought you’d be more intelligent’ she said, opening her handbag and taking something slowly out of it. ‘I’m disappointed in you.’ She turned back suddenly, and Snakebite found himself staring at the barrel of a gun. ‘Now, will you take my case?’ she asked. ‘Or will you take a bullet?’

Snakebite took a deep breath. He had his draw fully open by now but didn’t want to make any sudden moves and startle her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the shadow of a large man outside his door. He heard a car pull up on the street below. He looked her up and down. She had a great figure, and her clothes accentuated it perfectly.

He said, slowly, staring her in the eyes: ‘That’s a nice skirt, Miss Trousers.’

[What will Snakebite do? Will she shoot him? What’s he got in his desk? Who’s outside his door? And can he fix the air-conditioning in his office?]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Snakebite McMuffin

Snakebite McMuffin leaned back on his creaking office chair and tried to think. This had been a complicated case, it was one where it paid to consider all of the angles. With a moments trepidation he wrote down 19.7 degrees. There, he had solved it. There was the proof.

It was with that word, "proof", hanging in his mind that he turned his mind to another kind of proof. One that was lurking in his bottom drawer. One that was significantly stronger than 19.7 degrees proof. He slid the drawer open and reached inside. His he drifted his hand forward until his knuckles gently tapped on the bottle. It was, he always felt, like he was knocking to be let in. He turned his hand and grasped the bottle fully. The cold of the bottle searing into his sweaty palm. He had only just started to pull the bottle towards him when...

BBLLLEEEEEEP!

He let go of the bottle and slammed the drawer shut. He did it a little too hard and then had to open the drawer again, pick up the bottle, right it, and then carefully close the drawer. He had just done this when...

BBBLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP

Snakebite hit the intercom switch with his fist and shouted, "YeahWhaddaYaWant".

"Dame here to see you".

"Okay. Send her in."

A woman here? In the office? He couldn't believe it. He looked around at the mess of pizza boxes and chinese takeout cartons and shrugged. If she wanted to hire him she had to accept that he was going to have to go on a lot of stake-outs. His secretary had at first complained about how she didn't think he really needed to bring all of the boxes back with him. But he'd explained how it helped with keeping expenses in order.

But just as he looked up to the door in readiness for her arrival, whoever she was, he saw a pile of personal photos relating to another case on the other side of the desk. Old Snakebite may have been a slob but he wasn't sloppy. He could not afford for her to see those photos. He leapt up from his chair and ran round the desk. The movement of air that this created blew the photos off the pile and right onto the floor. He was still scrabbling around down there when the door opened and she stepped in.

From where he was kneeling the first thing he noticed was her dark red heels and then as he looked up there were her legs which seemed to go on for miles and miles or at least for a good number of feet.

Snakebite picked himself off of the ground and as he raised himself he appraised the woman opposite him. She was wearing a deep red skirt and matching jacket, a cream dress shirt, blonde hair and lips that seemed to say, "Snakebite McMuffin I presume".

"What?" asked Snakebite.

"You are Mr McMuffin aren't you?"

"Yes, yes, sorry yes," he replied as he wiped his hand on his shirt and proffered it for shaking.

The lady, initially and almost instinctively had started to offer her hand so she could shake the one that was being swung her way. But then she noticed the stain that Snakebite's hand had left on his shirt and she withdrew it.

Snakebite decided that a different tack was in order so he straightened himself up and ambled back towards his side of the desk. As he walked he said, "I see you know my name, but I'm afraid I don't know yours. Ms…?"



"Miss Trousers. Miss Felicity Trousers".

"Felicity Trousers," Snakebite repeated looking and sounding a little surprised, "as in Felicity Trousers, heiress to the Trouser Millions?".

"Yes," she looked at him sternly, "that Felicity Trousers. You look a little surprised, detective."

"Well yes I," he paused clearly weighing up the right way of phrasing something, "well yes I suppose I am. It's just that your old bastard of a father, no offence, didn't tend to farm out any jobs to me. He always used the big boys uptown."

"What Pry, Vate and Dick?"

"Yeah that outfit."

"He certainly did. But I need to use somebody else Mr McMuffin. I surely do. I need somebody my father never dealt with, somebody my father never trusted. Are you that man?"

[What would Snakebite do? Would he take the case? Tune in next week to find out (hint: yes he does take the case)]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Snakebite McMuffin

[This is the final part of the 4 part story Scorching. If you're interested in that kind of thing then you may want to check out parts one, two and three before you read this.]

Steven put down his beer and turned himself over onto his back. He knew that he was supposed to towel off the sweat when you turn over. But he couldn't be bothered today. Apparently it meant you got an uneven tan. But he couldn't be bothered today. Today he didn't have time for it, he was playing catch-up.

He'd had to spend all morning with the police telling them what had happened. He'd told them the truth. All of the truth. And they'd believed him. They had even understood why he hadn't come straight to them. They too were men. They too had often thought, when they saw x x x that they would do anything to know her. He had had to spend the day, and the night with her. He made promise after promise to her while they ate, drank and made love. And yet there was no way he was not going to tell the police about the dead body in the master bedroom.

Steven turned slightly onto his side so that he could drink some more of his beer. The slightest breeze caught his chest and made a shiver run down his back. He was transported in his mind back to England. Cold rainy England. He didn't want to go back there.

He wasn't sure what to tell people. The real reason sounded like a laddish lie and so he thought about telling people that the reason he turned Gloria in was because he feared having to go back to England. That he feared being deported.

He thought it sounded better than the truth. That it sounded more reasonable than the reality. The real reason he had turned her in is that despite many attempts to improve things, almost all of the previous day and night had been spent trying. Gloria was singularly crap in bed.

Steven lay back down on the sun lounger and used the chair in exactly the way that the name suggested, he lounged in the sun.

He couldn't shake one thought from his mind, "and people thought I was going to grow up".

Labels: Fiction, Long, Scorching

[This is part 3 of the 4 part story Scorching. If you're interested in that kind of thing then you may want to check out parts one and two before you read this. Or of course you may not.]

Steven didn't know what to do. He turned around a few times hoping that by the time he turned back the guy would suddenly be alive. He decided to stop being silly and besides he was getting dizzy. So he stopped and looked properly. There didn't seem to be anything obviously wrong with him other than the obviously uncomfortable angle in which he was lying and the fact that his eyes had rolled back in his head. It looked to Steven's untrained eye like he'd had a heart attack. Well the sex had sounded pretty amazing. Just as he was trying to decide if that would be the way that he wanted to go he heard a noise on the stairs.

"Gloria, don't come in here a second."

The steps stopped coming for a second and then they started again. "Steven?"
She walked round the corner, saw what had happened and then fell on the floor. She looked back up at Steven from all fours. Steven suddenly realised she'd gone into a kind of attack style crouch.

"What," she snarled, "did you do to him"?

"Nothing. I was going to ask you the same question. He must have died just after you left the room."

"Oh," she said looking instantly more relaxed, "really"?

"Of course. Why would I want to kill him anyway? I don't even know who he is."

"Yes but maybe you thought you would have to kill him to sleep with me?"

"I don't think so. I'm sorry, you're lovely and everything but to kill for? Well possibly, but I'm not sure this guy was ever going to find out about us. That certainly wasn't my plan."

"What shall we do? Hide the body?"

"Why? We didn't do anything. We should just phone the police, explain what happened and everything will be fine. I promise."

"No we can't phone the police. We can't."

"But," said Steven, "if we just tell them the truth then nothing will go wrong, nobody did anything."

"No," she said, "I think I might have killed him."

"You can't have."

"No, I think I did."

"But you'll go to prison."

"I can't I can't."

"But I can't lie to the police."

"You have to, you must. I… I… I'll sleep with you if you will."

That was Steven's dilemma. He knew that she was the woman, out of all of the women that he'd ever met in his life that he most wanted to sleep with. She was the one. She was so beautiful. So young, fresh and pure - or at least she seemed that way. He thought to himself, I don't care if she she's killed somebody. Why should I care - he thought. And then he thought about himself, he thought about himself, and decided that this was certainly a risky situation.

[Will Steven sleep with her, or will he report her to the police? Let me know and I'll write it! Or at the very least tune in next Friday for the hopefully dramatic conclusion.]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Scorching

[This is part 2 of the 4 part story Scorching. If you haven't you may want to read part one first. I would usually include a link at this point but I'm sending this from a train somewhere in Sussex. Part 1 was published last Friday, you should be able to find it somewhere.]

Steven blinked his eyes open and closed, and open and then closed again. He couldn't tell the difference. It was really dark. Dark and quiet. It was so quiet that Steven could hear his eyelids opening and closing. Forget pins dropping it had to be really quiet before you could hear stuff like that.

Steven had been lying on his left arm for quite a while. First it had fallen asleep, then it had done that gentle tickleish pins and needles thing. About half an hour ago there had been massive amounts of shooting pain up and down it. And eventually that had stopped too. Now it just felt dead.

But through all of that time he hadn't dared move because, well Steven had not been alone in the room. Steven had been lying under the bed in which the woman he desired and the guy who currently seemed to be ringing her bell had been hard at it. He'd felt safe to move while they had been distracted but he had been right in the middle of rearranging himself when they had finished. After that they had just lain there cuddling quietly. But eventually they had got up and gone. Or rather that was the thing. Steven could have sworn that only she had left but he couldn't hear any breathing but his own. He decided to risk it. He moved his arm. Or rather he tried to but it wouldn't move. Steven rolled over, which isn't easy under a bed and then used his other arm to shake the dead one. Warm blood rushed back into his arm and the pain returned. It felt like there were little pieces of glass in his veins. As the pain rushed through him he asked himself the fundamental question, "was she worth it"? To which the answer was still yes. In fact she was more intriguing now than before.

From the moment that he'd woken that morning he had known today was the day. He'd risen, dressed and walked straight over to her villa. He'd knocked on the door and they'd started talking. She seemed interesting and interested. And so Steven had invited her out for breakfast. But she had given the perfect response. She'd invited him in for breakfast.

It was while they were toasting the bagels that this other guy had arrived. She had told him to hide which seemed promising to Steven. He had thought to himself as he was legging it up the stairs that she was only getting him to hide because she wanted to have sex with him.

So Steven had gone and hidden under the bed of what had seemed like the spare room. But of course that was the room they had decided to use.

His arm felt just about useable. He listened again. Still silence. He decided to risk it. He slid himself out from under the bed and stood up. He have a quick glance back to the bed just to be sure. And that's when he realised that there had been something else dead. The guy in the bed.

[Check back next Friday for part 3]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Scorching

Steven lay on a slab of boiling hot concrete. He was wearing only his shorts and a damp towel on his forehead. He had never thought that he would have picked the concrete to lay on but the deck chair was made of plastic and it had started to feel like it was melting. He didn't mind sun burn but he didn't want plastic burn.

He moved his hand to the side and found without looking his beer. It was floating in a bucket of ice. He pulled the stopper out and then took a pull of the beer. It felt cold along the length of his body for a few glorious seconds. And then he put the stopper back and gently dropped the bottle back into the bucket.

They'd all taken the piss out of him when he'd first suggested the stopper. But now they were all doing it. It was the only way to keep the beer afloat in the bucket of ice. They'd all been coming here for years. In fact they'd never even been able to use a bucket of ice because the bottles would so easily turn over once open. But Steven had changed all of that.

Life had changed for them all since Steven had blown in. For Steven it was a change from life back in dreary old England. For everyone else it was a reminder that they had all come out to Spain to finally enjoy their lives and not just to die. Steven drank more than everyone else, had more sex than everyone else and caught more sun than everyone else. But more than anything else he thought more than anyone else and that was what had made him a sudden celebrity. And truth be told what had got him the sex.

But despite outward appearance the contrary Steven was not satisfied. Steven was hungry for more. Steven had a single secret in his life. A secret that he never told anyone. Steven had never, in his whole life, ever been satisfied. And that was the thing that made him want more than everyone else. And when he saw something, like he had seen her across the bar the night before nothing would stand in his way. Nothing.

He would have to have her.

[This is part one of a 4 part series, part 2 will be next Friday.]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Scorching

[This is part 4 of the 4 part short story Rooting Around, you may want to read Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 if you haven't already]

Somehow Sean had expected something to happen from just touching the box. Like it would innately be able to read his desire and take him where he wanted to go to. In fact nothing had happened when he had touched the corner of the box other than he'd realised that the box was made of cardboard rather than wood as it had seemed in the half light of the attic.

He saw that some tape was holding down the flaps on the top of the box, and he started to pull it back towards him. His knees felt very uncomfortable in this position so he sat back down to help him, but kept - very slowly - pulling the tape towards him. Sitting back down made some of the blood rush back to his head. With this he realised that actually he was quite drunk. Was he ready to meet his previous self and explain to him how he should change his life?

And maybe it wasn't such a good idea anyway? Suddenly Sean wasn't so sure he wanted to go through with it. He would have to stop being himself to win Jen, and he wasn't sure that he was totally ready to do that. Sean quite liked being Sean, he wasn't sure he didn't like being Sean more than he liked Jen at this point.

And anway, surely he didn't have to travel through time immediately. That's one of the beauties of time travel, you've always got a chance to do it again if it didn't work out the first time. Maybe he'd have a coffee first and sober up? And maybe a shower wouldn't be the worst of ideas?

The only downside to this plan was the exit to the attic. The arrangement of the attic was such that the light switch was not within reach of the ladder. But, he thought, he'd be back up here in a little bit, maybe he'd just leave the light on when he went down this time.

As he stepped down the ladder the full force of daylight re-entered his eyes. And he found himself blinking more than normally. Everything looked so normal. Up there everything had seemed so surreal. It was like coming of a movie theatre after seing a film during the day.

He walked down stairs and walked into the kitchen. Oddly he couldn't find any coffee in the cupboard, actually there wasn't anything in the cupboard which he was sure wasn't right. He walked into the living room, and realised that there was completely different furniture in there.

"Hello," said a voice from an armchair that Sean didn't own, it was the old man who Sean had bought the house from, "having fun travelling through time?"

Labels: Fiction, Long, Rooting

[This is part 3 of the 4 part short story Rooting Around, you may want to read Part 1 and Part 2 if you haven't already]

Sean was fully awake now, looking at this box. Could it actually be true? A time machine? It seemed so far fetched. He suddenly realised he'd just been sitting there staring at it. He tore his gaze away from the box for a second. He tried to digest what it could really be, or even if it was real. He looked back, it was still there. He was so unsure of what it could be that he wasn't even sure that it would still be there when he looked back. But it was. The cold reality of the situation was that the box was still there tempting him. Still there reaching out towards him. Calling him to use it. But should he?

When would he go back to? That question almost seemed impossible to consider. It almost wasn't worth a question, the answer was so obvious. He would have to go back to that night - the night that he took Jen to the party. Could he just stop her from meeting his boss? He'd surely be able to convince himself to not go. He could remember how nervous he'd been to go to the party in the first case, so surely it would be easy to convince himself that his worry was founded.

But what would happen if he didn't take Jen to the party? Sean suddenly realised that the only reason he'd decided to go to the party in the first place was as a last ditch attempt to keep Jen. So maybe it wouldn't save Jen. Or at least he'd have to come up with something else really brilliant. But what could he do. Anything he thought of instantly gave Jen the chance to hook up with somebody else. Maybe the problem had come earlier in the relationship?

Perhaps he should go back to earlier and convince himself to be more considerate earlier. Maybe if he went back to the very beginning then he could make things better. Make things right for Jen right from the very start.

So it was decided. He would go back, maybe an hour before he met Jen, and tell himself what he needed to do differently. And with that decided, he got up onto his knees and shuffled forwards and touched the box.

[Tune in for the final part next Friday (or Saturday, sorry about the delay on these everyone)]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Rooting

[This is part 2 of the 4 part short story Rooting Around, you may want to read Part 1 if you haven't already]

Sean dragged himself up through the hatch and into the attic. He stood up and found the light switch. He'd only been up here once before, but he'd already worked out that it was a really stupid idea of whoever it was to put the light switch up so high that you couldn't reach it from the ladder. It was bad enough coming up the ladder, but going back down in the dark was particularly hair-raising.

What this room needed was a particularly good clean. That's what Sean would have done if he was keeping any of this stuff, but this stuff was all going to be loaded into the back of Sean's car and taken to the dump. He'd get all of the stuff out and then he could work out how to clean this space. He turned around slowly trying to take in the sheer amount of stuff that was here. How many trips to the dump would it take? 10? 20? Far too many was what he decided.

He looked at the floor and realised that it was completely covered in dust and grime. He shifted one pile of boxes to one of the clear spaces and saw, as he had hoped, that the floor under the boxes was relatively clean. He climbed over some of the boxes and sat in the clean space he had made. It was like he was in the kind of fort that he used to build as a child. It felt relatively safe and reassuring. Since he'd moved into the house he'd never really seemed to be able to fill it enough. He'd always thought that this sensation wasn't really anything to do with the amount of stuff that had turned out to be Jen's so he hadn't been able to take with him, and that it was more about there not being another person there. The silence of somewhere empty is deafening. It's partly the way they aren't speaking but it's partly the way that you know as you return home each time that everything will be in exactly the same place as you left it. When he was living with Jen he had resented the fact that she kept moving everything, now he knew that he missed it.

But maybe there was more to the amount of stuff side of things. There were, after all, some rather strange spots in some of the rooms downstairs. There was an empty room that really looked like there should be a dining table in it. And in the living room the fact that there was only a tv and a single-seater arm chair certainly hinted at being alone. But, Sean thought as he settled in up here between the boxes, here for the first time he felt safe.

The light from the florescent bulb was creating a shaft of light that fell just a few feet in front of Sean, and as he looked through it he could see all of the dust particles dancing through it. He watched them fly in every direction and it was very peaceful. Something truly distracting. He let out a giant sigh as he slightly decompressed, letting go of a very small part of the stress that he'd been carrying in between his shoulder blades for the past few months. As he exhaled all of the particles of dust sped up, and moved in different directions. And he watched as they slowly came back to their normal non-interrupted pattern and fell again as they had before he had disturbed them. He was very tired, he hadn't been sleeping well at all, and now as he looked at all of this around him he started to feel very sleepy. His eyes slightly lost their focus, but then something suddenly snapped them back, and he was suddenly wide awake.

Just beyond the shaft of light, the box just beyond it, had written on the side of it, in professionally printed lettering - "Time Machine".

[Tune in for Part 3 next Friday.]

Labels: Fiction, Long, Rooting