Scribblings of M E Lucas

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – March 28, 2014

Theme / Genre: Poker Winner

Include: Vestibule, Gracile and Chiffonade.

Words: 970

Science Games

It wasn’t the most obvious place for a game of poker, but the vestibule of the Science Building was as good as any. With its ornate woodwork panelling, inlaid marble floor depicting the planets of the solar system and a sparkling cut-glass chandelier, it was every part a room for an occasion such as it was.

Grant Thistlery-Jones versus Benjamin Blatchingford-Brown the only players left from a table of eight science students. Grant, the Biology brain, against Benjamin the Physicist. Arch-rivals in the halls of St James’s, both had high hopes and a large stake to lose—most of which sat in front of Thistlery-Jones.

Benjamin Blatchingford-Brown, the B-Man, had an idea in his head, he knew Grant Thistlery-Jones, Thistles, had cheated, but couldn’t prove it—sat at the opposite end of the table, he had no evidence.

This was likely to be the last hand—Thistles had just knocked-out Clive Anderson-Parker, who everyone thought was a dead cert to win—and now ninety percent of the pot was stacked in front of him. B-Man knew it would be an “all in” hand for him, he just hoped he had something; he needed the deal of the night.

A handful of expectant observers jostled around the edges of the vestibule, money exchanged hands on side bets, tension grew.

‘This is thirsty work,’ the B-Man said out loud, halting the muffled voices. ‘Shall we adjourn for a beer?’

‘What’s the matter, Benjamin, old man? Feeling the pressure are we?’ Thistles rose to his opponent’s plan. ‘Don’t worry I won’t prolong your agony for too long.’

B-Man smiled, he succeeded in distracting his adversary. The next part, would be more difficult.

‘Well, I need another drink,’ he looked over to his girlfriend. ‘Jills?’

Jilly Summerton-Blanche stepped up to the table and B-Man indicated her to bend down so he could whisper in her ear, one eye on Thistles—and sure enough both of his eyes were on Jilly’s short skirt and curved rear. He whispered his instructions. Jilly stood, faced Thistles, and winked. B-Man ignored them both and looked to the dealer.

‘Let’s get the game going, Mr Dealer,’ B-Man said to Patrick Smythe-Fitzgibbons.

Jilly looked into Thistles eyes. He could not keep his eyes off her gracile body, as she seductively sauntered passed.

The dealer began to shuffle the cards, he too observed Jilly and her provocative steps. His shuffling became unfocused and erratic, he continued applying pressure, unexpectedly cards bent and flew up from his hands, Thistles attention was distracted.

‘Jesus, Pat, you buffoon,’ he blurted out. ‘This is Texas Hold ‘em, not a cookery lesson. The cards need a shuffle not a chiffonade. Here use these.’

Thistles friends chortled to themselves, Thistles threw over a new pack of cards. B-Man approved, at least a new deck would level the playing field, although they could be marked. The remainder of the audience made no sound, Thistlery-Jones was not the most popular student.

Smythe-Fitzgibbons opened the new pack, embarrassed by the whole episode, and shuffled with more concentration.

The game proceed in an orderly fashion, bets were placed and cards selected. Thistles sat smugly. B-Man knew that wasn’t his tell, as he was always smug, although perhaps a little more smuglier than usual.

With the flop, the turn, and the river all played, B-Man looked at his cards again, he could add a Ten to his two, which made three; not a bad hand. The other cards: Ace of Diamonds, Four of Hearts, Nine of Spades and the Queen of Clubs, didn’t seem to add up to anything, so what did Thistles have to make him so smug; three Queens perhaps.

The next phase of B-Man’s plan: Jilly arrived with beer.

‘Hear we go, boys,’ she said with an oh-so-sexy voice. ‘Benjamin first!’

Jilly cranked open a bottle with an opener that hang from her necklace and gave B-Man his beer, her look confirmed she understood her role in the gambit. She bounced towards Thistles, her face smiled in his direction, his eyes stayed on her. With beer bottle held against her t-shirt and between her breasts, she pried the lid off with the necklace opener, beer bubbled from the neck and she winked at him. Like melted cheese on toast he oozed all over her. She placed the bottle down in front of him, allowing ample view of her cleavage, his face had gone to heaven.

The master stroke. With Thistles interest firmly on the exhibition, Jilly turned away and dropped the bottle top. It tapped its may over the marble and spun to a stop a few steps away, she followed and bent to retrieve it. Whilst collecting the beers Jilly had removed her underwear, her short skirt rode up over her naked buttocks revealing, to the delight of the select male audience and Thistles galloping imagination, everything.

Thistles couldn’t contain himself.

‘Well, I never imagined I’d see such a fine vestibule specimen, within the Science Building vestibule,’ he joked. And probably wished he hadn’t uttered it so loud.

The B-Man cared not for his rivals biological references, all he was interested in were the cards and as Jilly bent lower, so did Thistles; he revealed two Nines, result.

B-Man coughed. Jilly changed from sex kitten to right-on feminist.

‘How dare you!’ she shrieked, and slapped Thistles across his bristles, which by the stunned look on his face, took him quite by surprise. B-Man made his move to wipe the smugness away.

‘All in!’ he calmly said.

‘What!’ Thistles said, still in a mixed state of arousal and shock. ‘Yes, great, all in!’

Benjamin Blatchingford-Brown smiled.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – March 21, 2014

Theme / Genre: Spam!

Include: –

Words: 998

Pleading with the Spammers

Depressed I check my email again. There is always hope. Hope that someone will offer me a job, hope a long-lost relative has died and left me a tidy sum, hope that my numbers come up. Always hope.

So, fifteen minutes on the PC, then the electric goes off; I need to save money. No matter how hard I try, how much I don’t spend, how little I eat, how little I have, it’s always too much to afford. I rub my hands together to warm up my fingers, as the PC sparks into life. It’s cold with no heating. Sticking hands up my top into my armpits I feel instant warmth, I hold them there until the login screen appears.

If that lottery cheque comes in I will be able to upgrade this machine, it is so slow. Slower than paint drying, the hard drive slows to a less audible whirring and I know I can take my hands from my armpits.

It’s not long and I’m searching new emails, junk emails, from pizza deals, insurance offers to problems with bank accounts that I don’t have and erection pills I don’t need—it’s too bloody cold in here I don’t think even they would work. Subject:

John Gregory Misslethrope II

More spam, a quick read to cheer myself up with the ridiculous claims and spelling.

Dear Sir

I am Patrick Sharp from at, Messers Clark, Parker and Lupinsky, affording you great exitement on a financial requisition that has been issued to you, as sole named receiver, by the Internatinal Monetary Fund (IMF) and jointly Bank Of England (BOE)…

‘What shite is this, “sole named receiver” what does that actually mean,’ I shout loudly at my computer screen. ‘If I am, how come they don’t know my name?’

This type of email really winds me up.

…Your name has been passed to us by the Internatinal Monetary Fund (IMF) as next of kin to John Gregory Misslethrope II and the beneficiary of $620.00,000 dollars US…

Typical, as clear as stewed tea. What kind of sum is that, millions, or thousands, or $620? At least they are consistently bad at spelling International.

‘And I’ve never heard of John Gregory Missaltoss the second!’ my voice raised again, I should calm down, but it’s hard; scammers are complete muppets.

…As chief CEO of Tiger Oil Systems Ltd Mr Misslethrope has no surviving relatives and an Internatinal search…

‘Inter-bloody-national, you muppets!’

…has found you as sole benefits. Please forward the following information to enable us to send you correct documentasions. To PSharpCPL@gmail.com

Name

Address

Phone

Bank details

DOB

‘Really, a proper email for Clark, Parker and whatever, do you think I’m nuts?’ I really should stop shouting. I bet it doesn’t even match the address it came from. I check and realise the tosspots have cc’d not bcc’d and I open up a list of what must be thousands and thousands of addresses on an illegal email list.

‘Knobs! You can’t even do that right.’

I have a stupid idea. I hit Reply All.

Dear Tossbag in charge of deception at Messers Clutz, Pratt and Lipsyncy.

I’ve no intention of sending information you require, as I believe it a complete and utter scam, preying on the not so well off, fragile, vulnerable, and/or out of work people; of which I pretty much fit the bill.

We all know when I send my info, you’ll dance around with joy and be really chummy with your illiterate emails and then you’ll apologise profusely, if you could spell it, and ask me for a small transaction fee (actually large, but small in comparison to the money I will ‘allegedly’ receive) to cover costs that unfortunately can’t be taken from the beneficiary money for legal reasons, which I will gullibly pay. You will then disappear with mine and other likeminded people’s money, never to be seen again.

If I could, I’d squeeze myself down the internet cable, jump out your PC and slap you around the head with your keyboard, you absolute muppet.

I’m Peter Grant and as far as I know, and I’ve checked my ancestry, there is no chance whatsoever that I’m related to John Gregory Missletwat the second, first or any other number for that matter.

You are incoherent and inconsistent, so here’s what I think we’ll do. You keep your “$620.00,000” and I’ll ask for $620 to cover my electric bill before I’m cut-off and for the time that you’ve pissed me about and got my hopes up that some money will actually come my way—Bank details below—for all I know you might feel some pity and pay me something. The account is hellishly overdrawn by the way and no way on this planet my bank will give you anything, so don’t be clever, they’ll know you’re not me.

This has been very therapeutic, thanks for that, but I must go now, before my electric’s cut-off.

Yours PG

Send!

A week later.

If I’m lucky I’ve ten minutes before I’m disconnected by my ISP. Just time to check emails for the last time.

I’m speechless, there’s hundreds, I mean literally and I don’t use the word incorrectly, I mean literally. All titled ‘Re: Re: John Gregory Misslethrope II’.

I read one, then another, tears are filling my eyes and a smile is strengthening my face, they all follow a similar pattern:

Dear Peter

Thanks for your email, and so very thanks for the details therein.

If it wasn’t for you I would have parted with a large amount of money and paid these heartless tricksters, I therefore have transferred a small sum to your account as noted and hope it helps with your money troubles.

Good luck!

TG

Oh, I’m ahead of you, I’m logged in to my bank account already, whilst you were reading that, and OMG I can safely say that was the most beneficial email I have ever written.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – March 14, 2014

Theme / Genre: Result!

Include: –

Words: 355

Balls!

‘First out, number fourteen. It’s seventy-third outing and the number of millions raised for good causes, so far this year.’

Malcolm’s ears perked up, fourteen: one of his numbers. He pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, so he could focus on the screen.

‘Number thirty-four!’

Interesting, Malcolm thought.

Linda paid no attention and continued playing on her ipad.

‘Four!’

Three numbers, that could be at least a tenner, Malcolm’s interest grew as he watched the brightly coloured machine called Guinevere, as it whirled away all the lottery balls.

‘Fourth ball in tonight’s draw is forty.’

‘Blimey!’ Malcolm said under his breath.

‘Huh!’ Linda grunted, eyes firmly fixed on her tablet.

‘Tonight’s fifth number is…twenty-four.’

‘Oh, my giddy—’ Malcolm didn’t know what prize was attached to five numbers, twenty, thirty grand maybe.

‘What’s that love?’ Linda still didn’t look up.

Malcolm sat on the edge of his seat, pulled out his handkerchief from his pocket and patted his perspiring forehead. Linda looked up hearing his long sighing breath.

‘Are you okay, Malcolm, darling?’

‘Shhh!’ he silenced.

‘Tonight’s last number is…’

‘Malcolm you look a bit red, are you okay?’

‘Shhh!’ he silenced, with a little more frustration and anger mixed in.

‘…forty-four!’

‘Oh, that’s one of your numbers isn’t it?’ Linda said, hearing the television at last.

Malcolm stared blankly at the screen, red-faced, dripping with perspiration.

‘Are you sure you’re okay darling?’

He still said nothing add the voice called out tonight’s bonus number; it was irrelevant to him, he had all six numbers.

‘Tonight’s Lottery numbers in ascending order: four, fourteen, twenty-four, thirty-four, forty and forty-four…’

‘Aren’t they your numbers, Malcolm?’

‘Umm!’ Malcolm could barely move.

‘Good Lord, Malcolm, they are your numbers.’

Still no movement, except for a tear that ran down his cheek. Followed by another, it slowly zigzagged down his wrinkled skin.

‘We’ve won the lottery!’ she said.

‘No we haven’t,’ he said finally.

‘But they’re your numbers, the numbers you’ve been doing for the last twenty years, every Saturday since 1994.’

‘I forgot to bloody do them!’

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – March 7, 2014

Theme / Genre: Make ’em Laugh!

Include: –

Words: 1,000

Mrs Doubtfire

‘I’m not wearing that,’ Gareth said.

‘You have to, they’ve asked for appropriate clothing,’ Shelley said.

‘That’s ridiculous I’ll look a right tw—‘

‘Do you want the part or not?’

‘Yes, but it’s only an audition for a small production company.’

‘A famous production company!’

‘Yes, but…’

‘No buts. They picked you because you did such a good job, as an ugly sister in the PTA production.’

‘Well, it’s hardly the same, this is serious business.’

Shelley put her hand on Gareth’s shoulder.

‘It’ll be fine, I’m so proud of you.’

‘You’re just trying to soften me up.’

‘I’m not,’ Shelley arranged the clothes on the bed. ‘I think you’ll look great.’

‘You think? Surely they could get an idea without me actually dressing up. They must have their own Mrs Doubtfire wardrobe.’

‘Maybe, but not for everyone, and what about people changing all over the place.’

‘Alright, alright.’

‘Mum was so happy to lend these, do you want me to help?’

‘No, I’ll sort it.’

‘Right, I’m going to put the kids to bed, don’t be too long, we need to be there by nine.’

‘Why so late?’

‘To give others who work the same opportunity, I guess.’

‘Well, I’d prefer a cozy restaurant with you to celebrate my birthday.’

‘Oh, will you stop, we’re doing that tomorrow. Hurry up,’ she left the bedroom.

Gareth stood in his underpants and stared at the clothes. He picked up the thick wooly tights, stretched them a bit, lifted his foot into the first leg, and pulled them up. Warm, he thought. He lifted his other foot and wobbled.

Shelley opened the door.

‘What was that bang?’ she said, then laughed seeing Gareth wriggling around on the floor, legs wrapped in the tights.

‘Lost my balance, not easy these things.’

With a big smile, Shelley left the room.

‘Come on, hurry up,’ she said.

‘Thanks for your sympathy,’ he shouted.

The bra was next, Gareth was surprised it was so big, he didn’t remember his mother-in-law being such a large women. He slipped his arms in; very spacious. Adjusting it in the mirror he reached behind to fasten the clasps.

It was no good, no matter how hard he tried to grab the flapping straps, he still couldn’t secure it. He pulled it off and remembered seeing Shelley fix it at the front and twist around. He slipped his arms in again and fastened the clasps.

‘What the hell!’ he said out aloud.

It wouldn’t twist round, somehow the arms stopped it.

‘Ah, the arms,’ he concluded.

Unclipped, took it off, wrapped it around, clasped it, twisted it, and put his arms though. Finally, he thought, good job he had no tits to get in the way.

The skirt, blouse and cardigan were straight forward. So to the wig, he looked good. Just a bit of lippy to finish off.

Gareth found some lipstick in Shelley’s draw; a nice red colour. He pursed his lips in front of the mirror and lightly applied. To soft, he reapplied with a bit more pressure. He creased his lips, the same way Shelley had a hundred times. He stepped back.

‘Jesus , I look no better than a drunk tranny with the shakes,’ Gareth realised he wasn’t a natural with make-up. ‘Shelley!’

Fifteen minutes later, Shelley departed with Mrs Doubtfire, having patiently played the make-up artist.

‘How do I look?’

‘Brilliant.’

‘Can you tell it’s me?’

‘With my make-up skills, no chance.’

‘Good, I really don’t want anyone to recognise me.’

‘Who? They’ll be no one about.’

‘Park up near to the Hall anyway.’

‘I will, stop worrying.’

They parked in the nearest car park.

‘I’d put those heels on now, you haven’t tried them yet, you need to get used to them.’

‘I suppose, okay’

Gareth slipped on the shoes. Not too high, he thought, only an inch and a half or so. Clumsily, he swivelled out of the car and stood.

‘Not very lady like,’ Shelley said, already waiting at the passenger door.

‘I’ll work on it.’

Gareth wobbled and took a couple of steps, Shelley watched, hiding a smirk. His bow-legged walk looked like he had something unpleasant in his pants. The clack of the heels resonated around the car-park. Shelley turned to lock the car as Gareth headed off. There was a clatter of heel clacks, that rapidly increased speed. Shelley turned in time to see Gareth lunge headlong between two cars, legs akimbo, bashed one car and bounced into the other. Both cars abruptly burst into a hailing and flashing of alarm. The noise deafened the car-park.

Stifling a massive fit of giggles, Shelley ran to help Gareth between the pulsating orange lights and thundering horns.

‘Come on,’ she said, holding him up.

Five minutes hard concentration, he mastered doddering like an old lady. They arrived unrecognised at the hall.

‘I don’t see many others,’ Gareth said.

‘Maybe they’re inside already.’

Relieved he’d not been spotted, Gareth marched in.

‘Another one for the audition,’ said a man at the desk. Then winked at Shelley. ‘Downstairs in the garden room, please.’

Gareth hobbled to the stairs, pain in his squashed toes. No sooner had he made the first step, his other foot caught a stair trimmer and he tumbled forward, he grasped for the handrail, but missed. Shelley ran to catch him, but was too late. Down he rolled, faster and faster, and finally bashed through the double doors at the bottom. What an entrance!

One shoe on, one shoe off, and a wig covering one eye, Shelley bit her lip.

Gareth stood, ruffled his hairpiece, holes gaped in the tights, with buttons of the blouse ripped off in the fall he showed far too much cleavage for an old lady.

‘Oh, dearie me,’ he said in character, thinking of Mrs Doubtfire.

A sudden burst of laughter erupted behind him. He spun around.

‘Surprise!’

‘Happy Birthday, Gareth,’ Shelley said, finally allowing herself a giggle.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – February 28, 2014

Theme / Genre: –

Include: Words: Uliratha, Locobot, Vollume, Roinad & Digisol

Words: 1,020

New Books

Russell sat in the stockroom with a hot cup of instant coffee.

‘Gareth, can we not get one of those automatic coffee machines,’ he said to his boss, ‘or maybe install a franchised coffee brand, this instant stuff is mank.’

‘Russell, we’re a small independent bookshop, we’re on our last legs, times are hard.’

‘Stop being so cliché, Gareth.’

‘We don’t have the floor space to sell coffee, what about chairs and tables, a disabled toilet.’

‘We have a toilet, but that’s mank too.’

The door buzzer stopped their flow; this mornings deliveries had arrived.

‘Would you mind, Russell, it is part of your job description, drinking coffee isn’t.’

‘There had better be a few good books in today,’ he said, ‘the new Lilian Kendrick, maybe.’

‘I’m going to open up then, let me know what’s arrived.’ Gareth disappeared through the archway into the shop. Russell made his way to the back door.

Fifteen minutes later, Russell stuck his head out of the stockroom, the shop was empty.

‘Five new books,’ he said.

‘What, only five, how come?’

‘I don’t know, and they’re all new authors.’

‘I think your coffee bar idea might have legs yet,’ Gareth’s voice sounded despondent. ‘So what are they then?’

‘I think you’ll be impressed.’

‘Just tell me, Russell.’

‘I’ll read the press release,’ he came behind the counter with another fresh cup of instant, sat on a stool and began reading.

‘Future Word Book Compan—‘

‘Who?’

‘Future Word Book Company.’

‘Never heard of them.’

‘Stop interrupting. Future Word Book Company. Today’s date, blah, blah, we are, company spiel, blah, blah—’

‘Come on.’

‘…our latest books are: The Uliratha Scope,’

‘The what?’

‘The Uliratha Scope.’

‘What’s one of those?’

‘I’ll come to that…by Michelle74.’

‘Michelle74? Don’t tell me, she’s forty.’

‘Possibly, are you going to let me finish.’

‘I’m not sure I want you to.’

‘Do you want to know what’s it about?’

‘Go on.’

‘Zarquin Mystell and his mining ship find an uncharted colony on Pluto’s moon Charon, the colony is full of voluptuous women. The colony holds a medical institute and a curious piece of equipment called The Uliratha Scope. Captain Mystell and his manly crew witness strange occurrences during their visit and members of his crew turn effeminate following visits to the centre. His second-in-command grows breasts and—‘

‘Enough, sounds crap, next.’

‘Locobot and the Fat Organism by Q.Q.Z.’

‘Are you serious about these?’

‘Deadly!’

‘Go on…’

‘Locobot 627B works on the Intergalactic Lightspeeders, an entertainment droid, he teams up with a plump alien prostitute—‘

‘A plump alien prostitute?’

‘There’s a lot of demand for bigger women.’

‘Really? With an entertainment droid?’

‘Let’s see, ah… plump prostitute, they collude to steal from rich sex clients aboard the—‘

‘Next!’

‘Vallume: King of Berkstarhamstroodparmintington by ArmsLegsBumsiDaisy.’

‘Arms, legs, bumsi, Christ! This has to be a joke.’

‘No joke…’ Russell takes a mouthful of coffee and notices two customers have entered the shop and are listening. ‘Vallume, King of Berk…blah…blah is the high King of Necrolandia—’

‘Next!’

‘But I didn’t get—’

‘Next!’

‘Okay. Roinad’s—’

‘Wait, these are all sexually explicit.’

‘What?’

‘Shades of whatsname, only sci-fi.’

‘You mean, Sci-fi Erotica.’

‘Yes, I bet they are all written by a group of sex-staved middle-aged women, who’s kids have left home and the husband works all the hours he can, just to pay for her selfish indulgence into peddling rubbish space porn.’

‘I don’t think so, Gareth.’

‘Sylvie Waters has got a lot to answer for.’

‘Who?’

‘Never mind, at least her books have more romance and are wrote better.’

‘Written better.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Shall I?’

‘You might as well.’

‘Roinad’s Def—’

‘Excuse me,’ a customer interrupted. ‘Do you have any Sylvie Waters?’

‘Sorry, we’re sold out,’ Gareth replied.

‘Shame,’ said the other customer.

‘Well, let’s see what this one is about shall we,’ Russell looked at the small group huddled around the counter. ‘Roinad’s Defence by Reggie the Veggie.’

‘Reggie the Veggie! They’re getting worse, Russell, really they are. More dirty scuz-fi.’

‘Gordon Roinad, the famous Belgian escapologist has been locked up, by Russian Armed Forces. His crimes include: gun-running to Ukraine freedom fighters, Scandinavian drug smuggling—’

‘This sounds a little more promising,’ Gareth said, with a deal more interest.

‘Yeah,’ the two customers agreed.

‘… Scandinavian drug smuggling and trafficking under-age children from all over the Russia Federation off-world to Epsilon 23 playground planet for aliens of the—’

‘Get out of here, under-age inter-planetary trafficking, this ones gone to far.’

‘It’s just a story.’

‘Yes, and more sci-fi noneroticism. This shit doesn’t sell.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ a third customer said. Another appeared alongside her, and a fifth and sixth behind. The store was filling up; with men and women.

‘The last one then?’ asked Russell.

‘Very well,’ Gareth relented.

‘The Digisol Dilemma Again by Roy Nad.’

‘Again by Roy Nad, wasn’t he the Belgian fella?’

‘No, that was Roinad, Gordon Roinad.’

‘Sounds the same to me, and you did say again, are they the same person.’

‘No, the title is The Digisol Dilemma Again. Not The Digisol Dilemma, again by Roinad.’

‘Are they all pseudonyms?’

‘Maybe.’

‘For one person?’

‘Let’s finish the sheet first.’

‘Hurry up then.’

‘Bartok Flux—’

‘Here we go.’

‘That’s a strong name,’ a voice from the now crowded shop said.

‘Bartok Flux is the multibillionaire owner of Digisol, the twenty-second century’s biggest—’

‘Uncanny, another sci-fi-erotical novel.’

‘Told you it was a strong name,’ the same voice again.

‘…the twenty-second century’s biggest entertainment company.’

‘There’s a theme here,’ Gareth noted.

‘Shh,’ said the group.

‘When the digital soul program self-viruses itself into a transgender—’

‘This is torturous—‘

‘I’ll have a copy, please,’ one customer said.

‘Me, too,’ said another.

‘I’ll take all five books,’ said another. And another. And another.

‘Oh well, bring them through, Russell, looks like they’ll sell,’ Gareth said dejected.

‘Would you mind bringing them through, Gareth,’ Russell said, as cool as. ‘I’m going to be too busy with autographs.’

‘Wha—’

‘Yes, they’re all written by me!’

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – February 21, 2014

Theme / Genre: Birthday.

Include: –

Words: 1,040

The Bodies

The required devices, the required packages and not forgetting the required security tools. All zipped up in his black rubber backpack. It was time to leave, he headed for the lift.

***

The lift doors opened.

‘Ground floor, main entrance, exit to Stockwell Street. Friday 21st February 2019. Eight fifty-two a.m. Sunny. Temperature twenty-three degrees centigrade,’ the lift’s voice programme announced on reaching the lobby. ‘Have a glorious day, Matteon.’

‘Thanks, Otis, you too.’

Matteon left George Lucas block and turned right, east, down Stockwell Street and headed into the city. Four Blocks should do it, then catch the air-tram out west to Redrock Heights, to the more upmarket part of New Brisbane. Four blocks, back streets, side streets, double-backs, shimmy a few sheltered alley fences, avoid as many streetcams as possible, enough to confuse anyone monitoring him, then board the Redrock air-tram with the cover of the open Eurasian market.

If she’s hacked the systems, she won’t be able to track me, he thought.

And that’s how it happened, the Redrock Heights air-tram skimmed the streets out West, positioned above the busier commercial road level, full of delivery and sanitation vehicles, together with lost tourists in their hire-pods, and below the faster upper-level air-taxis. The taxis would’ve been quicker but public transport was harder to trace.

Matteon glimpsed the red hills to the west through the tall metropolitan buildings. Slowly, the hills became bigger and the buildings shorter as the tram hit the suburbs, trees appeared and the roads were less busy. He stretched out his legs, the sun warmed his face, eyes protected by mirrored wraparound glasses. The tram’s next stop was the city limits transport hub; the rest of the journey would be by delivery truck.

Alighting at the hub, Matteon, made straight for the exit and air-taxi queues. At the end of the rank sat a Pizza delivery truck, he got in.

‘Hi, Matteon, how are you?’ the driver said.

‘I’m well, Lil,’ Matteon said. ‘You?’

‘Not too bad, this research into being a pizza delivery driver has it’s benefits you know.’

The smell of Pepperoni pizza and garlic bread filled the van’s interior, Matteon knew what she meant.

‘Anyway, we better get off, I’ve a van full of pizza destined for Redrock, I don’t want it to get cold,’ Lil started the van and pulled out, heading for the hills. ‘I’ll drop you around the back, near the woods, you can walk the rest of the way.’

‘Perfect.’

Ten minutes later, and in the shadows of the woods Matteon made his way into the undergrowth, Lil and her van rumbled off in the distance. Branches and twigs cracked underfoot as he made his way. The late morning sun, high in the sky, beat down through the branches. Wild birds squawked high above in the canopy only to be silenced by sudden screech. Matteon froze, the wood fell silent.

Was it a scream? A human scream? Or some local wild animal trying it on with a mate? He couldn’t tell, with all the noise of the crackling vegetation underfoot the scream had been disguised, too short to be truly clarified. The wood gradually came back to life, as Matteon stood waiting for another sign, another voice or call; it didn’t come.

Even at midday, the trees and their roots made for a creepy location, straggly branches and intertwined above-ground roots seemed to hover waiting to strike, wrap their prey as it passed, fortunately they didn’t, but they certainly looked as if they would. Treading through them took concentration, something that suddenly escaped him, down he fell between two huge specimens. Hands spread to stop his fall; they disappeared under the floor of leaves. Fingers touched something cold and rubbery in the mulch, he pulled it free only to drop it instantly.

‘Oh, Jesus!’ he shouted aloud.

The dirty green decaying hand bounced on the bed of leaves at his feet. Matteon ran. He’d heard about such things lying around in her close vicinity, but thought it just urban myth. As if needing more proof the swinging torso that blocked his running route seemed to sway in his direction as he ran towards it, blocking his head with his arm, his elbow hit the hanging legs as he passed. He stumbled for a second but his momentum carried him on, he didn’t look back, even when he heard the dull thud of the headless corpse hitting the forest floor.

The house appeared out of nowhere, three-metre high razor-wired fencing separated it from the woods. Matteon felt the shock of electricity before he saw the fence, it threw him back the way he came.

After a dazzled minute he pulled off his bag and administered the insulated wire clippers. Once through the fence, he darted between the shrubs and flower beds surrounding the building, to the side door. Pulling another gadget form his rucksack he placed it up against the security keypad. The electric gizmo, flashed up sequences of numbers at his command. He opened up the voice recorder on his phone and waited.

The keypad bleeped acceptance of the supplied numbers and the intercom requested voice recognition. Matteon played the recording.

‘Hawaiian pizza for Ms Marlowe,’ the voice said, the door clicked open.

The inner hallway smelt of fish and chips, probably from the night before. The second secure system panel flashed a blue light, it waited. Fishing out a plastic bag from his rucksack, Matteon pulled out a still warm eyeball. The pair, taken from the glove compartment of the delivery van, having been recently removed from a very late delivery man. Her regular pizza delivery man’s eyeballs did the trick, the inner door slid open. In he entered.

She was out in town, dressed in one of her flamboyant jackets no doubt, at a book signing, Matteon could sneak in undetected, by the time her laptop security monitor picked him out he would be long gone.

Emptying the bag of it’s last contents, seven years of hard labour, learning the craft with her help, he laid his signed first novel on the kitchen counter, along with the birthday card.

‘Happy Birthday, Tonia!’

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – February 14, 2014

Theme / Genre: Valentine.

Include: –

Words: 599

Catching the Bus

He’s the reason I ended up here.

My Valentine!

Except I wasn’t his bloody valentine and I had no intention of being his bloody valentine, but, oh no, that wasn’t good enough for him. It wasn’t good enough that I refused his request—gently and sweetly I might add, in the politest way. I shouldn’t have bothered—not plain enough for him to stop asking. He never stopped. It ruined my chances with the one guy I wanted to be my valentine. The untouchable guy, it least I thought untouchable, then it turns out he wasn’t and now I’m here and there is nothing that can be done.

That February afternoon is so clear in my head, but in this place everything is so clear. The snow had been falling most of the day, it was icy, very icy, school was finished and snowball fights were commonplace, I was waiting for the school bus on Cross Street. Warren and Justin were walking towards me along Turner Drive, laughing, as usual. Justin was concentrating on not slipping over and chatting about something, probably the fact that I’d returned his valentine card—he spooked me at times, his obsessive behaviour.

Warren was looking my way, I hide.

If Justin was talking about me, Warren wasn’t listening just staring, occasionally blinking away the falling snowflakes.

Who knows, Warren may have even given me that card he had in his bag, had he reached me.

The snow was falling, people were slipping everywhere and I just stood watching the guy who I wanted to be my Valentine. The dumb arse next to him wanted to be mine and nobody gets what they want.

Out of sight, hiding in the shelter, just visible enough to see Warren—he knew I was there. Justin carried on chatting and slipping.

The weight and depth of snow made the world a silent place, just the soft crunching underfoot, voices muffled, vehicles a distant hum.

That’s the reason I never heard the crunching of snow, I was watching Warren and oblivious to everything. If I had stood in view of everyone, perhaps they would have seen me; a horn would have been blown. I couldn’t face Justin again though, out of sight, out of mind; and that’s why I hate him.

If I had seen Warren’s face again, it would have been covered in shock.

For the bus couldn’t stop, it was out of control, sliding down Cross Street in silence, sliding, towards me. Packed snow helped it onto the sidewalk, a silent killer.

That’s the reason I never heard the crunching of snow, I was watching Warren and oblivious to everything. If I had stood in view of everyone, perhaps they would have seen me; a horn would have been blown. I couldn’t face Justin again though, out of sight, out of mind; and that’s why I hate him.

If I had seen Warren’s face again, it would have been covered in shock.

For the bus couldn’t stop, it was out of control, sliding down Cross Street in silence, sliding, towards me. Packed snow helped it onto the sidewalk, a silent killer.

It hit the timber shelter with me in it, side on, no warning. Smashed me from one end to the other and pinned me against the side of the coffee shop wall, crushing several bones in the process, not to mention internal organs; by the time they could get the bus away, I’d arrived to where I am now. Looking down on the scene. I’ll never forget Warren’s white face, Justin howled, but I didn’t care for him.

That was years ago now, and yet Justin leaves a cheap Valentine’s card on my grave every year, tells everyone about us—there was no us, and never would have been.

To my surprise Warren visits my grave every year too, the day after Valentine’s Day. He tells no-one, but removes Justin’s trash and replaces it with a dozen red roses, then he stands and reads his card that he wrote for me, the one that I never received.

I tell him, at least I try.

Warren, I love you.

But, he never hears me.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – February 7, 2014

Theme / Genre: The Letter.

Include: –

Words: 1000

Alien Letter

‘Still nothing to report, Sir. All tests negative: heat, sound, movement detection, microwave, sonar—’

‘How can that be possible, Quintin, The letter states they were all slowly killed, one by one, by this alien. We’ve had the ship in complete isolation. Armed robo-sentinel patrol, security droids, audio and video detection cameras, nothing has come out of there since the ship docked, even the rotting bodies of the crew are still on board, albeit now in vacuum tubes. But nothing, absolutely nothing, found, queried or reported.’

‘No, Sir,’ Quintin looked nervous, as he stood in front of the Admiral’s desk. ‘Perhaps the alien aborted once he’d—it, had killed the crew.’

‘Not possible, Quintin. It’s an alien, it wouldn’t know how to operate anything. Even if it did, then onboard log data would’ve told us about any hull breach or stasis lock use. This is no ordinary alien problem, Quintin, twenty-five mining crew are all dead and no sign of any murderer; despite a sealed and quarantined spacecraft,’ the admiral placed an electoprod under his chin and pressed the release button, a measured jolt of electricity surged and calmed his nerves instantly. ‘Ahh. The last thing anyone needs is an escaped carnivorous extraterrestrial, Quintin.’

‘Yes, sir. I mean no, sir.’

‘This letter is odd, can’t put my finger on it; possibly the shockingly bad handwriting. I’ll read it again.’

To those finding this letter.

As it gouges into me, I am steadying my pen on its back and it seems not to care. The pain is excruciating, but I have to warn you, we are the last two alive.

It’s killing me and I’m defenceless.

They have won.

By the time you read this note, you will no doubt have found the bodies of the dead crew, if so, then you are forewarned and hopefully aware of the remaining alien being’s presence — unlike us.

We did not become aware of their presence until seventeen had died, their disguise is unbelievably simple, their parasitic method of gorging on their host, astounding.

‘This paper is pretty thick, Quintin, and really messy with all the blood stains on the back of it. Good job I have these latex gloves, anyway…’

We incinerated those we found on the dead and dying. Their form is so cleverly disguised, they easily concealed themselves and we were unable to find them.

With just two of us remaining, we managed to kill them all, so we thought. Visiting the recreational centre the last of them jumped us in the library section.

They cling to you like paint, impossible to remove, biting through clothing—

‘I cant read anymore of this nonsense, Quintin,’ the admiral said, irritated he threw the letter over his shoulder. ‘Find it, Quintin, if it’s so goddamn awful find the bastard and incinerate it.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ and with that Quintin was gone.

The admiral sat, there was an odd rustle of thick paper behind him, but there was no wind…