Crappy New Year

Well, there was no way he was going to make that new years eve party, was there? It would probably be almost over by now, and he had been so looking forward to it too.

Barney Wilson splashed his way through the ankle deep liquid to a pile of semi-solid sludge, he sat down and pondered his next move.

He wasn't in any immediate danger, the creature's stomach acid wasn't strong enough to eat through his suit, at least not for months, and he was hoping to be out of here just a smidgen before that happened.

He glanced around, his helmet light picking out the glistening contours of the organic chamber. High above his head was the opening of the slimy tube he had slid down after being swallowed, no chance of reaching that, and probably no way past the oesophagus even if he could.

His light illuminated another fleshy opening, just out of reach on the curve of the stomach wall.

Several minutes later and Wilson had managed to cobble together a crude ramp by piling various coloured lumps of half-digested vegetation, decomposing animal carcases, bits of bones, hooves, and god only knew what else. He scrambled up the slithery slope and pulled his way head first into the slippery tube.

Wilson squidged and squelched his way along the tunnel, through many twists and turns, his helmet light barely piercing the gloom as he part swam, part crawled through the semi-liquid contents, all the while accompanied by the gurgling sounds of intestinal music.

Suddenly the tunnel lurched violently, several times. Wilson was slung about this way and that, the panic welled up in him causing his own bowels to void.

“Great! At least before I couldn't smell what I was swimming through.” He thought to himself. “If there's one thing worse than a fart in a spacesuit...”

Wilson fought back the urge to vomit, and began crawling forward again.

The tunnel contracted and relaxed increasingly rapidly, and Wilson felt himself starting to move forward. Faster and faster he was carried along, gaining momentum all the while.

The light was almost blinding as he was ejected out into the daylight, from several metres up he flew downwards like a bullet towards an enormous pile of brown coloured dung, the lights went out again as he landed head first, projected up to his thighs into the soft mess. Small tremors shuddered through his legs as more of the squelchy stuff splatted onto his calves and the soles of his boots, burying his body completely.

Eventually Wilson managed to claw his way out of the filth, cleared his visor, and looked around him.

His ship was still there, and in the distance the lumbering form of the leviaslurp as it headed towards the tree line, and it's natural habitat. What the hell had the gormless animal been doing out here on the plain in the first place?

In Wilson's experience bad things usually came in threes. When a meteor storm had headed his way he had been forced to make an emergency landing on this ball, taking some damage in the process. He had climbed out of his ship to assess the damage only to be swallowed by a toothless, hairless, brainless, six hundred ton herbivore that was too stupid to tell the difference between meat and plant, and the third baddie, having his spacesuit covered in shit, both outside and inside. It could only go uphill from here.

Unfortunately for Wilson, fate decided that the swallowing and the crapping were both part of the same baddie, number two. With a roar of engines, a myriad of flashing orange lights, and a swirling of dust, baddie number three landed in the form of a brightly painted, red and yellow towship, her side emblazoned with the words...

I.T.C. - INTERGALACTIC TOW Co – YOUR PRIDE AND JOY IS OURS

Wilson walked over to greet the rather large, booted and suited guy who climbed out of the towship.

“Boy, am I glad to see you...” He began.

“Save your breath mister, and don't come any closer either.” Said the ITC guy, wrinkling his nose as he took in Wilson's disgusting suit decorations.

“Look mate, I need a little help here...” Spluttered Wilson.

“Can't you read?” Said the ITC man, and he pointed his finger at a barely visible speck in the distance.

Wilson switched on his visor zoom scope, about three hundred yards away, sticking out of the scrubby landscape was a signpost. Wilson fine tuned the focus and the blurred sign became readable.

“TOW ZONE – DO NOT PARK HERE AT ANY TIME – EVER”

“Yeah but...” Began Wilson.

The guy just slammed a ticket into Wilson's gloved palm. “Look mate, I'm just doing my job, okay? Seven hundred credits for the vehicle seizure, plus eighty credits per day storage, the sooner you pay up the sooner you get your vehicle back, and the less it costs.”

The ITC man coupled up the grapple beams then began climbing back into his towship.

Just before he slammed the hatch shut the ITC man hesitated, then said “Oh, and err... Happy new year.”

Wilson watched as the towship fired its thrusters, then headed skywards in a graceful arc taking his own vehicle along with it. There was a bluish flash as the driver punched into FTL drive, and both ships disappeared from view.

Wilson sat down on a nearby rock, and wondered what the chances were of flagging down a cruising Stellarcab in this neighbourhood.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

•。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`* •.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*• ¸.¸.☆¨¯`♥´¸¸.☆¨¯`♥´ ¸¸.☆¨¯` •*¨`*•. ☆ .•*¨`*•. ☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。 •。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`*

Happy new year everyone, and best wishes for you all for 2014

Steve.

•。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`* •.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*• ¸.¸.☆¨¯`♥´¸¸.☆¨¯`♥´ ¸¸.☆¨¯` •*¨`*•. ☆ .•*¨`*•. ☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。 •。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`*

Christmas box

•。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`* •.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*• ¸.¸.☆¨¯`♥´¸¸.☆¨¯`♥´ ¸¸.☆¨¯` •*¨`*•. ☆ .•*¨`*•. ☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。 •。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`*

I picked up the tiny box from under the tree and held it out to her. “Happy Christmas darling.”

My wife took the box from me, and I watched nervously as she tore off the wrapping paper and flipped the lid open. She squealed with delight when she saw the diamond earrings.

“Oh, thank you darling, thank you so much, they are just beautiful.”

She gave me a kiss and a great big hug, I felt so pleased, when I had bought the earrings I was unsure about the choice but her reaction told me that the present was just perfect.

I glanced at the base of the tree, and to my dismay saw that there was no other parcel there, nothing. Oh well, I had absolutely everything I needed anyway, my problem wasn't a shortage of possessions, more a shortage of where to put them all, but it would still have been nice to have received a little something.

“I shan't be a minute darling.” She said as she left the room, I heard the connecting door to the garage open, then shortly after close again. A few moments later my wife staggered through the door with a rather large, gift-wrapped box, all sparkling and glinty with red and gold paper.

“Happy Christmas darling.” She said, as she placed the box on the floor in the centre of the room.

I eagerly tore off the wrapping paper to reveal a very sturdy, plain white box, a cube of almost three feet per side. I took the lid off the box and lifted out the contents, an identical, but very slightly smaller box, and inside that one another, then another.

Before long the floor was covered in dozens of identical boxes, all just a tiny bit different in size from each other, and at last I had the final box in my hand, a tiny thing the size of an ice cube, and it was empty.

I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry, surely she was playing some kind of cruel joke on me?

“There's nothing in here.” I said to her, trying hard but failing to hide the disappointment in my voice.

“That's just the point,” she said, smiling broadly, “for Christmas I got you the one thing you really, really need.”

“What?” I asked her, not seeing the point at all.

She waved her hand, the gesture taking in all of the empty boxes covering the floor.

“Storage.” She answered.

©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

•。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`* •.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*• ¸.¸.☆¨¯`♥´¸¸.☆¨¯`♥´ ¸¸.☆¨¯` •*¨`*•. ☆ .•*¨`*•. ☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。 •。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`*

Happy Christmas everyone, I hope you all have a really fantastic and enjoyable festive season.
My very best wishes. Steve.

•。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`* •.¸¸❤¸¸.•*¨*• ¸.¸.☆¨¯`♥´¸¸.☆¨¯`♥´ ¸¸.☆¨¯` •*¨`*•. ☆ .•*¨`*•. ☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆‿↗⁀↘‿↗⁀☆ 。 •。★ 　☾ °☆ 　. * ● ¸ .　　　★　° ☆¸.✶*¨`*

Sleep disorder

He had come to me seeking help for a sleep disorder, the chap did look rather haggard and worn out, and I told him I would try my best to help. I did explain to him that hypnotherapy was not always successful, and that not everyone succumbed to the deep relaxation techniques used, and needed, to achieve satisfactory results. He said he still wished to give it a try, and so we discussed my fees, and made the first appointment for the following Tuesday.

Many sleep disorders originate in guilts and anxieties stemming from childhood fears, and that would be where I hoped to start my analysis.

He turned out to be one of those classic patients, sometimes it can take months or even years to take a patient to the levels he managed to reach in just three sessions.

Under deep relaxation he spoke openly and freely about his happy childhood, about his wonderful relationship with his parents and siblings. He spoke in great detail about his privileged teenage years and early adulthood, about his university days, and the ensuing successful career and the financial benefits it had brought him.

And he spoke freely about the other stuff.

About the abductions, the rapes, the torturings, the murders and dismemberments.

Even when deeply under, he had actually laughed out loud when he recounted the futile efforts of the authorities to apprehend him. Seventeen cases, male and female, and the police were still no nearer to finding him.

What I had heard here was inadmissible as evidence, and I would not break the doctor-patient confidence even if it were. I could do nothing to bring back any of his victims, nor relieve the sufferings of their families. For what I was about to do I would be going to prison, probably for the rest of my life, but I was willing to trade my liberty for the lives of the victims yet to come.

Quietly and gently I spoke to him.

“Today you will reach a level of relaxation far, far deeper than on any other occasion, do you understand me?”

“Yes.” He whispered. His eyes remained closed, his breathing deep and regular.

“All you can hear is my voice, soothing and gentle...

You will continue to breathe slowly and easily...

Breathe in... and out...

Breathe in... and out...

all the while going deeper... and deeper... and deeper...

I am going to count backwards from five, and as I do you will feel your whole mind and body drifting down, down, down, to a place far deeper than ever before.

Five... starting to drift deeper now...

Four... relaxing more and more...

Three... hearing my voice, soothing and relaxing...

Two... deeper and deeper now...

One... almost there...

And zero... totally relaxed now, completely at ease and calm.

Hearing my voice, absorbing and following the suggestions I make.

And slowly, breathe in... and out...

And in... and out...

And in... and out...

And in... and in... and in... and in... and in...”

There was a loud splat as his lungs exploded, blowing his chest and ribcage to smithereens. Globs of blood, skin, tissue, and fragments of bone peppered the walls, furniture, and myself.

I removed my spectacles and wiped them clean with my handkerchief, walked across the room, picked up the phone and dialled the police.

“Hello? My name is Doctor Pearson, and I would like to report a murder.”


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

Moving on

She slammed the door shut as she left, she wasn't coming back.

The tears trickled down his cheeks, dripped from his chin, joining the shards and fragments that littered the floor.

He brought the dustpan and brush from the kitchen, knelt down, and began to clear up the remains of seven years.

Slowly and deliberately he scooped into the dustpan the pieces of broken promises, shattered dreams, smashed hopes, and a fractured heart.

With each stoke of the brush fresh tear drops landed, then lengthened and tapered as the bristles caught them, like tiny salt water comets against a polished pine sky.

He returned to the kitchen and emptied the dustpan into the trash.

He slammed the trash can lid shut, mimicking her action with the door. Wiped his eyes dry.

Time to move on.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

Cold caller

I was engrossed in the book, and the knock on the door startled me slightly, with a sigh I placed the book on the chair arm and walked out into the hallway. This had better be good news, I don't have much free time on my hands to relax, and certainly don't appreciate unwelcome visitors eating into the little that I have.

I opened the door a few inches and a highly-polished brogue followed it in and wedged itself firmly into the gap. I opened the door further to be greeted by a smart business suit, complete with brief case, topped off with a youthful face sporting the broadest, toothiest smiling mouth I have ever seen.

“Good morning sir, the sunshine of fortune has beamed brightly down on you today. You are one of the very few lucky people to be given the chance of taking up an offer that is so unbelievably good that only someone more stupid than the most stupid person in the world would even remotely begin to have the merest inkling of the train of thought that would make them even under the most unlikeliest of circumstances actually start to consider the action of refusal. This offer is so amazingly UN-refuseable that I would have signed the papers for you myself rather than disturb your morning, knowing with absolute conviction that I would be brightening your life a thousand-fold by my action, but then you would have had to forgo the pleasure, the delight, the absolute ecstasy of signing your own name to this truly, once in a lifetime, astoundingly unbelievable offer. I won't be giving you any warranties or money back guarantees or promises of value for money because they aren't necessary, I know this is hard to believe, but this offer comes with absolutely no cash layout on your behalf, no money down, nothing, no payment, absolutely none. This product is genuinely, truly, unbelievably, something for nothing. Yes sir, hand on heart, I tell you with utter confidence and by all that is dear to me that this product is absolutely, completely, utterly, one hundred percent FREE!”

“What are you selling?” I asked him.

The smile faltered, he sighed, re-pasted the smile, then started again from the top.

“Good morning sir, the sunshine of fortune has beamed brightly down on you today. You are one of the very few lucky people to be given the chance of ...”

I slammed the door shut, walked back into the lounge, sat back down in the chair, picked up my book and continued reading.

One disturbance in my day is enough, I'm not answering the door again today. If the sales guy wants the front half of his brogue back, along with the squidgy bits inside, he'd better wait until tomorrow before he knocks on my door asking for them, or the term cold caller may take on a whole new meaning for him.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

Jacob's flute

Jacob stood beneath the large tree, not too far from the waterhole, he raised the flute to his mouth and began to play.

As his fingers danced a blur along the exquisitely carved instrument, trilling notes wafted on the breeze. Beautiful notes, magical notes.

A large bull elephant walked slowly toward Jacob, stopping a few yards short of the tree, it's body began to sway, head twisting and turning from side to side in time with the music.

Soon a lion joined the elephant, then several zebras, hyenas, gazelles. A dozen or so vultures ceased their circling and settled to the ground close by.

Jacob continued playing, permeating the air with his beautiful tune, before long the whole plain was filled with every manner of creature, all moving as one, all swaying in time with the magical rhythm.

Heads bobbed and weaved in unison. Feet, claws, paws and hooves shuffled from side to side in perfect harmonious motion as the animals danced in smoothly flowing, undulating waves.

Thousands of eyes gazed at Jacob, transfixed, enchanted, enthralled.

On a branch high above Jacob, a leopard opened its eyes, yawned, stretched, then looked down, regarding Jacob with interest.

The leopard slowly made its way down the tree until it was on the branch directly above Jacob's head, the leopard stayed very still for a few moments, then leapt onto Jacob knocking him to the ground, with a single swipe of its claw it ripped his body from chin to groin.

The leopard sank its teeth deeply into Jacob's flesh, and began to eat greedily.

The dancing came to an abrupt halt. The animals looked around, as if unsure of where they were, or what to do.

“Okay guys!” Said the elephant. “That's it! The party's over! The deaf leopard has gone and spoiled it for everyone!”


©2013 Stephen. J. Green

The cure

When I got to the lab the celebrations were already in full swing, most of the staff were drunk, or well on the way.

I pulled Doctor Menzies to one side.

“What the hell is going on here?” I asked him.

“We've done it, we've found the cure, it's official now, we've finally beaten the virus.”

“In who's opinion?”

“We hit the five thousand cured mark this afternoon, that was the target figure, five thousand infected treated, with five thousand tested clear afterwards, officially we've found the cure, isn't that wonderful?”

“Menzies, you moron, all of your subjects died, all five thousand of them.”

“Yes, but not from the virus.”

“Well what the hell DID they die from?”

“Errrrr... well.... we're still working on that one.”


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

On my way back up

I'm on my way back up now.

Yes, I made mistakes, a great deal of them if I am honest with myself.

It was my first time, but I don't use inexperience for excuse, I still made mistakes.

I didn't make the best choice at every fork in the road, who does?

I always did what I thought was right, at least I think I did.

I believe that I did what I thought I should do.

Mostly though, it didn't work out like I thought it would.

And now I have another chance.

I'm through the planks, but the soil is still above me.

And I'm on my way back up.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

Free drinks

God but she was sexy, the way her jet black hair hung over her shoulders, the enigmatic smile that revealed just the slightest glimpse of perfect teeth, and slightly more than half the length of two gleaming fangs. The slim trickle of blood that weaved a line from the corner of her mouth to her chin.

Her curves were sheathed inside a skin tight, slit-from-mid-thigh scarlet number that made him wish he had been the shoe horn that had helped her into it.

He licked his lips, wincing as he caught his tongue on his own fangs, swirled his cape back over one shoulder, and went in for the kill.

He poured a couple of strong Bacardi and Cokes and carried them over to where she stood.

He raised one eyebrow suggestively and gave her his best breathy snarl as he offered her one of the glasses. she snarled right back at him, grinning all over her face, she accepted the glass with one hand while clawing the air with the fingernails of the other.

“So, what's a nice vamp like you doing in a place like this?” He asked.

“Oh I met Greg a couple of weeks ago in the library, and he invited me to the party. How about you? What's a handsome bloodsucker like you doing here?”

“I've been coming to Greg's fancy dress Halloween bashes for years now, always have a good time, plenty of free drinks to get stuck into, usually end up paying for it the day after though. Drink up and I'll go get us a refill.”

Two hours and several drinks later and the idle chit-chat had turned into drunken giggles. Arms slung around each other's shoulders, they slurred into each other's ears above the din of the music and raised voices.

Fur began to fly when a heated discussion between two werewolves turned a bit more physical. Within minutes several more guests had joined the free-for-all.

When the grim reaper staggered across the room and planted his fist into the nose of a dust-streaked zombie, adding a decent sized smear of real blood to the fake stuff already daubed on his face they decided it was time to leave the party and head to his place for a nightcap.

They kissed in the back of the taxi, giggling each time their fangs clicked and clashed together.

By the time the taxi pulled up outside his house the hugs had turned into fumbles and deeper exploration.

Once inside the house he pulled her to him, embracing her tightly, squashing her breasts to his chest. He kissed her deeply, then pulled away laughing as their fangs caught again.

“Time to lose these, I think.” He said, removing the fake, but very real-looking fangs, and placing them on the coffee table.

He turned back to her, pulled her to him once again and locked his mouth onto hers. His tongue slid between her lips, the sharp prick of pain took him by surprise causing him to jerk his head back in reaction. He tasted the coppery flavour of his own blood in his mouth.

“I think it might be a good idea if you took your fangs out too.” He said to her.

“Oh, mine don't come out.” She replied, smiling broadly.

He watched with horror as her fangs slid silently upwards and disappeared into her top gum, then almost immediately slid back down again.

Even if he had been totally sober, he would still not have possessed the speed or strength to prevent her gripping him tightly, pinning his arms to his sides.

“Time for more free drinks.” She said.

He just stood there powerless as she tilted her head to one side and sank those glinting, razor sharp fangs deep into his neck, slurping sounds echoed loudly around the room as she drank greedily.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.


Happy Halloween everyone, and watch out for those ghosties and ghoulies roaming the streets after dark.

Darlings

“Darling?”

“Yes darling?”

“Be a dear and put the kettle on darling.”

“A dear, darling?”

“Yes darling, a dear.”

“Well, which is it darling?”

“Which is what, darling?”

“Is it a dear... or a darling? I mean, I can't be both at the same time, can I darling?

“I suppose not honeybunch.”

“DARling.....”

“What? Oh, sorry, yes it's a dear, definitely a dear. Be a dear and put the kettle on, would you please dear?”

“Yes, of course darling.”

“Thank you sweetheart.”

There was a resounding CLANG as the kettle hit him smack between the eyes.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

Fading away

Hi, and thank you for visiting The Twisted Quill.

Last week I read a chilling #fridayflash horror story entitled “THE BENCH” penned by the writer Connie Cockrell, who blogs at “Conniesrandomthoughts”

Connie's story was written in response to a photo-prompt by a photographer friend of hers, Seth Johnson, you can find more of Seth's excellent works on his website here at :- Sethsnaps.

Many thanks to Seth Johnson at Sethsnaps for use of his picture.

This is what came into my own mind as I looked at the photograph:-


FADING AWAY.

I took the photograph many years ago… so very many years ago, I don’t recall just how many.
The colours were vibrant then, like her, full of life, beautiful.
As was the building.
I look at the picture every day… every single day.
Over the years the colours have faded, dulled, greyed, just like her.
Until the colours were no more, as was she.
And I miss her so much.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

As ye sew...

Jean Paul Christeux looked carefully at the fabric before him, turning it this way and that, trying to decide what it would become. Maybe a skirt, or a bonnet. Whatever he decided on, it would do the catwalk runs, then sell for silly money. Every sleb and millionaire's wife in the world wanted to get their hands on a Christeux original.

His mind wandered back to that famous interview with David Lettermin, truly a brilliant landmark in his career. When asked the question “How do you decide what to make from any particular piece of fabric?” Christeux had replied theatrically, “The fabric... speaks to me, much like the stone speaks to the sculptor, or the canvas to the artist. The fabric tells me of its desires and aspirations, it guides my hands and needles, and becomes what it truly needs to become to make it shine.” Christeux smiled smugly and thought to himself, “And if they believe that load of old codswallop, they'll believe anything.”

But the public did believe it. Oh, Christeux had a good amount of talent and originality, and his hand-crafted garments were certainly one of a kind, but it was that interview that had really set him on the road to fabulous wealth and fame.

He dragged himself back to the present, and looked again at the piece of cloth, a lovely tartan blend.

“I think you will be a scarf.” Murmured Christeux to himself.

“But I don't wanna be a scarf, I wanna be a kilt.” Said a squeaky voice.

Christeux was shocked rigid, he glanced around the room convinced someone was playing a prank on him.

“Oi! Oi! Are you listening to me? I said I wanna be a kilt!”

Christeux stared hard at the tartan, he prodded it a few times.

“Show some respect,” said the cloth, "and get busy with those needles, a kilt is in the making.”

“You're not going to be a kilt, you're going to be a scarf.” Said Christeux, angrily. Then stopped dead, he couldn't believe what was happening, not only was the cloth talking to him, it was arguing with him.

“Oh, someone is having fun at my expense.” He said, then picked up the scissors and began cutting.

The material screamed, and howled abuse at him as it began its journey towards scarfdom.

“Ow! No! Ouch! You're cutting all the wrong shape. Ouch!! That goddam needle is sharp. Gerroff me you son of a bitch! You're gonna pay for this! I want my lawyer! Just wait, you're gonna get yours...”

“FOR GOD'S SAKE... SHUT UUUP!” Screamed Christeux in frustration, you're going to be a beautiful scarf, and that's that, another peep from you and you'll go into the fire.”

The cloth lapsed into silence after that, and remained so whilst Christeux's expert fingers guided the needle and thread, pleated, folded, scrolled the material. At last, the scarf was finished, and even by his own standards it was beautiful.

He crossed the room to the mirror, then draped the scarf around his neck, turning this way and that to view his masterpiece from every possible angle.

“Oh my, but you are soooo beautiful.” Cooed Christeux. “You are going to be the star of Paris next month.”

“Yes.” Said the squeaky voice. “But you won't be there to see it.”

The scarf began to tighten around his neck. Christeux panicked, his hands scrabbled at the material trying to pull it off, but the scarf tightened further.

His face began to turn blue as his windpipe constricted. His tongue lolled from his mouth and he staggered around the room gurgling and thrashing. As he barged into the wall, the scarf whipped one end into the air and looped itself several times around a sturdy coat hook, Christeux was dragged kicking off the floor, his heels thrummed and scraped against the wall gouging deeply into the plaster.

Just as his eyes began to bulge Christeux croaked. “Okay, okay, you've made your point, a kilt it is then.”

Which sounded more like. “Oga... Oga...Yamagapa... Akee.. tee... sen."

But it would have made no difference. The scarf was no longer listening, it just closed its cloth ears to the choking sounds and carried on squeezing.

The death of Jean Paul Christeux, which an inquest ruled as suicide, was a tragic loss to the fashion world. His creations became even more sought after and expensive, being affordable to only the ultra rich.

And the scarf?

True to Christeux's prediction, it did indeed become the star of the Paris catwalks, and a few weeks later was bought at a secret auction by an anonymous bidder for an undisclosed sum.

Wherever the scarf is now, if it still has thoughts of becoming a kilt, it's keeping them to itself.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

A day at the beach

“Have you had a good day at the beach, son?”

“Yeah, it's been fun, kicking the ball around an' all. You've been such a good sport too, allowing me to bury you up to your neck in the sand, that was the best part by far.”

“Heheh! Yeah. Well, I'm getting a bit achey now, so how's about digging me back out again? There's a good lad.”

“No... no... I think I'll leave you right where you are.”

“Stop fooling around son, get the spade and start digging.”

“All that running around has made my legs a little tired, so I'm gonna wander over to them rocks and sit down for a while, have fun.”

“You start digging me out right now you little shit, I'm gonna leather the hell out of you when I get you home.”

“That's exactly why you're staying there.”

“I'm gonna call the cops when I get out of here, see what they have to say about a kid that does something like this to his dad.”

“I don't think the cops will be too hard on me, not after I've shown them the welts on my back, and mom's too, they're a lot worse than mine.”

“Look son, I know I haven't always been perfect, but I'm gonna show you that I love you, from now on things'll be different.

“Yeah, well, it's not like you're my real dad is it? You just married my mom, that's all, and if loving someone is getting drunk every night and taking a belt to them, well I don't ever want anyone to love me again, especially not you. I'm gonna go sit on the rocks now.”

“Son... son... c'mon, don't leave me here all alone.”

“You won't be lonely for long, look down the beach, there's a bunch of crabs heading this way, and I just know they'll be only too happy to keep you company.”


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

A wonderful evening (Re-written)

Author's note:

Hi everyone, thank you for taking the time to visit The Twisted Quill.

Last week I posted a very short story entitled “A wonderful evening” which, although I quite liked its brevity, felt that it didn't really meet my intentions, so for this week's #fridayflash I have posted a much longer, and slightly different version of the same story, one that is closer to my original idea.
Anyone wishing to read the original post can find it here:- A wonderful evening.
Thank you for reading.
Steve Green.


A WONDERFUL EVENING (RE-WRITTEN)

They had bumped trolleys in the supermarket, as they laughingly apologised to each other he couldn't help but notice the look in her eye, a twinkle, an invitation?

A few minutes later they passed in opposite directions down the next aisle, he looked across and smiled at her, she beamed back. Yes, she was definitely interested.

By a quirk of fate their cars just happened to be parked side by side, they laughed and chatted as they were loading their shopping. He was usually so lacking in confidence around women, but there was something different about her, something that drew him in. Her smile, so open and inviting, her whole demeanour made him feel that she found him attractive, desirable. He took the plunge, shyly asking her number, and offering his own.

He called her later in the day and knew from the moment she picked up that things were looking up for him. She sounded absolutely delighted that he had phoned. They arranged a date for the following evening, she said she would host, she loved cooking, and it would be much preferable to the hustle and bustle of a restaurant. He couldn't agree more, in his opinion things were just getting better and better, he experienced a pleasurable shiver of anticipation as he fantasised about how the evening might turn out.

He dressed smartly, wore his best suit. He stood on her doorstep, awkwardly cradling flowers wine and chocolates in one arm as he reached out and nervously rang the doorbell. Any nervousness he felt quickly evaporated when she opened the door, she greeted him with a huge smile, she was positively glowing with pleasure, with excitement, with expectation.

The meal was exquisite, beautifully prepared and absolutely delicious. They chatted easily, as though they had known each other all their lives, he could never remember a time when he had felt so relaxed in female company. Her conversation was intelligent and witty, when he spoke she listened attentively, hanging on his every word. He couldn't believe this was happening for him, that he could be so lucky. Is it possible that the seed of encounter in the frozen foods aisle could blossom into romance for him tonight?

They reached out across the table, their fingers touched, intertwined. He told her how this had been such a wonderful, wonderful evening, how he just wished that this moment could last forever.

“And so it shall my dear, for you anyway.”

As she spoke a slight static surged from her fingers to his own, in less than a second it pulsed throughout his whole body, tingling and warming every muscle as it went.

He felt the first stirrings of unease trickle down his spine. He looked across the table at her, the twinkle in her eyes now looked more like a malevolent glint, her broad smile appeared sinister, a cruel twist to her lips giving her an evil look, feral almost.

The unease quickly turned into terror as he tried to unclasp his fingers from hers but found he was unable to move, his whole body seemed paralysed. For a moment embarrassment rose to the surface as the intense fear caused his bowels and bladder to void.

A strange sensation rippled through his entire body, pulsating waves ran down his arms and through his fingertips.

He could feel himself slowly growing weaker as his life energy flowed from him to her.

Her head rolled back and she moaned softly, arched her back, whimpering and spasming as if in the throes of orgasm.

As the night wore on his body gradually diminished, deflated, began to collapse in on itself.

The days and nights passed by, and still she writhed in ecstasy, taking every last available molecule he had to offer, savouring each drop of essence, until eventually his husk disintegrated into dust breaking the contact. She slumped back in her chair, spent, satiated, her breathing rapid, ragged and hoarse.

Later, her whole being awash with a deliciously warm afterglow, she hummed happily to herself as she skipped gaily about the house doing the cleaning up, disposing of any signs he had ever been there. She washed the dishes and put them to drain, threw what she could into the garbage, and buried in the cellar what was left.

What she needed now was sleep.

Several months later the first pangs of hunger roused her from slumber.

The hunger grew stronger as she showered, dressed and applied her make up.

She checked herself critically in the full length mirror, yes, perfect. Casual clothes just bordering on sexy, heels not too high but enough to accentuate the curve of her calf, not too much lipstick or eye-liner. She let her gaze rove the length of her reflection, taking in her beautiful features, her mane of honey blonde hair, the swell of her breasts, trimness of waist, and the curve of her buttocks, not bad at all for a creature who was almost five thousand years old, she didn't look a day over twenty five.

She allowed herself a final practice of her brightest smile, the one that radiated openness, happiness, and just a hint of invitation and the possibility of something more, pleased with the result she turned away from the mirror.

The hunger was burning hotter now, she picked up her handbag and keys and headed towards the door.

She felt ravenous.

Time to go shopping.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green

A wonderful evening

They had bumped trolleys in the supermarket, laughingly apologised to each other, passed in opposite directions down every subsequent aisle, smiled, nodded, and walked on.

Fate favoured him that day, their cars just happened to be parked side by side.
They were loading shopping, he took the plunge, shyly asking her number, and offering his own.

Mid evening and she hadn't called, why would she? He was no Adonis, just an average guy, and she was so beautiful, probably fighting them off with a stick.

Faint heart never won fair lady, he would call her, the fear of rejection lay heavy with him, but he had to know.

She picked up, sounded delighted. A date? Why, yes, she would love to. Tomorrow evening? That would be splendid, would he mind if she hosted?

He dressed smartly, his best suit. Took flowers, wine, chocolates, and hope.

He knocked on her door, nervously shuffled his feet, felt his spirits hit the sky when the door opened and her beaming face appeared. She was so happy to see him, she was glowing with pleasure, with excitement, with expectation.

The meal was exquisite, beautifully prepared, a candlelit heaven.

They chatted as though they had known each other all their lives.

Hands reached out across the table, fingers touched, intertwined, energy flowed from one to the other.

He had never felt so happy in all of his life, he just wanted this wonderful, wonderful evening to go on for ever, they both did.

They sat, holding hands between the candlesticks.

They sat like that until the daylight seeped through the gaps in the shades.

Until the summer turned into autumn.

Until the flesh fell from their bones.

Until there was only dust.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

The giggles

I had the giggles, overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of the situation. I was chuckling so hard I could barely catch my breath.

The heist had gone perfectly. The escape through the sewers too... almost.

Here I was, in the pitch black, the stench of human waste clogging my nostrils, the squeaks of rats like tinnitus in my ears, the slither of fur brushing my legs, the Chinese water torture drip-dripping in the background.

I hefted the loot bag in my hand and thought of all that it could buy, could have bought, probably now never will buy.

The blueprint of the labyrinthine tunnels crinkled between my fingertips, unreadable, priceless,useless.

From somewhere in my head came the thought, “A torch battery, a torch battery... My kingdom for a torch battery!”

That just set me off again, my maniacal laughter echoed through the dark, things just couldn't get any worse.

From close by came a low, throaty snarl...



©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

LORD ALF-The Novel

Hi, and thank you for stopping by The Twisted Quill, I hope you enjoy the visit.

This post is an unashamed plug for a novel written by a writer friend of mine. Colin James is a Yorkshire man like myself, who originally hails from a small town some thirty miles from my home town, but for several years Colin has lived in the USA.

As well as running his own business Colin also finds time to produce excellent fiction, short stories, serialised stories, and also novels, the latest of which has just gone to Kindle.

Colin's new novel is called “LORD ALF” and for the next five days can be down-loaded to your kindle ABSOLUTELY FREE!!

I was fortunate to read LORD ALF in its proof-reading stage, and thoroughly enjoyed it.
Colin's style is earthy, gritty, powerful, marbled with humour, and never disappointing.

You can find LORD ALF on Amazon here:- LORD ALF by Colin R James.

Download and enjoy!!!

I'm sure all reviews or comments would be much appreciated by Colin too, if there is anything writers like more than chocolate or beer, it is feedback.


For more of Colin's work stop by his website at THE I-10 BLOG, it will definitely be worth the visit.


You can find Colin's website here :- THE I-10 BLOG.


Thanks again for stopping by.

Best wishes.

Steve Green.

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.