Will leaned back in his creaky wooden chair, steam from his green tea curling around his beard. With a theatrical groan, he tossed a stapled stack of A4 papers onto the table.
“They want a rewrite, Ben,” he sighed. “The script editor, a man with the soul of an old shoe, and the imagination of a month-old brassica, says the pacing is problematic.”
Ben Jonson took a sip of his espresso, suppressing a smirk. “Problematic, Will? What exactly did he say?”
Continue reading“Anti-Santa!” scoffed Mr. Cushing “Dear me. Can we even admit that regular Santa isn’t a real thing.”
Mrs McCulikn merely stirred the pot on the hob, humming to herself as she did around 5:45 when Mr. Harding would sneak into the pantry and shove his hands into whatever jar he fancied, Mrs. Harding would have words with the staff when he did so but if the pantry was locked Mr. Harding would have words instead. At times such as this, it paid to be deaf.
“According to little Christopher” explained Mrs Marks “the anti-Santa is for bad girls and boys. How does it go again? Good girls and boys leave offerings to Santa Claus.”
Continue reading“Fucking mozzies” muttered Bob half asleep as he swatted another of the bastards with his hand. “And fucking flies!” he yelled, batting away another attacker.
Can’t stand it here, he thought bitterly, knowing he couldn’t voice his hatred of this new homeland out loud. Surrounded by Sheena’s Australian family who were all thrilled to have her back, had put paid to that. Christmas here was all wrong. Blazing sunshine, barbecued seafood, chilly salads – where was the tradition in that? He missed carol singers, his mother’s crispy roasties and the possibility of sledging in the snow. What he’d give for a Baileys to hand, the EastEnders Christmas special blaring and a box of Quality Street to while away the afternoon.
Continue readingSorcha was thinking of her ‘A’ level exams in the summer. She really wanted to go to university; find herself. She stirred the gravy as her mother moved around the kitchen, busy. Last night Mum had spent an age on the food, this morning longer.
‘What do you think?’ her mother eventually said.
‘Are we done?’
‘Yes, I’ll tell your dad we’re ready to eat.’
Continue readingIn a private club tucked away in central London three gentlemen sat savouring their brandies. The oldest, a plump figure bald, lived-in face, his eyes bird-like darting everywhere.
”The memorial service was pukka, don’t you think?”
His colleagues nodded their agreement. The man with a military bearing leaned forward, glancing around.
”Just thank the lord he did the honourable thing after his traitorous behaviour.”
Continue reading‘Bring the traitor in,’ the major said.
Flaming orange hair topped his rugged head. Next to him sat the captain, his blue eyes chill discs. Fire and ice together hunkered behind a desk. A youth in khaki pushed in a tall man, his hands tied behind his back.
‘You’ve been found guilty of treason,’ the major said. ‘You will be executed by members of the people’s liberation army immediately. Any last words?’
The man spat on the floor in contempt and was dragged out.
Continue readingKevin Bentley is an evil, soulless wretch, and has caused me nothing but pain, misery and utter suicidal despair.
We were once (I thought) best friends. I remember the first day of school, a frightened Kevin stood all alone in the corner of the playground and only I cared enough to talk to him. Our first few years of friendship were great, we would hang out at each other’s homes, sit next to each other in class, share our toys and video games but alas then puberty arrived and although it was remorseless to me, (my nickname was pizza face) it transformed the runty Kevin into an adonis, and that’s when his utter cruelty began.
Continue readingHe stands on the corner of East Bank Way and Fabian Way, in the long winter shadow of Swansea Dockers Sports and Social Club, his tragic, asymmetrical body a cautionary tale of what might be.
The traffic is slow. It’s the usual blockage: cars, vans, buses and trucks, turning into Quay Parade, ignoring the yellow cross-hatched box that says to new drivers, “Do not enter unless your exit is clear”, but in the hurried world of nine o’clock deadlines, a warning to be ignored, along with the cheery horns of the oncoming traffic.
Continue readingSteve was struggling. The vaguely familiar face,- was it himself or Nige? Prosopognosia was a real bummer. Dr Shah had suggested focussing on a distinguishing feature. For Steven it was hair,or the lack thereof. His own scalp was silky smooth, shaven each morning at Ali Barber’s; Nigel had locks that tumbled to his shoulders Some sufferers could not differentiate between a face and a car so the fact he could now recognise both his own face and the mirror, evidenced, he had been told significant progress.
“Two Peas, two pods” his mother would say when strangers remarked on the dissonant appearance of the non-identical twins,- different in height and physique, yet incongruously ditto-dressed with strangely duplicate faces. They dressed identically over the boundary-pushing teenage years, into adulthood and beyond into middle age . That and their penchant for wearing copy-cat beanie hats come rain, come shine, was their USP. Nigel, taller, red-headed, a beanpole, was the brawn and he, a Billy Bunter, the brains. Brawn, brains and sibling rivalry make for uncomfortable bedfellows. In adolescence Steven would invariably get the girl whilst Nigel, having been caught copying Steven’s homework, would spend the evening in after-school detention.
Continue readingMiles winced when he rolled over and saw the sleeping woman beside him. It wasn’t that she was unattractive. On the contrary, even in the harsh morning light, her skin was beautifully clear.
Even so, as he fumbled around for his clothes, he shuddered at the memory of last night. He’d known the moment she started talking that she didn’t have that X factor. He was sick of the dating game, the nameless parade of girls who all looked the same and sounded the same and talked about the same inane things. All those wasted evenings, only the prospect of a one-night stand spurring him on.
He crept out of the room, catching a glimpse of himself in her hallway mirror as he slid his shoes on. He looked deathly pale. This lifestyle wasn’t doing him any good. He closed the front door with a quiet click.
Continue readingBrandon never wanted to be there, but Josh assured him the old man was loaded. The moment the lock clicked open, his eyes narrowed and he whispered, “This is a mistake.”
Josh shushed him with a grin. “Bloody virgin.”
He had experience, but it was served with a level of incompetence that made barristers choke. The large thumb marked “Time served at HM Pleasure” on the scales of his chaotic life bore solid testimony to that.
“Piece of cake. Easy compared to a real blag,” he concluded.
Continue readingMr Sailsbury was a man burdened by very little. Marriage arranged by parents, children raised by governesses, and his job was more or less inherited with his boss making no demands.
His wife likewise asked for very little, sighing as she heard of another late evening at the office with her typical reply of: “That’s alright dear” which was as passionate as their marriage got.
Mr Sailsbury, however felt that a man such as himself should have a mistress. A wife you did your duty towards; a mistress was for fun.
Continue readingColin ‘Corky’ Yates lived alone; alone enough for a ten-year-old boy. Since his mother’s death two years earlier, dinner was prepared by the housekeeper, and he spent his evenings doing homework, listening to the radio, and waiting for his father.
Corky didn’t mind. He just missed his mum.
One evening, while doing his homework with the radio on, he paused as the announcer signed off, “If you have a problem, get in touch with Doctor Parkham, on …”
He jotted the number down.
Continue readingFirst year of college I had to endure Jerry Burns. He was your standard, entitled nice guy, forever moaning over his virginity and what an injustice it was that those heartless bitches wouldn’t date him.
I was unpersuaded to be his girlfriend, probably because in addition to being entitled and brimming with rage, he was also criminally boring; his only topic was himself.
Second year, I mercifully didn’t share a house with him, although he kept sending me drunken texts on how much he missed me, how hanging out with me was the best time of his life and what a stone-cold whore I was for ignoring him.
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Mick sat in his land-train on an escarpment overlooking the crossing. Below, in the valley, the bots paraded alongside the slowly shuffling line of indentured labourers, their threatening gestures accompanying each faltering step. He counted five bots, one for every twenty humans.
“It’s all about ratios,” he muttered, pulling his scarf up to his nose. That’s how corporations preferred it. Bots were costly; humans were cheap. But everything had a cost. He’d rescued slaves before… for a price.
Continue readingDr Ima Kwak hesitated. The oblique angle of the antique mirror captured him seated in his wood-panelled office; the leather olive-green captain’s chair highlighted his status. He caught himself glancing and sighed. That advert had sounded promising.
“Immersive Scenarios ensure every trainee surgeon is practice-ready for ONLY a fraction of your traditional cost.”
Still he held back from clicking the know-more link. The responsibilities of Regional Post-Graduate Dean in Medical Education had over the 26 years seeped, morphed and varicosed as if from an untreatable haemophiliac. It now included fiscal responsibility and he was at heart a clinician not an accountant.
Continue readingThe man studied the screen to watch and absorb all of the horrors unfold right in front of his eyes.
To the left he sees a woman silently screaming at the top of her lungs, a hammer enters into the shot. With one felled swoop the hammer strikes into the womans left temple, with a violent shuddering her expression is rendered lifeless and almost blank. The wall beside her and even the screen the man is viewing are stained with fresh blood splatter. The man staggers backward too disgusted to keep his eyes open yet so morbidly intrigued he peeks. Then the nausea hits him and he viscously wretches as the slight contents of his stomach exit his mouth. Feeling a slight wave of physical relief the man lays his head down on
Continue readingA 92-year-old woman in Maespoeth has been found dead. Police have arrested a man, 64. They said the woman and man were known to each other and have described it as a ‘very sad case’. Valleys Radio news website.
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Perkins looks at himself in the dresser mirror. The lines on his forehead remind him of the staves on a sheet of music. He’s a semi-professional bass player, makes a bit of living from it. Those days are over now. He pulls out his mobile and taps 999.
Latterly it’s been tough. The privatised caring company, profit before people, make their first visit at eleven in the morning. No good at all that. So he’s been getting her up, showering her, changing her himself. He sort of switches off when he does it, same as when you accompany an uninspiring melody. He just makes out he is himself a paid carer, dealing with somebody else’s mother, not thinking it odd that he’s washing the naked, broken body of an elderly female. Switched off yet kind, that’s the way he does it.
‘Which service?’ the voice on his phone says.
Continue readingPhil didn’t mean to become a murderer. Not at first.
It all happened because he read on social media that humans, on average, live about 4500 weeks.
Being a number geek, Phil calculated that the first 900 weeks are spent learning how to walk, talk, pass exams, and unclip bra straps. The last 1500 comprise an increasingly strident existential shriek translating into “How the fuck did that happen?”
Of the remainder, about 100 is spent in utter confusion, comatose, or madness, leaving 2000 weeks, or more to the point, weekends, of life to live as you want.
In short, life comes down to eleven years of weekend fun sandwiched between unremitting drudgery. For most people, anyway.
Continue readingSitting half way up the Witches Hat, Billy Thomas was trying to comfort the young couple. They had tried to climb down the Hat, but had become stuck after a slip on the shale had left the young lady with a badly gashed leg.
Billy and his friends were on their Boxing Day trek and had been walking along gossamer trails, the hoar frost thick on the ground. A weak sun hung sulkily in the sky. He was always thankful to escape the aftermath of family Christmas Day.
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