Scribblings of M E Lucas

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Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – September 6, 2013

Theme / Genre: The Internet

Include: –

Words: 998

The Scream

The night was humid and heavy; Laylah could not sleep. With sister sleeping over at a friend’s, and
parents at a party, due back in the early hours sometime, she didn’t know when,
she had the house to herself.

At sixteen, she was well able to look after herself, but
rarely went to bed early, even when her parents were in. Yet, here it was before twelve; she had said
goodnight to her friends on twitter, and was trying to sleep.

She turned onto her back again, attempting to get comfortable. The room was dark, dully illuminated by the faint
green glow of her alarm clock. A lone
motor bike whirred away in the distance, then silence; she closed her eyes, and
smelt the warm aroma of her bedclothes.
With eyes shut, she kicked off her duvet; instantaneously hearing a
bloody-curdling scream. Or, did she
imagine it.

With eyes open, her heart began to race. If she did hear something, where did it come from? She sat up, a darker black shadow in the
darkened room, sprawled across the bed gave her a start; the squished up duvet,
she relaxed if only for a second.

The scream came again, a long drawn-out wail of a sound,
reminiscent of a horror movie. Layla was
out of the bed; she couldn’t stay there any longer. She tentatively pulled up the blind and
peered into the back garden. The orange
light of a streetlamp from over the fence filled the view, and the room behind
her. Her unadjusted eyes squinted for a
second, as she scanned the lawn between the trees and shrubs, summer scents
billowed through the open window. She
could see nothing out of place, and it was eerily silent.

She closed the blind, her eyes adjusting to the dark this
time; another black shape, by the door.
She froze, what was it? Her mind
began to make out a shape, it didn’t move, an arm with no hand. The shape, what was it? The door was a ajar, she could make out the
straight edges around it and … her jacket hanging off the back of it.

‘Oh my, Christ!’
Laylah said aloud. ‘Goddamn
jacket.’

As quickly, as she could she reached for her phone bedside
the bed, scrolled through the app’s and found the torch.

Another scream.

Whirling around she scared herself with the flashlight of
her phone, countless moving shadows, growing and shrinking, as her hand shook
with fear. She looked this way and that,
more shadows, more movement, darting around the room with reflections from
glass picture frames and mirrors. Her
heart was pounding up through her chest now, thankfully there was nothing
there, otherwise she thought she may well have exploded.

It was coming from downstairs, that she was sure. Although very unsure what exactly it was, her
mind’s eye pictured the white face of young girl, her age, hounded by
something. By what? By whom?
It can’t be though, there’s no other noises. How are they, it, whatever, is in the house
anyway?

The shadow of her jacket wiggled side-to-side, as she
approached the door with the radiating phone, her arm straight out in front.

‘Damn jacket, damn dark,’ she whispered under her breath,
‘there better not be any spiders.’

She pulled the door open, squashing the jacket against the
wall. A familiar hallway, unfamiliar in
the dark. Quietly, assassin like, she
made her way along the passageway, stopping only momentarily, as floorboards
squeaked under her feet; further raising the beats of her already thudding
heart.

Dark shadows led into rooms off the corridor. A cool breeze tickled her toes and legs
beneath the hem of her pyjama bottoms, sending a lightening pulse up her back.

Screeching louder, the horror girl yelled again, somewhere
ahead of her.

The flashlight shook in front of Laylah, one hand tensely ventured
ahead, her heart now climbed into her mouth, she swallowed, the other hand nervously
slide along the wall, until, she found it.
The light switch that will illuminate the hall, stairs and landing all
the way down to the front door and hallway.

One flick, and all will be revealed.

She snapped the switch and ran.

‘Aaaarrrgh,’ she screamed at the top of her voice. Intentionally thudding, as hard she might
down the stairs, jumping the short distance to the half landing for more
impact. ‘Aaaarrrgh.’

She stopped at the entrance to the sitting room, the door
was open and light spilled into the room, her shadow extending across the room,
between the furniture, to the other side.

For two minutes, she didn’t move, just stared into the dark
corners of the room. Nothing moved, nothing
made a sound. The sudden hum of the
fridge freezer in the kitchen behind her broke the impasse, but nothing else
made a noise.

She scanned the room with her torch-phone and sighed,
nothing.

‘Must have imagined it then,’ she said, trying to convince
herself.

She looked at the app on her phone and was about to press
the off button, when there it was again, louder than ever. A screech, long, bloody, and behind the study
door, it continued, as she raised her head glancing to the door.

‘Who the hell …’ she said, not sure what to say.

She crossed the dark corner of the sitting room and grabbed
the door handle.

Another screech, this time seemed to leap into her head,
chased around her ears, shuddered her entire body. She had to know what was going on.

Screaming herself, as she opened the door, she thrust it
wide open, pulling a gust of wind into the room with her, papers flapped off
the desk in the dim light of the computer screen.

‘Wha_’

Another scream shrilled the very air she had just sucked in,
as the yell ensued from a pair of desktop speakers. The computer screen flashed, a pop-up
appeared.

“Congratulations! You
have received another bid on your item.”

‘Automated eBay alerts!
Damn it, Dad!’

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – August 30, 2013

Theme / Genre: The Perfect Form

Include: –

Words: 1,021

The Wrong Form

Now, I’m not usually one for filling out forms, in fact I
detest them. Actually, it’s not the
forms themselves per se, some are very graphically attractive, it’s their
contents; dumb-arse questions that don’t need asking.

“Do you identify as the gender you were assigned at
birth?” – What? I mean you couldn’t make this up

“For people who are transgender, the gender they were
assigned at birth is not the same as their own sense of their gender.” – hold on a minute, this is a survey for
reducing the speed limit to 20mph, does my gender really play a part? And, if I have changed gender will that
affect my answer?

Yes. No. Prefer not to say.

If I prefer not to say, could that be construed as hiding
something; and I pay my council tax for this!

I take a sip of coffee, its mellow taste turns slightly
bitter as I sip, it cools the heat rising within me. I close my eyes and breathe. I’m stressing again, this bloody council form
in front of me, of all things. Listening
to my breathing, and with help from caffeine I’m sure, the stress slowly falls
away.

My therapist’s breathing technique, Listen to the
individual breathes, as you inhale and exhale. I listen, I concentrate, but it’s not long
before my hearing picks up other café noises, chatter, chinking of cups, rustling
of newspapers. Thoughts are slowly
moving away, I wonder should I buy an almond croissant. Just a few seconds; I convince myself to
focus once more, sounds still linger, however I can still hear and feel my
breathing; stomach control is good. A
few seconds more.

Out of the deep swirling blackness, steps a pair of high
heels, shattering my calmness. This I
can’t miss, I open my eyes.

‘Would you mind if I join you?’

‘N, n, notal,’ I’m stuttering. ‘No, no, not at all.’

A completely curvaceous stereotype has just walked straight
into my breathing techniques, and is now sitting down beside me, not in front
of me, but right next to me. Her leg is touching mine, should I move?

‘So, I see you’ve coffee,’ doh, man what am I saying, it’s a
fucking coffee shop, ‘latté, I mean, coffee latté.’

She’s smiling, is that good?

‘Actually it’s a cappuccino, it’s lighter than a latté, I
have to watch me figure!’

You, me and the whole coffee shop are watching your figure,
lady. Aware the room has fallen silent,
I look up, head’s turn back to their business and small talk begins again.

She is gorgeous, and I mean gorgeous, grafted from the skin
of Aphrodite herself, a perfect clone of form and beauty. Legs are how they’re supposed to be; slender,
and all the way up to her rounded pert butt-cheeks, clad in faded ‘Boyfriend’
jeans. A washboard stomach inevitably
sits behind the loose t-shirt that hangs from her ample chest.

Another sip of coffee passes my lips, all gender questions
dissolved. Now I’m questioning a female
form; why next to me?

‘Is this your local cafe?’ Another lame question bolts forth.

‘No, actually, just passing by,’ she winks.

She winked. I turn to
see what at. There’s nothing. She winked at me. She winked, at me.

‘Just passing through, huh,’ I take another nervous sip of
coffee. Not the most attractive, or
social, of guys, I find myself sitting hip-to-hip with a sex goddess.

‘You’re funny, I like that,’ she says.

She’s smiling, what did I do? Did I tidy the flat? I try to remember, do I have a nice pair of
underpants on? You never know where this
might go.

‘I’m meeting friends later, but need a lunch date, are you
interested?’

‘Lunch?’ Yes, lunch
you muppet, you heard her, don’t need to repeat it. ‘Sure, that would be nice.’ Nice, ahhh.

‘Can you suggest somewhere?’

If I said the municipal dump, I swear she would follow me. I didn’t, we’ve moved a few doors along the
road to a great little sandwich place on the corner. I’ve gone for a Big Hank: roast chicken,
crispy bacon, Swiss cheese and BBQ sauce, my new friend, Stephanie, is having a
Kate Moss: roast chicken, spinach, salad and light mayo.

As I sit, happy and enjoying her conversation, and not
believing my luck, she says the most peculiar thing.

‘I’m a bit aroused, hope you don’t mind me saying, I’ve just
had a Brazilian.’

‘Brazilian coffee?’ I
ask, not having a clue what she means.

‘No, Brazilian, silly,’ she has a wicked laugh, ‘you know,
when you wax-off your pubes.’ And a
strange way of saying things.

‘Oh, right, Brazilian, yes of course. Did it hurt?’

She’s smiling and laughing again, today is my lucky
day. I swig a mouthful of ginger beer.

‘Do you want to see it?’

Beer sprays in her direction, luckily, short of her immaculate
features. ‘What? Here, now?’

‘Well, no not here silly boy.’

I thank the lord, desperate as I am; I can’t imagine some
girl pulling her knickers off in front of me at the table.

‘Let’s sneak off to the loos.’

I’m thinking about it, honestly, I am thinking about it.

‘What, right now?’ I
say.

‘Sure. You do want to
look, don’t you.’

I’m thinking some more.

‘Maybe,’ I lie through my teeth, course I flippin’ do.

‘Come on,’ she stands and saunters off to the toilets.

Following, a few seconds later, I look around uneasily,
someone I know might be looking. They’re
not, I continue.

She has the door ajar, checking that I’m still coming. Can she be more desperate than me? I close the door and lock it behind me, by the
time I have turned round she already has her top off and is unclipping her bra.
I’m speechless. The view is
breathtaking. Next, she slowly unbuttons
her worn jeans, then slowly, provocatively slides them down together with her
underwear.

‘Oh, my god, you’re a he-she, she-he,’ I’m suddenly
transported back to the transgender question, realising that in my desperation
for perfection, I’ve managed to pick up the wrong form.

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – August 23, 2013

Theme / Genre: The Twelfth Commandment

Include: –

Words: 970

Thou Shalt

Why after all this time has this happened? I think, trying hard to comprehend the significance of last night. Why now?

Another tear rolls down my cheek and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. With blurry vision, I look in the bathroom mirror; my eyes are puffy and red; arms droop at my side; black beads wrap around white knuckles of my tightly clenched fist; I’m shaking.

Michael makes me happy; I thought we were both happy. Best of friends, soul mates, and one day soon, we would be lovers, but now, now everything is in limbo. I feel more tears, and watch as they track down my face, changing direction at every hair follicle.

Patiently, I waited for the day he would ask me. That day was yesterday; now come and gone. Yet, I teased him. So, it was my own fault, retribution for what had happened, my punishment.

“Marry me?” Michael had asked.

Opening my hand, I can see blood; gripping it too tight, the crucifix of my rosary beads has cut into my skin.

“I’ll think about it,” I had said, “and give you an answer tomorrow.”

Timing could not have been any worse. How could I let this happen?

‘God, why? Why have you forsaken me?’ I say under my breath. A word that I have read in books, heard in films, and truly believed a word that I would never utter; my God would never abandon me, but he has, I know it.

Away at a weekend retreat, jealousy and suspicion never cross my mind about Michael. I know the other men that attend with him; some are married, most help at mass: ushers, offering collectors, and indeed celebrants; all devout Catholics. Never have I had reason to doubt him. It was me I should’ve doubted. I made the error, not Michael.

‘Oh, dear Lord, why?’ I say aloud.

‘What’s that Sarah?’ The voice of my best friend Ruth, from the other side of the door.

I have nothing else to say and stand in silence.

‘Come on out, talk to me,’ she pleads from the hallway, but I don’t want to talk I have sinned, does she not see that.

Damn Michael, if only you hadn’t gone to the retreat, I wouldn’t have gone in to town with Ruth; my best friend of all people, and those events, those shocking events. I can’t stop but think about them now, how they started so innocently and how they ended so … My temperature is rising, I can feel my face redden, my dressing gown bristles on my skin, I’m sweating under my arms, between my legs. I run some water and splash it on my face, tightening my eyes to expel the vision. This should not be happening; the feelings should not excite me.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Oh come on Sarah. It’s not the end of the world, these things happen.’

Opening the door, I see Ruth standing, staring at me. She has been crying too, not as much, but I sense her feelings are similar to mine. As I stand in the doorway, a cool breeze evaporates the perspiration and chills my skin. She has always been a good friend to me. Her parents and mine are close, regular church goers, I wonder what they will think of it all.

‘You’re bleeding,’ she says. ‘Let me look.’

I pull away.

‘I’m fine, it’s nothing,’ I say, I feel disappointed in myself, she only wants to help. ‘What will my parents say, and yours?’

‘Sarah, please darling, forget it,’ she says. ‘I’m saying nothing.’

I am surprised at her complacency. ‘What if Father Pat finds out?’

‘Who will tell him? Go to confession if you like.’

I know she’s putting on a brave face for me, I know she thinks differently, it’s not in our teaching. I move closer to her and look her in the eye.

‘It’s not the way of the church, Ruth. We’ve been brought up in the eyes of the Lord and to live by the Commandments.’

‘Do you know how old they are?’

Is it me she questions, or the catholic faith. Something seems different about her now, her eyes.

‘Thou shalt not do this, thou shalt not do that,’ she says. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong, according to the Commandments, nothing. And don’t try to convince yourself otherwise.’

‘But, what about Michael? I have cheated on him.’

‘Only in your eyes, you are not married. You didn’t even say yes.’

She’s stronger than me, more confident, I guess that’s her attraction as a friend, but she can’t be right.

‘Do you remember that book, what was it?’

‘Which book?’ I say.

‘You know. Jeffrey Archer, that’s it.’

‘The Eleventh Commandment.’

‘Yes, Thou Shalt Not Get Caught, that one.’

‘That’s just a story, and no one’s been caught.’

‘Exactly, exactly my point, Sarah,’ Ruth says, concluding her trail of thought.

I’m beginning to well-up again, I can feel it. ‘But, I will know, I will never forget.’

‘Good. So, are you really that ashamed?’

‘Yes,’ I say staring into her eyes. ‘Well, no, I …’ thoughts of last night return, how right it felt, my tears recede.

‘Good, I’m glad. For a second …’

She reaches out and touches me, softly, comforting, pulling me to her. I can’t, no matter how often I see Father Pat’s face, resist the pull. She kisses me on the lips, a sweet taste. My head is telling me if I ignore this feeling, it will only lead to unhappiness.

‘What should we do, Ruth?’

‘First, invoke a Twelfth Commandment.’

I stare, what is she talking about, the eleventh was made up, surely there isn’t a twelfth.

‘What?’

‘Yeah, the Twelfth Commandment, you know.’

‘No.’

‘Thou Shalt Keep Calm and Carry On.’

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.