Taken for granted

Alan staggered through the doorway, almost dropping the flowers chocolates and card in the process. He had been an arse lately, even by his own standards, but he was pretty sure the peace offerings would smooth things out a bit.
She was cooking a special romantic meal for the two of them tonight, and he was ravenous. Alan glanced at his watch, the football was on telly in just over half an hour, with any luck he'd have finished eating in time to catch the start of it, the perfect end to the day.

Yeah, he was a few hours later than he said he'd be, but he couldn't refuse an offer of a beer or two with his workmates on the way home, could he? And anyway, what difference does just one more time make?

He walked into the kitchen, following the appetizing aroma of recent cooking, a silly sheepish grin on his face.

“'Appy Val'tine darlin'.” He slurred. “Sorry I'm a bit late, but y'know...”

The scene that greeted him stopped him dead in his tracks, shocking him to silence.

The floor was strewn with smashed crockery, the walls and appliances smeared and streaked with what looked like the remains of spaghetti bolognese, tomato sauce traced a track down the fridge door and pooled at the base.

Gouged deeply into the surface of the dining table were the words...

THIS IS THE LAST TIME YOU BASTARD

Alan placed the presents on the table, covering the words, hiding the truth from himself, something he was rather practised at these days.

He took the scotch bottle and a tall glass from the cabinet, carefully avoiding the sticky strings of spaghetti that clung to the door as he did so. He poured himself a stiff one, then walked into the lounge and slumped into an armchair.

He looked around the room, at the clean squares on the walls where this morning there had been pictures, at the half-empty CD rack, at the almost bare bookshelf with its single bookend.

She had gone. Packed her stuff, and left.

The house already felt cold and abandoned.

Yes, she had gone, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Yes, there's nothing you can do about it NOW.” Said his inner voice. “But there was something you COULD have done about it. Some things you SHOULD have done about it.”

The voice harangued him mercilessly.

“Would it have really harmed to come straight home from work a couple of nights a week instead of calling to the bar with your mates?

On the rare occasions you took her out, she always looked stunning, would it have been too much to tell her sometimes?

Was it beyond you to hold her and tell her how much you truly loved her occasionally?

And all those delicious meals that she had spent half the day preparing, meals that you wolfed down so you could get back in front of the TV, wouldn't the repeats have waited an extra fifteen minutes while you showed some appreciation? And would the odd compliment have gone amiss?”

Alan poured himself another strong one, then sat there with the tears rolling down his cheeks as the home truths continued to batter him like hammer blows.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

The final sale

It was an absolute treasure of a find. Copeland was on his way down the corridor to the morgue, hoping to make a purchase, as he approached the rubber doors they flapped open and a porter pushing a gurney came through.

“What's under the sheet?” Enquired Copeland.

“Aah, just rubbish.” Replied the porter. “A guy called Grantley Rugensmythe. Been run over by a truck, everything crushed or punctured from the neck down, nothing salvageable or saleable there. I'm on my way to disposal with him.”

At the sound of the name Copeland's heart rate increased dramatically, with a slightly trembling hand he lifted the sheet and looked at the face. He almost swooned when he saw who the cadaver was. Obviously the porter had no idea who he was about to incinerate, but Copeland did, oh he knew that face and name very well.

“Well, maybe I can make a few quid from the eyes, and I need a bit more practice on skulls, so I'll give you a tenner for it.” Said Copeland, trying to keep the greed out of his voice. The going rate for an intact body in good condition was usually around the three hundred mark, but this smashed up specimen wasn't even worth a tenner really, not in the porter's estimation anyway.

The deal was struck, the tenner changed hands and a receipt was written out. Copeland took possession of his booty, and went home.

* * * * * * * * * *

A few hours later, and Copeland was busy in his basement lab, whistling happily to himself as he worked.

He finished placing the scanner electrodes on Rugensmythe's skull then booted up the computer, the screen flickered into life displaying a three dimensional view of the brain.

Copeland adjusted the angles and zoom. Amongst all the pink, about an inch in from the right temple, sat a lentil-sized, purple blob.

Copeland smiled broadly. “You, my tiny friend, are going to make me, and probably someone else very rich.” Said Copeland to the screen.

Copeland's standard of living had taken a nosedive in recent months. When the sale of body parts and organs had first been legalised he had made a comfortable living out of it. The bodies were cheap to buy by today's comparison, and the items had brought in good money. But like everything else eventually too many people got in on the act, the cadaver prices had risen whilst the selling prices had fallen, too much supply and not enough demand. Even kidneys were going for less than fifty quid these days.

But what Copeland had here was a once in a lifetime opportunity, an absolute gem of a windfall.

He set the angle and depth of the drill with pinpoint accuracy on the universal adjuster, then watched the progress on the screen as the bit angled through the right ear, and bored directly toward the little purple blob, stopping a mere thousandth of a millimetre short.

Next the grabber-probe made the same journey, puncturing through the final membrane, and taking a gentle, but firm hold of the blob, which now began to twitch and writhe.

Copeland extracted the probe, and carefully released the tiny object, dropping it into a glass flask, then sealing the stopper tightly shut.

He lifted the flask to eye level and studied its occupant, which was actually a vivid red colour now it was exposed to the light.

The minute object threw itself at the glass, trying desperately to get to Copeland, driven by an all-consuming urge to find an ear to enter, a brain to inhabit. To perform the only reason for its existence.

Copeland smiled as he placed it on the shelf. “Have patience my little friend, you won't be in there for long.”

Copeland went to his laptop and punched up his MeBay page. A quick check showed no activity or bidding on any of his wares, no worries, he would no longer be needing them in a few days, this was probably going to be his final sale. What Copeland knew, that the porter did not, was that Grantley Rugensmythe was the real name of someone who was extremely famous under an assumed name.

Within a few minutes the MeBay insertion was complete, and the sale went live.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

MUSE FOR SALE.

This muse is extremely active and prolific,
and in first class condition.
It was formerly the resident muse
of the author of 78 best selling novels,
the great writer KEPHEN STING.

Absolutely guaranteed genuine article.
Paperwork to prove authenticity.

Starting bid. £100,000:00

Please enter bid of £100,000:00 or more.

Time left. 4 d – 23 h.

Free P + P.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


In less than five minutes the bids started coming in, the figures rolling like a slot machine.

Copeland smiled broadly, closed his eyes, and leant back into his chair daydreaming of retirement on a sunny Caribbean island.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

Lazy days

I don't feel like doing anything today, I think I'll just chill out, stay in my bed, and let the world pass me by.

Yup! I reckon I'll just mellow, think my own thoughts, do a spot of daydreaming perhaps, maybe a snooze or two.

Inactivity is such a wonderful thing, the key to longevity, a necessity, and a praiseworthy trait.

That's settled it then, today I am doing nothing! No-o-o-thing!!

A bit like yesterday really.

And the day before.

It's not too bad being an oyster, the hours are good, and I don't have too many pressures.

Right then, time to get down to some serious loafing...

If I could just manage to spit out this annoying piece of grit...


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

Pies

“Another fifteen pence on the price, they're getting more expensive every week, that's cos they're getting harder to catch, I think we may be hunting them to extinction.”

John placed his beer glass back on the table and turned his head towards the next table where the voice had come from. The guy who sat there looked pretty ordinary, except for the look in his eyes that was, wild eyes, psychotic maybe? John immediately felt uncomfortable. An almost empty cider bottle was on the table in front of the man, beside a partly eaten pie resting on a paper plate.

”Err... Hunting what to extinction?” Said John, glancing at his watch and hoping that his mates would turn up earlier than arranged.

“The pies, what the hell did you think I was talking about?” The guy's voice rose aggressively. “The goddam PIES.”

“Err... Aren't the pies made in the pub kitchen?” Said John, hoping that he didn't sound confrontational.

The guy's eyes grew even more dangerous looking. “Jeez man, which planet are you on? Pies are wild, and carnivorous mostly, why the hell do you think most of them are full of meat? It's their diet. Some of them hunt chickens, others hunt cows or pigs, pigeons even, oh yeah you get the odd herbivore pie, and some pies seem to prefer fruit, some are even omnivorous, that's how we come to have meat and veg ones.”

“Err... what kind of pie have you got there?” Asked John, trying to keep it light and conversational.

“This is game pie, a particularly aggressive pie I can tell you, they feed on footballers and cricketers, Video game players, that kind of thing.”

“And err... is it tasty?” Said John, hoping that his smile looked at least half way genuine.

“Oh, it's tasty okay, just more expensive than last week, which gets me really riled up, I can tell you.”

John felt the cold tendrils of terror run down his spine as he pushed himself further backwards into his chair. “H..How do they catch the pies then?” He ventured.

“Have you heard of the Pied Piper?”

“Y.. Yes.”

“Well, he was a great pie hunter, maybe even the greatest of all time. He used to charm them by the thousand with his music, and taught other people his skills too. Nowadays it's more commercialised, beaters, nets, shotguns. The pies are adapting too, urban pies are becoming quite common, they feel safer in the city, and safer in numbers too, they gang together, hunt in packs.”

At that moment the pub door opened and to John's great relief his three mates walked in, Charlie went straight to the bar and shouted for four pints of bitter, Kevin and Pete headed for John's table.

“Thank god you guys have turned up.” Said John, already feeling better. “This feller at the next table is a complete nutter.”

There was a deafening bang as the pub door opened again, this time it slammed back against the wall, the impact almost tearing it from its hinges.

The room erupted into a cacophony of scraping chairs, overturning tables, smashing glass and screaming, as through the opening flooded hundreds of ravenous, needle-teethed pastry cases.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

Culture

I came across it when I was clearing out the fridge, there it was, right at the back, probably been there unnoticed for months.

I lifted the bowl out and took one look at the fungus that had spread across whatever unrecognisable substance was in there, and headed for the dustbin with it.

That's when I heard it...

It squeaked.

I took a close look at the thing in the bowl and nearly dropped it in shock, a pair of tiny eyes stared back at me.

Oh, not just any eyes, not the kind of tiny-pupilled, squinty, evilly type of eyes, no, but the large, wide-eyed honeyed eyes that only babies seem to possess.

And a tiny mouth too, a tiny rose-bud lipped cute little baby mouth, and between these features a cute little button nose had started to form.

That was eight weeks ago. It's grown up some since then.

It has been moved from the bowl, first to a medium sized cooking pan, then a washing up bowl, a large Tupperware box, and is currently living in a plastic dustbin that I bought for it.

It gets bigger by the day.

It likes squishy things to eat, things easy to get down. Milk, gravy, blancmange, that type of stuff, but its favourite food is jam, not the cheapo supermarket own brand, although it will eat that, it goes absolutely bonkers for the expensive jam, the stuff that has the full, sugary, whole strawberries in it.
The squeals of joy when it sees that label are heartwarming to hear.

I live alone, and had no friends, until now that is.

Oh, I know it's never going to be able to hold down a job, or contribute towards the bills, and it doesn't have much in the way of conversation, but we seem to have so much in common, it really likes watching documentaries on TV, and listening to classical music, it's smart too, a real fast learner, it can already play a mean game of chess.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

To be like you

“I feel so hot, the warmth of my love of life is like a furnace burning inside me.”

“I feel so cold, the chill of emotional lethargy aches in my bones.”

“I feel so happy, my joy of just being alive coursing through me, radiating from me.”

“I feel so sad, depressed beyond reason by my crippled heart.”

“I feel so strong, strong enough for two.”

“I feel so weak, every fibre of my being sapped of vigour.”

“I feel so full of hope, I believe I could teach you to be like me.”

“I think I would like that.”


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

Daisy chain

He sat on the dew-laden grass beneath a huge oak tree in the centre of the meadow. His face a picture of concentration, tongue peeping out between his lips each time he did a particularly complicated part of the necklace.

His thick stubby fingers surprisingly nimble as they wound, twisted and wove the delicate pieces together.

A smile flashed across his face each time he finished attaching one component, and reached to the pile for another.

Sometimes he pulled a bit off to help blend the chain, sometimes used a length of twine to secure a stubborn, badly shaped piece.

Eventually the pile was depleted, the necklace wasn't long enough, his smile flickered to sadness as the disappointment set in.

With a world-weary sigh the troll heaved his immense bulk off the ground, he picked up the huge wooden club, and for the second time that day set off walking towards the nearby village to collect some more bits and pieces for his necklace, about a dozen or so more corpses should do the trick.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

The Liebster Award

The very kind and talented lady Cindy Vaskova has nominated me for The Liebster Award.

Cindy, congratulations on your own award, I enjoy your writing very much, and it is very well deserved, and thank you so much for thinking of me when you were composing your own list of favourite writers. It is always heartening to know that I am amongst someone's favourites, thank you.


Now, there are a few rules to accepting the award:
1. You post 11 random facts about yourself.
2. Answer the 11 questions your presenter gave you.
3. You pass the award on to 11 other bloggers.
4. Compose 11 new questions for your recipients.

* * * * * * * * *

Okay, here goes, I'll try to think of 11 random facts that I haven't posted on a previous award page.

Next year I am going to become a great-grandfather for the second time, our first great-grandchild, Freya, was born on January 13th this year, and my granddaughter's second child, which will be a boy, is due in May, I can hardly wait. :-)

When I was about 13 I was in the Air Cadets for a while, and spent a week at RAF Waddington the Vulcan bomber base in Lincolnshire, the first plane ride I ever had was aboard a two-seater Chipmunk training plane, quite an experience, and one I remember vividly to this day.

Although I am almost sixty years old, I am not going grey or bald, my father never went grey, nor have my brothers, but I have been accused many times of using hair dye.

I am just on the wrong side of Five foot six, I would have liked to have been taller, but never mind, as I have been told “Precious things come in little boxes.”

I love the name Django, and quite often use it as an avatar name when playing Xbox games.

When I was in my late twenties/early thirties I took karate training, in the first 18 months I graded three times to get to Green belt level, then I attended my first competition, my first fight was against a brown belt who was twice my size, and I beat him, although I carried on training for several more years, I never bothered grading again after that, the colour of the belt had become unimportant to me.

We went to Kefalonia many times on holiday, and I tried to teach myself to speak Greek, although I achieved a vocabulary of thousands of words, and could string the sentences together after a fashion, ask for things in restaurants etc, as soon as I was spoken back to in Greek my brain just refused to process it. I did have some amusing conversations while we were there though. :-)

I don't know what is “out there” in space, but I find it hard to believe that we are the only planet with sentient life on it, if we are then as someone once said “It would be an awful waste of space.”

My wife and I have been to Bruges twice, that place is so unbelievably pretty, like something out of a fairytale.

Two years ago I rode a camel in Egypt, and a quad bike across the desert, two brilliantly exhilarating things to do.

My most favourite Christmas tune ever is “Fairytale of New York” By The Pogues and Kirsty McColl, I always liked both theirs, and hers music, and was truly saddened to hear of her tragic death.

* * * * * * * * * *

Here are the 11 questions that Cindy composed for her nominees:-

Can you recall the funniest tweet you’ve read?
I'm afraid I don't have an answer to this question, I don't subscribe to Twitter, so I don't actually read any tweets, sorry.

What’s your favorite character in a book or movie?
I am a massive fan of the “Aliens” movies, and although I have many favourite book and film characters, I think Ripley played by Sigourney Weaver has to be either at, or very close to the top of my list.

What characteristics in his/her personality made you like him/her?
I think it might be the strength she portrays, also there is something very attractive about a machine-gun toting female, I like Mila Jovovich in the Resident evil series too, and if the apocalypse ever gets here, I think I would like these two on either side of me.

Do you have any morning rituals?
I work the afternoon shift, so I don't tend to get up too early, I'm definitely not a morning person any way. On weekdays I throw my packed lunch together whilst the kettle is boiling for my first coffee, then I check my computer for emails, blog comments, the weather, local news etc.

Which is the one dish you’ve always wanted to learn how to prepare?
I'm absolutely hopeless at cooking, and if left to my own devices will just throw a sandwich together, or call to the fish shop. Luckily, I married a girl who is a brilliant cook.

Cyberpunk or steampunk?
I think it has to be Cyber, although I can watch films of either genre, I tend to favour futuristic stuff.

Do you remember the first album you bought?
I can't remember the name of the album, but it was a Four Tops album, I bought it as a Christmas present for a girl I went out with for a while back when I was about 15 years old.

You’re in a bar with friends. Its karaoke night and you’ve had a couple. Which song do you pick to sing?
I have a pretty terrible singing voice, but several years ago the local we used to frequent did Karaoke on a weekend, and the song that I used to sing occasionally (And somehow sing it almost in tune) was “Gentle on my mind”.

You’re traveling with public transportation, it’s crowded, noisy and the travel will be long. You have only one book with you. Which book is that?
One of my most favourite books in recent years is World War Z by Max Brooks, my daughter bought it for me, and I have read it three times so far, for me it is an absolutely riveting read.

Have you, at some point, felt like giving up on writing?
Funnily enough, I don't really class myself as a serious writer, I know I write, ergo I am a writer I suppose, but the only thing I write are stories that I post on #fridayflash, I don't have a WIP book in the making, or send anything off with a view to publication.
For me writing is all about the enjoyment it brings me, both the writing, and the commenting, also the banter between the writers, if I find that the enjoyment is no longer there, then I will either take a break from it, or give it up altogether, as there wouldn't be much point to it any more.

Is there a particular moment that has made you proud of yourself this year?
Absolutely! On January 13th, after a very difficult labour, my eldest grandchild Allana gave birth to our first great-grandchild Freya, I couldn't find the words to express just how proud that makes me feel.

I posted a #fridayflash about Freya's birth which you can find here if you would like to read it.

* * * * * * * * * *

Here are 11 writers whose works I enjoy reading, these are not in any particular order. This is the part I don't like, because there is always someone else who I would like to add to the list, several more in fact. Some of these writers are the same as on Cindy's list too, but I don't think they'll mind.

Not everyone likes to participate in these memes, so I won't be offended if any of you guys feel that you don't wish to take part.

Lily Mortis.

Stephen Hewitt.

John Xero.

Marc Nash.

Tim VanSant.

Helen Howell.

Icy Sedgwick.

Katherine Hajer.

Danielle LaPaglia.

Deanna Schrayer.

Richard Bon.

* * * * * * * * * *

And my list of questions:-

If you could come back in another life as an animal, which one would you choose to be?

Have you ever owned one of those cars that whatever “Could” go wrong with it, “Did” go wrong?

Do you believe in other world life forms?

If you had to spend a year on a desert island with just one celebrity for company, who would you choose?

Which band or entertainer would you most like to see in a live performance?

If you could alter just one physical aspect of yourself, what would it be?

I have been told I am a Jack Russell, which breed of dog would you say you share characteristics with?

If you could choose any make or model of car to own for free, which model would you have?

Which do you prefer, the quiet of the countryside, or the hustle-bustle of the city?

Do you have a favourite colour and number? And do you know why?

What is your favourite film and book?

* * * * * * * * * *

Cindy, thank you once again for including me amongst your favourites, it's always good to know that I'm on someone's list. :-)