Scribblings of M E Lucas

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – August 16, 2013

Theme / Genre: Steampunk

Include: photograph, pills, headset,
data stick, lottery ticket

Words: 1,000

Music Fans

‘What in Stevenson’s Rocket?’ Sidney wafted his hands, as he entered a
steam and smoke filled kitchen. ‘Damn,
the last slices of bread.’

‘Master Sidney, what is going on here?’ A fiery voice cut through the cloud.

‘The toast-steamer, Mrs Westwood, it is on the blink again.’

‘Well, trust it to be you, Sidney.’

‘Sorry, Mrs Westwood.
It could have happened to anyone.’

‘But it happened to you, and the last of the bread I see,’
Mrs Westwood said, sliding open the basement windows, the wind flapped her
white apron. ‘It’s a good job you didn’t
start a fire in here, or a flood. I’ll
get Nancy, to tidy up this mess later.’

Sidney watched rays of sun cast through a mixture of vapour
and smoke finding its way out into the early afternoon air. A single ray reflected on a photograph of his
mother, taken with the winning lottery ticket that changed their lives; he
remembered how it used to be. The daily
smog from coal fires, the days greyer and darker. He would hide downstairs playing games with
staff, whilst his mother searched for him upstairs. The house was colder then too. Steam under-floor heating changed everything;
life was cleaner, brighter and warmer, upstairs and downstairs. However, enough of the nostalgia, he needed
to go.

‘I guess I will do without breakfast,’ he said.

‘Well young man that will teach you to sleep late,’ she
said. ‘There’s some left over bacon, if
you like.’

Mrs Westwood was a tough old boot; she made an excellent
Cook, and ruled the kitchen like a rod of iron; sometimes a fitting surrogate
for his recently departed mother – the innocent victim of a drunken
hover-carriage accident.

‘No thanks, Mrs Westwood,’ he said grabbing an apple from
the bowl on the table. ‘This will
suffice; I’m late as it is.’

‘Yes, your concert; big night tonight.’

‘Indeed it is,’ his thoughts returned to the past. ‘Wish mother could see it.’

‘Well, I’m sure she’ll be looking down on you tonight.’

‘I do hope not, she never liked my music, “Too modern for
me”, she would always say.’

‘She was still very proud of you, you know that.’

Sidney could see even Mrs Westwood was holding back a tear
or two; it really was time to go.

‘Right, tell Nancy and the others that I will meet them in
the King’s Head afterwards.’

‘So, just me to look after everything tonight,’ she said
sarcastically. ‘Everyone has a
night-off.’

‘You can still come, Mrs Westwood.’

‘No, Master Sidney, I’m only pulling your leg,’ her face
warmed with a radiant smile. ‘You father
is going too, so I will put my feet up.
You have fun now, you hear.’

‘I will.’

Sidney left the warm kitchen. A big night was right; he needed some
support. He pulled out two red pills
from his pocket popped them in his mouth and took a bite of his apple.

Making his way to the stables, he sneaked out before his
father could give him a lecture on correct driving and safety procedures. The stable doors were open and the groom
stood brushing his horse. Glen, dressed
in brown peaked cap, waistcoat, britches and boots, covered in flecks of golden
hair, had already harnessed Golden Sovereign to the carriage; packed full of
instruments.

‘How is my Sovereign this morning?’

‘Fine fettle, sir,’ Glen said, ‘and looking forward to a
canter about town.’

‘Excellent.’

Entering the stall, Sidney turned to the carriage that
rested on a foot-high oak plinth. He
flicked several switches and pulled down a lever securing it in an open
position, then pulled and pushed a large leather knob. A motor turned over and a loud pop made
Sovereign jump.

‘Steady, girl,’ Glen consoled the steed.

Sidney pulled and pushed again, another pop and a cloud of
smoke billowed from under the carriage, the engine rumbled for a few
moments. Soon, wisps of steam puffed
from various valves from the engine compartment at the rear of the carriage. The vehicle lifted six inches from the plinth
and Sidney climbed the short chrome and timber ladder to the open driving seat,
the carriage buffeted, as it calculated the additional load.

‘The data stick is already in the mapping device, Sir. You’re good to go.’

‘Thank you, Glen. See
you later.’

To dampen the sound of the engine, he pulled on his
headset. Making a clicking sound through
his teeth, he flicked the reigns, ushered Sovereign out of the stables and down
the cobbled mews; he and instruments hovered behind.

Steam-carriages were far more comfortable than
wooden-wheeled ones over the cobbles, and quicker, weight carried by the steam,
not horse power. They were harder to
steer sometimes, especially if galloping too fast, and although water storage tanks
took up quite a bit of space, steam was the way to go. However, until they could design a suitable
breaking system, Sovereign would still have a job to do.

The streets seemed busier than usual today, but thanks to
the mapping device, Sidney and Sovereign skilfully traversed the back streets
of London’s West End. Pulling up at the
back of Her Majesty’s theatre, Sidney spied friend and fellow band member,
Johnny, lugging a set of kettledrums.

‘Sidney, good day.
Have you seen the crowds?’ he said.

‘Yes, I had to drive a torturous route to get here. What is going on?’

‘They are here for us.’

‘What? That is not
possible,’ Sidney was truly bewildered.
‘This is our first major concert.’

‘It would appear Malcolm has done his management well. He must have spun some yarns and mentioned
your steam-guitar. The place is
absolutely thronged.’

‘Well, imagine that.’

Sidney lowered the carriage setting, jumped down, and began
to offload his equipment. No sooner had
he done so, a group of screaming girls ran towards them from the other end of
the street, petticoats and dresses swirling everywhere.

‘Sidney, they have seen your guitar case.’

Sidney looked down at the large letters emblazoned on the
side.

“The Steam Punks.”

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – July 26, 2013

Theme / Genre: “The
Movies” or for us Brits “The Cinema”

Include: –

Words: 735

The Secret Film Club

The timber and glass doors swung outwards with a long
squeaking sound; they hadn’t been opened in a while. Pushing over the tall weeds that grew in
front of the garden room, they revealed a darkened space full of various boxes,
bags and unused items. As he stepped
over the threshold, Joshua gasped, half in wonder at what stood before him, and
half in disbelief at the amount there seemed to be. Now he could see why his mum had agreed to
the idea, he thought she had given in to his demands all too quickly. He would certainly have his work cut-out, to
pull off his plans; the room was a tip, and there was little time before the
others arrived.

Cobwebs covered his face, as he squeezed through a gap of
teetering towers of cardboard boxes, and he quickly wiped the strands
away. The air smelt damp and when he
pushed through to an open space at the back of the room, he could see patches
of mould in the corner. Nothing a few
well-placed boxes couldn’t hide.

It’s perfect, he thought, and set about arranging the room.

Heavy boxes of books he slid, others overflowing with
dressing-up clothes he lifted into place.
Bigger boxes at the bottom, then smaller ones, and finally plastic bags
filled with old clothes on top, filling any odd spaces between. The constructed wall was placed close to the
door, with a folded decorators table bridging a gap at the bottom, which
created a tiny access route through the wall, like an igloo’s doorway. A room within a room.

At one end of the space, Joshua carefully arranged a
broken-legged plastic table, sitting atop a pile of scooters, skateboards,
hula-hoops and other garden toys, providing the perfect position for a
projector. To the opposite wall, he made
a gap in the centre of some old tea chests exposing a rectangular section of wall
up to the ceiling; perfect 12×7 viewing ratio, he calculated. Any other leftover bags he then squashed into
leftover boxes, and stacked up along with an assortment of old pieces of
furniture against the wall.
Strategically placed ledges in the stack would provide handy places for
bottles of coke, bowls of sweets and popcorn later, he envisaged.

Several unrolled threadbare rugs covered the floor, although
a little musty, they were fine for the boys.
Various scattered cushions, pillows and old duvets provided reclining
space, which he finally laid back on. He
reached out flicking a switch; an old set of fairy lights illuminated the dark,
the final touch to the SFC: Secret Film Club.

There was a knock on the boxes.

‘Joshua, you in there?’
Joshua’s mother asked.

‘Yep, here,’ he said.

‘You can’t come in.’

‘Oh, go on. Just a
peak.’

‘Only a peak then.’

Through the low-level opening, his mother pushed a large
tray of drinks, sweets and popcorn; to Joshua’s delight.

‘Oh, excellent,’ he sounded surprised. ‘I was just thinking the same thing.’

‘Thought you might have been,’ she said, sticking her head
and shoulders through the small opening. ‘Oh, this is cool. I better send in the others.’

‘Are they here?’

‘Yes, everyone.’

‘Send them in then,’ he said excitedly.

‘Ok, ok,’ she said, retreating backwards.

Joshua took up the tray and quickly filled the stacked up
box-tower with drinks and food; awesome, he thought.

‘Oh wow, Josh,’ a voice behind him said, the first of his
friends to appear from the igloo hole.

‘Great isn’t it?’

‘Deffo.’

Soon six boys all buzzed with delight, jumping around, high
on sugary treats.

‘Right let’s watch the film,’ Joshua announced, and pressed
play on the remote.

‘I’ll just slide this box into the hole, Josh, so it blocks
out all the light,’ a muffled voice said from behind the wall.

‘Oh, thanks dad.’

The boys sat quietly in the dark, as the movie played, until
they heard some scratching.

‘What’s the noise Josh,’ one of Joshua’s friends asked,
slightly worried.

‘I’m not sure, it’s coming from the box in the doorway,’ he
said, and paused the movie, so they could hear.

Switching the lights back on he crawled to the box; more
scratches could be heard.

‘Open it,’ someone said. He pulled the box inwards revealing the words Happy
Birthday formed out of small holes on the top. Nervously, he began opening the lid. Then to his surprise, a small damp puppy’s
nose poked out.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – July 19, 2013

Theme / Genre: Summer

Include: –

Words: 850

Mad Dogs and
Englishmen

The mirrored images of the tall apartment blocks enlarge and
reduce with the water’s rippling movement, as the sun reflects off the
pool. Little shimmering ghosts of light
zigzag backwards and forwards between the buildings. Even with my Oakleys on, the light scratches
at my retinas.

I try to blink, my eyelids feel like sandpaper. How long have I been staring into the
whirling pool of colour?

I try to move.

I can’t move.

When I say I can’t move, I mean it hurts to move. It’s like I’m frozen, as if someone has
slipped me a needle. Only these are not
your normal injectables, they are numbing epidurals, or glue, or magnetic stuff
pinning me to the sun-lounger, but whatever, it ain’t pain relief; and what’s
with that drumming noise in my ears.

My muscles cringe with agony at the slightest shift in my
position. When I move the stabbing pains
are intense, sharp and piercing rip-like sensations, to neck and shoulders down
through my arms, my back and legs; until I stop moving. So, I can’t, I mustn’t move.

Glancing down to my side table, which hurts like I’ve voodoo
pins piercing my eyeballs, I spy my bottle of beer the beads of condensation
slowly dribbling down its length; it’s untouched, I can’t reach it.

Looking the other way I see Gazzer’s table, it’s full of
empty bottles and leftover side salad; from a quarter pounder I expect. Did I miss lunch?

‘Hey, Johnno, what’s up mate?’ It’s Steve’s voice, just audible over the
thumping sounds in my head, but I can’t see him, I try to crane my neck, but
the pain, jeese, the pain.

Making an attempt to communicate, I can provide nothing more
than a groan. Steve comes into view,
he’s staring down at me, dripping wet from the swimming pool, body glistening
brown. We’ve only been in Magaluf two
days and his Italian skin’s looking more Mediterranean than ever. He’s laughing.

‘Oh, mate, speak up,’ he rubs his face with a towel and
peers at me again. ‘You sound retarded.’

I try again, nothing but a long groan. My lips are fused together, and as push my
dry tongue between to prise them open, I can feel the skin tearing apart. Everything I seem to do is painful.

‘That’s gross, Johnno, your lips are bleedin’ now. Gazzer look at his lips.’

‘Man, looks like you’ve been punched in the face,’ Gazzer
says, coming into view, as he sits up on his lounger. ‘You’re a bit pink too, mate.’

‘Ike arn oove,’ I muster, but it’s not coherent, I can tell
by their faces.

‘He’s gone loopo,’ Steve says and turns around to face the
pool. He bends down on his haunches at
the pool edge. I turn to Gazzer.

‘Seriously Johnno, stop messing about now,’ he says.

Suddenly, I feel on fire, as if someone has just thrown
hundreds of burning embers onto my skin, my whole body jolts
uncontrollably. Steve is standing in
front of me his hands freshly dripping wet, the few droplets of water that run
down my sunglasses confirm that he has just thrown a handful of water over
me. Steve and Gazzer laugh at my
frenzied body. My eyes are filling with
water. With nerve endings on overload
the pain is bombarding my brain, the thumping is drowning out their laughing,
they appear not to hear anything. Then it
hits me, it’s the sound of my own racing heartbeat.

‘Calm down mate, it’s only water,’ Steve laughs openly. Behind him an audience is growing, I see
faces staring back at me, a mixture of smiles and shocked expressions. Some laugh along with him, but others are
asking, ‘Is he alright?’

‘Ssto pid,’ more slurred nonsense passes my lips, and as
tears slither out from the rims of my glasses on the way to my jawline, I feel
it’s not only slurs that are going to pass my lips; nausea is crashing through
my body at a rate of knots, tickling at my throat.

As the rubberneckers push closer someone shouts, ‘He’s as
red as a lobster.’

I’ve no time to examine my skin, my stomach has flipped
churning up last night’s copious lager and curried chips, the bongos are going
mad in my head. Then, unable to control
my body any more, I erupt.

The shorts, legs and flip-flops of the front row receive a
splattering with vomit. My crimson stomach
and legs are stinging once more.

‘Give him some air,’ a sweet voice from an unseen face,
filters through the drumming. The crowd
step back, a girl pushes through with a bottle of water and places it against
my burnt and bloody lips, she squirts a small mouthful in and it begins to
quench the fire.

‘Has he been here long?’ she asks to nobody in particular.

‘Since this morning,’ Gazzer answers.

‘It must be food poisoning from that Indian, you wait ’till
I_’

‘No,’ the girl interrupts Steve and looks back at me. ‘Your friend has got severe sunstroke.’

What a way to start of my summer romance.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – July 12, 2013

Theme / Genre: optional

Include: plate, tea, biscuit, cake, burn

Words: 1,030

The Collector

‘I can do this,’ Blue Swiss
said, he felt a small bead of sweat trickle from his armpit towards his hip; he
suppressed it with his elbow. ‘Just give
me a few more seconds, Control.’

‘You don’t have a few more
seconds, get out,’ Control sounded agitated.
Blue Swiss didn’t reply. ‘Did you
hear me, Blue Swiss? Get out, get out
now.’

‘It’s here somewhere,’ a
scrunching sound echoed across the polished porcelain tiles, he froze
solid. Had he tripped some security
device? He looked down to his matt black
leather boots.

‘Blue Swiss?’ Control whispered through his headset.

Slowly, he lifted his foot and
peered beneath. Just visible in the dim
light, biscuit crumbs. He let out a
sigh.

‘Blue Swiss?’

‘Nothing, Control. Just … nothing,’ Blue Swiss moved on,
scrunching, crumbs stuck to his otherwise clean soles. He scanned the room again. It has to be here somewhere, he told himself.

Although he could hear his heart
thumping in his ear against the pressure of the earphones, the office canteen
was quiet. Another ten minutes and
cleaning staff would be swarming all over this place; he focused, there was still
time.

Control had been monitoring the
office all today; several directors had come from the UK and the CEO had
thought it a great idea to organise an English Tea and Cake affair that
afternoon. The place had seen plenty of
action, now half-drunk cups of tea littered every available worktop, their saucers
splashed with the brown liquid – Americans were not really tea drinkers – piles
of plates too, with cake-smeared serviettes slipped between them – Twinkies on
the other hand.

They called it a Canteen, but
really it was a fabulous entertaining space, a modern interior with integrated
white gloss kitchen, ambient lighting and a scatter of flat screen TV’s. Italian breakout furniture graced the corners
of the room, abstract multi-coloured pieces you could easily be happy
photographing than sitting on.

‘Movement. Heading your way from the meeting room. I told you Blue Swiss. A young woman, early twenties, heading
straight for you,’ Control’s voice rising with anticipation, sensing the
impending failure of the mission. ‘Blue
Swiss, the window, now. It’s her,
Shelley Taylor, go. Blue Cheese, are you
receiving?’

The door cracked open, a flood
of light filled the room from the corridor, more lighting flickered into
operation as the woman entered swiping the touch switch. Her heels clacking on the tiling, she
approached the kitchen units. Blue Swiss
watched from his vantage point, unseen. Delayed, the TV screens came to life, flashing up
images from the news channels, one commenting on the day’s Wall Street
activity.

‘Blue Cheese, it’s not fucking
Blue Cheese,’ Blue Swiss whispered to himself.

Looking around, Shelley
hesitated for a second, as if detecting his presence, his whisper perhaps. The tips of his boots, were they poking out
from the Zaha Hadid Moon sofa? No,
thankfully. She turned back and opened a
shiny white high-level cupboard door, reached in and pulled out a plate with a
chocolate cake on it. Damn it’s hot in
here, he thought.

‘I see it, Control,’ he said in a
barely audible tone.

‘Where are you?’ The voice in his ear said, nearly as loud as
his own voice.

‘Concealed. I can see it.’

‘Affirmative. Can you secure the item? Don’t blow your cover. Do you understand Blue Swiss? Don’t_’

‘Yeah, Yeah, I know, but I see
it,’ he said looking adoringly at the big fat chocolate cake. ‘Remember my name now, do you?’

‘Sorry. Repeat that_’

‘Oh forget it, make the call,
quickly, before she moves off, hurry,’ he whispered, as loud as he dare.

A phone rang in the distance, a
voice called out for Shelley. She looked
up flustered, the cake still in her hands.
She walked to the door.

‘Not the door,’ Blue Swiss whispered,
as he watched the objective slipping away.

Shelley turned, as if hearing
his demands. Perhaps she changed her mind;
he knew she was not the type to share food, especially chocolate cake. He watched her bottom-heavy pear-shaped form
waddle back to the counter. She
hurriedly placed the cake back in the cupboard and then exited the room.

‘Aghh,’ Swiss let out a loud
yelp.

‘Blue Swiss! What’s happened? Report. Are you compromised.’

‘No, dammit, Control,’ he cursed
under his breath, aware that at any moment Shelley could walk back in. ‘I just burnt myself on the bloody radiator.’

‘What? Blue Swiss.
Repeat.’

‘I’m wedged behind the sofa and
a wall. There’s a radiator,’ he began to
prize himself out of the gap.

‘Oh for Christ’s sake Blue
Cheese, Swiss, Blue Swiss. Will you call
it, and get to the rendezvous point ASAP.’

‘It’s alright for you in your
cosy ops room; I’ve a burn on my arse.’

Blue Swiss jumped up and sped to
the kitchen units. Quickly he opened the
wall cupboard, grabbed the red rim of the melamine plate, pulled it out then
flipped the cake onto a pile of dirty paper plates and serviettes. Lifting the formally upright and presentable
cake, he shoved it and its second-hand plate, with attached soiled serviettes,
into the cupboard and closed the door.

Wiping smudges of chocolate with
his latex gloves, he looked down, the cool faces of Obi-wan, Luke, Han and the
Princess staring back at him, he kissed the plate and slipped it under his
black flak jacket and headed for the door.

‘I have it, Control.’

‘Right, now get the hell out of
there. Level two, north wall, go.’

The door was open; he could hear
muffled voices, as he approached. It was
Shelley, chatting on her phone, and she was coming closer.

‘She’s coming back Swiss, get
out man,’ Controls voice full of panic.

There was nowhere to hide.

He had no choice; he pulled down
the brim of his black beany hat, dropped his chin and marched to the door.

‘… really, well I saw her and
…’ Shelley’s voice tailed off on seeing Blue Swiss march out from the
doorway. ‘Simon? Is that you?’

‘Shelley,’ he acknowledged with
a shy voice muffled into his jacket collar; he didn’t look, just ran.