Heatherspace

High Heels and Treadmills

2012-01-22T06:27:00.000-08:00

It's official - I'm disappearing, fading away, shrinking from view. Not, alas, from dramatic weight loss (1 pound in two weeks definitely not worth shouting about), but from the scales at the gym's disturbing proclamation that I've shrunk an inch over the past seven days. I calculate that if my diminuation continues at such a rapid rate then by January 2017 I will have completely vanished, nothing left but a pair of shoes and some contact lenses. As I'd be beyond the help of even the highest of heels, any acquaintances or indeed passers by with size 3 and a half feet would be welcome to help themselves to my admittedly vast collection.

It could, on the other hand, just be that this morning my posture was abysmal. Hard as I try my default condition on a Sunday morning is to reluctantly drag myself onto the treadmill, making sideways glances to the neighbouring machines where I view with suspicion the army of super-charged gym bunnies for whom 300 press ups before 9am are as vital a routine as my morning cup of tea. I may not be enthusiastic, but hey, at least I'm there.

One of the best things about going to the gym is the opportunity for people watching. My destination of choice is the local council leisure centre, not only a mecca for those wishing to get a bit sweaty but also home to a cafe where you can undo all of your good work with a pint of bitter and a plate piled high with cheesey chips. You really do get people from all walks of life there, from boys barely in their teens trying desperately to bulk up; to senior citizens with dozens of marathons to their name. Stick thin girls in cropped t-shirts moan to their equally skinny mates about muffin tops and love handles that my naked eye certainly can't see. Overly enthusiastic newbies with all the gear and no idea jostle for equipment alongside frankly scary looking muscle men with weightlifting belts and arms that would give Popeye a run for his money.

For each hardcore exercise nut there are probably three gym-goers just like me (ok, maybe not quite as unfit as me); those for whom exercise is something they begrudgingly do through a sense of duty; a desire to keep the body ticking over; or to atone for all those sneaky mid-week glasses of wine and crisps. Is it worth it? Hard to tell - on one hand, I haven't disappeared yet; but on the other - well, I haven't disappeared yet. Like most women I would love to drop a dress size or two, but if I were given a choice between being the size I am today or invisible - well, all those shoes need someone to wear them, and the joy of footwear is that it doesn't give a **** about a fat day.

Short Story - Preparing for the Worst

2012-01-14T05:34:00.000-08:00

As promised; here's the short story that I wrote for this week's Leeds Savages writing group meeting...

PREPARING FOR THE WORST

Preparation is key; no, scrap that; preparation is everything. Be prepared for the worst of situations, the website said; and without fail things will only turn out for the best. I’ve always gone in for the mantra that a pessimist is never disappointed, and on the whole it’s served me alright. This time however I fear that things are going to go well beyond the realm of mere disappointment; based on what I’ve heard about what some of our guys across the pond have been put through recently I am, apologies for being crude, quite literally crapping my pants. Grown men reduced to tears; bodies shaking as these eternal control freaks for the first time ever learn what it’s like to lose their grip on a life previously diarised to the nth degree. No way was that going to be me; not if there was anything on this godless earth that I could do to help it.

Hence my foray into the labyrinth of online advice so usefully available at ones fingertips these days, and hence why I’m currently tied to a cold table wearing only my boxers with a gag in my mouth and genuine terror painted across my sweat covered face. Her platform boots pound on the floorboards, each heavy thud like a punch to the chest. Shiny, thigh high; certainly footwear created with fetish in mind rather than engineered for running for the bus, doing the weekly shop or taking the kids to school.

THUD THUD THUD

She hovers above my shackled body, her face just beyond my gaze, eyes instead drawn to slightly mottled thighs, a blotchy artificial tan unsuccessfully trying to disguise the excess flab. A tiny skirt constructed from the same mock leather as the boots barely covers her dignity, underneath which I can see red knickers; not the flim flam, frilly and lacy sweet nothings of fantasy, but big, sturdy, practical garments. Like the ones in that film, you know, the one where that skinny blonde American plied herself with pies in order to portray the typical bloaty neurotic British bird. Bridget Jones, that’s the one. Bridget Jones pants.

THWACK!

She cracks her whip on the floor, its path spiralling mere millimetres from my ear.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Michael. And what do bad boys deserve?”

I try to reply, but given my current situation this is a rhetorical question; my mouth clearly otherwise engaged.

“Bad boys get punished, Michael. They get what they deserve.”

As the whip cracks again just a whisper away from my incapacitated jaw, I try to refocus my mind.

The Boy Scouts may have worn dreadful outfits and engaged in far too much wholesome, worthy activity for my liking, but they did have a pretty great motto. ‘Semper Paratus’. Be Prepared. Preparation, that’s what it’s all about. Preparation, physical and mental, is the path to success.

She turns and picks up one of the candles that provide the only light in this dark chamber. She holds the flickering flame over my naked torso, then slowly tips it until hot wax hits my chest and I writhe with exquisite pain.

“Enjoy that, do you, you sick, pathetic bitch? Well let’s see if you enjoy this.”

Putting the candle aside, she grabs my smarting wax encrusted nipple and twists hard. This is really not my scene at all, and I’m certainly not planning any repeat visits, but I’m determined to see this through. Michael Porter is not a quitter, never has been, never will be.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, you dirty little banker. Lowest of the low, that’s what you are.”

With her free hand she loosens the straps holding the gag in my mouth and I gratefully inhale a lung full of incense-laden air.

“Tell me, slave boy. Tell mistress exactly what you are.”

With a spluttering cough I clear my throat.

“I’m a bad boy, mistress. I’m a bad boy and a dirty little banker and I deserve all the punishment that I get.”

With a agonising flick she releases my nipple from her grasp.

“That’s correct; you’re the scum of the earth, you bankers; and don’t you know it.” She spits on the floor in emphasis of her disgust then starts to loosen the straps that are holding my arms in place. “Yes, that’s why so many of you come here for mistress to put you in your place.” She slides down to the foot of the ankles and opens the clasps that have been securing my ankles. “Now then, before we send you on your merry way, I think it’s time that we turn you over and introduce you to mistress’s paddle. I hope you’re prepared for the spanking of your life.”

Preparation, bittersweet preparation; the very reason why I’m here. Fearing the potentially even more agonising consequences of non-compliance, I manoeuvre myself onto all fours and grit my teeth as I await the inevitable.

Fifteen minutes later, with red raw stinging buttocks hiding beneath my made to measure suit, I emerge from the dungeon into the bright light of the waiting area. Sat thumbing through magazines are a couple of guys just like me; one of whom I’m sure that I vaguely recognise from the trading floor. Deliberately avoiding eye contact I hurry from the building and make my way back to the office; the Rolex I treated myself to with last year’s bonus informing me that I don’t even have the time to grab a coffee before the dreaded appointment.

When I arrive, slightly out of breath and pumped with adrenaline, the door is closed and his personal assistant indicates for me to take a seat. Slowly I lower myself down, lips pursed, knuckles white, every fibre of my body trying not to wince as my stinging flesh makes contact with the chair. The next five or so minutes seem to pass inordinately slowly, and I begin to fear that the fire rushing through my veins will subside too quickly, will not achieve the desired effect. Just when I start to feel concern that all that preparation was for nothing, the dragon behind the desk calls my name. “Mr Porter? Mr Lancashire is ready to see you now.”

With a deep breath, I deliberately graze my buttocks against the arm of the chair, igniting a fresh surge of pain to carry me through. I’ve put myself through the most intense pain in order to numb myself to whatever agonies I’m about to face. Has all the preparation been worthwhile, and will it achieve the desired effect? Ask me again in a hour, once my appraisal is through, and I’ll let you know.

Less wobble - more productivity....

2012-01-08T08:19:00.000-08:00

Decent start to the year - I've just managed to be disciplined enough to sit myself down and write a short story for this week's Leeds Savages Writing Group meeting. I'll publish it on here after debuting it at Wednesday's meet - it's a little 'adult' in nature (might be a bit much for your granny but no worse than that!) and a bit different from most of my writing but hopefully it'll get a decent reception.

Weekends seem to go so fast, it's nearly always impossible to fit in everything that you'd hoped. I'd hoped to get two trips to the gym in, but have settled with one long session plus some time chasing a friend's toddler around Golden Acre Park, which surely must burn off more than a few calories. Today marks the start of my efforts to get a bit more healthy - in a deliberate avoidance of the inevitably unsuccessful new year resolution I hereby declare 8th January the point at which I A: Start eating less rubbish and B: Make a concerted effort to move a lot more. My biggest stumbling block will surely be the fact that in my workplace barely a day goes past without some form of temptation, be it samples of tasty new products to 'test' (do calories consumed in the cause of research somehow not count?) or colleagues bringing in yummy treats (working alongside @Cupcakeleeds is always a pleasure, never a chore!). I've just got to try and stay focused on the goal and hopefully, a couple of months down the line, there will be 10% less Heather in volume terms, and 10% more Heather productivity.

Anyhow, check out my blog on Thursday if you want to read 'Preparing for the worst' - its only 1,000 words long so a quick read - though I won't guarantee that it'll be a 'painless' one.....

On New Years Resolutions

2012-01-01T09:39:00.000-08:00

Congratulations! Give yourself a well deserved pat on the back, crack open the champagne - or at least that dusty supermarket perry that's been mouldering at the back of the cupboard since the nineties – it’s time to celebrate. The very fact that you’re reading this means that you've achieved something that was beyond Kim Jong-Il, Osama Bin Laden and Muammar Gaddafi - you've survived 2011. Good job!

At present it is virtually impossible to turn on the TV or radio or meander through the twitterverse without hearing those three ominous words; 'New Years Resolution'. Be it the shock of an alien date on the calendar, a reaction to the excess fest of Christmas or simply the expectations of modern culture that inspire the desire to publicly declare good intentions, in nine out of ten cases failure will be inevitable. Waking on January 1st with the headache from hell and somewhat hazy memories of the previous night's antics it can seem like a great idea to commit to giving up the demon drink. Grand plans are drawn up whereby those nights previously passed down the boozer will now be spent at an eye wateringly expensive gym where you will force your ill-equipped body to participate in activity well behind its physical capabilities. Such self flagellation can be masochistically pleasurable for a while, but a couple of weeks down the line the lure of a new glass of red whilst curled up on the sofa will outweigh the questionable appeal of Boxercise and continued sobriety.

Setting and sharing personal goals can certainly be a worthwhile exercise, articulating your intentions to others potentially leading to support which will help you realise dreams that may never have been achieved if they’d remained confined to the back of the mind. The best intended resolutions can however also lead to disappointment; grand plans which never come to fruition resulting in a sense of failure which drags you down rather than propelling you to make the most out of life. In 2013 I'll turn 30 and at present it looks highly unlikely that by then I'll have achieved any of the things that I'd always imagined myself to have ticked off before I entered my fourth decade. What I've recently come to realise however, the knowledge of which would have saved the younger me a great deal of agony, is that it really doesn't matter. Sh*t happens – deal with it. Life is littered with highs and lows, and whilst the best laid plans may go awry sometimes the most rewarding experiences are those which are completely unexpected. Even the hardest times can, in retrospect, serve to strengthen us as individuals – if every life consisted purely of one perfectly choreographed rite of passage after another then the world would surely be a far duller place; our libraries empty, radios silent, tv screens blank.

So as you wave goodbye to 2011, don’t waste valuable hours trying to compose a mental script of the year ahead. If you want to quit smoking, lose weight or learn a foreign language by all means make the effort, but treat it as a continually evolving day by day challenge rather than making some goal plucked out of thin air the be all and end all without which the year will be doomed. Throughout our education and careers we are all subject to more than enough targets and performance evaluation – why make your personal life just another benchmarking exercise? Take pride in being you, and going forward see every day as worthy of celebration (champagne of course optional).

Pop goes 2011....

2011-12-30T10:29:00.000-08:00

At this time of year thoughts inevitably turn in two directions - on one hand reminiscing about the highs and lows of the twelve months just gone, and on the other setting out our hopes, dreams, expectations and targets for the year ahead. Whilst there are countless personal goals that I'd like to see come to fruition in 2012, one of the most important, and, hopefully, achievable, will be to GET CREATIVE! Primarily I plan to do this through writing, be it in the form of blog postings, short stories, poems or even tweets, but I also aim to put more effort into enjoying the pleasures of making music, in particular dusting off my piano far more regularly and attempting to push myself a bit further than the same Grade 5 pieces circa 1999, which is my groundhog day as far as tinkling the ivories is concerned.

As 2011 hasn't been the most prolific of years in terms of my own output, I decided to take the time-honoured approach that fills many a column inch and tv retrospective at this time of year. So here, in no particular order, are some of my audio-visual highlights of the year that was....

POP GOES 2011 - Ten of my favourite songs of the year

1. Coldplay - Paradise

You can knock Coldplay all you like, but it's hard to deny that in spite of somewhat lacklustre lyrics the dramatic production and anthemic chorus of this song are addictive. Although Chris Martin has been the subject of much criticism over the years, the continued popularity of the band speaks for itself, and much kudos should be given to the band for their recently revealed long term support of the excellent Kids Company.

2. Ed Sheeran - Lego House

The debut album from flame haired singer-songwriter Ed Sheeran has proven himself to be a most versatile talent; with everything from ballads to rap tackled with panache. Lego House is in itself a sweet love story, but it was the memorable video starring fellow ginger legend Rupert Grint as an obsessive Sheeran fan that really made this song for me.

3. Kasabian - Re-Wired

A great stampede of a singalong track from the ever reliable Kasabian.

4. Birdy - People Help The People

I always loved the original version by Cherry Ghost, and Birdy's cover more than does it justice with haunting vocals lending a different, but equally mesmerising feel to the song. Birdy's debut album has been criticised for consisting entirely of (admittedly well chosen) cover versions, but the undeniably talented fifteen year old is apparently working on her own material - definitely one to watch in the future.

5. Adele - Turning Tables

An unoriginal choice I know, but Adele's 21 is a truly great album, albeit not the best thing to listen to when going through any kind of relationship crisis or indeed feeling a bit sorry for yourself. Heartfelt lyrics, soaring melodies and big, bold vocals make this an album which I return to time and time again, with Turning Tables being just one of the many great tracks worthy of instant 'classic' status

6. Foster The People - Call It What You Want

American indie-rock band Foster The People released their debut album 'Torches' during 2011 and several of the tracks have already been picked up for use in tv adverts, trailers and even on the soundtrack to perennial video-game favourite FIFA 12. The album is full of joyously upbeat, rhythmic tracks melding modern electronic sounds with rock and pop flavours, and this, the most recent single release, is one of those pieces to which its impossible to resist dancing.

7. The Wanted - Glad You Came

An unashamedly cheesy choice here. The Wanted are far from the greatest of boy bands - they're certainly not The Beatles, Take That or even JLS. With the almost nursery rhyme like simplicity of the melody and naff lyrics (Hand you another drink, drink it if you can?) this is certainly not a classic, but boy is it catchy. For some reason this song ear-wormed its way into my head to such an extent that I can recite it by heart - much to the chagrin of my colleagues when I spontaneously perform it in the office.....

8. Lana Del Rey - Video Games

The retro stylings and husky voice of Lana Del Rey mark her out as something a bit different to the multitude of other female soloists who have achieved success in 2011. There has some criticism of her 'authenticity' , (Del Rey being the trailer trash stage persona of Lizzy Grant, in 'real life' the daughter of a millionaire) but I found her live performance on Jools Holland's 'Later' mesmerising and look forward to hearing her debut album, due for release in January.

9. Lady Gaga - Born This Way

Hard to believe that this song was only released in the past twelve months, such is its 'instant classic' nature. A brilliant crafted pop song (albeit one that pays a heavy homage to 1980s Madonna) with a clear, loud and proud message that celebrates difference. Love her or hate her, you can't deny that Lady Gaga does a great job when it comes to empowering lyrics, catchy choruses and general barmy brilliance.

10. Christina Perri - A Thousand Years

This features on the soundtrack of the latest Twilight movie, but forgive it for that as it's a beautiful song. Her tattoos and individual style make Perri refreshingly different, but her songs, wrought with emotion and angst, will be sure to strike a chord with a massive audience beyond the inevitable teenage vampire lovers.

SQUARE EYE HIGHLIGHTS - My top 5 tv shows of 2011

Again in no particular order.....

1. Fresh Meat (Channel 4)

Fresh Meat was a real joy from start to finish; a comedy drama that perfectly captured the characters and experiences of university. From the writing team that previously brought us Peep Show, the programme was frequently hilarious but also succeeded in making the audience really care for the characters, tackling serious topics including politics and grief in a way that blended effortlessly with the humour. Really looking forward to the second series due to hit screen in Autumn 2012.

2. Misfits (Channel 4)

As the third series hit screens I was concerned as to how this ensemble led show would cope with the absence of the cocky Nathan, portrayed in series 1 and 2 by the brilliant Robert Sheehan. Fortunately his replacement Rudy (played by Joseph Gilgun of 'This is England' fame - of which more below) stepped perfectly into his shoes as the comic, carnally obsessed member of the community service superhero crowd, and this series was just as entertaining as its predecessors, with a flawlessly executed blend of comedy varying from the irresistibly scatalogical to pitch black dark; blood and guts horror and superhero antics worthy of the finest comic book.

3. This Is England '88 (Channel 4)

The follow up to the harrowing This Is England '86 was never likely to be a barrel of laughs from start to finish, and true to form it tackled some very dark subjects. Shane Meadows's writing is as strong as ever, and the performances of the whole cast (with particular praise to Vicky McLure and Joseph Gilgun as Lol and Woody) will surely be showered with awards in the same vein as the preceding series.

4. The Walking Dead (FX / Channel 4)

Sure the plot is sometimes ludicrous and Andrew Lincoln's american accent still a bit disturbing, but series 2 of The Walking Dead shaped up to be just as much fun as the first. Post-apocalyptic drama with lashings of gore - what more could anyone want? (See also True Blood - Sexy vampire / supernatural drama with lashings of gore.....FX is definitely home to the best US shows)

5. Frozen Planet (BBC1)

The penguin rock thief. Polar bear babies. Sir David Attenborough.
Nothing more required to be said - instant classic.

Keen to hear any readers thoughts on anything that I may have missed from this list - and here's to hoping that in 2012 I manage to drag myself away from the TV / radio long enough to post blogs / creative writing stuff at least weekly!

A couple of poems

2011-06-05T04:04:00.000-07:00

I've not been writing much in the way of short stories recently -whether this is due to a lack of time, the absence of inspiration or sheer laziness isn't quite clear.... Probably a combination of all of the above.

I have however written a number of poems for writing group tasks - here's a couple which were inspired by the topics 'Before and After' and 'Invisible'.

BEFORE AND AFTER

Before

The sun shone down
In an illusion of summer
A cool coastal breeze caressing bare arms
Palm to palm, fingers fused
No words.

Silent communication
From smile to smile
Knowledge shared, perfect understanding
This is it, you, me, us
Forever.

Airplane trails in the sky
The distant sound of children’s laughter
A discordant ice cream symphony
Other lives, other worlds
Spinning round

But I am here with you
In this time, in this place
Cocooned in the safety of impenetrable belonging
In your certain presence
In your certain love
Nothing can touch me

After

As a handful of ash
Thrown to the wind
Questioning all I held true
Alone in thoughts I stumble through
Darkness

Where did it go
That faith once held
The certainty of the seasons
Rebirth, light, life; consumed by endless winter

Separate souls spiral
In opposite directions
No longer recognising myself
Through the fractured mirror
Mapped with cracks

The sun still shines down
An illusion of summer
The cruel April breeze stings as I see
Palm to palm, fingers fused
You and her

INVISIBLE

Futures mapped only upward
Or treading a steadfast linear path
Through a blinkered lens they do not see
The cracks in the pavement beneath

Or comprehend how easy it is to fall

To a place where neither routine nor ritual holds
The alarm clock without dominion
The night without comfort

Unseen, unrecognised

Hers is an inconsequential existence
Not observed, never documented
Days pass without words

On the town hall steps symmetrical smiles

Embrace the beginning of a journey
Wellwishers wave them off
To that uncertain destination

Unnoticed she glides between

Picks the confetti off the floor

Each scrap, each token placed
Into the crumpled carrier bag that swings from her arm
Next to yesterday’s news.

Her Revolution

2011-03-13T09:03:00.000-07:00

This week's Leeds Savages writing group task was to write something based around the topic 'Revolution'. This resulted in a wide variety of contributions from members covering everything from aeroplanes to plate spinning via spooky mirrors and slavery - certainly a broad spectrum of interpretations of the the subject!
This is my poetic contribution....

HER REVOLUTION

Her revolution began quietly
Small changes to the daily routine
Skimmed milk instead of cream
One sugar instead of two
Tiny acts of defiance, subtle
But he knew, oh yes he knew
The look on his face when he sipped his brew
The accusative tut as it swilled round the sink
Brow furrowed at the effort of making his own drink
He knew, oh yes he knew.

That accidental red sock
Those white shirts now pink
Oh what would the lads think?
After a hard day’s dallying he gratefully fell
Between fresh cotton sheets
For a night of pure hell
What caused the itching he never could tell
Bundling bedding into the alien washing machine
Bemoaning the effort to get the stuff clean
He knew, oh yes he knew.

Head pounding he awoke to
The thing he liked most
The smell of her best Sunday roast
From bed to table stumbled down where
He found no place was set
One fewer plate, one fewer chair
She did not need to look at him to picture
The frown as he reluctantly spread
Cheap jam on three day old bread
She knew, oh yes she knew.

She hadn’t needed to say a single word
But was sure that her job was done
After years as his slave she could finally see
A man in her thirty year old son
He knew, oh yes he knew
Had always known but
Not wished to believe true
The lesson she’d finally imparted by stealth
If a job’s worth doing, then do it yourself.
He knew, oh yes he knew.

Cocktails and Dreams

2011-03-13T08:54:00.000-07:00

A short story written for a Leeds Savages writing group task....

'COCKTAILS AND DREAMS'

The right honourable Michael Faraday, Member of Parliament for Winfordshire South, examined the room service menu enthusiastically. Although hungry he turned straight to the drinks page, desperate for something strong to relax him after a long day of false smiles and forced platitudes at an extremely dull regional trade conference. The names of some of the beverages made him raise his conservative brow - he could just imagine the gossip if he were to try and claim a Slippery Nipple on expenses. Singapore Sling, Sex on the Beach, Dark and Stormy - the exotic names on the page before him seemed somewhat out of place in the bland, soulless service station hotel, and eventually he decided to pass over the cocktails in favour of a dependable Best Bitter.

Order placed he opened the window slightly in an attempt to get some fresh air into the stuffy box of a room, then kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed, flicking on the television in pursuit of some entertainment to accompany the pie and a pint that would soon be making their way to his room. Flicking through the channels Michael was disappointed to find the schedule dominated by identikit light entertainment shows showcasing the dubious talents of supposed celebrities ranging from women who had apparently attained fame purely by bedding some spotty faced football player to failed politicians who were now prostituting themselves on the 21st century equivalent of Its a Knockout in a desperate effort to pay the bills. “There but for the grace of God go I” he muttered under his breath as he watched a former Home Secretary tumble head first into a vat of slime as a braying crowd pointed and laughed. With a knock on the door signalling the arrival of his order Michael turned the television off again; he’d rather eat in silence than have his enjoyment of dinner sullied by that audio-visual claptrap. Not that dinner turned out to be particularly enjoyable; the pie crust was soggy and the supposed steak filling undistinguishable from cat food. Even the eagerly anticipated pint was a flat, weak disappointment.

In an effort to improve the evening Michael decided to hire a film; maybe the kind of guns and profanity filled thriller that his wife would usually forbid from being shown within their house. Michael lifted the leaflet listing the current movie choices from its position on the bedside cabinet and scanned down an uninspiring list heavy on rom-coms and light on action. The adult movies selection was somewhat tempting, although he did question whether Naughty Nurses 8 would live up to the high standards set by its apparently award winning seven predecessors. He was about to discard the leaflet and settle for an early night when the back page caught his eye.

“New and Exclusive to Sleepy Inns – Dreams to order. With the unique Dreamtime Headset you can enjoy the dreams of your choice. Want to be an action hero, or share an intimate experience with a top model? Now at last you can live your dreams, all thanks to Sleepy Inns and Dreamtime Incorporated.”

Intrigued, Michael read on.

“To order your Dreamtime Headset just dial 7 from the in-room telephone and it will be delivered to your room preloaded with thirty dreams to suit all tastes. Excellent value at only £29.99 for eight hours use.”

Picking up the phone, Michael figured that given how exceptionally boring the day had been so far there was nothing to lose by checking out this new innovation. As an avid reader of the Times Technology Supplement he was surprised that he’d not heard about it but given the pace at which new gadgets were flooding the market these days maybe he’d just skipped the article en route to the Style magazine, which had always guiltily been his favourite part of the paper. “A Dreamtime Headset please. And if you could please bill me separately that would be splendid, I’ve a feeling that the constituents wouldn’t be too pleased if I were to claim intimate experiences with top models on expenses, har har!”

The Dreamtime machine looked somewhat like an early Sony Walkman, consisting of some flimsy looking headphones on a narrow metal band attached to a plastic box with a small digital display and a couple of round buttons. Also attached to the box was a fabric eye mask similar to those handed out on long flights in an attempt to induce sleep in a cramped, brightly lit cattle class seat. All in all the set up looked rather clunky and dated, certainly not what one would expect from cutting edge technology these days. Along with the device Michael had been provided a thick instruction manual, but being a typical male he decided that reading this would be an unnecessary waste of time; after all, with such basic aesthetic design how difficult could it be to operate?

Michael tentatively pressed one of the buttons and the digital screen lit up with the words ‘Jet Fighter Experience’. He pressed the button again and the display changed to read ‘Great Barrier Reef Diving’. Another press and the screen flashed with ‘Adult Movie Star experience’. With a blush Michael quickly pressed the button again; much as that particular choice sounded tempting, it was possibly more than his heart could take. He decided to settle with the next option, ‘Serengeti Nights’. He’d always fancied going on safari, but Mrs Faraday’s general refusal to venture anywhere hot, dusty and lacking in a local branch of Marks and Spencer had sadly curtailed his thoughts of travel.

Eye mask and headphones on, Michael settled back on the bed and pressed the red ‘start’ button on the Dreamtime box. In an instant he felt a warm African wind caressing his face and could hear the sound of chirping birds and chattering insects dancing through his ears. He was surrounded by lush green plains and swirling clouds of abrasive sand that scratched at his cheeks. “My goodness, this is wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Why on Earth hadn’t I heard about this before? This really is quite spectacular.” He spent what felt like a good hour but could have been as little as a minute in the real world exploring the terrain, taking in the sights, sounds and even smells of a distant continent from the comfort of his Sleepy Inns memory foam mattress. The experience was so convincing that he was hungry for more, and without removing his eye mask he fumbled with the ‘next’ button on the device to see where it would take him.

The heat rushed away, replaced by an incredible sense of lightness. All around Michael could see unimaginably deep darkness shot with flecks of flaming gold, and beneath him an instantly familiar sphere of vivid blue, green, brown and white. “I’m in space;” he gasped. “I’m in space!” He spun around a few times, revelling in the sensation of complete weightlessness, but having never been enthusiastic about pursuits that involved one’s feet leaving contact with solid ground he could not help feel uneasy with this most ultimate isolation. A swift press of the button and he was relieved to feel his buttocks make contact with a comforting albeit butt-bruisingly hard wooden chair. A rancid fusion of sweat, beer and cigarette smoke invaded his nostrils and the deafening silence of the heavens was replaced with a pounding disco beat as barely inches in front of Michael’s face a slender young woman with unnaturally tanned skin gyrated in the skimpiest of knickers. Although this was a far from unpleasant experience Michael felt that this was not the best use of his Dreamtime given that he’d frequented the genuine Stringfellows only a couple of weeks previously, so he pushed the button once more, eager for a less everyday experience.

Whereas previously pressing next had instantly transported him from one fantasy scenario to the next, this time nothing appeared to have happened – the girl was still in front of him performing some feats of exceptional flexibility to a mash up of 80s tunes. Frustrated, he jabbed at the button repeatedly. “Come on;” he exclaimed, agitated, “I paid good money for this thing. I could get a private dance at the Sapphire Lounge for a tenner, so why would I spend three times that on a virtual version?” A few more jabs at the button and the whole world suddenly seemed to slow down until the girl before him was frozen still with one leg behind her head and an unconvincing expression of mock ecstasy on her face. The scene then sped up and the woman continued to grind and thrust as if possessed by demonic forces. Michael tried to prize himself from his chair but was rooted to the spot.

He pressed and held the button, hoping that it might reset the box and free him from the seedy situation. After holding it in for a few seconds everything went blank and it looked as if he had succeeded in escaping from the monotony of a virtual version of what was an artificial encounter at the best of times. Respite was however brief as with a trio of shrill beeps the box sprung to life again and Michael found himself back where his dreamtime experience had started Serengeti style. Although the warmth was familiar from his earlier visit, the whole atmosphere seemed a bit different this time; the chorus of birds and crickets seemed to have calmed, replaced by what sounded like a gentle purring. Michael spun around and found himself face to face with the source of the noise; a disturbingly real and not at all dreamlike lion bearing some extremely realistic teeth flecked with the blood and flesh of the last creature to have had the misfortune to have crossed its path.

Michael tried to remove the eye mask from his face but seemed to have lost all control of his real world self, the machine having transported him to that deepest stage of sleep where dream and reality are inextricably blurred. With his carnivorous feline opponent close enough to flood his lungs with its nauseating halitosis, Michael turned and started to run as fast as he could. He could feel the breath of his pursuer on the back of his neck when suddenly he tripped on some uneven ground. With a loud expletive he tumbled down – and then up. It felt as if he were falling but rather than moving closer towards terra firma he was being torn away, zooming at such a speed that within seconds he had burst through the atmosphere of the earth and was back in outer space. This time however the galaxy was not unnervingly silent, for the seedy stripclub soundtrack appeared to be echoing around the heavens, interspersed with the deep growls of the fearsome lion which didn’t seem to be the slightest bit bothered by its unusual surroundings. The only thing that provided a small amount of comfort was the fact that he now appeared to be wearing a bulky space suit, though quite how much protection that would provide from jaws of steel which were soaring towards him was something that he was not keen to find out.

If only he’d read the instruction manual he would have known the simple combination of buttons that would reset the device, but as Michael’s head was consumed by a whirling blur of lions, strippers and shooting stars, it felt increasingly like was he was trapped in a nightmare from which there was no hope of escape. Never again would he bemoan poor in-room entertainment; a cup of tea, a good book and an early night, that was the way forward.

It was 6am and the sun was just beginning to rise when duty manager Sharon Sands found the body of the right honourable Michael Faraday, former Member of Parliament for Winfordshire South, tangled in a duvet in a bush four storeys below the open window of room 314. Mr Faraday was naked other than for a pair of grey briefs but there was no evidence of foul play other than a few scratches across his face and torso which appeared to have been self inflicted. The coroner later concluded that Mr Faraday had not been awake when he had tragically fallen to his death, and although the distraught Mrs Faraday had no recollection of her husband having ever sleepwalked in their 34 years of marriage she was relieved that there had been no foul play. Once she had come to terms with her unexpectedly premature widowhood, Mrs Faraday realised that out of tragedy a wealth of opportunity was born. Michael had always been steady, dependable and trustworthy but he had never been the most exciting of men. Maybe now was the time to live her dreams; after all, what harm could it possibly do?

Lady Icarus

2011-03-13T08:49:00.000-07:00

A poem written for a Leeds Savages writing task with the theme of 'artificial'

LADY ICARUS

A little larger, perhaps, a little higher, perhaps
A little firmer, perhaps, a little rounder, perhaps
A little more like someone else
A little less like me
As little more than ordinary
Is the very worst thing to be

When you’re paying for perfection
There’s no point in second best
Take my money my soul my innocence
And give me a super pneumatic chest

My ma said count your blessings
But I was never blessed
With anything more than an ironing board
Two bee stings at the best

My ma said it’s how God made you
It’s how you were meant to be
Easy for you to say, I said
As an ample Double D.

Lift me shape me just remake me
A nip and a tuck so the boys will rate me
A little more like a glamour girl
A little less like me
Going under the knife to sculpt a new life
Make me the best that I can be.

My ma said don’t you dare forget
The place from which you came
Fear not, I said, I’m still the same girl
Just with better teeth and a more memorable name

Money might not buy you happiness
But it does buy real nice things.
And I know one day I’ll fly from here
With a pair of silicon wings.

A festive story

2010-12-01T11:14:00.000-08:00

Here's a festive story written for today's Leeds Savage writers group meeting. Unfortunately I won't be there in person as I'm not risking leaving the house again after the four mile journey home this afternoon took three and a half hours - damn you snow!!!

Speaking of which, here's the view from our front door....

A HAPPY BURGER CHRISTMAS

Jim had never enjoyed Christmas - even as a child the forced jollity and feigned festivity had grated on him, and as an adult he had adopted a distinctly Scrooge like attitude to the season. Why should he be expected to waste his energy on spreading love and goodwill to all men given that in any of the other 11 months of the year most of them would not give him so much as a smile when he served them their fries? He had not, mind you, taken on the job at Happy Burger due to a love of customer service; to be honest he hated it when a pimply beef lover tried to engage him in an inane conversation about the weather or enquired into his plans for the weekend. If he had his own way there would be a large sign on the counter instructing customers to place their order, pay up and shut up. No small talk, no problem.

It was an entire month before the start of advent when the ‘C’ word was first uttered in the Craven Road branch shift managers’ meeting. The guilty party was the store manager Gemma who was, with her unfailing love of towing the corporate line, the diametric opposite of Jim, whose sole objective was to get through each day without giving in to the urge to swear at the customers or pummel the numbskulls that he supervised.

“Great news guys!” Gemma announced with her usual irritating enthusiasm. “This year Happy Burger are going to put last year’s politically correct ‘Winterval’ disaster behind them and let us celebrate Christmas properly! There’s going to be a special festive menu on offer and head office are going to award a special prize to the restaurant that they think has best embodied the Christmas spirit! I’m sure you’ll all agree that it’s going to be brilliant.”
Jim rolled his eyes and turned to the colleague at the side of him. “Bah humbug! If she thinks she’s going to get me flipping quarter pounders in an elf outfit whilst singing Silent flipping Night she’s got another thing coming.”

“What’s that Jim?” Gemma replied with a straight face. “You’re volunteering to dress up for us? What a wonderful idea! And speaking of wonderful ideas, I would recommend that you all get your thinking caps on as I’m going to be offering an extra day of paid holiday for the employee who comes up with the best festive idea by the twelfth of December. Let’s show head office what Craven Road is made of!”

At these words Jim suddenly shook off his usual indifference. “An extra day of holiday you say? Let’s get this festive show on the road then!”

That evening Jim set about brainstorming ideas that could win him a priceless day away from the greasy stench and oppressive heat of the Happy Burger kitchen. Certain things he immediately discounted as being off limits, notably dressing up in any kind of fancy dress or putting on any kind of public performance. Working in Happy Burger was by itself demeaning enough without the need to stoop to such a level. What else then could he do to give Craven Road a Christmas that it would never forget?

Santa, Rudolph, Elves – in Jim’s opinion a load of gubbins, twee nonsense for children and others of the same mental age.

Turkey, Crackers, Mince Pies and Pud - festive perhaps, but all a bit clichéd and nothing that you wouldn’t find in some shape or form at every eating establishment from Kebab City upwards at this time of year. What Jim needed to do to bag that holiday was something different, something that hadn’t been done before. Then it hit him. Sprouts – what could be more Christmassy than sprouts? After all, Jim couldn’t recall any member of his family who would eat them on any other day of the year, something that couldn’t be said for turkey, spuds and all the other accoutrements. Everything from pizza to pasta was given the turkey and cranberry spin come December, yet he’d never seen a sprout seasoned bag of crisps or sprout stuffed sandwich. Underrated and unloved compared to the other goodies on the Christmas dinner table, why not make sprouts the star attraction for a change?

Obtaining the required volume of sprouts to bring Jim’s plan to life proved to be no easy task. Every supermarket in the vicinity had its supplies exhausted as he loaded case after case into the back of his clapped out car. Eventually, after six round trips and a few odd looks Jim had sourced enough of the vegetables to construct his masterpiece. The next challenge was to peel all ten thousand sprouts; the late shift workers who usually wiled away the hours with a copy of the Sun and a lot of lengthy cigarette breaks being forced to participate by the cracking whip of their usually indifferent and ineffective supervisor. Come the end of the shift Jim would hide the work in progress at the back of the industrial fridge safely away from Gemma’s prying eyes; the likelihood of the boss ever actually lugging around the boxes of frozen buns and processed meat being a longer shot than a white Christmas.

The eleventh of December came round and rather than locking up with his usual haste at the end of the night, Jim retreated into the warehouse to set about building a burger unlike any that he had ever served before. Given that peeling and boiling the sprouts had taken a good week some of them were now frankly past their best, but as this was a meal designed for viewing rather than eating he didn’t foresee that as being a problem. Rolling up his sleeves he pounded the vegetables and fashioned them with the help of sticky egg into something akin to a giant green cow pat almost 6 feet in diameter. The internet had informed him that the world’s biggest burger of the carnivorous variety had weighed in at a whopping 15 stone, but nowhere had he found any stats for the biggest veggie pattie. His fellow workers may have made Gemma smile with their cutesy angel outfits and homemade mince pies, but had they put in Craven Road in the Guinness Book of Records? No sirree. Jim was confident that his efforts would not go unrewarded and that that extra day of holiday was as good as his. The irony of the fact that he had put in a good twenty hours of overtime was not lost on him, but the look on Gemma’s usually patronising face when she begrudgingly declared him winner would surely make it all worthwhile. The official from the book of records was due to arrive at 8am, the same time that Gemma and the morning shift would be rocking up to get the happy hash browns sizzling for the commuter crowd. At 3am, finally satisfied with his handiwork, he sellotaped a printed sign beneath the counter where the creation sat which read 'The world's biggest veggie burger'. As an afterthought he scribbled 'Merry Christmas Boss' underneath in Biro. If immortalising the Craven Road branch in print was not enough to win over Gemma then, much as it pained him, maybe a bit of uncharacteristic ass kissing would seal the deal....

Before locking up and heading home for a couple of hours sleep he took a photo of the gigantoburger on his phone. A true work of sprout based art.

As he approached work Jim was surprised by the massive crowd hanging around. He had expected the news of a world record having been set on Craven road to pull in plenty of customers and locals keen to have a nose, but had not anticipated it spreading so fast. He pushed past not one but several tv crews and journalists, eager to find Gemma and made her concede that his effort was undeniably the best. Her Young Manager of the Year award may have made a tiny column on page 23 of the Winfordshire Evening News, but today he, Jim Gordon, was going to make the headlines.

At last he saw Gemma heading towards him through the chattering crowd. As their eyes met the look on her face was certainly memorable, but not in the manner in which he had expected. She was covered in what appeared to be soot, and her usually pristine cream Happy Burger tunic was black. Jim was taken aback when she threw herself into his arms; he'd thought that the burger might raise a wry smile from his boss, but physical contact was something he had neither expected nor desired.

"Oh Jim, Jim, it's awful!" she sobbed into his chest. "Its completely destroyed, totally gutted!"

It was only at that point that Jim noticed through a gap in the crowd that where his place of reluctant employment had once stood was now a smoking mass of bricks, mortar and Formica.
"What the?" he exclaimed.

"It was a gas explosion" Gemma replied. "An abnormally high build up of methane apparently. I flicked on the light switch and the whole place went up in an instant. Thank goodness there were no customers around or who knows what could have happened!"

"Very lucky indeed" Jim replied solemnly . As Gemma continued to weep onto his shirt he was surprised to find that her hair smelt strangely nice; granted the explosion had given the air a fragrance reminiscent of farts or, dare he admit, sprouts, but at this unfamiliarly close proximity Gemma seemed a little less like a whiny dictator and a bit more like - shock horror - a reasonably attractive girl. He was just contemplating this turn of events and taking another sniff of Gemma's locks when he noticed a familiar looking piece of paper floating towards him on the wind. In a smooth move that would have impressed James Bond he grabbed the note with one hand and pulled Gemma into a tight embrace with the other. Fair enough ass kissing wasn't usually his style, but in the spirit of the season maybe this time he would make an exception. His culinary creation may not have had quite the desired effect, but as it was this was far better than he could ever have planned - not just one day off but no more flipping burgers for the foreseeable future. He screwed the paper up in his hand and tossed it in the gutter before whispering in Gemma's ear 'Merry Christmas Boss. I know we’ve had our differences and all, but given that it looks like we’re going to have a fair bit of time to kill over the Christmas season, do you fancy going sprout some time?'

Poem - 'A Tragicomedy'

2010-10-02T00:38:00.000-07:00

This poem was written for a Leeds Savages writing group task with the theme 'Alcohol'.
Always fun to bring out the rhyming couplets....

A Tragicomedy

Chardonnay, Shiraz, WKD Blue,
Pint of Stella, Jagermeister, Lemonade and Taboo
She isn’t fussed by the taste, just chasing the sensation
Leaving responsibility behind for a night of libation
When she slaps on the warpaint, fake lashes, high heels
It’s not about the look but the way that she feels
She warms up with vodka so she won’t feel the cold
As she waits at the bus stop for the night to unfold

She likes a Malibu, Southern Comfort, that schnapps made of peach
A Woo Woo, a Cosmo, then Sex on the Beach
She knows no better way to forget all her troubles
Than a bright pink concoction with a cherry and bubbles
Dancing shoes buckled on and she’s ready to move
Hit the floor, wild abandon whatever the groove
She won’t give a damn what anyone thinks
As long as the barman keeps pouring the drinks

Closing time brings an exodus to the nearest cab rank
Girls competitively analysing how much they drank
She sidles up to him wide-eyed in the endless queue
“I love you” she says, “I really, really do”
“My feet hurt like hell and I barely can walk
Just let me hold you for a while, there’s no need to talk”
Yet this tall strong beau is immune to her charms
For you won’t get many kisses with a lamppost in your arms...

'The Letter' #fridayflash

2010-08-27T01:51:00.000-07:00

Something quite different to my usual contributions, an ultra-short piece of writing inspired by a Leeds Savages (http://www.leedssavage.com/) writers group task.

THE LETTER
As she recoiled at the acrid taste of the glue, she reflected on how the letter, in its physical form, was a sadly dying breed. A generation of young lovers were now exchanging ‘billet doux’ instantly through the air, the romance historically borne of distance and separation lost now that constant, instant communication was available to all. In this digital age poetic expression had been replaced with acronyms unintelligible to anyone over the age of 30, and the missive was sealed not with a kiss but with a smiley emoticon.

She folded over the flap and ran her finger along it firmly. The words within this envelope were not for sharing on a blog or tweeting to the world. They were not words to be read on a screen in impersonal Times new roman, size 12 print, but thoughts brought to life on paper, their meaning conveyed not just through the juxtaposition of characters and spaces but through the smudged imperfection of a manuscript speckled with tears.

She carefully placed the envelope in the middle of the open hearth. For a few seconds it sat there untouched, flames dancing around it but making no mark. Then the crackling tongues of fire wrapped themselves around the corner of the envelope, consuming the paper with ravenous hunger. She watched as the name that she had lovingly inscribed disappeared, sucked up the chimney with the other fragments, a memory to be carried on the wind.

Holy Cow! - #fridayflash

2010-08-12T22:46:00.000-07:00

A whimsical story written for a Leeds Savages writers group task on the rather challenging theme of 'Heavenly Cows'. Hope you enjoy it!

HOLY COW!

Ever since he’d got his pensioners bus pass Frank had continued to bore and distress his family in equal measure with constant talk of his own mortality. After all their protestations that he was as fit as a fiddle and would without a doubt be winding them up for another twenty years yet, he was smugly pleased to have proved them wrong. Frank couldn’t recall what he had been doing when he died, only that everything went dark and he was overwhelmed by a sensation of weightlessness, as if floating away from his body on the gentlest of breezes. It was quite a pleasant experience really, the nearest comparison he could make from his mortal experience being the bliss he’d felt whilst having a full body massage performed at the skilful hands of a young woman on holiday in Turkey back in 2003, but on this occasion without the inappropriate erotic thoughts.

Although he may have once or twice in his seventy years of existence uttered the expression ‘Holy Cow’, Frank had never for a minute considered there to be anything divine about the bovine kind. Cows were useful, granted, in terms of their capacity to provide the creamy gold top in which he liked to bathe his rice crispies of a morning and the occasional Big Mac, but he had never had any interest in the hooved milk-bars beyond consuming their by-products. It came as a surprise, therefore, when he found himself staring straight into the big expressionless eyes of a Friesian, its black and white head surrounded by a halo of light In the back of his mind he seemed to recall hearing that certain religions believed cows to be sacred, but he certainly didn’t remember the sermons he’d experienced during forty years of weekly attendance at St David’s (or at least the ten percent which he’d managed to stay awake through) ever touching on the subject of being welcomed into the afterlife by a farm animal.

“Moo-oooo-oooooooo-ooooooooo” said the cow dolefully. “Mooo-ooooo-ooooo-ooooooooooooo.”

“Yes, I get it, you’re a cow;” replied Frank. “Mooooooooooo to you too. So what’s going on? Don’t tell me that those fellows wearing dresses and banging on tambourines outside Sainsburys were right all along with that reincarnation mumbo-jumbo and I’m now a mouse or something. I really have wasted a lot of Sundays if that’s the case.”

“Moooooooooooooooooooooo.” The cow broke its eye contact with Frank and pointed its damp pink nose down his body.

“Oh, what a relief, all four limbs appear to be present and correct. You got me worried for a minute there! So what happens next, girl? Is St Peter out at lunch or something? I’ve thought there’d be angels playing sweet ‘moo-sic’ on harps or something – ‘moo’sic, you get it? No, of course you don’t, I’m being ‘udderly’ stupid trying to crack jokes to a cow. I’m going to milk this for all its worth though, haha!”

With another languid moo the cow stepped back and Frank was bathed in the blinding light which had previously been casting an ethereal glow around the heifer.

“Oh lord, I’m sorry if it looks like I’ve not been taking the situation seriously, it’s just that I’ve always brought out the puns when I get nervous. Take me now, lord, I’m ready;” Frank prayed out loud, closing his eyes. “Ready for what I’m not quite sure, as this really isn’t what I was expecting, but I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” The last thing Frank felt was a big wet tongue licking his face, and then darkness swallowed him once more.

“Mum, mum, I think he’s waking up!”

Frank slowly prised open a lead heavy eyelid to see his wife, daughter and grandson all stood looking over him like some kind of museum exhibit.

“What the? What the?” Frank stuttered, the forming of each single syllable requiring an inordinate level of effort.

“Hush, Dad, you need to rest;” his daughter said. “You’ve given us all a scare, but you’re going to be ok.”

“The cow? Where’s the cow?”

“He remembers the cow, Mum!” his grandson said excitedly. “I thought the doctor said he probably wouldn’t remember anything?”

“Keep your voice down darling, I’m sure Grandad doesn’t want to hear you shouting.”

Unable to move his head having been wedged between a barricade of pillows on either side, Frank rolled his eyes from left to right, taking in a variety of tubes and beeping machines which all appeared to be attached to his body.

“I’m in hospital;” he stated, looking to his wife who nodded in confirmation. “I’m not dead at all. But what about the angel cow? I was dead, I’m sure of it.”

“I’m not sure if it was of the heavenly variety, but it’s probably thanks to that cow that you’re alive. You were walking through the field berry picking when you collapsed in some kind of fit – the doctors think you probably ate something poisonous whilst you were foraging, never could wait until you got home, could you? The cow kept nudging you which they reckon may have stopped you falling into a coma or even worse; and apparently it was making such a racket that it caught the attention of some walkers who went over to the animal thinking it was in some kind of distress only to find you prostrate on the grass with berries smeared all round your face.”

“I’m so sorry for giving you a scare;” Frank replied. “I may have joked with you before that I was on my last legs but I reckon that there’s actually plenty of life in this dog yet, and I want to spend as many years as God is willing to give me with all of you. Can you all forgive me for being a foolish old man?”

“Nothing to apologise for, Dad, you weren’t to know, although from now on you’re getting all of your fruit from the grocers!” his daughter replied. “So is it safe to say we’re going to see a more serious side to you after your near-death experience?”

Frank paused for several seconds with an expressionless face before bursting into a massive grin.

“You’d butter believe it!”

An opening chapter....

2010-08-07T05:19:00.000-07:00

Been a little while since I posted anything on here but aim to change that from now on!

This is an opening chapter (untitled as of yet) that I wrote for a recent Leeds Savages writers group meet. Not sure whether to continue with it or not, but see it as being packed with twists and turns as the protagonist uncovers dramatic family secrets....

CHAPTER ONE

It was a damp, unremarkable Friday night and Kate was toasting the end of yet another unremarkable working week with a white wine spritzer in local watering hole The Black Bull. The prim cardigan that had been buttoned up to the neck all day had been shrugged off to reveal a slinky salmon pink camisole which nicely showed off the remnants of the tan she had recently acquired on holiday with her husband. Although marriage meant she was a firmly one guy girl these days, it was nonetheless satisfying to know that the wedding ring hadn’t rendered her completely invisible to the opposite sex, even if the only admiring glances she received came from a cluster of elderly locals who looked like they had been propping up the bar since long before she was born. Mike had never really minded her flirty ways; if anything he was worse, a real charmer once he had a few beers inside of him.

“Excuse me miss, are you Kate Scott?”

Kate looked up from her drink to face a tall, broad shouldered man with an unkempt beard; a bit scruffy looking for her tastes but probably nothing that couldn’t be sorted with a good haircut and shave. Kate’s initial thought was that her plunging neckline had finally worked its magic and caught the attention of someone under forty, but then it suddenly dawned on her that he had addressed her by name, strange given that she was sure that she’d never met him in her life.

“Do I know you?”

“I’m afraid not, but I’ve been asked to give you this package.” He placed a brown envelope on the table next to Kate’s drink. “I was just stopped outside by a woman who said that she needed to get this to you. She wouldn’t give me her name but she was probably eighteen, twenty at the most, short blonde hair, nice fitted red coat, good figure.”

“Whatever;” Kate replied, more interested in finding out the contents of the envelope than the method of its delivery. “So what is it?”

“Its a disc, a DVD I guess? She said to tell you to make sure that you’re sitting down when you look at it as it will change your life completely. She looked really on edge, as if she was desperate to get away as quickly as she could. Seemed a bit mental to me.”

“What the???” Kate snatched the envelope off the table and pulled out the contents; a clear plastic case containing an unlabelled silver disc. “I need to go find her. I don’t get it, who is she, what’s this big life changing message?”

Kate leapt to her feet and grabbed her cardigan, not bothering to bid farewell to the colleagues who were engrossed in their own conversations about the latest office gossip and oblivious to the drama unfolding beside them.

“I wouldn’t bother if I were you;” replied the bearded stranger. “As soon as she’d given it to me she leapt in her car and drove off. A silver hatchback it was, not sure what make. Anyway Kate Scott, do you fancy a drink?”

Without replying Kate pushed past him and ran out onto the street. November rain was hammering down and there was no sign of anyone, let alone the girl in the red coat. She glanced back through the door of the pub and could see that the man who had handed me the envelope was now imposing his questionable charms on her line manager. Holding the envelope above her head she ran around the corner to the taxi rank where she was fortunately able to leap straight into the dry comfort of a cab.

As the taxi wound through the town centre the words of the man in the pub spun around Kate’s head – ‘Make sure you’re sitting down when you look at it, it will change your life completely’. Thinking about this statement made her feel very nervous indeed; who was this woman to turn up and rock her previously comfortable world? Her thoughts quickly turned to Mike, Mike who worked in a trendy advertising agency surrounded by young, attractive girls, the kind of pert figured girls who could effortlessly rock an edgy blonde haircut and red coat, girls a world away from a thirty something wife kidding herself that she’s still got it just because she can wear a low cut top in public. She’d met some of the women that Mike worked with and imagined that they would grab male attention even if they were trussed up in a hessian sack. What if the red coat girl had been spurned by Mike and was now determined to make his life a misery somehow? Or maybe, even worse, he hadn’t spurned her at all and the disc contained evidence of an affair? Kate imagined sliding the disc into her laptop and being greeted with images of Mike and the mysterious woman in compromising positions. He’d cheated on her before, almost a decade ago, but at the time they had only been going out for a few months and she’d managed to bring herself to forgive him when he confessed the truth in a sobbing declaration that the guilt had been tearing him apart, that he’d never loved a woman before but had come to realise that she was the one he wanted to spend his life with – oh, and by the way would she marry him? She’d believed him at the time but now, in the face of the unknown, wondered whether she’d been right to put my trust in him given his chequered history. Amazing how thoughts of gowns and veils and fairy tales could warp the most rational of minds...

“Here you go love, that’ll be nine pounds twenty.”

Out of the window of the taxi Kate could see the light on in the living room; Mike was home and probably curled on the sofa next to the dog with a bottle of wine chilling in anticipation of her arrival. She looked down at the envelope on the seat beside her, then up again at the house, before slipping the envelope onto the floor of the taxi. As she stepped out of the cab she made sure that she speared the envelope with the heel of her stiletto, breathing a deep sigh of relief as she felt the satisfying crack of the CD. She didn’t want her life to be changed at all; she was perfectly happy with things as they were, thank you very much.

'Judgement Day' #fridayflash

2010-07-01T22:48:00.000-07:00

This is an edited version of a story that I wrote for a Leeds Savages writers meet with the theme of 'winning', and the second story that I've based in the imaginary English village of Winfordshire.

JUDGEMENT DAY

It started with a marrow. With the girth of a tree and weight of a child, Teddy Ward’s pride and joy was certainly not the bog-standard squash you might pick up at your local greengrocer. This beast was far beyond the capacity of a shopping-basket, with two sweating flat-capped gentlemen and a large metal wheelbarrow employed in order to transport it to Winfordshire village green for judging. Young Eric Marmaduke had never seen such a thing before, but from the moment he first laid eyes on Teddy’s glorious green triumph he knew that he wanted in. Over the next few years he learned from the master everything there was to know about cultivating giant vegetables. When Teddy passed away everyone, Eric included, assumed that the lad would step into his shoes and win a clean sweep of rosettes at the next village fete. It was therefore a huge disappointment when he failed to cultivate anything greater than a distinctly average 18 incher the following summer, and saw the honour he had always dreamed of being his bestowed on smugly grinning Frank Porter.

As the years passed Eric became a husband and father but never faltered in his devotion to the giant veg cause. Mrs Marmaduke always said size isn’t everything, to which Eric would scoff “What? Of course bigger is better!” She would also tell the girls that winning isn’t important as it’s taking part that counts; this provoked indignant huffing from her husband who would respond that only losers could speak and believe such ridiculous sentiments. At the time Eric had accused Maureen of not taking his passion seriously, but looking back he realised she had only said these things in the hope that she could protect him from the disappointment that would inevitably hang over him like a dark, thunderous cloud for the months between judging and planting season. Now that she was gone, Eric decided to have one more stab at glory in her honour before hanging up his gardening gloves forever.

The spring weather had provided perfect growing conditions and Eric was optimistic that after fifty years of failure this would be the summer that he would steal the Vegetable crown from Frank’s bald head. He had always wondered what was the secret of Frank’s success but would never stoop as low as to actually ask his advice. There were countless rumours circulating including speculation that he watered his marrows with single malt whiskey and would play the mandolin to his tomatoes for hours on end. Eric had tested these methods, albeit on a slightly tighter budget with Best-Buy Brandy and a cassette recording of Cher, but to no avail. Eric’s vegetables were larger than most, but nothing compared to Frank’s progeny. With only a week to go before the Fete, Eric surveyed the allotment with tears in his eyes. Since Maureen had died he had kept himself going by imagining ascending the podium and dedicating a prize to his wife, but it was becoming clear that that was never going to happen - he would be lucky to scrape a bronze, let alone the coveted best in show. Frustrated, he kicked the marrows, tore down the creeping runner bean vines and threw handful after handful of tomatoes and strawberries at the greenhouse.

When Eric’s youngest daughter turned up at the allotment intending to catch the sun for a few hours along-side her Dad she was shocked to find him sat on the ground surrounded by a scene of vegetable carnage. Initially she thought that it must have been the work of vandals, but as she moved closer the stains all over his clothes and skin revealed the truth. Claire took his hand and gently helped him to his feet. “Let’s get you home. I think what you need is a nice cup of tea. Don’t worry, I’ll tidy up later.”

A week passed and Eric did not return to the allotment. As far as he was concerned, his life’s work was over - he’d had enough, and after years of labour his knees were knackered anyhow. It was time to put horticulture behind him and spend some quality time with his family. It was what Maureen would have wanted.

The day of the fete came around and Eric had no intention of leaving the house let alone going to watch Frank Porter gloat once again. It came as a surprise therefore when all three daughters turned up on his doorstep along with his four grandchildren demanding that he accompany them to the village green.

“Come on Dad, you’ll enjoy it;” Claire pleaded.

Reluctantly Eric pulled on socks and shoes. “Can’t we just go down by the river instead? You were never interested in the fete before, why the sudden change?”

“You’ll see;” Claire replied.

As the family strolled across the green a loudspeaker crackled to life.

“Great, sounds like we’re just in time for the judging;” his eldest, Susan, squealed enthusiastically.

“Brilliant” he mumbled in sullen reply as they took their place in front of the stage where the Mayor stood in full regalia.

“Today is a very special day for Winfordshire;” the Mayor began. “As you’ll know there is always a very high standard of entries here, but this is the first year that a villager has won seven gold medals in a single year, crushing the record of five previously held by Frank Porter. Mr Eric Marmaduke has for many years been growing fruit and vegetables, but little did we know just how wonderful they tasted. I am delighted to present Mr Marmaduke with the Best in Show award for his Marrow Cake – so moist, I’ll certainly be asking for the recipe! Mr Marmaduke has also won gold medals for his chutney, jam, carrot scones, tomato juice and berry pie, along with the photography prize for a most unusual image entitled Allotment Massacre at Sunset. Please put your hands together as Mr Marmaduke makes his way to the stage.”

Eric looked around at the smiling, appreciative faces of his family and felt on top of the world, ascending to an even higher state of nirvana when he saw Frank Porter’s ruddy face scowling at him.

“Go Grandad” urged his grandson. “Get your prize.”

As Eric ascended the steps he imagined this must have been how Bobby Moore felt when he lifted the World Cup back in 66. Having spent his entire adult life trying to grow obscenely large vegetables, it had never once crossed his mind to actually taste the things – he’d always been more a meat and potatoes man.

“Thanks, thanks;” he stuttered. “I’d like to dedicate my awards to the memory of my wife Maureen, the most wonderful woman in the world. And to three equally wonderful ladies, my beautiful daughters who I’m proud to have with me today.” He looked from one beaming smile to the next before winking at Claire.

“Thank you girls. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Elvis....

2010-06-24T11:01:00.000-07:00

I haven't had time to write much over the past couple of weeks - have had numerous musical rehearsals and performances, been to the theatre to see Hairspray (great fun!) and been generally busy, though am promising myself that i'll get pen to paper for a few hours this weekend....

Here's a poem I wrote for the most recent Leeds Savages (http://www.leedssavage.com/) writing group; the task was to write something about or inspired by Elvis, and I decided to write a light poem featuring the titles of twenty of 'The King's' singles....

ELVIS

'I wish' she cried, 'you were more like Elvis
With those twinkly eyes and that exquisite pelvis
The way he moved got me 'all shook up', from my heart down to my thighs,
As I’d sigh and swoon to each sex soaked tune, Ma called him the 'devil in disguise'

I wonder if she knew that when I kissed my 'teddy bear'
I was dreaming of stroking those skin-tight jeans and running my fingers through his hair
But darling, those muddy trainers, well they’re hardly ‘blue suede shoes’
And that sorry attempt at a goatee beard I find quite hard to excuse

That awful shirt that you somehow adore I’d like to ‘return to sender’
You used to have taste, where did it all go wrong? And you used to be so slender....
I miss that hunk of ‘burning love’, I don’t want us to go our ‘separate ways’
But sometimes I wonder if you’re still that boy whose heart I set ablaze.

So if you really ‘love me’, if you want us to stay together,
Then baby show me a ‘good rockin’ tonight’, I swear ‘its now or never’.
He looked at her and gave a smile
‘I’m sorry I can’t compete with Mr Presley’s style

But from the first day that I met you, you were ‘always on my mind’
You set alight my ‘wooden heart’, put my lonesome days behind
I followed you round like a ‘hound dog’, all panting tongue and wagging tail
And at night would pen you ‘love letters’ that I would never ever mail

I hoped for a ‘little less conversation’ when we went on our first date
But you were always a ‘hard headed woman’ and you made this ‘poor boy’ wait
There was 'crying in the chapel' on the day that we were wed
All I could think of was the 'wonder of you' and how I couldn't wait to get you to bed.

But if you no longer 'love me tender', if I fail to give you thrills,
Then I'll put on a sparkly jumpsuit, knock back some pies and prescription pills
I'll be surrounded by girls less than half my age, they'd sell their souls just to hear me sing
But have no fear, for you, my dear, are the only one who’ll ever rock this King.’

The Final Whistle #fridayflash

2010-06-10T23:03:00.000-07:00

This is a quick little story / sketch that I wrote in front of one of the very very many tenuously football related programmes currently clogging up the television schedules (A footballers wives edition of Come Dine With Me to be precise!) in honour of the FIFA World Cup, which kicks off today.

FINAL WHISTLE

Come on come on come on come on, that's more like it, yes! NO!
You idiot, what the hell was that? Come on lad, get the ball, come on,
that's more like it, YES! What? Call that a foul, you blind fool?
Get your eyes tested mate! Oh no oh no oh no I can't bear to watch oh no no
NO!

Darling, I think we need to talk....

What, now? Can't you see I'm watching the game?
Now be a love a fetch me a beer....
Oh christ these Argies are going to be the death of me,
one nil, ten minutes down and already one nil,
PULL YOURSELVES TOGETHER LADS!
Come on boys come on you can turn this around; that's better,
a bit of aggression lads, give them a taste of their own medicine.
Yes, yes, that's it, that's it, push it, push, COME ON!

I'm seeing someone else.

What? Don't be stupid.
It'll all be over by 9.30 and then you can watch your soaps.
OH FOR GOD'S SAKE! How did he miss that?
My nan could have scored there, you overpaid waste of space.
Come on now, come on, that's it, that's it, I've got a good feeling here,
this is it, this is it, yes, yes, yes, YES,

GOOOOOOOAL!!!

What a beauty, oh yes, get in!

His name's Edward. I met him at Pilates.

Yeah right, as if any straight man would be seen dead at pilates.
Did you see that goal? An absolute beauty, here , watch the replay,
d'you see that? ENG-ER-LAND!!!!!

Yes I saw. Great.
A load of millionaires running around like overgrown schoolboys.
Somehow I doubt those big busted models are with them for their admirable ball skills.
Now, do you want to see something?
Look at this picture, yes, that one on my facebook profile.
You didn't know I was on facebook?
You really don't know that much about me at all, do you.

Stop with the attention seeking, look it's almost half time,
we can have a chat at half time,
I'll even get you a cuppa.
COME ON ENGLAND!

EN-GER-LAND!!!

We'll talk at half time, you say?
Well i'm sorry, but I'm not putting up with this anymore.
As far as we're concerned it's full time.
We're over.

What? Oh my god, my god look at this, can they, can they, oh my god,
yes, yes, yes they can! Two one to EN-GER-LAND!
GOOOOOAAAL!

Right that's it I'm off, I'm going to Edward’s.
Don't bother calling me, I'll be too busy having hot, sweaty sex to answer.

Ok, right, be seeing you then. Two one, my god, we really might do this.
ENG-ER-LAND! EN-GER-LAND!!!

She had been all well and good when it came to cooking, cleaning and bedroom services, but there were no doubt other women out there who'd be able to fill that void when takeaways, squalor and porn became too much. The world cup final though - this could be a once in a lifetime opportunity. He knew without a doubt that when that final whistle blew he would be experiencing either the greatest ecstasy or loss of his life.
His wedding really had been pale in comparison.
Up against the true love he felt for those eleven men, that white shirt and St George's proudly flying flag, Frank’s wife of ten years was never going to compete. Women can come and go but football – ah, football!

Football is forever.

'On the Town' - #fridayflash

2010-06-03T12:11:00.000-07:00

ON THE TOWN

There came a point in my late twenties when staying out until the small hours of the morning in some sticky floored dive lost its appeal. Who, after all, would subject themselves to that once they’d discovered the joys of imbibing a nice pint of ale in an establishment where the barman knows you by name, where you can hear yourself speak and where you can stay until closing time yet still be tucked up in bed by 11.30? Not me. Yet there I was, pushing forty and queuing outside Aladdin’s, the best and only club in town, surrounded by teenage girls who could legitimately have been my daughter. With the young guys dressed casually in trainers, jeans and t-shirts, we, in pressed shirts and shiny shoes, felt hopelessly out of place.

The fish-out-of-water sensation continued further inside. The last time I had been to a club the playlist had consisted of cheesy pop concluding with a failsafe bit of Bryan Adams just in case you hadn’t yet managed to pull, but from the second we entered it was safe to say that Bryan would not be featuring in DJ Hacksaw’s set. I couldn’t see the appeal of the supposed ‘music’ that had substituted a recognisable melody with a looped sample of what sounded like nails being dragged down a chalkboard. The screeching noise seemed however to fit perfectly with the mood of my fellow revellers who were writhing ecstatically as if possessed by the dissonant sounds.

“Hey mate, having a good time?” Barry from accounts shouted over the racket. I nodded politely, though in reality was questioning why he had chosen here of all places to spend his last night before leaving the country. I hoped for Barry’s sake that Sydney would provide a better class of women than the scrawny chavs he was currently working the Barry magic on. We'd never really been friends but given that all of the other lads had agreed to attend his leaving do I’d figured it would have been a bit lame to say no. I got the impression that most of them had come because they wanted an excuse for a night on the tiles away from the wife and kids rather than through any sense of loyalty towards the colleague we’d always referred to as Fat Barry.

Barry pulled me aside and fished from his pocket a couple of tiny white tablets. “Fancy some?”

Surprised at the offer, I shook my head. “No thanks. I don't do drugs.”

“Lighten up, these are herbal, they’ll give you a rush but they’re completely legal. Everyone else has had some already”. He gestured to the rest of the group who were attempting to ‘throw some shapes’ much to the amusement of a group of giggling girls. Given the pounding bass I couldn’t make out whether the words the women were shouting were encouragement, verbal abuse or a combination of the both.

Barry pressed two pills printed with the image of a leaf to my palm. “Come on mate, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s not like I’m offering you crack, it’s all natural.”

Aware that Barry was not going to let me rest until I’d consumed his offering, I reluctantly put the pills onto my tongue and took a big swig of lager.

“Thanks;” I said in what was intended to be a sarcastic tone, the nuances of which were lost on Barry entirely.

“No problem. You can buy my next drink though; they cost a fiver each.”

“A fiver?” I spluttered in disbelief, lager dribbling down my chin. “They’d better be worth it. I could have bought three pints and a kebab for the price of whatever I’ve just washed down my gullet.”

Barry laughed.“Its top drawer stuff. The girls take it all the time.”

“The girls?” Barry pointed in the direction of the women circling my colleagues like hyenas, no doubt attracted by their propensity to buy a cocktail for any female willing to give them the slightest attention rather than their polyester outfits, receding hairlines or the scent of desperation oozing from their pores.

“We’re lucky that Rose was prepared to sell me these. She’s got plenty of regulars who’re going to go without tonight thanks to us.”

“Very lucky indeed;” I mumbled through a mouthful of beer.

I was about to get the next round in when two women grabbed our arms and forcefully dragged us towards the centre of the room.

“Your friends told us to fetch you for a dance.”

This was it, the moment I’d been dreading all night - I was going to have combat years of fear and dance in a public place. I suddenly felt a sense of gratitude for Barry’s pharmaceutical gift; hopefully the promised rush would kick in and I’d experience a magical metamorphosis into Sussex’s equivalent to Travolta.

Awkwardness gave way to a strangely pleasurable sensation as the bass-line vibrated through my body. The screeching music no longer seemed quite as offensive to my ears and I found myself nodding in time.

“Feeling good, mate?” Barry asked. “Told you it was first-rate.”

Barry and I were working on our best robot moves when the rest of the group interrupted our gyrations.

“Some of us aren’t feeling great, we’re going to go for some fresh air;” my colleague Jim announced.

“My guts are all over the place;” another of the guys muttered through clenched teeth.

We made our way to the smoking area and I too started to feel an uncomfortable stirring in my stomach.

“What the hell have you given us?” I asked Barry angrily. “It must be the pills, why else would we all be feeling rough?”

“Not quite all;” he said with a smile. “I feel fine. Mind you, I didn’t take any.”

“What?” the rest of us shouted in unison.

“Think of it as a leaving gift,” he replied. “A little something to remember me by. Do you know what I’ll remember about you guys? I’ll remember all those times that you went for a drink after work without inviting me, all those snide comments behind my back that you thought I couldn’t hear. Don’t act like you’re surprised; I knew all along what you thought of me. Anyway, in return for all those times that you treated me like crap, I thought I’d treat you to a truly crap night out.” He paused and laughed.

“I’d say ‘crap’s a given’ after a double dose of prescription strength laxatives...”

'Condemned' - short story

2010-05-20T22:49:00.000-07:00

Condemned

When it first sprung from the earth like some monstrous concrete giant back in 1963, Regan House was perceived to be a veritable temple of social housing with every contemporary convenience available to those lucky enough to be selected as tenants. By the time five long years later that the council had put the finishing touches on the neighbouring Goneril House, the initial shine had long worn off and the local community had taken to referring to the buildings as ‘The Ugly Sisters’. Almost fifty years down the line The Ugly Sisters were still towering over the town with decrepit menace and the estate that once been envied for its modernity was now considered by many to be a no-go area. The narrow litter-strewn alley between the two blocks was notorious for being the preferred hangout of drug dealers, alcoholics and criminals. Many of these individuals had had unblemished records before they moved into the estate; it was as if the wind that constantly rushed between the buildings mixed the grime of the earth into any soul unfortunate enough to have wandered there.

It was Housing Officer Juliet Kennedy’s first day on the job and as she parked her car against a wall adorned with some creatively scatological graffiti she was already questioning whether she was cut out for this. She’d been delighted when she was told that her application for the post had been successful – having spent three years studying hard at university it had felt like a huge anti-climax when as result of the crippled job market her first post-grad position turned out to be behind the counter at McDonalds. On the day that she shrugged off the polyester uniform and washed the stench of chip fat from her hair for the final time she felt like she was on top of the world; goodbye fast food nightmares, hello world of proper grown-up employment. When she’d been assigned her first task this morning however she had instantly got the feeling that she was being given this responsibility not because her new employers had great faith in her abilities but because no one else wanted to do it. As she walked between the buildings she kept her head down, trying to avoid making eye contact with any of the unsavoury-looking characters loitering there who were staring intently at her, making no efforts whatsoever to mask their collective suspicion for any outsider who dared to venture onto their patch, let alone one carrying a clipboard.

Upon entering the building Juliet could hear the sound of children’s laughter coming from the stairwell which made her feel a little less nervous – surely if the place really was as bad as its reputation no one would let their children out to play? At the first three flats Juliet’s knocks were not answered. She’d been advised by her line manager to not even bothering to try and ring the doorbells as 99% of them would have stopped working years ago. She’d also been told not to be surprised if residents who were clearly at home completely ignored her; the only suited visitors around these parts usually tended to be debt collectors or loan sharks. At the fourth flat Juliet rapped on the door with increasing impatience and was about to move on to the next one when she heard the sound of movement coming from inside. The door slowly creaked open and a frail elderly woman with a heavily lined face and thin grey hair shuffled out.

“Hello love, how can I help you?” she said in a raspy low voice that suggested a heavy long term smoking habit.

“Hello Mrs, um;” Juliet quickly glanced at her clipboard; “Mrs Tybalt. I’m here on behalf of Purfoot Housing Association. You may have noticed over the past few weeks that there have been some men here at Regan House and also over the way at Goneril House who have been performing some checks on the buildings. Unfortunately the results of these checks have come back and we have been informed that the towers do not comply with European health and safety regulations and can no longer be deemed fit for human habitation. As a result we will begin re-housing all residents with immediate effect.”

Much to Juliet’s surprise, the old woman burst out laughing.

“Oh my dear, I could have told you that forty five years ago. After the fire back in ’69 we all knew that this place was a death trap, but having spent so much building the Ugly Sisters they turned a blind eye to it, gave us all a nice new television and told us to keep quiet. I won’t be sad to go, no not at all. But mark my words there are some folks here who really won’t like it. Those girls – well this is the only home that they’ve ever known. They won’t go without a fight.”

“I’m afraid we really do have no other option, Mrs Tybalt;” Juliet replied. “These buildings are scheduled to be demolished by the end of the year. Everyone will be re-housed in the very best property that we have available; I’m sure once they see what we have to offer the residents will all be very happy with the arrangement.”

Mrs Tybalt said nothing but shook her head in disagreement.

“Well, thank you for talking to me today Mrs Tybalt;” Juliet continued. “You should expect to receive a letter through the post within the next two weeks which will provide details of when and where you will be moving to. If in the meantime you have any questions then please feel free to call me on this number.” Juliet rummaged in her pocket and pulled out a business card. “Goodbye”.

“Goodbye dear;” Mrs Tybalt replied. As she stepped back over the threshold of her flat and went to close the door she paused for a second and shouted at Juliet, who was by now on her way to the next flat, “Be careful how you go.”

As Juliet climbed the staircase to the next floor she again heard children’s voices. She couldn’t quite figure out where the noise was coming from but the shouting and screaming made it sound as if they were playing a riotous game. She smiled as she remembered the games that she had enjoyed as a child with her older sister. It was a pity that they had grown apart – when they were young they had been as thick as thieves.

After several hours Juliet had ascended 22 floors and knocked on the doors of all 138 flats in Regan House. Feeling somewhat tired from climbing so many flights of stairs and contending with many confrontational residents, she decided that she would get the lift back down, jump in her car and drive to a nearby cafe to grab a strong coffee and a bite to eat before returning to repeat the same exercise in Goneril House. She pressed the lift button and waited patiently at the top of the stairwell whilst the lift mechanics creakily came to life. As the lift moved up the shaft towards her she could again hear children; two young girls by the sound of things, getting nearer and nearer. When the lift ground to a halt she realised that the girls were inside the lift; so in anticipation of them running out she stepped back.

The doors opened and Juliet was confronted with the shadowy figures of a single girl aged roughly ten years old stood at the back of the badly lit lift. The girl appeared to be wearing what looked like an old fashioned school pinafore and had her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. As the girl stepped forward Juliet suddenly realised that something was very wrong. As the sunlight coming through the window hit the shadow girl’s face Juliet could see that her skin was completely charred and her eyes red with blood. Screaming, Juliet turned to run down the stairs but was confronted by a second, identical girl blocking her path.

“We heard that you are trying to take away our home;” the girl on the stairs said. “We don’t want that, do we Emily?”

The girl from the lift stepped down to stand beside her.

“No we don’t, Mary. My sister and I have been living here for forty years now and we don’t want to leave. They tried to take us away from our home before, back after the fire, but we wouldn’t let them. Do you know what we did?”

Terrified, Juliet shook her head.

“Come on Mary, tell the lady what we did;” Emily continued.

“We pushed her down the stairs;” Mary laughed. “She bounced down there like a ball until she reached the bottom. By then she had stopped bouncing.”

Juliet gasped, remembering the story she had been told about how a council worker had once had a tragic accident in this very building. The woman had apparently slipped on a wet floor, fell down the stairs and broke her neck.

“You’re not real. You can’t be. You must be in my imagination.”

“Oh, we’re real enough;” Emily replied. “Outsiders think that when people talk about the Ugly Sisters they are talking about these two buildings, but the truth is that that name came about because of us. We loved our new home in Regan House so much that when the fire broke out we did not want to leave. Our mother had hated the place so when the flames got her she willingly gave up her soul and moved on to another realm. We didn’t want to go though, which is why we’re still here today. And we still don’t want to leave.”

Juliet could feel her heart beating at breakneck speed and could not calm her shaking.

“Ok then, I’m sorry, I will go now.”

The girls crossed their arms defiantly.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We know why you’re here. We know you want to knock down our home; we’ve been listening to you all morning. And we don’t like it one bit.”

Plucking up all her strength, Juliet ran towards the girls as quickly as she could manage, swinging her handbag at one and thrusting her clipboard into the face of the other. The girls laughed as Juliet’s flailing limbs went right through their ghostly bodies as she tumbled down the staircase.

From where she lay at the bottom of the stairs, Juliet looked up to see the real Ugly Sisters gliding down towards her.

“We might not be in your imagination, but we’re also not mortal, you dummy. We’re sorry we have to do this, but the council seem to have forgotten what we told them last time they tried to evict us. They need to get the message that we don’t care what those men with hard hats and nasty ideas say. Regan House is going to stand here for another forty years.”

The girls drew nearer until they were stood directly over Juliet’s crumpled body.

“Today, we’re afraid, it’s you that’s condemned.”

A Very Savage Affair

2010-05-16T10:57:00.000-07:00

Today is an exciting day as it marks the publication of the first Leeds Savages e-book, 'A Very Savage Affair'. The Leeds Savages are a modern day reincarnation of a group of writers, artists, musicians and 'kindred Bohemian spirits' first formed in 1898 and since their re-launch in early 2010 have been coming together to produce and share all kinds of creative works.

The e-book contains....

55 Pages
59 Fabulous pictures
17 Great stories
6 Stupendous Poems
1 Fiendishly hard crossword

and is completely free of charge! I urge anyone and everyone to download it and check out the diverse and original works by some very talented people (plus a couple that I threw together).

Download the e-book NOW at http://leedssavage.com/publications/ - you won't regret it!

Home #fridayflash

2010-05-13T23:11:00.000-07:00

An attempt at something a bit different from me - a story of love and loss...

HOME

Although the sign outside the entrance read ‘Sunningvale Retirement Home’, there was, in my opinion, nothing homely about the place. Home, to me, is a place where you feel comfortable and welcome; where you lay down roots, where history is written. Sunningvale on the other hand seemed not so much a home as a waiting room for those awaiting a vacancy in that eternal abode in the sky. The residents seemed happy enough, content with the sub-school dinner meals and seemingly oblivious to the pervasive smell – an unpalatable combination of over-cooked vegetables, industrial cleaning products and decay. Fellow visitors on the other hand seemed to share my agitation. Although I feel bad for admitting as much, every second I was there was usually spent thinking about how much I wanted to leave.

Some days she would just lie in bed, not even acknowledging I was there. On this day however she was sat upright, chatting animatedly with one of the carers. Although the carer turned and greeted me, she did not stop talking – probably recounting some random story to the poor girl for the thousandth time. If I had a pound for each time I had heard the one about the time she met the Duke of Edinburgh then I’d be able to take early retirement. Not that I’d want to if, as the tagline says, Sunningvale is the best that retirement living has to offer.

I took a seat and started to mentally prepare a shopping list for my weekly shop. Beef, pasta...

"I remember it as if it were yesterday, although these wrinkled hands tell me that it must have been long ago as I was just a girl then.”

....eggs, milk, bread. My train of thought broke as I realised that this wasn’t one of the usual yarns.

“The boy in the graveyard - oh, he was the most perfect thing I had ever seen in my seventeen years! I had noticed boys before, of course, but I'd never experienced such a sensation. When he nodded to me it was as if I was frozen to the spot; I wanted so much to speak to him but I had been struck dumb. I wanted to give myself to him; I had never felt more certain of anything, but before we had the chance to meet again the war came and that boy and the rest of his generation went away. All the time he was gone I thought about him and wondered if he had a girl back home. I wrote dozen of letters that were never mailed; I didn't even know his name, just that he had the most wonderful blue eyes and dark hair, and had been placing lilies on the grave of Mrs Lucille Portman, devoted wife and mother, 1887-1938.

The war ended and the village threw a huge celebration for the lads returning, all bunting, singing and tears. There were tears of joy for the men who had returned, though I dare say that on the inside many of them were very different to the boys they had been when they left. Tears of sorrow too, for those who had not come back and never would. I however didn’t cry at all - how could I possibly explain mourning someone to whom I had never spoken?

Months passed and life continued as usual. Although I was not a regular churchgoer, at Christmas my mother begged me to accompany her to mass. Afterwards, whilst mother was milling around with friends in the congregation, I slipped outside for some air. It was then that I noticed a new marble headstone next to Mrs Lucille Portman, devoted wife and mother, 1887-1938. I moved closer until I could trace with my fingertips the engraved text that read ‘Samuel Portman, beloved son of Edward and Lucille Portman, 1922-1944’. In that instant the dreams that had occupied my every thought for the past five years died. I was a woman now, and had to put my girlish fantasies behind me and get on with my life in much the same way as the thousands of grieving war widows. In a way it was even worse for me though - at least they had known the love of their men; I was left with nothing except the memory of him here, in my heart.”

She leaned closer towards the carer, as if to impart a secret.

“But do you know what? I carry him with me to this day.”

Choked, I rose from the chair. She looked at me with confusion.

“Who are you?”

She hadn’t recognised me for months but the clarity with which she had recounted the story she had kept locked inside for over sixty years had made me hope that today would somehow be different. As tears flooded from me the carer gently took my shaking hand and steered me back to the seat. The old memories, so I’m told, last the longest; it was time to accept that the fifty years that we had shared was probably irretrievably erased from her mind.

“Now, Emily, this is Lucy. Your daughter.”

Her face showed nothing, not a flicker of recognition. I continued regardless.

“Mum, its me. Lucy. I was just thinking, would you like to come home with me tonight? The bed is made up ready.”

She shook her head.

“But it must be lonely, here by yourself;" I persisted. "If you come with me I’ll be there to keep you company, and your grandchildren might even pop by?”

“I’m not by myself, love.” She paused and touched her chest. “Did you not hear me? I’ve got Samuel here. “

At the time I had no inkling that that would be the final time that I would see my mother alive, yet in retrospect its seems as if, having spent her entire life teaching and guiding me, the story she shared that day was actually meant as a final lesson. Before then I’d always dismissed the expression ‘Home is where the heart is’ as nothing more than a mawkish sentiment reserved for tea towels or cushion covers. But home, I now understand, is not four walls, a garden, a picket fence, but the destination towards which my mother’s whole life was headed, when her heart would finally be fulfilled. Under the sycamore tree barely one hundred yards from where Samuel Portman has waited for her for all these years, my mother now sleeps in peace, and I myself find peace knowing that she is home at last.

iSociety #fridayflash

2010-04-22T10:57:00.000-07:00

iSociety

Not that long ago it had been overpopulation that had roused the passions of the worlds environmentalists, sociologists and thinkers. With an ageing population hungrily consuming the earth's limited resources and Government funded education programmes and free contraception doing little to halt the spiralling birth rate, many agreed that the future looked bleak.

The 2015 Global Internet Initiative was lauded as the greatest development project of the 21st century; the opportunity to close the divide between the riches of the west and those nations formerly known as third world. It would create entrepreneurial opportunities in communities that had historically been isolated from the global marketplace. It would beam world-class educational materials direct into the homes of children who had never set foot in a school. It would, in short, be the greatest thing since sliced bread, and perhaps most importantly would enable the countless politicians, businessmen and shady oligarchs who had supported and funded the initiative to pat themselves on the back and say what a great job they'd done in bringing ebay and facebook to all those poor people.

Whilst the joys of social networking and skype no doubt enhanced many third world lives, it was the pornography industry which reaped some of the greatest rewards. By appealing to the most basic of instincts many smut peddling billionaires were born. It was however the worldwide launch of the synaesthesia chip in 2020 which heralded the next major step in the evolution of the 'Adult' market.

The Synaesthesia chip, implanted into consumers at a bargain price thanks to huge subsidies from advertisers delighted at the opportunity to beam their messages straight into their targets skulls, enabled individuals to become fully immersed in the Internet. What had previously been a purely visual and aural experience could now stimulate every single sense; a coffee advert would beam the smell of the freshly ground beans into consumers noses, whilst numerous health spas found themselves going out of business now that a pampering massage could be experienced without anyone having to lay a finger on your physical flesh. The border between the virtual and 'real' worlds began to blur and come the launch in 2115 of the sixth generation chip the ability to virtually 'eat' any meal of your choosing on demand even put the food industry out of business, with liquid 'food' (pumped straight into their homes through the system that historically provided that now passé substance 'water') containing the perfect mix of nutrients required without the need for a single minute of preparation the new fuel of choice for the Virtually Human population.

Every new technology from the cave painting onwards has been put to intimate use by some individuals but until the Synaesthesia Chip was launched none had really been considered a preferable alternative to the experience of an actual physical coupling. Although the Daily Mail had initially hailed it to be a greater danger than crack cocaine, before long the online 'romance' experience had moved from seedy to mainstream, millions delighting in the joys of an experience tailored to your own personal needs without any of the risks or emotional hang ups associated with real life. It wasn't even all about sex; many subscribed religiously to the software which would give the consumers a permanent sensation of being in the first flushes of love.

And so it was that the world came to reach a dire state of crisis. As humanity retreated into its virtual shell the act of actual reproduction became a niche activity. Those who felt the primal urge to become a parent could do so in the Virtual world without having any of the agonies of childbirth. There was no need to ever fear for the safety and health virtual offspring due to their immortality - unless, of course, you'd had enough of the digi-child in which case you could simply uninstall the software and get on as if they had never existed (which, strictly speaking, was true). If current trends continued then within 50 years the average age of the population would be over 80, a situation that would clearly be unsustainable given that the vast majority of the rapidly shrinking younger population had no interest at all in a 'real world' profession such as nursing or care, and had even less interest in providing support for their own forbears. Life 'offline' held no appeal anymore; what was the point of accepting anything less than your very own idea of perfection when it was available to you simply with a blink of your eye?

Whilst most scientists agreed that it was a giant meteorite that led to the extinction of the dinosaurs, it was something considerably more mundane that thinned to human herd. On April 23rd 2125 a small earthquake - quite inconsequential in richter scale terms - erupted beneath Japan and cut the power to the Synaesthesia Lifestyle Systems servers that nestled at the base of Mount Fuji. With the power cut, the whole world suddenly found itself plunged back into reality, a place most citizens had not visited within the past decade. Hearts that had over time slowed to fewer than 30 beats a second could not cope with the sudden shock and at least 30% of the population dropped dead in an instant. Many more sent themselves to a grisly end within minutes of the awakening as they hacked away at their own skulls in an effort to bring their short circuited chips back to life. Their bodies weak and malnourished, the citizens of iSociety were no longer fit for life in the physical world, and given the underdeveloped - neigh, nonexistent - immune systems that they possessed as a result of their lack of exposure to anything other than a sterile home environment, an outbreak of influenza quickly killed most of them within weeks of them having tentatively ventured into the outside world.

In a perfect realisation of Darwin’s principals, by 2126 only 144,000 humans remained, all but the very fittest having perished. Many had mocked their ways over the past century but it was the TechnoPuritans who truly had the last laugh.

iSociety had had its day - it was time to return to a life of honest labour and embrace the realities of human nature and the infinite joys and disappointments of messy, complicated, population growing human love.

Disappearing Act #fridayflash

2010-04-15T22:51:00.000-07:00

This is an edited version of a longer story written for Leeds Writers Group.......

Disappearing Act

Excited at the prospect of attending her first school dance, Ruth Hennessy spent all her pocket money on cheap make up which she caked on with the subtlety of a clown. Seeing her little girl preening and pouting precociously in front of the mirror, Ruth’s mother decided that she could delay the inevitable no longer; the time had come to teach her the facts of life. Mrs Hennessy’s intentions were good, but when it came down to it she couldn’t bring herself to go into any level of biological detail and as a result Ruth spent most of the dance with horror on her face as she observed her classmates slow dancing and sharing awkward kisses, both activities she had been led to believe could make a baby if the participants weren’t taking what her mother obliquely referred to as ’precautions’.

A couple of weeks of secondary school were all it took for Ruth to realise she’d been duped; the contraband copies of Seventeen magazine pored over behind the bike sheds set her straight as far as sex was concerned, even if some of the practices referred to in the problem pages did leave her feeling repulsed. Although she was somewhat grateful that her Mum had spared her the embarrassment of a conversation complete with all the anatomical in and outs, she was livid that she’d been spun a lie which, had she had been unfortunate enough to repeat it, would have made her look like an idiot in front of her friends.

Several years previously Ruth had visited a magic show which culminated in the magician wowing the audience by making his assistant disappear. At the time Ruth was distraught, convinced that the girl had experienced some terrible fate and refusing to be consoled no matter how many times her grandfather explained that she hadn’t really been transported through time as The Great Magnifico had led her to believe. A disappearing act would, Ruth decided, be the perfect way to get revenge on her parents.

On Friday morning, Ruth ripped a page out of an exercise book and wrote a note which she left under her pillow. In her schoolbag alongside her usual books and pencilcase she packed her toothbrush, Gameboy and teddybear. Spending the night on the streets didn’t, she reasoned, mean that she had to live like a tramp – a few home comforts would make the night go a lot quicker. She wished that she could bring her duvet but there was no way she would be able to smuggle that to school without arousing any suspicion. Anyhow, she would be back in her bed tomorrow, with her parents so grateful to have her home that they would never dare to deceive her again.

When the school bell rang at 3.30pm Ruth made her way to the station and caught a train to the next town. Back home, her Mum sat watching the clock and wondering where Ruth had got to - she would usually have called if she was going to be delayed for any reason. By 6pm Mrs Hennessy was beginning to panic, and when her husband returned from work an hour later she was in a state of hysteria. At 7.15pm they found the scribbled note which struck fear into both their hearts;

‘Don’t look for me. I’m not coming back’.

For the first few hours Ruth kept herself entertained browsing the shops, but before long the only place open was a small supermarket and the suspicious looks that the security guard gave her as she traversed the aisles for the tenth time told her it was time to move on. She looked young for her age so even with make up on there was no chance of her being able to pass the evening in a pub, so the only remaining option was a fastfood joint. Ruth sat drinking a milkshake as slowly as possible whilst playing on her GameBoy until the batteries ran out. At 11pm the pizza-faced burger vendor apologetically told her that it was time to close, so Ruth reluctantly headed out onto the streets. It was freezing cold but she was adamant that she was going to stick it out; running away would be nowhere near as dramatic if she were to return home, tail between legs, before the night was through. Ruth sat on a bench and hugged her knees under her chin in an effort to keep warm.

“You should be careful around here, you know.”

Ruth turned to see a man looking at her out the window of a black car.

“Young girls on the street, well, sometimes they disappear. Why don’t you come with me and I’ll give you a lift home?”

“I’m waiting for someone” she replied, wishing that he would leave her alone. The way that he was staring, eyes wandering up and down her school uniform, was making her feel uncomfortable.

'Pretend what you like but it's true. Girls on the street disappear and never come back. Sure you don't want a ride?

Ruth shook her head.

'Your loss;' the man in the car muttered as he pulled away. Long after he was gone from sight the driver's words continued to echo around Ruth's head.

Disappear.

Disappear and never come back.

In that instant Ruth realised how flawed her plan had been. The magician on the pier, that had all been smoke and mirrors, and although the audience had marvelled at the fact that the girl had apparently vanished into thin air, they would not have been applauding if they had any doubt that she would live to perform the same act the next day. Out here however, in the strange and unfamiliar world of the night, tomorrow seemed very far away.

With tears in her eyes and regret seeping from every pore Ruth turned on her mobile phone and dialled.

This vanishing act was never going to receive a standing ovation or critical acclaim. It was time to bring the curtain down.

'Kiss Me Quick' #fridayflash

2010-04-08T22:52:00.000-07:00

KISS ME QUICK

A local news programme once informed me this city is the further from the coast in the whole of the Britain. Whilst this may have some advantages in this age of freak weather and rising sea levels, on the rare occasion that I find the sun blazing down and a commitment free weekend ahead I find myself pining for the nostalgic pleasure of the seaside; ice creams, sticks of rock, stripey deckchairs et al. I can't quite recollect if this image stems from an actual childhood memory or from years of Sunday sitcoms and carry on movies, but just imagining lungs filled with salty air and the cacophonous squawking of circling gulls transports me to a happy place far from the concerns of everyday life.

I was walking through the park on my way to the supermarket, iPod blasting at full volume in an attempt to let Bill ‘Lovely Day’ Withers transport me away from the graffiti and dog crap reality of my journey. This was a route that I'd taken many times before, and the fact that we were experiencing freakishly good weather for April did little to detract from the fact that the Nobby Herring Memorial Park was a grim place, preferred hangout of drug dealers and local disaffected youths and not somewhere you would wish to linger for any longer than strictly necessary. I was, as usual, trying to avoid making eye contact with anyone else unfortunate enough to be in the locale, when out the corner of my eye I saw a flash of brilliant blue. Taken aback by something so colourful against this dismal backdrop, I broke with my usual rule and looked up to see a barefooted girl wearing a billowing blue dress dancing on the dead grass, rucksack at her side.

'She sells seashells on the seashore. She sells seashells on the seashore.'

I'd had a relatively heavy night on the town but I was pretty sure that I wasn't seeing things.

'Hasn't anyone told you it's rude to stare?'

The girl stopped dancing and was now stood still, hands on hips and head tilted coquettishly.

'I'm sorry, it's just that I was daydreaming that I was walking along the beach rather than negotiating the litter in this dump, and then there you were, singing about seashells. Weird.'

'Yeah, whatever.'

I was about to walk on but she was staring at me intently in a way that suggested she was waiting for me to speak.

'Er, I've not seen you here before. Are you local?'

'Maybe you just haven't been looking properly. Aurora.'

'Steve. Pleased to meet you'.

Aurora sat down, dress spread in a circle, and patted the ground, beckoning me to join her. Kicking aside a crumpled coke can, I accepted the offer.

'So, you were saying that you were dreaming of the sea?’ she said. ‘I love the sea. So romantic.’

'Me too, though to be honest I was thinking about the funfairs, donkeys and kiss me quick hats side of things rather than waves crashing on the shore.'

‘Kiss me quick hats?’ she repeated quizzically. ‘What’s a kiss me quick hat?’

‘Surely you must have heard of them;’ I replied. ‘When I was a kid my granddad used to always wear one when we went to the seaside. I found it mortifying, of course.’

Aurora laughed.

‘And did he get many kisses?’

‘Well, given that my grandma was always at his side ready to fend off any admirers with her walking stick, unfortunately not.’

‘And do you have one of these famous hats in your wardrobe?’ she said with a grin on her face. ‘Because you know what, if you were wearing one right now, I might just have to...’

I blushed.

‘You might just have to what?’

‘Might just have to kiss you. Maybe quickly, or maybe like this’

She leaned over and lifted my chin with her hand until we were staring into each other’s eyes, then firmly pressed her lips to mine. In an instant I saw the Nobby Herring Memorial Park in a whole new light; in my nineteen uneventful years of existence there had been maybe half a dozen girls prepared to swap saliva with me and yet here I was with this beautiful stranger kissing me passionately and running her hands all over my body in broad daylight. It was like all my adolescent dreams came true all at once, and far more exciting than anything that the internet could provide.

The kiss must have gone on for a full minute before she pulled away, bringing me reluctantly back down to earth from what had felt like a truly divine experience.

‘I’m sorry, Steve’ she said apologetically. ‘I don’t normally do that kind of thing, I’ve no idea what came over me.’ She grabbed her bag and leapt to her feet.

‘Wait!’ I called out as she frantically brushed grass from her dress. ‘There’s no need to apologise, that was amazing. Want to grab a coffee or something?’

She shook her head.

‘No, I really have to go, I’ve got to get to a lecture. Maybe see you around?’

‘Yes, that would be great;’ I replied. ‘Can I give you my number?’

She shook her head again.

‘No, I don’t think so. But it was nice meeting you.’

With that curt reply she turned and walked away, leaving me dazed and confused. Had I really just shared the best kiss of my life with a random girl in the middle of the park?

Bemused, I rose to my feet. I wasn't really in the mood for grocery shopping anymore, but aware of the bare cupboards in my flat I begrudgingly decided to continue on my original mission. I reached into my jacket to retrieve my iPod; for once Bill Withers had been right, this had turned out to be a lovely day indeed. It was then that I sadly realised that if something seems too good to be true, chances are that it is. No wonder she had been keen to kiss me quick and squeeze me slowly; the spontaneous seduction had actually been the perfect cover for a thorough excavation of my pockets. No regrets though; in that instant I would have signed over my soul if only she had asked, so a £150 mp3 player and £16 in change were a comparatively small price to pay.

'Ova' my dead body #fridayflash

2010-04-02T06:29:00.000-07:00

A light-hearted story for Easter weekend, a slice of English village life.

'OVA' MY DEAD BODY

The cancellation of the 97th annual Winfordshire egg rolling contest was considered by many to be an outrage. Generations of Winfordshire folk had grown up with the contest as important a date in the family calendar as their birthday, Christmas or the last day of term, and the prospect of Easter passing by without the competitive thrill of rushing down the hill, typically whilst being pounded by the wind and rain characteristic of English springtime, was enough to bring tears to the eyes of local residents young and old.

“Health and safety?!” scoffed Edna Burridge, 89 years of age and a lifelong Winfordshire lass. “There was no such thing back in my day. A few knocks and scrapes never did anyone any harm. It certainly wasn’t health and safety that won us the war, you mark my words.”

The local council did not however pay any attention to Edna’s words, or indeed those of any of the other 63 angry citizens who bombarded them with letters, phone calls and mildly veiled threats. In this increasingly litigious age they could simply not afford to bear the risk associated with an event which had recorded in the annals of its glorious history countless cases of concussion, eighteen broken limbs and at least a dozen arrests. In spite of Edna’s declaration that ‘you’ll stop that contest over my dead body!’, the cancellation remained in place and Edna remained in the same rude health as ever.

Regardless of the council’s decree that the event had been outlawed, the citizens of Winfordshire carried on regardless with the task of painstakingly decorating their eggs. Those ignorant enough to question the point of spending hours painting a detailed design on an egg only to throw it down a muddy hill were treated with derision and pointed in the direction of the local museum where a lovingly assembled scrapbook would greet them with photographs of their parents, grandparents and even great grandparents performing the very same task, and the proprietor Brian would solemnly inform them that tradition is tradition, no questions asked.

Word spread that the killjoy council would be locking the gates to the park on Easter Sunday morning in order to prevent any illegal egg rolling activity from taking place, so the self appointed people’s committee of maths teacher Peter Fletcher, ferret fancier Allen Monroe and lifelong Winfordshire lass Edna Burridge, 89, decided that an alternative approach was required. Although tradition decreed that the egg rolling would always take place immediately after the 10am easter morning service at St Barnabus’, they agreed that breaking with a small element of tradition would be preferable to bowing to the bureaucrats and cancelling the event completely. Word quickly spread of the new arrangements and the self appointed committee were confident that there would be a good turn out at the inaugural Winfordshire midnight egg rolling contest.

At approximately quarter to twelve on the night of April 3rd, at least one hundred members of the Winfordshire population crept from their houses into the cold dark street, wrapped up warm in gloves and scarves and grasping a precious egg-shaped cargo. Rogue council worker (and grandson of Edna) Richard Burridge had misappropriated the spare set of park keys, an abnormally deviant act for the straight-laced accountant and one that made him somewhat fearful for his job and final salary pension. Into the park streamed men, women and children, some rolling virgins but the majority faithful disciples of the great school of Egg. Like sheep they flocked towards the top of the hill where they stood in silence, waiting for the sign.

Arthritis and hips that had seen better days meant that Edna had, twelve months ago, had to sadly announce her retirement from egg rolling. Her unbroken record for the most consecutive wins – six back in the early 1970s – afforded her a VIP status that made her the natural choice for taking charge of the event in the absence of the usual council officials. At the bottom of the hill, as instructed, she flashed her torch three times in a row before bellowing ‘Go!’. In an instant eggs were furiously launched down the slope, their trajectory followed in quick succession by a flurry of flailing limbs and screaming mouths. Within thirty seconds the first egg reached the finish line and Edna declared its young owner the winner, taking a photo on her grandson’s fancy digital camera of the boy holding the red and white striped egg aloft which would take pride of place in the Winfordshire museum scrapbook alongside the images of the previous seventy victors. In the background of the photo could be made out dozens of shadowy figures, some sat on the ground holding grazed knees or aching heads, others bent over struggling to catch a breath after their brief annual stint of physical activity. Everyone, no matter how bloodied or bruised, shared in the elation of the winner. This was a victory for everyone, a victory over those cursed words health and safety, a victory over the man.

Whilst the good citizens of Winfordshire were celebrating easter at St Barnabus’ church, or, in the case of the more secularly mind, with a chocolate egg shaped breakfast in bed, local councillor and park keeper Eric Marmaduke rigidly stood guard at the park gate like one of the Queens’ beefeaters, although with a slightly less impressive hat. He was quite surprised by how quiet it was this morning – after the mountain of complaint letters that had landed on his mat he would not have been surprised to have been greeted by angry protesters with signs and threats of violence. To be honest it was even quiet by the standards of a usual Sunday, as if everyone had simultaneously decided to spend an extra hour in bed rather than going about their usual routines. When the clock struck midday without the slightest hint of trouble having occurred, Mr Marmaduke decided that he no longer needed to stand sentry; the good citizens of Winfordshire had clearly come to realise that by calling an end to the preposterous act of carnage that they like to call tradition he had only had their best interests at heart. He had been wrong to doubt them.

At 12.01 Eric Marmaduke opened the park gates and was greeted by a carpet of rainbow egg shells.

At 12.01 and ten seconds Eric Marmaduke greeted the carpet of rainbow egg shells with a very rude word.

Beware Geeks Bearing Gifts... #fridayflash

2010-03-25T23:46:00.000-07:00

'The paramedics found it strange that before they had even arrived on the scene someone had left a bunch of flowers next to the tragic accident...'

It had been a tiring week and Laura wasn’t looking forward to the drive home. Whilst consultancy work was well rewarded, she was fed up with living out of a suitcase and could barely remember when she’d last spent seven days in her own bed.

At 5pm on Friday Laura shook hands with the finance director and thanked him and his staff for their hospitality, a false expression of gratitude given the icy reception that she had received over the past five days from all but one employee, a lanky IT technician who had taken it upon himself to interrupt her every two minutes asking if she wanted yet another cup of weak, unpleasant tea. It was pouring with rain and the winter sky was already black so she ran to her car, coat over head. She threw her bags into the boot and was just about to climb in when she realised that she had left her scarf inside. She was tempted to leave it, every minute she delayed setting off adding another minute to the time until she would be back in her flat with the bottle of chardonnay that had been chilling all week in anticipation of her return. The scarf however had been a gift from her mother and would no doubt be expected to be paraded in front of her at their next meeting, so reluctantly she ran back inside, leaving the engine running in an effort to shift some of the ice glazing the windscreen.

Within two minutes Laura was back in the car and the ice had cleared sufficiently for her to set off. Eyes heavy from too much work and not enough sleep, Laura cranked up the radio in an attempt to keep herself alert. As the DJ played an eighties classic she started to sing along, head bobbing in time to the music. She would never sing in front of an audience, the thought of karaoke mortifying, but nothing could beat belting out a cheesy song safe in the knowledge that no one could hear.

As her route snaked into the country, Laura turned her headlights to full beam. In such treacherous conditions she hated this kind of road; windy, unlit and full of potholes.
Fortunately she only had a couple of miles to go before the motorway that would carry her all the way home. The rain seemed to be getting even stronger, and Laura turned the radio up further in an effort to drown out its hammering rhythm.

Coming around a bend at considerably more than the speed limit Laura was suddenly faced with a red traffic light on a crossroads immediately in front of her. Slamming on the brakes she managed more by luck than judgement to screech to a halt parallel to the light, the lack of traffic that she subsequently noted in every direction making her wish that she hadn’t bothered.

There was a loud thud from the back of the car which she assumed was her suitcase in the boot careering forward. This assumption was however quickly proved wrong as she heard an expletive come from behind her seat, and felt a hand grab at her knee. Screaming, Laura looked up into her rear view mirror to see a shadowy figure peering at her. Her first instinct was to get out and run, however it had been at least a mile since she had last passed a house and other road users seemed to be few and far between, so she decided that running away from a would-be murderer was not the wisest idea. On the passenger seat was her handbag; a huge leather contraption which held not just keys, wallet and phone but also a spare shoes, a litre of water and a fat novel. Recalling how her boyfriend had always said how she would do herself damage lugging around that vast weight all day, she decided the best course of action was to test its to potential to do damage to someone else. Laura grabbed the bag and swung it with all her strength at the unwelcome passenger, hitting him squarely in the nose, which started bleeding all over her upholstery.

“Ouch!” squealed the would-be murderer in a frankly unfrightening manner. As he looked up, blood continuing to spill everywhere, Laura suddenly recognised him and felt her feeling of terror give way to immense anger.

“You? What the hell are you doing in my car? I could have crashed and killed us both!”

The IT guy looked somewhat pathetic as he tried to stem the flow of blood with his sleeve.

“I’m so sorry, I never meant for this to happen! I followed you out as I wanted to give you my number – and these”

He bent down and pulled out from underneath Laura’s seat the most bedraggled bunch of flowers that she had ever seen.

“It was raining so hard that when I saw you run inside I thought I’d sit in the car until you got back – to protect the flowers, you see. Then when I saw you coming back I got nervous, and for some stupid reason decided to hide. I hoped you’d go to the boot or something so that I would get a chance to sneak out without you noticing, but that never happened. I was planning on making my getaway as soon as you stopped; I never meant to scare you, I promise!”

With fury in her eyes Laura swung the bag at him again.

“You weirdo, I wouldn’t have wanted your flowers before and I certainly don’t want them now. Get out, now! Before I call the police...”

As the IT guy clambered out the car Laura pushed her foot to the floor, desperate to get to somewhere well lit and where she could compose herself. As tears flooded her eyes she saw nothing other than the road ahead, the road that would lead her to civilisation and away from the creep who had scared her half to death. By the time headlights illuminated her face and the bellowing horn filled her ears however it was too late – he may have scared her half to death, but it was the ten tonne articulated vehicle speeding towards her would take her all the way.

Writing.....

2010-03-21T08:26:00.000-07:00

I didn't get the chance to write a Fridayflash short story last week but have just put the finishing touches to next week's contribution - watch out for the dreadful pun in the title!

In the meantime, here's a somewhat daft poem that I wrote for the most recent Leeds Writers Group meeting. The brief was to write a piece with a theme of Resurrection / Second Life. I think that this poem probably works best read out loud - imagine the narrator as a world weary woman of a certain age entering a new chapter in her life....

Resurrection

“It’s been a while”, she said, and sighed
“Since I walked down the aisle, a virgin bride
Full of hopes, and dreams, and wishes
Far more exotic than ironing and washing the dishes;
Darning his socks and cooking his tea
The original goddess of domesticity.
Dreams of adventure quickly faded with three mouths to feed
And yet, I was happy, he gave me all I could need
I felt like I’d found my vocation in life
I was born to be a mother, born to be a wife
He would always protect me, of that I had no fear
Until that day - that fateful day! - when he gave me gonorrhoea...

I’d been blind within my romantic bubble
Ignored the signs that the man was trouble
Those late nights at work, those anonymous calls
I never questioned his life beyond our four walls
My friends asked with disbelief ‘Did you not suspect a thing?
When he’d ‘accidentally’ leave the house without his wedding ring?
When he started dressing smartly, when he bought a new cologne
When you found a blonde hair in the wash you knew was not your own?’
In the bedroom there were no clues, I saw no changes in his habits
Although after several decades of marriage we weren’t at it like rabbits
The end, when it came, was swift as could be,
Infidelity I may have forgiven, but not that STD...

I climbed into the attic and retrieved from a case
That once loved confection of satin and lace
Ripped apart each and every yellowing thread
A sacrificial ritual for that marriage now dead
Oh, if I could turn the clock back twenty odd years
I could save that virgin bride a tsunami of tears
Yet I would not choose to have lived without this pain
For the greatest benefit of death is the chance to be born again
Yes, my husband’s blatant disregard for protection
Has led to this red-blooded woman’s resurrection
Out of the darkness shines a fierce burning light
And thanks to him, if I’m lucky, I’ll be on fire tonight....

Mother's Day #fridayflash

2010-03-11T22:59:00.000-08:00

Although this story stands alone, it could be the start of a far longer tale - let me know what you think and if you'd be interested in reading more......
Mother's Day

“I wish you weren’t my mother. I hate you.”

Laura rolled her eyes at her screaming daughter, refusing to bite, refusing to let the teenager gain the upper hand. Hours spent perusing parenting forums had taught her not to take this kind of behaviour personally, the thirteen year old who respected and appreciated their parents being a very rare species indeed.

“I wish you’d never had me. Or I’d been adopted at birth!”

It wasn’t a big surprise to Laura that Bethany had failed to get her a gift for Mother’s day. Any acknowledgement of gratitude would have been nice, but the relationship between them had been even more strained than usual of late and Laura had to be content with the fact that she was getting to spend some time with her today, even if it was more an expletive laden war of words than an affectionate bonding session.

As a child Bethany had sported a halo of blonde curls, although as she grew these gave way to a darker complexion which Laura attributed to her absent father. As they walked hand in hand people
had often commented how much the infant looked like her mother, Laura swelling with maternal pride at the beautiful daughter that she had once thought she would never have. After an acrimonious divorce Laura had flitted between relationships, the deep scars inflicted by her marriage causing her to run a mile as soon as the idea of love or commitment entered the head of either party. Hitting forty she was struck by the realisation that her body clock was winding down, the window of fertile opportunity closing fast. She stopped taking the pill and set about a mission to bed as many eligible men as possible. She couldn’t care less if they were good father material as she intended to raise her child alone; as long as the prospective donor was reasonably attractive and capable of holding conversation she had no further qualms. In spite of this lack of discretion the mission went on for five fruitless years and Laura had pretty much given up hope when, at long last, along came Bethany.
Beautiful baby Bethany. Mummy’s little miracle.

“Another slice of cheesecake, sweetheart?”

“No, what do you think I am, a pig? You trying to fatten me up, make me fat and ugly like you?”

“Now, Bee. That’s not a nice thing to say, is it? No matter how much you wish otherwise, I’m your Mum, and nothing can change that.”

“It doesn’t mean that I have to like you though, fat old bitch. I must have done something wrong in a past life to end up with such an old cow for a Mum.”

Laura rose abruptly, deciding to forego the wisdom of Mumsnet.com et al and give her daughter a piece of her mind.

“How dare you speak to me like that, after all I do for you? Get to your room now. I will not be spoken to like that. NOW.”

Without a further word Bethany left the room, slamming the door behind her.

Laura cleared the table before settling down in her armchair with a cup of tea and the Sunday paper. As the quality time with her daughter that she had hoped for clearly wasn’t going to happen she would have to make do with some quality time with herself. She flicked past the usual sensationalist articles about footballers’ indiscretions and philandering politicians, the same old stories as last week just with different faces. A ‘heart-warming’ spread showing the beaming faces of families who had triumphed against adversity put a grimace on her face; did the publishers not realise that by devoting column inches to these paragons of virtue they would serve to make ordinary Mums struggling with ordinary issues feel even more inadequate than usual? Laura turned the page with disdain.

On the next page there was a picture of a couple, ordinary looking people stood in front of a tired council house. They were nothing special to look at, but their sad faces were known by the nation, had been for well over a decade now along with the photo of a dribbling baby that they clasped tightly in every shot.

As today was Mothers Day, a new image had been released to the press using the latest technology to show what Lisa Davies would look like today. The silent majority were convinced that Lisa had been dead over a decade now and questioned whether it was really right for the tabloids to keep covering the story in this way, milking the tragedy for all it was worth and giving the sad faced parents false hope in the process. Laura had certainly had enough of the story; was there anything at all in this rag resembling actual news?

Hearing footsteps coming down the stairs Laura folded the newspaper and tossed it on to the open fire at her side. She regularly asked herself why she bothered wasting her money on such trash when it always ended going up the chimney, but it was a matter of habit and the morning stroll to the newsagents a welcome excuse for a bit of fresh air.

“Mum?”

The door creaked open and Bethany sheepishly entered.

“I thought I’d told you to stay in your room;” Laura said in what she intended to be a stern manner, but which was rendered ineffective by the smile that darted across her face the instant that she saw the envelope clasped in her daughter’s hand.

“I’m sorry about earlier Mum, I didn’t mean it. Happy Mother’s Day”.

Laura opened the envelope and was greeted by a card showing a cartoon bear holding a bunch of flowers underneath a banner reading ‘World’s Best Mum’.

“Come here, sweetie.” Bethany sat on the arm of the chair and Laura her pulled into a tight hug. “Thanks, it’s really lovely."

Bethany squirmed, embarrassed by the outpouring of emotion.

“That’s ok Mum, it’s nothing.” She wriggled free of the embrace and slid off the chair. “Is it ok if I head back to my room now? I’m going to get on with my homework.”

“Of course, Bee. You do that.”

As Bethany left the room Laura wiped a tear away from her cheek. She’d never believed it until she became a parent herself, but she knew now that it was true that no matter how petulant their behaviour and venomous their words, a mother’s love for her child is unwavering. Although it was inevitable that they would not always see eye to eye, she could say without any doubt that she loved Bethany just as much today as the day that she was born. The day that she was born - and the day that she snatched her from the hospital.

Tobias Flutterbutt's Muse #fridayflash

2010-03-04T23:14:00.000-08:00

Something a little different, an edited version of a story written for Leeds Writers Group...

Tobias Flutterbutt’s Muse

My name is Tobias Flutterbutt, descendent of the Yorkshire Flutterbutts and no relation, I hasten to add, of those Lancastrian scallywags that cast shame on what is otherwise a good and honourable name. I am an amanuensis by trade, scribe and confidant to the illustrious Eleanor DeMontfort. On the morning of which I speak Milady was resplendent in pearls and divine velveteen gown in anticipation of the arrival of an old friend, the famously reclusive Duke of Winfordshire. I have never been one for gossip, however if rumour is to be believed, Milady and the Duke were once more than just friends. The fondness with which she spoke of sharing her formative years with the one she affectionately named ‘Dukie’ did little to scotch the rumours, and she implied on several occasions that if not for their disapproving parents they would no doubt have lived as husband and wife.

I was busy opening Milady’s letters when she called to me; ‘Tobias, dearest, come along’.

With my usual expeditiousness I scurried to her side, where I was disheartened to see an unbecoming frown on Milady’s face.

‘We have a terrible situation. Dukie is due within the hour and I have run out of rouge. My usual winsome glow is, I confess, aided by a wonderful product I have shipped over from Paris, however given the lack of time could you please hurry to the Apothecary to pick up something to protect the dear Duke from my unsightly pallor?’

As a loyal employee I agreed immediately to attend to Milady’s demands. I personally was very keen for her to engage in an ‘affaire de coeur’; although not one for gossip I heard the Duke inhabits a palatial countryside property which would be a definite improvement on the ramshackle house that I currently call ‘mon maison’.
I was strolling towards the village to purchase the rouge when I first saw her. As a small community it is always an occasion when outsiders enter our fold, and dressed most peculiarly in gentleman’s breeches and hunting jacket that in spite of their masculine appearance somehow made her look only more pulchritudinous, she was certainly not local. As I dashed past I tried to avoid eye contact with the intriguing stranger; I had Milady’s demands to attend to and no time for idle conversation. When I reached the Apothecary however I could not help but turn to take one last glance at her, a vision of delight standing nonchalantly with a thin cigarette between full lips.

The Apothecary was bustling with ladies collecting assorted potions and lotions intended to gift them with eternal youth. If I were not such an honourable man then I would tell you that for many it is far too late to escape the savage hands of time - a trowel or a paperbag may be the only way to mask their true age. As I waited to collect Milady’s blush, my mind could not help but wander back to the stranger I had just encounted; although we had not exchanged a word she had ignited a veritable mardi gras in my heart. As I left the shop I decided that much as my duty to Milady was important, I could not deny myself the opportunity to acquaint myself with the mysterious outsider – I longed to be the cigarette between her lips, and pictured myself as Apollo and she as my muse, the inspiration who would allow me to fulfil my true poetic vocation.

I moved with haste back to where I had seen her but alas she was gone, the only indication of her ever having been there a discarded cigarette, a souvenir which I still carry to this day. I must have passed hours stalking the village for her as the sun had been low in the east when I started my search and was now journeying west. To be truthful I had completed forgotten the original purpose of my trip in spite of having clasped the dainty pot for the duration. Eventually I had to concede defeat and return, tail between legs, to Milady. Although she was a romantic soul herself I did not know how she would react to my disloyalty; she had been desperate to make the best impression on the Duke and I had failed in my duty to help. As I entered the house however I breathed a sigh of relief as I heard joyous laughter coming from the dining room; it sounded as if all were going well in spite of the lack of maquillage.

Although not one to pry, I was eager to finally catch sight of the man who sent Milady’s heart a-flutter, so trying not to interrupt the revelry, I peered around the door. My silent intention however was not fulfilled as the unexpected vision before me provoked me to drop the pot of powder, smashing it and sending a cloud of magenta all over the room. Sat next to Milady and with a hand affectionately stroking her thigh was the ‘Duke’ and I suddenly discovered why he was so notoriously reclusive – Dukie was not a Duke at all, but a Duchess!

‘Hello Tobias’ said Milady calmly. ‘Whatever took so long? Anyhow, meet my darling Dukie.’

In that instant I saw that she who had been my muse for all of two hours had been serving the same purpose to Lady Eleanor since childhood. Rouge or no rouge, I could see that ‘Dukie’ was clearly besotted with Milady from the way that her facial expression perfectly mirrored my own. The very next day Milady and Dukie set off together on a voyage to a Greek island – Lisbos, I think they call it -where, they informed me, no one would bat an eyelid at a lady in breeches. Lady Eleanor left me in charge of the house whilst they are away, though whether they will ever return I do not know.

Why, you may ask, as a man who despises gossip, have I chosen to publish this article to the world? I write, dear reader, not to titillate but to immortalise the memory of my muse. There is no stronger emotion than unrequited love and no greater inspiration than emotion, and I believe that the mark she made on my heart will keep me in poetry for the rest of my days.

'Hungry' #fridayflash

2010-02-25T13:03:00.000-08:00

(This story was initially 60% longer so I had to employ some significant editing to get it down to the right length for inclusion in FridayFlash. Let me know what you think....)

Hungry

The invention of the Internet was a life-changing event for Eric. As a man with 'specialised interests' he had often struggled to see his needs fulfilled but with the advent of superfast connection there were now more 'big beautiful women' than hours in the day.

At first Eric had been content as a passive spectator, bookmarking such favourites as 'Ample Amateurs', 'Big British Babes' and the eloquently monickered 'Fat and Desperate'. After a while however the material became repetitive, and many of the sites seemed to offer not genuine 'big girls' but slender young things with ridiculously disproportionate breasts. This was no good; Eric wanted to see women with real passion rather than those soulless professionals going through the motions. Eric had seen adverts promising encounters beyond your dreams with no strings attached, and a little googling led him to a niche variant on this theme - 'Big Gurls Meetups’. The site offered very small pictures of extremely large ladies, many posing in underwear or even less. Eric found these photos something of a turn off; half the joy of large women was the mysterious excitement of wondering what was under their clothes. Daphne however had submitted a photo demurely dressed in long floral skirt and navy blouse - more Sunday school teacher than hooker. Eric was instantly drawn in and sent a message expressing an interest in 'getting to know her'.

Several days passed and Eric had begrudgingly accepted that Daphne wasn’t interested when an email pinged into his inbox with the header ‘Feeling Hungry?’.

‘Thanks for your email. As you clearly appreciate I am a woman with great appetites which I hope you will be able to satisfy. I would be delighted if you would meet me outside Temple station at 6pm on Saturday for a bite to eat and a chance to get to know each other. Yours, Daphne.’

Having never done anything like this before Eric felt nervous and unsure of the protocol for such an encounter – should he bring flowers? Smart or casual dress?
As he made his way to Temple Eric became nervous to the point that he contemplated turning round and heading home, however when he arrived at the station and caught sight of her he knew he’d made the right decision to see this through. As in her photo Daphne was smartly dressed and her hair was pulled back in a demure chignon. Her cheeks were flushed and she was nervously fiddling with a large ring on her right hand.

'Daphne?'

The longest second of Eric’s life ticked by before their eyes met and a smile simultaneously spread across their faces.

'Eric! So glad you made it. Don't know about you but I'm starving - there's a great pizzeria around the corner if you fancy it?'

The date went well with few awkward moments. Their first bottle of Chianti was quickly downed and Eric was pleased when Daphne ordered a second – he had feared that she was dining out of politeness and secretly engineering a quick getaway. As Eric settled the bill (she had offered to split but he had insisted), Daphne took hold of his hand. The feeling of her chubby fingers entwined with his sent a bolt of pleasure surging through Eric.

'That was wonderful; she whispered. 'Now, don't feel obliged if you have plans, but I'm still hungry and was wondering if you’d like to come back to mine for a quick bite?'

For a moment Eric thought he was having a heart attack, such was the impact of Daphne's invitation. In the years since his wife had left Eric had not so much as held hands with a woman, and now he was being invited back by a veritable plus sized goddess.

'That would be wonderful;' he managed to stutter.

As soon as they reached her flat Daphne poured another glass of wine and told Eric to make himself comfortable whilst she 'prepared herself'. She drew the curtains and locked the door; 'Don’t want any disturbances now, do we?'

Whilst Daphne retreated to her room Eric lounged amongst cushions almost as plump as their owner. Woozy from drinking far more than he was used he leant to rest on the end of the sofa but managed instead to bang hard against the coffee table at the side. With his forehead throbbing he leapt to his feet and called out;

'Er Daphne, do you have any ice? I've managed to bang my head. Idiot.’

Several seconds passed without a reply and with a fierce bump developing Eric decided to look for some ice himself. He could hear music coming from what he assumed was Daphne's bedroom but walked straight past to the kitchen. Located in the corner was a large American style fridgefreezer. He opened the door and bent to look for something that he could use to relieve the swelling. He was hoping for crushed ice or maybe frozen peas, but the freezer just seemed to be full of joint after joint of meat. Spotting a bag of sweetcorn lurking Eric pulled out a couple of the joints and put them on the floor. It was only as he heard Daphne's door creak open
that he noticed the labels on the unusually shaped joints.

‘Colin - 10/1/2010'
‘Ryan - 4/2/2010'

With a start Eric spun round to see Daphne, wearing what could only be described as a large bib, brandishing a long knife that glistened menacingly under the halogen light. 'Hungry, are we?' she asked. 'I see you've found my latest victims'.

Terrified, Eric dropped the bag of corn by his feet. He'd always been attracted by a big appetite, but an appetite for human flesh – well that was quite a different thing. Feeling that he had nothing to lose he pushed past her, ran down the corridor, twisted the key in the lock and fled for his life, not looking back until he reached the safety of a busy main road. Still standing in the kitchen Daphne was mystified. Eric had seemed so into her and she had been looking forward to spending the night with him. Quite why he was so turned off by the fact that she kept and butchered her own pigs she would never know, but on the plus side she wouldn’t have to share the Parma ham that she had just freshly carved.

Ambulance Chasers #fridayflash

2010-02-18T22:46:00.000-08:00

Have the misfortune to find yourself in any accident and emergency unit and you'll probably find them skulking around somewhere nearby; surreptitiously slipping business cards onto waiting room chairs or handing out flyers to the smokers congregated outside, shivering away in hospital gowns and with IV drips at their sides as they desperately seek their nicotine fix. At the sound of the tears of a worried relative their ears prick up like wolves; where the untrained eye may perceive distress and heartache they see only a business opportunity. Most of my rivals have a 'Where there's blame there's a claim' mentality; tripped on a pavement? Sue the local council. Developed a blood clot after a long-haul flight? Let's drag that airline to court and get you the compensation you deserve. Been misdiagnosed by the kindly GP who has been treating you and your loved ones for over twenty years? Who cares about his kids or retirement plans, he owes you big time!

There are a number of familiar faces that I've encountered over the years although none that I would call - or indeed wish to call - a friend. Most of the ambulance chasers would sell their own mother for a quick buck, not the kind of people you'd want on your Christmas card list. Whilst the others are drawn to sobbing parents, partners or offspring like flies around shit, I prefer to steer clear of such drama, lurking in the shadows and going straight to the victim to make my move with little noise or fuss, yet never failing to maintain my 100% success rate. Once I’ve chosen my target then there’s no turning back.

Business on the ward this morning was brisk; a road accident, a possible spinal injury caused by a playground football match, a chef who was meant to be chopping parsley but ended up slicing off the end of his index finger. Dan Henderson pounced on the mother of the 18 year old RTA victim with his usual winning combination of insincere sympathy, slightly inappropriate physical contact (a comforting arm around the shoulder, a soothing stroke of the hand) and the promise of a big fat
payout. Watching from across the room I found the whole performance nothing less than distasteful, though had to begrudgingly admit that the technique clearly works as the woman slipped Henderson's card into her wallet with a promise that she'd call him once her son was out of hospital.
Paul Steel, meanwhile, had been striking up conversation with the concerned parents of the child whose sporting career may have been tragically cut short. He quickly ascertained that the boy had been playing football on a hard tarmac surface unsupervised by any teachers when a rough tackle had floored him, hitting his back against metal railings. Paul spouted legalese at them, muttering about duty of care and health and safety legislation. Cases like this make me feel sorry for teachers; who in their right mind would enter the profession if they knew that they could be dragged through a legal minefield every time a kid experiences a bump or scrape?

Whilst the sharks were busy circling their prey my attention was drawn to a new admission to the ward. This was more my thing; I’ve got no interest in minor injury or disability claims, it's the big cases that interest me. Sophie had been walking to school without a care in the world when the motorcycle swerved to avoid a pothole, lost control and mounted the pavement at a speed of at least forty miles an hour. The ambulance had been there within minutes but the situation was clearly grave; in a fight between a pigtailed ten year old and over 200kg of throbbing metal I'd say that the odds are heavily skewed in the direction of the latter. As she was wheeled into the emergency room I slipped in behind the team of sweating surgeons and stern faced consultants to take stock of the situation. As they concerned themselves with medication and bleeping machines I rested my hand on the young girl's head, warm and sticky with blood. Although she was unconscious I could tell that she was in a lot of pain and knew that this was the case I'd been waiting for all day; whilst those slickly suited charlatans outside concerned themselves with petty financial gain, there I was in the same hooded cloak that I’ve been sporting since day one of my career, ready to make my move with trademark ruthless efficiency. I haven’t carried the scythe for years now; that was all for dramatic effect and frankly a bit of a burden to lug around, although I do sometimes bring it out for special occasions. As the medical staff continued to buzz around oblivious to my presence I bent down and rested my lips on her forehead. The cold sensation speeding through her veins momentarily roused the girl; in the instant that her eyes met mine there was a flash of understanding – although no one has ever seen me and lived to tell the tale, somehow when the time comes for us to meet everyone has a faint sense of recognition, as if I were a long lost friend. Seconds later the moment had passed and her eyes shut again. As the machines started to let out that familiar ear-piercing noise, I pulled away. My job here was done - another day in the office, another soul for the collection.

#fridayflash Midnight Kiss

2010-02-11T10:59:00.000-08:00

Hard as they tried, nothing seemed to shift the large stain from the hallway wall. One of the main reasons why they had chosen this particular house was that it had been well maintained and would require minimal DIY effort on their part; after hours of scrubbing and scrubbing until their elbow grease reserves had run dry however they concluded that maybe a lick of paint wouldn't go amiss.

Rachel personally would have preferred to have gone for a more neutral shade, something light and welcoming, but as Simon pointed out it would take many, many coats of magnolia to erase the stain whilst his choice, a regal shade of purple called 'Midnight Kiss' would do the trick in just one. She was concerned that the effect would be a little seedy, more brothel than cosy family home and going against every TV property show convention but Simon insisted that she would be wowed by the finished effect, plus resale value was hardly an issue given that they didn't actually own the property, regardless of how long their tenure may or may not last.

Several tins of 'Midnight Kiss' were duly purchased along with brushes, rollers and rags. All were promptly deposited in the cupboard under the stairs where they remained for a number of months until one day out of the blue Rachel's mother announced that she was going to come and visit the couple in their new home. They'd become strangely accustomed to the stain and would even greet it by name each morning and bid it a good night before they ascended to their bedroom, however they weren't so sure that Mrs Spellman would take to it in quite the same way.

The couple tended to keep themselves to themselves; although they'd been in town since August making friends had not been a priority - they had each other, and their beautiful home, so why would they wish to waste time on other people that could be spent together? Past experiences had shown that friendship could be more trouble than it was worth - they had been perfectly happy in their previous home but when the neighbours had started to become just a little too neighbourly, bringing around homemade muffins and expecting more than just the usual inane conversation about the weather in return, then they knew it was time to move on. Learning from that previous mistake, this time they had chosen a detached property down a long gravel drive well away from twitching net curtains and uninvited guests.

It was a cold but sunny spring morning when they laid plastic sheets over the wooden floor of the hallway and retrieved the tins of paint from their resting place. Rachel made the first mark on the wall, writing 'i love u' in sweeping indigo letters. As the words began to slide down the wall like tears, Simon grabbed a brush and painted a blob on her nose. Laughing, she threw her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close, rubbing the paint onto him in an Eskimo kiss. The job at hand was pushed to one side for some time as they proceeded to strip each other naked, flicking paint onto each other’s bodies and rolling around on the plastic sheeting with careless abandon under the watchful eye of the stain and Felicia, the cat that they had acquired along with the property. After a scalding hot shower they returned to work, starting with the wall surrounding the front door and industriously progressing down the hall until they reached the large dark red splatter. With some reverence Rachel swept the first brush of paint over the stain. It was a shame that it had come to this, but as Simon had kept telling her in the lead up, it was necessary, it was the only way that they would be able to move into the beautiful house, the house with the sunny south facing conservatory, immaculate lawn and fine decor. They had spent several weeks watching number 14 Paradise Grove and its solitary occupant from afar, keenly noting that he never seemed to have any visitors, and was not connected to the telephone network. Eventually Rachel plucked up the courage to introduce herself to him, using a fictitious charity collection as a means of striking up a conversation. In their brief chat she managed to ascertain that he had no children, communicated with his one sibling only through unreciprocated Christmas cards, and enjoyed the company of only Felicia and an old transistor radio. Rachel felt quite sorry for him, all alone in that big house, but Simon told her not to be so ridiculously sentimental and to remember what he'd told her before - emotion is a sign of weakness, and weakness leads to failure. Last time, and the time before, they had gone about the house hunting process in a clinical manner and not let emotions come into it. No reason to be any different this time.

As her paint brush tenderly caressed the wall, Simon wrapped his arms around Rachel’s waist and buried his face in her hair. He had been so lucky to find her, so beautiful and so understanding, as perfect a partner in love as in crime. As she covered up the last inch of the blood stain with Midnight Kiss Rachel bade farewell to Mr Brown for the last time, erasing with the final stroke the only remaining evidence of his life, and death at the end of their gun.

The Last Meal

2010-02-04T22:54:00.000-08:00

This week's Friday Flash story....

LAST MEAL

She ate her last meal slowly, chewing each mouthful as many times as she could physically manage before swallowing, trying her hardest to imprint on her mind every taste, hoping that the memory would live on somehow when she could eat no more. To start she had selected chicken liver pate, rich and sensuously smooth. He – standing no more than three feet away and watching every bite with eagle eyes – said that he could not understand why she liked it so much; he hated the texture, hated the taste. She however relished the way that it clung to the roof of her mouth, loved the savoury flavour. She would definitely miss it.

For the main course she chose a rare t-bone steak, blood trickling from the fibres as she plunged the knife into it. She joked to him that she was surprised to have been allowed a knife, given the situation; he replied, straight faced, that it was as a blunt as the plastic cutlery from a roadside diner, and anyhow did she really think that she stood any chance of overpowering him in her current state? She laughed and pointed out that she’d successfully overpowered a guy before, as evidenced by the very same ‘current state’. His face remained blank.

Instead of a dessert she opted for a cheese course, a fine selection of unpasteurised cheeses including a soft Camembert that dribbled down her chin when she bit into it, and a Stilton, white and threaded with a network of blue veins like a recently deceased corpse. She cut the cheeses into ever smaller pieces, trying to delay the inevitable for as long as possible. This was her last meal; she was sure as hell going to make the most of it. With the knowledge of what was to come - in the immediate future at least, what would happen beyond that being terrifyingly unknown - it was surely the least she deserved, even if ultimately it had been she who had determined her own fate. Her actions that day had been driven by an uncontrollable blood lust; there was no way that they could be taken back now.

The only thing that she felt could have improved the meal would have been a bottle of good wine, maybe a rich and spicy Shiraz or a smooth Burgundy, the smell of which always transported her back to the Catholic Church in which she had been raised, and where she had first tasted alcohol. She had initially been put off drinking red wine by the memory of Father O’Reilly invoking the Holy Spirit to transform the Eucharistic gift from wine to blood, but quickly developed a taste for it and could imagine no better accompaniment for the beef. She didn’t even bothering asking, however, as she knew that the answer would be a resounding ‘no’, and in her present position she lacked the energy or inclination to plead. He was not worth wasting her breath on.

With the last morsel of cheese slipping down her throat, she glanced at the clock on the wall. She’d dragged the meal out as long as she could but it was over now. 2.15pm. Almost time for an appointment with destiny.

As the door slammed behind her she bade farewell to this chapter of her existence. Time to find out what would happen next. Time to accept her fate. Father O’Reilly would surely have said that she would be damned to hell for what she had done; she recalled however her religious studies teacher telling her how Jesus forgives any sinner who truly repents, so maybe there was hope for her yet? Mind you, that would involve repenting, and she could not honestly say that she regretted a second of what she’d done. Regretted the consequences, perhaps, but the act itself had been pure pleasure.

The artificial light of the corridor made her strain her eyes. It seemed very clinical, and the smell of disinfectant invading her nostrils made her feel quite nauseous. She had tried to put off thinking about what was going to happen, but as she made her way down the hallway past silent, judgemental eyes, she could not help but picture what was coming, the white-coated doctor leaning over her, the smell and heat of his breath on her face and then the final prick as the needle pierced her vein. He was a couple of steps in front of her, several other people following behind.

“Shit, I’m scared;” she whispered, her eyes welling as the enormity of it hit her. In just a couple of minutes time she would wave goodbye to freedom forever.
As her stifled tears gave way to loud moans he turned and looked at her with a quizzical smile.

“I know this hasn’t been easy for you, hell it hasn’t been easy for me either, but it’s time to face the facts, sweetheart. The doctor is only going to confirm what you already know. We’re going to be parents! With a face like that, anyone would think you were on death row....!“

(Note: This was inspired by discovering via a pregnant friend quite how many dietary rules and regulations there are for pregnant women....)

2010-01-31T10:53:00.000-08:00

Anticipating a busy week ahead at work (it's always painful when you've had a week off....) have already composed a little something for
this week's FridayFlash. Definitely well within 1,000 words this time, will post it on Friday and look forward to getting some more constructive and encouraging criticism from the FF community!

#fridayflash - 9 to 5

2010-01-29T03:53:00.001-08:00

My first attempt at Friday Flash fiction....

9 to 5

“This is a customer announcement. Please step back from the edge of the platform. The next train does not stop at this station.”

As the Manchester Piccadilly express thundered through the station, Mark folded the free tabloid, slipped it into his laptop bag for later reading and rose to his feet in anticipation of the arrival of the somewhat more leisurely 7.27. It always amused him to think that the passengers on the fast train could cover 40 miles in less than half an hour, whilst for he and his suburban compatriots a journey of no more than ten miles took the same if not longer time. He’d considered cycling to work, but had always looked with some disdain at those commuters who rock up at their office encased in lycra and beaded with sweat like some kind of Olympic hopeful only to make a Superman-like transformation into just another suit.
Mark had never wanted to be just another suit, his student days – and nights – were passed with guitar in hand and books on shelf, academic study always taking second place to dreams of rock stardom. He’d had plenty of dreams in those days, dreams and ambitions of becoming a household name, of living a life outside of the 9 to 5 box. Dreams, however, do not keep food on the table, whereas a respectable job in a bank –not just a job, as his mother always reminded him, but a career – pays the bills.

Mark’s mother was terribly proud, telling everyone she met how her son worked in banking in the City. She never elaborated further, leaving her audience to make their own assumption of a glamorous London career, work hard play hard, pinstripes, braces and big fat bonuses. The reality of the Northern Bank regional office in Manchester was nowhere near as exciting, so she tended to keep these details to herself. Mark himself quickly gave up on correcting her and instead would play along; “Oh yes, it’s a very important role, so much responsibility, I’d tell you more but it really is very complicated. They call us the unelected rulers of the world, you know, and it’s true. It would all fall apart without us, that’s the honest truth.” Then, of course, it did all fall apart, and whilst his mother’s pride did not diminish whatsoever, the story was all of a sudden spun in a somewhat different way; “Our Mark works in financial administration. He’s a manager you know, six people working for him. We always knew he’d do well, our Mark. Takes after his father, rest his soul; always such a clever man. Only twenty-four and six people working for him, imagine that!”

The train was relatively empty so Mark slid into a window seat and dumped his bag beside him. As the train lurched forward he retrieved his laptop from its case and fired it up. When the background photo of Rosalie appeared he smiled; he’d always loved this picture, taken at sunset overlooking the Mediterranean Sea on their first holiday together three years ago. She looked so happy, cocktail in hand, sun-bleached hair swept in a messy ponytail, strappy dress revealing a deep tan. His Mum had a photo of the two of them taken on the same holiday sat pride of place on her mantelpiece. “Such a beautiful looking girl;” she would tell her guests, gesticulating towards the documentary evidence in the mahogany frame. Mark often wondered what his Dad would have made of Rosalie. “Beautiful girl like that, what’s she doing with our Mark? Can’t be for his looks!” Five years now and it never got easier. Day in day out Mark would wonder what his Dad would have thought of particular situations, would imagine the advice that he would have dished out in his usual stoic, unjudgemental style.

For the past four months since the unusually balmy day in September when he waved her off at Manchester Airport, photos were as close as Mark had got to seeing Rosalie in the flesh.

"Such a pity she’s working abroad at the moment;” his Mum would tell visitors. “Six months she’s going to be out there, helping to set up a branch in Spain. They must think very highly of her, she’s only been at there a year and she’s in charge of their operations in a whole country. Thirty years I’ve been working at the supermarket and I’ve never even crossed the threshold of the manager’s office, not that it bothers me. Such a shame she’s away though; it’s not like me to speak too soon but I wouldn’t be surprised if an engagement was on the cards when she gets back, you mark my words.”

Mark initially moved the computer cursor towards the folder marked ‘Work’, but after a brief moment’s hesitation redirected it to the icon for the game Solitaire. Immersed in the game, it seemed as if barely minutes had passed when the intercom crackled into life and announced that they would shortly be arriving at their final stop. Frustrated at having failed to successfully complete the game, Mark snapped the laptop shut and wandered towards the carriage door, negotiating the usual obstacle course of buggies and suitcases en route.

On a bright morning like this the walk across the city centre was almost pleasant, although the bitter wind meant that Mark walked at a swift pace, not resting on his favourite park bench or lingering to look in estate agents windows as he had done in the autumn. In the absence of Rosalie Mark could not single-handedly afford to keep up the rent on the apartment that they had shared, and so it was that he had found himself like many of his generation back in the home that he had grown up in, slipping back into old habits and reaping the benefits of a home-cooked meal on the table and a freshly laundered shirt folded neatly at the end of his bed each night. The department stores that Mark sauntered past loudly proclaimed ‘Final Sale, Everything Must Go!’; however the promised bargains failed to stir his interest as he marched onwards in the direction of the office. The journey took about ten minutes, and with his fingers having become numb with cold Mark was relieved when he reached his destination.

Stood outside the bank, Mark looked up to the third floor window next to his desk, or rather next to where his desk used to be. Turning his back on his former place of employment, Mark entered the coffee shop where he’d spent the past twelve weeks trying to make an Americano last as long as possible whilst listlessly searching for jobs, composing (but never sending) lengthy heartfelt emails begging Rosalie to rethink her decision and take him back, and losing game after game of Solitaire. Loosening his tie he sank back into his usual seat and closed his eyes. Since his father had passed away, his Mum had taken so much comfort from her son’s successful life and perfect relationship. Hiding the truth had, at first, come so easily, but with several months’ efforts having failed to secure a single interview and his savings almost all gone, it felt as if he were drowning in the lies that were keeping his mother afloat. Of one thing he was sure, he could not go on like this much longer, but whenever he contemplating telling the truth he could not help but picture the disappointment on his mother’s face. She’d been through so much having nursed his dad for all those years; she didn’t deserve this.

“Please step back from the edge of the platform. The next train does not stop at this station”.

Eyes still closed Mark pictured stepping forward into the 80mph embrace of the Manchester Piccadilly Express; a disturbingly comforting vision that had been invading his mind with increased frequency of late. However this time, instead of experiencing the usual falling sensation, Mark was jolted awake by a female voice.

“Hope you don’t mind but I’ve bought over your usual. It’s on the house.”

Mark looked up to see a young woman holding out a steaming mug of coffee. He had seen the girl before, but never really paid her much attention.

“Thanks, that’s kind of you;” he replied gratefully.

“No worries. Apologies if I’m intruding, but I’ve seen you here a fair bit recently and wondered if you’d perhaps be interested in this?”. She held out a sheet of A4 paper which Mark instantly recognised as a poster that he’d seen on many occasions but, like the girl, never really looked at, never given the attention that it deserved.

‘SITUATION VACANT – ATHENA COFFEE, ASSISTANT MANAGER’

“What, me?” He shook his head. “Why do you think I’d be interested in this?”

“Well, you clearly know the menu inside out, and as you spend a lot of time here anyway....” She paused. “Look, I’m sorry, I’ve clearly got the wrong end of the stick. But what about meeting for a drink, not now obviously, but later, after I’ve finished my shift?”

Mark was about to knock her back, tell her that he was overqualified to work in a second rate Starbucks clone and not looking for a relationship, when his mind flicked once again back to 7.26;

“Please step back from the edge of the platform. The next train does not stop at this station”.

Mark folded the poster and slipped it into his briefcase.

“No apologies necessary. A drink sounds great and the other thing – well, I’ll think about it. Come and get me at the end of your shift – you know where to find me.”

As the girl walked back towards the counter and a building queue of thirsty customers, Mark smiled to himself. Maybe it was time to stop lying and start actually living again. Maybe, just maybe, he would keep heeding that warning and stand back from the platform. And, he considered whilst paying extremely close attention to how his future colleague’s pencil skirt and blouse clung tightly to pin-up curves, maybe he’d actually been wrong all along. Maybe working 9 to 5 wouldn’t be so bad a way to make a living after all.

Hello!

2010-01-15T14:06:00.001-08:00

I've set up this page primarily as a place where I can post my creative ramblings; last week I attended my first meeting of the Leeds Writers Group and have been inspired by them to get writing and sharing my work. Fingers crossed this will give me the motivation to pick up a pen on a regular basis!

A little bit of background about me - I'm an accountant by day which is certainly not a profession where creativity is embraced! I have a BA English degree from University College London, from which I graduated in 2005, and have always loved reading, writing and literary criticism. I also enjoy music and play flute, piccolo, piano and saxophone to varying standards. I play flute in Phoenix concert band, which is a Leeds based ensemble drawing players from across the region, and I also attend weekly singing classes at Leeds College of Music. In between all this I enjoy spending time relaxing with my husband, travelling and reading the Sunday papers!

Life changed a bit last year when I was hospitalised with deep vein thrombosis - as a healthy 20 something i'd always assumed I was infallable, but 8 nights in a nhs hospital and a month off work definitely gave me a different perspective on life. Four months on and I've still got a long way to go - I'm still in pain most days and a scan last week revealed the clot is still there and stretches from above my groin to below my left knee. It might go, it might not - the important thing is that it's stable, and I'm on medication that should stop any further problems for now. Am scared at the thought of coming off the Warfarin later in the year but that's a bridge I'll have to cross when I come to it. Hopefully that'll be the last you hear about my health on here - am optimistic that 2010 will be a good year, hopefully free of dramas and characterised not by illness but by fun, friends, family, foreign shores, food and all round fulfilment.
And hopefully not too much unnecessary alliteration.