Posts

42 - Escaping The Faries

    Bobby Beezer-Brown opened the front door in response to the deafening thumping of fist on woodwork and was confronted first by Little Micky, Big Micky’s personal spokesman, then Big Joe, who Little Micky dragged around, metaphorically that is, to extract monetary and other collections on Big Micky’s behalf. Big Joe stood an excellent six feet eight inches in stockinged feet and came complete with an abundance of muscles. Twenty stones of bulk crammed through the doorway. Bobby Beezer-Brown having never seen them before said, ”what the f...,” but was shoved aside before he could complete the expletive. Little Micky flicked a half smoked cigarette butt to smoulder on the clapped out, stained with everything sofa and said, “Bobby Beezer-Brown you are a person hard to track down. Big Micky don’t like hard to track down people does he Joe? He don’t like nasty little gits like you messing around with his stuff does he Joe? And he wants it back. Pronto.” Big Joe squeezes Bobby Beeze

40 - Thick Brown Tea

            Disturbed by the draft coming through the open fanlight the floral curtains swirled as Rita entered the cold sitting room. Her short greying hair a bit ruffled but she did not care. No one could see. The ticking clock on the mantelpiece said 4.38. It was already getting dark. Lighting the gas fire for some instant heat she jumped when it banged. It always banged. She then sat in her favourite  armchair, the one with the big yellow, comfy cushions. Picked up her book and blue rimmed glasses. Romantic fiction by an American author that made her wish she had made better choices in her life. Then all hell broke out. The thick dividing wall separating the attached houses did not enough to dampen the row. Shouting and screaming and crashing as things were thrown. Six months ago they had moved in. Rita was out and the first she knew the house was occupied was when she bumped into Ann as she came out the gate. Plain, lanky dark hair which she flicked back and a miserable smac

39 - Discovering the DEAD Shop

    I had been feeling melancholy for the last few days and was dreamily watching the rain lashing against the window thinking about how life could be such a bitch. Stuff was going down everywhere. Cards cloned and finances flushed down the old crapper. My boss giving me a cardboard box to fill and a cheque for six months' pay without too much explanation. Paddling in the freezer puddle and chucking out rotting food. And the boys? Well, the boys, need I say more. Loud and rushing about. And the car? What a pile of old rusted junk. I was just thinking how pleasant it would be to be free of all this, to have a life of carefree abandon. Then, after a short spell of silent contemplation, with a shrug of resignation I abandoned my thoughts in exchange for the sanctuary of my bed.   The Igglesons lived in the tall, rambling house on the corner adjacent to where the Art Deco style cinema used to be that was now the swankiest restaurant in town. The house was old and built of clay br

38 - The Party and the Cleaner

    “Come on, let’s go.” She said standing up. Her warm soft hand small in his great big mitt, the slight squeeze encouraging, the sudden determined tug betraying her overpowering need. Kissing, proper kissing. They had been kissing and fondling in the dark corner. Behind the door. Chaos all around. Hectic. The noise. The beat. Rick is knocked back surprised how sharp the edge of a door could be as it slammed against his head. That was Jimbo coming in, with exuberance, the usual flamboyant entrance. The big “I’ve arrived” and late as usual. Suzie, impatient, pulled again “Come on Rick...nowww Rick.” Into the hall passing Jimbo, Rick says “Hi Jimbo thanks for the lump.” Jimbo replies “Nice to see you Rick... Suzie.” Watches them staggering into the dining room and the food table. Huge and white but covered in debris. Three types of cheese ground into the pale blue carpet looking impressionistic. Probably wool. Definitely ruined. With crackers and French bread and other s

37 - Beware of Apnoea

                 The mist was thick within the trees, swirling, almost vibrating with a kind of expectancy. The breeze shifting its white grey mass with subtle movements breaking the density here and there. The sounds, the seductive tunes, beguiling, beckoning. The wind increasing with a rushing that lifted leaves into spirals of dancing colour. The fog rising to combine with the twisting whirlwinds. Approaching her, then hovering, but suddenly, with a moaning sigh, rushing back the way it had come. The boundary forming, the line that was indelibly woven into the fabric of time, the exact point of transition, the change from night to day. A fleeting moment when the dead have to retreat and the living begin the slow process of transformation into wakefulness. Suddenly waking Joan was struggling to breath. She was panting, gasping for breath, her mind full of visions, a collection of moments, individual but nonetheless connected. The dream vivid in her mind. This was becoming an al

36 - Waiting to Leave

“Hi there matey, you new here?” “Yup, arrived yesterday. See that big lump of mountain over there, somewhere on it there’s a rope that’s snapped. That’s mine. The ends are probably all frayed and flapping in the wind. I went down two hundred metres and landed on my head on an ice covered rock where all that lovely soft snow had blown off. Each side there was a deep snow hole. It probably would have made no difference though. Name’s Ernie, Ernest Edwards, from Newcastle.” “Burt from London. Nice to meet you.” “Likewise Burt. So what happened to you then?” “The winding road going up to your big Mountain, it’s very steep with incredibly sharp bends. I was going too fast in a low cloudy, rainy, fog, couldn't slow down and went straight off the edge. Stupid really, I only had to wait for an hour or so, but no, impatience is my middle name… just could not wait. Mont Blanc, that’s what it’s called, isn't it?”  “That’s the fella, yes, Mont Blanc, the easiest climb or so I was told. Whe