“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

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 poisoner. As I look first I see a syringe and a man. But after a second it all becomes shapes. No edges no definition. No memory of what an edge is. No memory at all. For a brief second everything in my head is pure light.

Labels: Fiction, Short

They are lying on the grass. The two of them. Her in a denim skirt, him in tan shorts. They each have a plastic cup, half filled with rapidly warming beer. The odd combination of deep base vibrating you but being unable to hear the melody that you only get at a festival is washing over the whole area. But they are kissing and don't notice.

They roll over each other and giggle. Everything seems possible. They are away from their family away together for the first time. For the first time, they don't feel different than adults. But the adults around them feel different. They look on bored and cynical. As bored and cynical as they usually are, but for a second when they first see the two of them carrying on they think about what they've lost by becoming old. And then they snap back and say something like, "get a room".

The two of them don't notice. They feel adult without feeling like adults and for one day in the sunshine it's the greatest feeling in the world.

Labels: Fiction, Short

Oswald didn't like when people noticed he was different. This was a shame for Oswald because it happened all of the time. Oswald only had one eye and it was smack in the middle of his face. His eye was just above his nose. And people couldn't help but stare when ever they saw him.

He had tried to make friends but even the loser kids all shunned him. He had tried to get good at sports so the other kids would like him and pick him for their teams. But it was hard to practice for team games by yourself and Oswald's depth perception had never been that good.

If he ever tried to be smart in class the other kids just hated him more. There didn't seem to be anything poor Oswald could do.

Then one day Oswald was sitting in his English class. English was his favourite class. In fact English was everyone's favourite class at his school because the English teacher was Miss Greg. Miss Greg was a very very attractive young women. At Oswald's all boys school you just had to be female and have a pulse (pulse optional) to attract attention and yet Miss Greg was genuinely foxy. She was a tall, blonde, willowy and she had a slight eastern european accent that Oswald had never been able to place.

So it was English with Miss Greg. They were all paying minute attention to everything she was doing and saying. But despite paying that much attention they could hardly have noticed the draw string of Miss Greg's dress getting inside the book she was reading to them. And that when she closed the book the string was inside the book. And that when she picked up the book the string was still inside the book. And that when she lifted the book above her head to make a point about something her dress became undone. Suddenly the boys could see everything. Miss Greg realised immediately what had happened, but was so surprised that she didn't immediately cover herself. She just stood there - stunned.

Everyone was slient. Nobody was saying anything. And then Oswald said, "That's a sight for sore eye". And everyone laughed. Even Miss Greg (and then she quickly covered herself). That was the moment that Oswald realised it - if you could make people laugh then they would like you.

Labels: Fiction, Short

He stepped out into the rain and already his hat had begun to be soaked through. He turned back towards the door to lock it. While his hand was returning the key to his pocket it brushed against a packet of cigarettes. It was a difficult choice. He could light it here, but would it go soggy out in the rain. He had no choice, once his hand felt the pack he had to light one. The air was so damp the first two strikes of the match failed to take. He chuckled to himself as the third time lit true, with him it wasn't three strikes and out.

He turned back out into the rain and that's when he saw the cat. It was just sitting there staring back at him. A cat which probably would have looked cute sprawled on the grass in the sunshine, but tonight it looked back at him with those reflective eyes, it looked back at him and it seemed to know something. He wanted to just walk past it, but he froze just staring at it, staring at it staring at him.

The cat got off of his hind legs and started walking towards him. There was a fork in the path, the cat took it. Just as it was about to walk past on the other fork it turned and gave him one last look, and then it walked on.

He stepped forward and then stopped. Water actually sloshed off of his hat and onto his feet. He hadn't meant to stop, not in the rain. But he found that he was suddenly unsure of himself. This deal was too important to miss, if he didn't come through on the deal the consequences would be terrible. But somehow, something made him stop. Stop out there in the rain. He turned back, unlocked the door, and stepped back in. The cat had unnerved him.

Labels: Fiction, Short

Little dead pigeon lying on the ground,
Little dead pigeon while walking I have found,
I can't help feeling that we shouldn't be meeting,
Because even on a little pigeon there's some good eating,
So why are you left abandoned by a cat?
What can I say except cats are like that.
Barstards

Labels: Fiction, Short

Brian was rolling the hair between his fore and index fingers. To an outside observer it may have looked like he was doing this casually. But this was not the case. Brian's life had been ruined by this hair and so it was with great care and attention that Brian examined it.

The hair was long and blonde or rather it had been blonde when it was last attached to Sandra's head. Blonde hair on its own hardly ever looks really blonde it looks like you would think gray hair should look. Or at least it does until you see a gray hair.

Brian had seen his very own first gray hair just six weeks ago. Jennifer had pointed it out to him and had made some kind of joke about it. She'd called him an old man and so on. Brian had laughed along but then while driving to work the next morning he realised that he needed to change his life. He decided that he didn't want to become old he wanted to stay young. It wasn't like he consciously made a decision to trade Jennifer in for a younger model. No it wasn't like that. He had just happened to bump in to Sandra at the coffee machine. Sandra and Brian had flirted like they usually had but this time Brian hadn't stopped as early as he usually would.

They hadn't had sex on the photocopier or anything seedy, much to Brian's disappointment, but they had started meeting for lunch. And then they had started telling their colleagues that they were "going to the gym". It was the perfect cover.

Or it had been. Brian had been greedy though. He had tried to keep Jennifer in the dark. He didn't want to commit to Sandra so he kind of hadn't bothered telling Jennifer about Sandra just in case it didn't work out.

It had worked well until the hair. The hair that got into his underpants. The hair that Jennifer had found. The hair that was definitely not Jennifer's. The hair that Brian was rolling around in his fingers. The hair that he now allowed to drop to the floor. Brian thought as he watched it fall, that the stress of what was about to happen to him would probably mean more gray hair.

Labels: Fiction, Short

It's late. The clattering train. The chattering passengers. The tired faces. The drunken tramp - who smells. The lovers - who should get a room. The bored student listening to his music and leering at the women. And me watching them all. Happy and entertained by them. And always unaware of how they all see me.

Labels: Fiction, Short

A man walks into a bar and says, "Ouch", it was an iron bar.

He goes up to the bar and says, I'll have a "wool setting".

The bartender says, "I can't do that, I'll crease up."

The man says, "is that irony?"

"No," says the bartender, "our barmaid Alanis Morissette, handles that".

"It's Unfortunate".

"Yes," says the bartender, "would you like to order a beverage?"

"No, I'm waiting for my friends the Scotsman and the Irishman."

"Is this some kind of a joke?"

"No. But I'll take some of these peanuts, they look like they would go with my suit."

"Well they are complementary."

"Is that the best you can do?", says the man.

"Well I thought it was excellent," say the peanuts.

"Look, can you move out of the way," says a horse, "I'd really like a drink.

"Okay," says the Englishman, "but why the long face."

"Because I'm a horse", whispers the horse.

"I can hardly hear you," says the bartender."

"Yes, I'm a bit horse. And I've got a frog in my throat."

"Well let him out and see what he wants," says the bartender.

The frog hops out and jumps on the bar and says, "I'm a prince, one kiss from a beautiful maiden and I will return to my true form".

Alanis Morissette, on hearing this quickly grabs the frog and sticks it in her pocket.

"Oh, you seem a bit desperate," whispers the horse.

"Oh no," says Alanis, "just think of all of the money I can make from a talking frog".

"I know, tell me about it, my mate the panda will be along in a moment, I'm only friends with him because he gets all The Cure and Kiss albums at knock down prices."

"Oh he's not coming here is he," wails the barman, "with his big pauses, I hate the way he can never finish a sentence."

"Look, I'm a member of Greenpeace," says the frog, "and I resent you whaling in public. Also I don't see what's so wrong with probation, everyone deserves a second chance."

"Probation," whispers the horse, "did somebody mention probation - don't tell me the eagle is coming tonight, he talks in such convoluted sentences, each of them having such long claws."

"No, he's not coming, the jump leads aren't coming (in case they start something), the fonts aren't coming (we don't serve their type in here) and Shakespeare's not coming - he's bard.", says the bardtender.

"You know who I feel sorry for," says Alanis, "it's the life-timers, the complete drunks who seem to always be here no matter what time of the day or night it is. Like that male rabbit."

"Yes," says the bartender, "the buck stops here. You might feel sorry for him, but what about my regulars when the neutron comes in? I mean with him there's always no charge."

"Are you sure he doesn't have to pay," asks the Englishman?

"Yes," pipes up the positron, "I'm positive".

Just as he's saying this the dog walks in and says, "I think I'll have some water".

"Water, why not a proper drink, is something wrong?" says the bartender.

"Yeah, I'm feeling a bit ruff."

"Anyway," says the Englishman, "my friends don't look like they're coming. So maybe I'll leave."

"You can't go without a drink," says the barman, "why not have one for the road?"

The Englishman says, "no", and tucks his tarmac back in his pocket and adds, "Well I would stay, but this place is a bit of a zoo."

Labels: Fiction, Jokes, Short

Two men are sitting on a bench in the park on an incredibly hot summers day. They are both wearing woollen suits and sunglasses. They even have the kind of hair that screams, "we are secret service operatives doing something dodgy".

There is no sign that of contact between the two of them. The suggestion being that these two people wearing identically inappropriate clothing just happened to sit down next to each other. They have a newspaper sitting between them, the one who didn't put it down will pick it up before walking off. But before any of that can happen a single red balloon goes floating past them both.

They both break they're thousand yard stares they've been practicing and look at it float gently past. The one closest to it jumps out of his seat and goes after it. It's floated a reasonable distance away by the time he's able to catch it. But when he does he doesn't head back to the bench. He just starts walking away.

Suddenly the seated suit jumps up, "Er, Simon, you've forgotten your paper."

"No Jonathan," says the balloon carrying Simon, "it's your turn to take the paper today".

"Oh sorry," says Jonathan, "getting up and taking the paper. It was that balloon, it completely distracted me."

"Yes," says Simon, looking rather quizzically up at the balloon he is holding, "me too".

"Shall we try the museum tomorrow?"

"Fewer balloons"

"And less hot."

Labels: Fiction, Short

He walked in, swaying slightly, he was late. He had said he would be, he always was but he always said. That was something she supposed. At least he always said. He walked across the bedroom and kissed her on the cheek. She stirred and turned to look at him. She hadn't been asleep quite, but she had been dozing. She opened her eyes and that's when she saw it. A single long golden hair on his jacket.

Of course it didn't mean anything. Nothing concrete. It was just a hair. It could have been from anywhere. But it was then. It was in that moment that she knew he had been cheating on her. That he had been doing it for years. All of those meetings, what were they for, how could they all be work related? Now she knew that they weren't that they were simply a cover. He had been having affairs for years. Maybe just one, one affair that had been going on all of this time. No. That would be worse!

She asked, "Had a good evening?"
He answers, "Boring, like usual. You?"
"Yes," she answers, "pretty boring, like usual."
"I'm sorry," he says, "can't be fun stuck in evening after evening while I'm at work. Maybe you should get a hobby."

And it was at that moment that she decided to cheat on him. Maybe it was over between them. It probably was, she thought. But before it was officially over she knew she wanted to have some illicit fun."

Labels: Fiction, Short

The thing about spring,
is not the birds that sing,
or the cows moo-ing,
or the rappers with their bling,
no it's the warmth that makes the ladies show their skin, that's the thing.

Ahem. But of course I mean that with total equal rights being considered. Men may also wear less clothes if they so wish. And it should be that the women are choosing for themselves to wear fewer items (or less sizable coverings) out of their own free choice* because say it is warm rather than because some man made them do it - bastard.

* Not that any one, man or woman, really has any free will in all likelihood.

Labels: Fiction, Short

He pushed the soil through his hands, and then he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. He found, by moving his fingers, the roots within the soil, and grabbed hold of them and started shaking the clump. The mud fell out in giant clods and smashed on the floor. He was making a mess, so he stopped and went to the side wall to get the broom.

He lent against the broom and looked over the whole of his land. It seemed to stretch on for miles. In fact it did. There wasn't another soul for miles around. He was totally alone in this world, because of the way that he had chosen to live. He had chosen to live this way, without anyone. He was thinking this, as he was about to go back to his work. When he was shot dead.

Labels: Fiction, Short

It was dark as Karen left the school. She had been working late, as she always seemed to end up doing at the end of term, and she was very tired. She walked past the giant window of the lunch hall and stopped to look in the window. Or rather to look at herself in the reflection.

"It's night's like these," she said to herself, "that are giving you those bags under your eyes".

She turned away from the lunch hall and carried on walking. The cool breeze, announcing the oncoming winter, swirled along the path and right inside her collar. She gave an involuntary shiver.

The wind was picking up and so Karen picked up her pace too. She started walking more quickly and yet the wind was whistling down the path with such a force that she could hardly hear her own footsteps. Let alone somebody elses.

Up ahead at the end of the path there was a little area between the lights for the path and the lights of the car park where it was totally dark. And on a usual night Karen hated walking through it. She carried a torch in her bag which she usually took out and used to get through the inky blackness. But tonight the wind was so strong and getting stronger that she felt she couldn't simply stop and rummage around in her bag. She had to just plow forwards. She had to. She stopped just for a breath on the edge. Just on the edge she stopped. And then her foot went forward, disappearing into this space. As her foot disappeared she reassured herself one last time, took a breath although it was hard in this wind, and with that she stepped into the black.

black

black

black

black

black

The other side.

She exhaled. She kept running forward though. And as she did it she pulled her keys from her coat pocket and pressed the button for her central locking. She did it early like this every time, even though it allowed for a chance that somebody sneak into her car, but when she got there it looked empty. She got in, locked the doors, gunned the engine, turned on the lights, and turned up the music. She was safe.

Labels: Fiction, Short

He put his hand to his other wrist and held it between his thumb and fingers. He knew his thumb had it's own pulse and this wouldn't be accurate. But he had to do something. He started counting but he soon realised the situation was useless. He couldn't feel anything. No pulse. What did it mean?

He held on for a moment later and suddenly there was something. A beat. He was alive.

Labels: Fiction, Short

Steven recoiled as he read these words on the wall in front of him.

"Life was fun"

Life had been fun for Steven. It was true that life had been fun. But now that wasn't the part that upset him. It was the idea that it could no longer be fun. That life had been fun once but that time was now at an end.

But that was the situation that Steven now found himself in. It wasn't the sign's fault. The sign was merely stating fact. The sign was presumably talking about someone else. And yet it seemed so relevant to him.

Life had used to be fun. People had used to call him Steve. He had used to ride a motorbike. But he couldn't buy one now. Now it would be so middle aged. But what had made people start calling him Steven. That was where the change had come. That was the change and he resented the hell out of it.

Steven was his father's name. Not his. People should know that. But... And yet... He couldn't tell them. He couldn't explain why he wanted to demand to them that they saw him as young. All he could do is hope. Hope and be annoyed.

Labels: Fiction, Short

It had been a way of hiding for so long. A way of fading into the background. And then, and then, something happened. What was it? 9/11? No it had already started before then. Suddenly the beard had started to make him stand out. He had tried to ignore it for a while. In fact he had been so good at ignoring it this was the first time he'd thought about it since the summer of 2000. He used to always think about it in the summer but his level of denial had become so strong that he hadn't even considered it for the last few years.

But now. Now he knew. He had known Jen had hurt him by leaving. He had known that. He had known that it would hurt. But now... Now he was having to consider this. Now he was considering shaving his beard.

He tried his old stalwart in moments of crisis, "This beard is part of who you are, if people wont accept that then you shouldn't accept them".

He listened to the words reverberating around his head. But he knew that while he liked the beard he liked hiding more. And now that the beard was so obvious to people it was time for a change. That, and he fancied a shag.

Labels: Fiction, Short

My fingers tighten around some tiny something. A rock? A ledge? Whatever it is it's stopped me from falling. My legs are dangling I look down at them, trying desperately not to look any further down and I do my legs sway slightly away from the rocks. I try and see some spot they can reach. Some spot I can step on to to lift me up. But there isn't anything. Or at least I can't see anything. The rock seems to curve away from me right under my pelvis.

I try to curl around it. To wrap myself closer to the rock. But no. Nothing. My feet still don't touch anything.

My fingers are feeling... Tired. No not tired they be starting to feel harder like they are set into to rock. But something about this change also seems to have made them feel very brittle.

I try to swing my legs closer to the rock one last time. And suddenly around my ankles I feel something holding on to them. Something is holding on to them both. And just then I feel a yank. Whatever it is is trying to pull me off the mountain by my ankles. My brittle fingers almost can't take it anymore. Yank.

I spin through the air pivoting on my ankles which are being held tight. And suddenly I'm approaching the rock face again this time upside down, and this time at a fairly alarming speed. It was around this point that I fell unconcious.

Labels: Fiction, Short

She sat down by the river and started to comb her hair. Her hair was starting to get really long now. But she knew Bri liked it long. She was never exactly sure what it was that he liked about it but he said it from time to time.

Bri was so very organised that one time she had, after he'd complimented her on her hair getting longer, begun to wonder if he had put a reminder in his calendar to compliment her. That maybe he had been worried when they had first gone out to find a girlfriend who didn't get her hair cut and decided to do something to compensate for the fact that he wouldn't be able to compliment her after she had a hair cut. But then she remembered that men don't do that. It was much more likely to be the way her hair was straight all of the way down but then at the bottom curled around her breasts when they were having sex. That sounded much more likely.

She wondered what would happen if her mother could have seen her. Her mother had always made her keep her hair short as a girl which was almost certainly why she didn't now. Even though it was quite warm she felt a sudden slight imaginary draft as she thought about her mother and as she looked over the river everything looked suddenly like she was looking at it through sun glasses.

But she shook her head and gave a very slight breathy laugh. Her mother would have been very cross to think of her sitting there mourning on such a wonderful day. She would have been even more cross about that than the hair.

As she thought about it she realised it was her mother's death that had made her stop needing to cut her hair the last time she had had her hair cut was for the funeral. Having your hair cut for a funeral seems such a strange thing but she had known at the time that that was what her mother would have wanted.

But since then it wasn't just her hair that had grown. And now she knew that her mother was just rotting in a box not some angel in heaven. And the one thing that she had taught her above all else was to enjoy herself and not to sit around mopeing. And also she'd taught her to cut her hair.

And with that she got up and walked into town to get a hair cut. And you never know, she thought, maybe she'd finally find out what Bri really thought about her hair.

Labels: Fiction, Short