Scribblings of M E Lucas

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – January 31, 2014

Theme / Genre: A Lesson Learned.

Include: –

Words: 1000

Family Bonds

This was it, the pair of them, staring into the face of their murderer; one of them was going to die.

In reality, they had no knowledge of why this was preordained, or how their dispatch was to be administered, however, it did not alter the fact that the two instinctively knew death’s shadow was creeping closer.

Which one of them had he come for?

A question that neither of them could answer. A question their future killer could, but by the way his eyes darted from one to the other, and back, it was evident he still had that decision to make. Perhaps he wanted the two of them dead.

Seconds before, the brother and sister had been leisurely ambling along the shaded trail, skipping the muddy puddles; made deeper by passing horses and their riders, jumping fallen branches; brought down in the April rains, and sampling the aromas of the fresh spring flowers; scattered along the path, the banks of the babbling brook and between the trees that lined the dene. Too interested in their immediate surroundings, and for too long, neglecting life lessons taught by parents; unseen stranger danger in remote places, away from home.

In the shade, the secret of their would-be assassin went unnoticed.

He now stood before them, blocking their way, frozen with intent, as they were frozen with fear. Awaiting telltale signs: the reactions to his presence, a portrayal of his targets weakness to make the first move.

As usual, he’d been up before sunrise, scheming and tracking his intended; knowing they would be out and about, as early as he. From afar and unnoticed, he watched, as they socialised with family, stopping to eat and drink, then bounding away together across the park and into the wood; it was enough to keep up with them without causing attention.

The support of his own family was unconditional, he’d seen to that, it was not jealousy that turned him to a cold-blooded killer, it was something deeper, something primal. With abilities developed through hours of experience, he was the best at what he did: stealth; honed tracking, trapping, and killing skills; used countless times before. Nothing feared him, nothing, and no-one could touch him, he was a master at his game.

Life was good and he aimed to keep it that way.

The early morning sun was upon them, shadows were long on the ground and disappeared behind the steadfast figure in front of them, they warmed with its heat on their backs, so too the blades of grass; letting off small wisps of warm moisture.

Sister and brother turned to face each other, for no longer than a beat of each other’s heart. A moment shared between siblings, a moment unlike any other, which was about to be the last moment for one; for the other, a moment before running as fast as his or her little legs could take them; in a vain effort to outrun the peril.

Yet, for the split second their eyes connected, all was not lost. Hope. Through the moisture of glistening eyes a flicker of hope an ocular signal from one to the other, so delicate, so minimal only they could translate it.

To their executioner, it was the tell he had been waiting for, awareness that his quarry now understood their destiny. Realisation that matters were about to conclude, realisation that nothing could be done.

Again, they faced their predator, this time, however, filled with an inner sense of togetherness and love. The pair felt a guiding strength to front the inevitable consequences of the collapsing situation.

Beyond their strong friendship, the unquestioning love and new found resolve, there was another bond, equally as strong, but not theirs. A twig snapped behind them, the killer was not alone, his son, the killer’s son.

The murdering protégé, of equal slyness, as vicious and as murderous. Full with the techniques handed down from his father, crept with all due care and attention to their backs, placing himself between them and the last escape route to safety. They would surely die.

Death had come. Without conscience, the killer moved quickly.

Hope, also moved as quick.

The girl circled her brother, hiding behind him. Eyes glanced behind to the killer’s son; a little way off, but moving with speed. The boy had to shift; together they were any easy target for the moving assailants. Instead of retreating or dashing sideways, he confronted his enemy and vaulted toward him.

Speeding forward he felt pressure on his back, his sister springing upwards, using him as a step to get more height. Upwards she jumped, eyes locked on the killer father; surprise on his face.

The easy target transformed, taller, upwardly mobile, he reared up in an effort to catch the girl; she was too high.

The killer reynard could barely reach her, his outstretched claws pulled through the soft white hair of the doe’s underbelly, a clump of hair fluttered free, but no spilt blood. The awareness that the first of his prey had beaten him, shattered on the recognition that the second was already hopping between his back legs.The buck darted underneath the murderer, past his twitching sweep, ears closely pinned back to his head; his turn to show courage and genius in outwitting his enemy. The second prey had bolted.

Before the ginger fox returned to all fours, the older cub, now in full flight, and unable to detract from his chosen trajectory, slammed headlong into him. Father and son bowled head long into the undergrowth. Surprised and shocked the two leapt up, as quickly as they had landed, heads darting in all directions, recovering their temporary dazed bearings.

The rabbits had gone, disappeared down the nearest warren hole, out of reach.

The foxes vigorously shook themselves free of twigs and grass, no blame, just a need to move on to the next target.

No amount of parental guidance could teach all the rules of nature.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – January 24, 2014

Theme / Genre: Beauty Treatment.

Include: –

Words: 712

Turquoise Diamond

I had my dick taped-up so far it was practically between my buttocks. It was a bloody good job I didn’t get sexually aroused with all the kissing, the guy was gross, all that sickly aftershave and cologne, I can still smell it; but it was necessary.

The plan worked like a charm, I mean even better than I’d hoped. He had his dirty little eyes on me straight away. Even before I sat down — which was mildly uncomfortable — right next to him at the Blackjack table, he was checking out my blond curls and skin tight pink dress. I mean I looked good, I can’t deny that, even I would have fancied me.

The CCTV picked up the multi-millionaire picking-up me, the blonde bombshell — the casino full of cameras — and then what do you know, taking me home in the chauffeur driven Bentley, in front of everyone; all as strategically planned.

The guy was so pissed by the time he got me up to the penthouse, dropping some rohypnol in his gin and tonic was A, a doddle, and B, meant he lost it, big time, making my life easy.

The kissing though, jeese, I’m really not a man kisser, even for the money, that was the hardest bit, perhaps I should have had the roofie. Yet, despite the slovenly drugged and drunk way he acted, the clumsiness, the randiness; he was a beast, with staying power and I had to work it, I mean, he wasn’t giving an inch, it was the toughest job I’ve ever had.

But like all rich men, he was a bragger, he owned this, he owned that, he boasted about the security in the penthouse, the contents in his safe; bingo, what a result, he bought it up and I didn’t have too. But Christ, he wasn’t lying down — I mean to make my life easy — given the chance he’d have had my lying down all night.

At one point, I caught myself in the full length bedroom mirrors, he’d stripped me down to my knickers, and I looked fucking sexy, it was hard for me not to stop, as I passed, and look at my sculpted body. I couldn’t, if he caught me and ripped off the knickers and revealed my dick, I’d be a dead man, so I ran faster.

We ran to the study, he’d told me the safe was in there; he, naked, me, very nearly. The security cameras picked us both out for long enough, long enough to show the world my fit body and my bouncy tits, which was a bonus, I think I may even miss them. He of course, would be embarrassed, shocked and a laughing stock; what better man.

I dared him to open the safe, and in his drunken stupor he opened his safe right in front of me; voice recognition, retina scan and finger printing, a million pound secure safe, opened right in front of a girl in her scanty undies that he’d known for only three hours; men and their egos.

Kerching! The safe clunked open and down on the back of his read came the handy glass presentation, for some business industry award, paperweight. Out cold.

The contents, I was not disappointed, ancient Egyptian gold jewellery, and the pièce de résistance , the turquoise diamond — $50 million dollars on the black market, and it was mine. With a quick shake of my tits at the camera, just to make sure, and I placed it all in my Chanel handbag, dressed and let myself out, no, I sauntered out, exactly as I sauntered in, passed the doorman, blowing him a kiss, and I was gone; the pink-dressed, sexy women thief.

I can see it now, ‘The new Pink Panther’ in all the broadsheets.

Still that will all have to wait, I’m in no fit way for anything at the moment, bandages, drugs and all; I look a real mess, and the pain, my God the pain, but it’ll all be worth it when I’ve offloaded the diamond and the jewellery.

Still can’t wait to get back to being a man again, and although I enjoyed having tits, this is the last beauty treatment I’m going to have for a while.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – January 17, 2014

Theme / Genre: Status Update.

Include: –

Words: 474

Unhidden Status.

Knock.

Knock, knock, knock.

Knock.

Knock, knock, knock, knock.

Knock.

Knock, knock.

Knock.

Grubweilden’s door manner is rhythmical I’ll certainly give him that. Yet, somehow, no matter how hard or complicated he made his knocking, I could always guess it was him.

It was dark when I opened my eyes.

‘Come, Grubweilden.’

The black japanned latch rattled and the heavy oak door creaked open with all the subtlety of an air horn. Light from the hallway rushed in to meet my quickly shrinking pupils.

‘Good evening, Sire.’

‘Yes, indeed it is, Grubweilden,’ I say, looking over to the silhouette standing in the doorway. Despite his flat, darkened, one-sidedness, the Underbriar appeared more shrivelled and soiled than normal. ‘Meditation focuses the mind, you know, Grubweilden. So deep was my focus, I was unaware that the sun had even set. What is the time, Grubweilden?’

‘Tuesday, Sire.’

‘Tuesday? What do you mean Tuesday?’ Honestly, I do worry about the boy. ‘I asked for the time, not the day, Grubweilden. And, it’s Saturday.’

‘I beg you pardon, Sire. I feel your deep focus was indeed deeper than the depth of your incantation sack.’

With my eyes adapting to their new found brilliance, I could not help but notice a smile emblazoned on Grubweilden’s face. I smile signifying that he was glad to see me. My realisation, backed up with the fact that the scruffy Grubweilden was a result of my comatose state and lacking my orders for cleanliness, that I had been out of circulation for over seventy-two hours.

‘Incredible, Grubweilden. My meditation taken to an all time depth; heart rate, metabolism— Where’s that vibration coming from?’

‘Your electric wand, Sire. In my pocket. It’s been going mad for the last two days.’

‘That’s eWand, Grubweilden, eWand. Get with the times, boy.’

‘Sorry, Sire. Your E-Wand has been going mad for the last two days.’

‘That’s better, now hand it over. Who’s been trying to get of hold me.’

‘I’m sure it’s nothing, Sire. Spam, or bung mail.’

‘Grubweilden, the eWand, now.’

I could tell he was up to something, or had been. Like a shy child he dug into his bulging pocket, Baffleton knows what’s in there. He pulled out the wand, some sticky stuff coating it, and adorned lint of some description.

‘Grubweilden, you messy, irksome chap.’

I took the wand between my two fingers and tentatively flicked it on. Pointed it to the wall and began operating the status update mode. A series of notes came up, at the corner of my eye I see Grubweilden slope away.

Wow, blueberry cream biscuits are awesome!

Liked this mega picture of old Lord Maxington, meditating.

Picture of me in Maxington’s best conjuring gown.

Hey, guys, check out this 150 years Mount Biscuit Mead, tastes awesome.

Picture of me poking old Maxington with—

‘GRUBWEILDEN!’

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – December 27, 2013

Theme / Genre: Random words.

Include: glitter, ruler, glasses, elephants, paper

Words: 669

Digitigrade

It’s not often you find yourself inside a Black-beaked Cave Frog, and I must say I really would not recommend it, but the experience was quite fantastic, even for me, Lord Maxington.

The stomach of a Black-beaked Cave Frog is large, very large, it takes up fifty percent of the frog’s entire body; even I, at six foot six, can stand inside. The stomach, although big, is thankfully only half-full of acid, the rest full of some pretty obnoxious gassy methane fumes. I still thank my lucky crystals I did not try to invoke a luminating spell, as that surely would have been the end of Grubweilden and myself.

So, the stomach, it is very beautiful, if not intoxicating, full of several externally illuminated spectrums of colour and light, swirling gases and acids adding to its mesmerising effect; the stomach wall shimmers and sparkles like glitter. The result, quite clearly, for most insects and flies, and other unwieldy beasts the Black-beaked Cave Frog might happen to lasso with its tongue, is sheer hypnotism, followed by hallucinations, followed by one’s skin dissolving off one’s bone within the acrid acid; if I wasn’t so careful, and immune to hypnotism, that would have been my destiny too.

It was then, to my great delight, that my woolly winkle-picker slippers and scarlet and green paisley dressing-gown were suitably of high quality and thick enough to withhold the impending acid attack.

In the short time Grubweilden had evolved from serf to frog in the kitchen, and slimed his way to my bedroom, he had eaten a number of my belongings, however, it was the hollowed-out elephant feet that held my canes and staffs that enabled me, with their sturdy thick skins, to climb out of the stomach and up through his gullet to fresh air.

‘Grubweilden, stop this, this instant,’ I shouted, reappearing in his mouth.

‘Yes, Sire. Sorry, Sire,’ he mumbled.

At that moment his tongue recoiled toward me, I darted out of the way just in time to avoid a severe whipping, and fetched off of the slimy appendage, my spit covered onyx glasses and ancient dragon-leather bound spells book, surely destined for his gut.

‘Let me out, Grubweilden, this instant.’

‘Yes, Sire. Really sorry, Sire.’

Out I rolled, in a trail of slime and stomach bile. I arrived at my desk, and quickly jumped up. My gown fizzled and smoked, covered with acid-burnt patches.

‘Now hold it right there, Grubweilden,’ at the top of my voice I shouted, ‘don’t move a scale, or muscle, or whatever it is you frog’s have.’

‘Righto, Sire,’ he licked his lips, I worried.

As quick, as I could, I fumbled though the piles of paper on my desk, found my golden seven-inch gem ruler, not what I looked for, but grabbed it anyway to use as a wand, turned and began.

‘Omnistratichni, blackicusbeakcavusfroggoil, barth ziptill serfgrubweildening, moggitrans, shazzam!’

In the scratch of time, the Black-beaked Cave Frog transformed in a swirling cloud of colour and glitter; not to dissimilar to the inner-belly vista I had seen earlier. A thunderous belch emanated through the scene and I felt the draft, not to mention the indescribable melee of stenches that followed.

As fumes dispersed, the recognisable crouching form of Grubweilden reappeared.

‘Thank the Lord’s of Baffleton, Grubweilden,’ I said. ‘That was a close call.’

‘Yes, Sire. Indeed it was, Sire,’ Grubweilden patted down his body, as he checked he was no longer the Black-beaked Cave Frog he had just been. ‘Sire?’

‘No need to thank me, Grubweilden. Just get on with my breakfast, I’m starving. You can tidy up all this mess afterwards.’

‘But, Sire’

‘Grubweilden, please, my breakfast.’

‘But, Sire.’

‘What is it, you confounded Underbriar?’

‘My feet, Sire.’

‘Yes.’

‘They’re elephant feet, Sire.’

I looked down at the grey wrinkled skin, Grubweilden: now a digitigrade, wobbled on his toes.

‘So they are, I guess those weevils were more enchanted than I thought.’

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – December 21, 2013

Theme / Genre: Write a parody of a song or poem on any theme.

Include: –

Words: 373

The Original…

“I’m the Leader of the Gang (I Am!)” by Gary Glitter

Written by Gary Glitter and Mike Leander

Come on, come on. Come on, come on. Come on, come on.

Come on, come on. Come on, come on. Come on, come on, come on.

Come on, come on. Come on, come on. Come on, come on.

Come on, come on. Come on, come on. Come on, come on, come on.

D’you wanna be in my gang, my gang, my gang. D’you wanna be in my gang. Oh yeah!

D’you wanna be in my gang, my gang, my gang. D’you wanna be in my gang.

I’m the leader, I’m the leader. I’m the leader of the gang I am.

I’m the leader, I’m the leader. Well there’s no one like the man I am.

I can take you, high as a kite, every single night.

I can make you, jump out of bed, standing on my head.

Who’d ever believe it. (Come on, come on.)

Who’d ever believe it. (Come on, come on.)

Who’d ever believe it. (Come on, come on.)

D’you wanna be in my gang, my gang, my gang. D’you wanna be in my gang. (Oh yeah!)

D’you wanna be in my gang, my gang, my gang. D’you wanna be in my gang.

I’m the leader, I’m the leader, I’m the leader of the gang I am.

I’m the leader, I’m the leader, I’m the man who put the bang in gang.

I can take you, over the hill, ooooh what a thrill.

I can make you, sell me your soul, for my rock and roll.

Who’d ever believe it. (Come on, come on.)

Who’d ever believe it. (Come on, come on.)

Who’d ever believe it. (Come on, come on.)

D’you wanna be in my gang, my gang, my gang.

D’you wanna be in my gang. (Oh Yeah!)

D’you wanna be in my gang, my gang, my gang.

D’you wanna be in my gang. (Oh Yeah!)

D’you wanna be in my gang, a my gang, my gang.

D’you wanna be in my gang. (Oh Yeah!)

D’you wanna be in my gang, a my gang, my gang.

D’you wanna be in my gang. (Oh Yeah!)

Come on, come on. Come on, come on. Come on, come on.

Come on, come on. Come on, come on. Come on, come on, come on.

Come on, come on. Come on, come on. Come on, come on.

Come on, come on. Come on, come on. Come on, come on, come on.

***

The Parody…

“I’m the Reader of the Gang (I Am!)”

Written by M E Lucas

Come on, forum. Come on, forum. Come on, forum.

Come on, forum. Come on, forum. Come on, forum, read on.

Come on, forum. Come on, forum. Come on, forum.

Come on, forum. Come on, forum. Come on, forum, read on.

D’you wanna read all my books, my threads, my posts. D’you wanna read in my gang. Hell yeah!

D’you wanna read all my books, my threads, my posts. D’you wanna read in my gang.

I’m the reader, I’m the reader. I’m the reader of the gang I am.

I’m the reader, I’m the reader. Well there’s no one like the backer I am.

I can back you, high as the ED, keep you out the red.

I can place you, in backers hearts, jump you up the charts.

Have you read it. (Come on, forum.)

Have you read it. (Come on, forum.)

Have you read it. (Come on, forum.)

D’you wanna read all my books, my threads, my posts. D’you wanna read in my gang. (Hell yeah!)

D’you wanna read all my books, my threads, my posts. D’you wanna read in my gang.

I’m the reader, I’m the reader. I’m the reader of the gang I am.

I’m the reader, I’m the reader. I’m the backer who’s got wealth on the shelf.

I can back you, up to the desk, ooooh you’re the best.

I can make you, read and back my book, just take a look.

Have you read it. (Come on, forum.)

Have you read it. (Come on, forum.)

Have you read it. (Come on, forum.)

D’you wanna read all my books, my threads, my posts.

D’you wanna read in my gang. (Hell yeah!)

D’you wanna read all my books, my threads, my posts.

D’you wanna read in my gang. (Hell yeah!)

D’you wanna read all my books, a my threads, my posts.

D’you wanna read in my gang. (Hell yeah!)

D’you wanna read all my books, a my threads, my posts.

D’you wanna read in my gang. (Hell yeah!)

Come on, forum. Come on, forum. Come on, forum.

Come on, forum. Come on, forum. Come on, forum, read on.

Come on, forum. Come on, forum. Come on, forum.

Come on, forum. Come on, forum. Come on, forum, read on.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – December 13, 2013

Theme / Genre: “I told you so!”

Include: –

Words: 674

Grubweilden

‘Grubweilden,’ Lord Maxington called.

‘Yes, Sire,’ Grubweilden answered.

‘Grubweilden.’

‘Yes, Sire.’

‘Grubweilden, where are you?’

‘I’m here, Sire.’

‘Where is, here?’

‘Behind the walnut chest encrusted with mystic runes cursed
by Great Wizard Ophthalmist the Twelfth, Sire.’

‘Why are you hiding behind the walnut chest encrusted with
mystic runes cursed by Great Wizard Ophthalmist the Twelfth, Grubweilden?

‘You told me to, Sire.’

‘When, Grubweilden. When did I tell you to hide behind the walnut
chest encrusted with, oh this ridiculous. Get out from there boy.’

‘But, Sire.’

‘Get out, I said.’

‘Yes, Sire, but Sire, you did say last evening to get out of
your sight.’

‘I did, Grubweilden, I did, but have you no brain? How can you serve me breakfast if you’re
constantly hiding from me?’

‘Oh yes, very good, Sire.’

Grubweilden stuck his head up, above the worn walnut chest,
his young ruddy face could do with a splash of water and his hair could do with
getting intimate with a hairbrush; his clothes couldn’t get more crumpled if
Giant Paxor used him for a game of paper basket toss.

‘Have you been there all night, boy?’

‘Yes, Sire. Out of
your sight, Sire.’

‘Grubweilden, you really are very simple aren’t you?’

‘Yes, Sire. Thank
you, Sire.’

‘Breakfast, Grubweilden, breakfast.’

‘No thank you, Sire, I’ve already eaten.’

‘My breakfast, you dolt of an Underbriar, my breakfast.’

‘Sorry, Sire. Yes,
Sire. On my way, Sire.’

‘If you’ve been there all night, Grubweilden, what breakfast
did you have?’

‘Found some old bread and goat’s liver in my tunic pocket,
Sire. Very tasty is was too, and a few
weevils sneaked out of the walnut chest in the night, bit salty for my liking,
but nice and crunchy.’

‘That will be the green stains on your lips, Grubweilden.’

‘Green stains?’ Grubweilden
said in alarm. Maxington waited. Grubweilden vigorously rubbed his lips with
his sleeve. Still Maxington waited, and
stared. Grubweilden rubbed and Maxington
waited, and stared some more. The
Underbriar frowned at Maxington and realised his mistake.

‘Green stains, Sire?’

‘That’s better, Grubweilden.
I can’t stand insubordination.’

‘Sorry, Sire. Won’t
happen again, Sire.’

‘Those weevils were enchanted, Grubweilden, cursed with
wizardly woe. I will not be surprised if
you lay an egg, or mutate into a Black-beaked cave frog, or something more
sinister.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, you oaf, now just get me my breakfast before that
happens.’

‘Righto, Sire. Usual:
slats, borgers, parch pens sunny-side in, Sire.’

‘Exactly, my boy, I’m a man of consistency. And I’m a man who’s bloody hungry, so get a
move on,’ Maxington burned his eyes into Grubweilden’s soul. ‘And wash your hands.’

‘Yes, Sire.’

Grubweilden disappeared from the bedroom. Maxington collapsed into the comfort of his
layered duvets and wrapped his head in feather pillows. He lay and contemplated his day.

First, he must call to Bostixwil, for their weekly game of
jewel poking and a cup of nettlebrack, no doubt. Then, onto the Halls of Blad, to arrange a licence
for his, recently acquired, Migrating Blue Grouse. And—

Lord Maxington’s thoughts disturbed by a crash from the
hallway, followed by an excruciating belching sound.

Grubweilden! Damned
Underbriar will have to go, he muffled into the down, face covered.

Maxington threw off the covers, climbed out of his
four-poster and brushed down his sleeping gown.
There was more belching.

‘Oh, for crying out loud, Grubweilden.’

Maxington knotted his scarlet and green paisley
dressing-gown tightly, slipped his feet into his woolly winkle-picker slippers,
and trudged to the bedroom doors. Yet
more belching ensued from behind the ornate timber, and now he could hear a
kind of dribbling, sloshing sound.

At the door Maxington grabbed both handles and yanked both
doors inward, whilst calling, ‘Grubweild—’

Staring straight towards him dribbled an eight-foot Black-beaked
cave frog, but before Maxington could conjure a spell—

‘Omnistratichni—’

The beak closed around him, swallowing him whole and there
was more delightful belching.

‘Grubweilden,’ Lord Maxington shouted from inside the frogs
belly. ‘I told you so!’

‘Yes, Sire. Sorry,
Sire,’ belched the Black-beaked cave frog.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – November 15, 2013

Theme / Genre: The Things You Do For Love

Include: –

Words: 696

Dedication

‘No, no, not again,’ she yelled at the dismal screen. ‘You’re useless, godfeckingdammit, I’m this
close. This close to throwing you out
the mother fu—’

Jenny suddenly remembered it was two-thirty in the morning;
Laurence was asleep upstairs, if she carried on her rant he might wake and
discover she wasn’t in bed yet. She
clenched her teeth, hissed through the gaps, then continued the conversation in
her head.

Bloody typical, the second I need to do something
important the PC decides against it.
It’s not as if I’ve a ton of time on my hands, or anything. It’s not like I can just wait for a few more
hours. I never get the time, never get
anything done. Never. And now this, I can’t go on anymore. Bloody bollocks.

Her hidden depression sometimes got the
better of her emotions and threw daggers at common sense.

‘Come on you fu—’ she hushed herself again.

The screen flickered with some activity. She stared.
All conversations with herself concluded. She looked at the text, one page of many. The same page. It didn’t move when she scrolled up or down,
and she couldn’t type either, nothing.
The computer, let’s face it, had seen better days, it needed an upgrade,
but she couldn’t afford it. Laurence
would only want to know why, and she could never tell him. It was her secret. Her and her muse’s secret. A secret she’d kept from him, and everybody
else, for nearly two years. Unbelievable, she knew, but to tell him now,
would defeat the object. After all, she
was so close to her goal.

The urge to write a novel had come following the death of
her mother; she began the rekindled passion on the way to her mother’s funeral
in France. Laurence and the kids stayed
at home and she journeyed alone with a small notebook, writing during waiting
and downtimes, either travelling or held up in the quite hotel where she
stayed. The words just tumbled out. On her return, a few pages had sparked an innermost
desire to complete the task; however, insecurities and paranoia lead to
concealment. She couldn’t fail in front
of them, it was better left untold, then, if nothing happens, then nothing
happens and the secret’s still a secret.

Now was not the time, she turned off the computer, she
needed sleep; the little she could get before kids mouths needed filling again and
clothes needed washing.

For months and months, those days and nights, had stayed
with her, for months. So many, they had
become a blur and her normality, but the secret was still safe, Laurence and
the children would get the surprise of their life, she hoped, she really hoped. Despite the most incredible journey she had
taken alone, she still worried about her family. How would they feel? How would they react to her news, her secret?

‘Laurence, I need to show you something,’ Jenny said,
stopping Laurence on his way to the door. ‘This came yesterday; I didn’t show you last
night, but…’

‘Can I see it later, I’ve got to go,’ he said, looking into
her eyes.

Using her ocular powers of persuasion, he crumbled.

‘Ok, what is it?’

‘It’s this,’ she handed him her novel.

‘A book, I don’t read much, you now that,’ he said looking
at the cover. ‘Who’s Deidre Dulwicky?’

Of course, he wouldn’t know her pen name.

‘Look, here, I’ll show you.’

She proudly took the book; remembering how she had deliberated
over using a pseudonym; the many times the title changed, repeatedly; and
discussions over the jacket cover images, heated at times, with her editor. She turned the first few pages and handed it
back to him.

‘There.’

He looked down and read aloud.

‘For
not finding out my secret, yet for giving me the strength to continue and help
me on the way, I give the biggest and most loving thank you; to my beautiful
children Tabitha and Billy,’ his throat contracted with pride and emotion. He took a deep breath and she could see him
fight against shedding tears from his eyes.
He continued, ‘and my darling husband Laurence.’

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – October 18, 2013

Theme / Genre: Acquisitions

Include: –

Words: 906

Done Deal

Pain slowly filters through the darkness, as I feel myself
drifting into consciousness. Stabbing
pains, burning pains. I’m wondering what
has happened to me, where I am. My eyes
open and I realise this is not our bedroom, or the spare room, or one of the
children’s rooms; I don’t recognise it at all.

‘Ah, we have life again,’ an unfamiliar throaty voice says
from somewhere. ‘Welcome.’

The room is dimly lit and shabby. What am I being welcomed to. I rise to face the voice, sudden shooting
pains radiate from my chest, in a way that I imagine electrical shocks would
come from a taser gun. The pain is
excruciating. It takes all my strength,
and a grimacing face, to sit upright and confront the silhouetted figure standing
across the room in front of the window.
The blanket irritates my bare skin, as it slides down my body it catches
on something, on my body.

‘Welcome, Mick, or do you prefer Mike?’

‘Mick’s fine,’ I can’t place his guttural voice, despite it
being vaguely familiar. ‘And you are?’

‘Bub,’ he says, the shadows withholding any facial nuances. ‘Bub will do for now.’

Looking down, I see a CD sized patch of freshly scarred dark
red skin on the left side of my chest.
Burnt flesh arouses my sense of smell.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Apart from sheer agony of this thing,’ I look up, ‘I’ve
felt better.’

‘The pain will ease, eventually,’ the voice scratches at my mind;
I’m still at a loss. ‘It was … necessary
surgery, let’s say.’

There is no sound, the voice, the voice is in my head,
that’s the familiarity. Now I
understand. It’s the voice from before,
my friend, my muse, it’s still in my head, only now it has a form, male, taller
than me maybe. I nervously move my hand
to the circular gash and watch as it makes contact, nerve endings are on high
alert.

‘Am I dead?’ I ask the figure.

‘Reborn. You’re
lucky, I saved you.’

‘Was I shot?’

‘Not exactly,’ his voice does not change from its gruff
slowness.

There’s a pattern in redness, a burn mark, a logo in the …
branding.

‘I’ve been branded.’

‘Very observant, Mick.’

Numbers, a nine, another nine, and another.

‘You’re police.’

A chesty coughing now fills my head; it’s in the room too, turning
into an even louder rasping laugh, in full surround sound. Papers ruffle on a nearby table, curtains
ripple with the resounding notes.

‘No. No,’ he amuses. ‘Not quite.’

Something scuttles under my blanket. My head grows lighter. Dizzy and nauseous, I’m aware there is
something under the threadbare blanket. Throwing
it back, and swinging my feet from under it, I watch a number of cockroaches
scuttle back under the remaining cover and realise I am naked, exposing myself
to the shadowed stranger.

‘Woah,’ I did not expect to see that.

‘Ahh, you noticed,’ the unpleasant tones are back in my
skull. ‘Let’s say it comes with the
territory.’

‘But, it’s never been … I’ve never had … my wife said I
satisfied her with what I had.’

‘And look where that got you, Mick.’

‘It’s twice the size.’

‘You’ll need it.’

‘For what.’

‘For the Job?’

‘Job? What job?’

‘Your mine now, Mick.
You work for me and you need to be fit for purpose.’

‘What do you mean?
You don’t own me,’ I shake the cockroaches from the blanket and although
it’s grimy and frayed I have no choice but to wrap it around me, as I climb of
the bed. To my surprise the floor is
warm. ‘Who are you? And, where are we?’

‘Mick, my friend Mick,’ the figure moves from the shadows
and reveals are dark skinned, scarred and aged face contrasting with a deep red
suit. ‘Do you not remember? You wife.
She left you, took the kids who hated you too. Your violence and depression, I’d say, was to
blame wouldn’t you, and those voices.
You had already lost your job, written off your car whilst ten times
over the limit, let’s face it, Mick. You
were a mess, a liability,’ he’s now face to face with me, I feel his
surprisingly sweet breath on my forehead, he is taller. ‘But, silver cloud and all that, Mick, I
stepped in, plucked you from an inevitable drunken death in front of that
train. You should be thanking me.’

Memories return, he’s correct, but how could he know all
this.

‘What do you want of me?’

‘You’re now signed up to live a life of purgatory as a demon
of Satan, until such times as … well until I tell you that you’re not.’

‘What. Is this some
kind of joke? To hell with that, I’m not
… ouch!’ He’s grabbed my balls and is squeezing them. ‘Get the fu_’

‘YOU, don’t get to tell ME, what to do, rule one,’ he let’s
go, I back away in yet more pain.

‘You signed the acquisition last night any way, I have your
blood on it,’ this Satan or whatever he thinks he is turns back to the window.

‘What acquisition?
You nuts.’

‘Rule two, Mick, insubordination,’ he turns and before I know
what hits me I’m falling to the ground hitting the wall as some sort of energy
force throws me. ‘On the table: The
Acquisition of your Soul. Your signature
and mine, in blood. Mick and
Beelzeebub.’