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.