The Twisted Quill

More than dreams (Part 1)

2012-02-10T00:03:00.001Z

Hi everyone, last week I posted a very short flash entitled “In The Dome” I have since decided to expand on the idea and have written a 3 part mini-series. I know this theme has been covered many times in books and films, but I hope you will enjoy my own version of the story. Thank you for reading.
Steve Green.

More than dreams (Part 1)

“Numbers One seven four two five to Three eight six four nine, please rise and collect your food, you have one hour to shift start... numbers One seven four...”

The soft female tones of the wakevoice, along with the gentle, but insistent Ping-Ping of the alarm pulled me away from the dream.

I had been having a lot of dreams lately. Strange dreams. Dreams that I dare not mention to anyone else. Dreams about running for hours without meeting glass. Dreams of a light the brightness of which I have never seen, and of a darkness never known. The only darkness I have known in my life lies behind my eyelids.

I zipped myself into my whitesuit and walked out of the dorm. Because the dream had held me to sleep a little longer than was prudent I found myself near the end of the food queue, this wasn't a problem, but could possibly develop into one if it happened too often... and became noticeable.

Looking far down the line I could see 24868, easily recognisable amongst the long line of whitesuits by his characteristic head tilt. There would be no whispered words between us in the food queue today, he would have eaten and be on his way to start his twelvehour by the time I reached the head of the queue. I would have to eat fast to be at my station before belltime, tardiness was noted, and frequent tardiness could spark investigation.

Investigation. The word itself was a mystery. I only know that people who have been “Investigated” tend to not sleep in their beds for a while, then when they return seem changed somehow, subtly changed, brighter of eye, wider of smile, more positive of speech, more... watchful of others.

By the time I reached my designated table space with my food the immense dining area was almost empty, just a smattering of whitesuits dotted here and there, and a couple of bluesuits strolling up and down the aisles between the rows of tables.

I ate as fast as I could without appearing to hurry, head down, spooning the protein mix rapidly from dish to mouth, I was hungry, and was already feeling the need for the next meal which would come when my twelvehour was done.

“Only seven minutes to belltime, brother.”

The voice startled me, I hadn't heard the bluesuit approaching, his soft shoes silent on the composite floor.

I raised my head and looked up into his smiling face, returning the smile with one of my own. Everyone smiled here, all the time, we were all happy and content and had every reason to smile.

“Yes, brother.” I replied pleasantly. “I fear I found myself one of the last in line for food, but I shall be at my station before belltime. Work makes me happy.”

As one, everyone remaining in the dining area laid down their spoons and took up the chant.

“We work for happiness, our work makes us happy, our work makes our brothers and sisters happy, our brothers' and sisters' work makes us happy, we are happy in our work. Amen.”

The bluesuit smiled even wider. “Work is good, brother. Life is good.” He said, then strolled away down the aisle in his silent shoes.

* * * * * *

I arrived at my station with two minutes to spare, and took my place behind my opposite twelvehour worker.

Belltime. As the soft chimes echoed down the production line the workers at the conveyor took a pace to their right, then a pace backwards bringing them side by side with their relief man.

Those of us just beginning our twelvehour stepped forward a pace to the line and carried on with the work, the change-over so smooth that there was no need to even slow the conveyor

The whitesuits ending their twelvehour walked off quietly in the direction of the food servers, smiling at each other, talking in hushed tones.

My twelvehour seemed to pass unusually slowly. I added a single component to each unit as it trundled past on the conveyor, one every twenty six seconds, and all the while I was smiling.

My face hurt. Like the dreams this was also a new and strange addition to my life. My face hurt from smiling all the time, I dare not mention this to anyone else either.

* * * * * *

My twelvehour over, and my food eaten, I sought out 24868 in the recreation area, I found him sitting at a far table, some distance from any of the other whitesuits. I walked over and took the seat on the opposite side of the table.

“You look tired my brother, are you not sleeping well?” He asked.

“I have strange dreams, they disturb my peace. I dream of what it might be like on the outside.” I had spoken without thinking, now I was not the only one who knew of the dreams.

“No-one knows,” said 24868, “no-one has ever gone outside. The law says that anyone leaving the dome can never return, so no-one leaves. There are stories, legends really, that tell of dangers and diseases, of fearsome creatures, of things called radiation and mutation, and of unhappiness. Are you thinking of leaving? Are you not happy in your work?

“Yes my brother, I am happy in my work.” I smiled across the table at him, and hoped that my eyes didn't tell a different story than my mouth.

For the next couple of hours we chatted about how the production figures were growing daily, and other happywork subjects until it was time to sleep.

I laid my head on the pillow, the sweet tones of the sleepchime soothed my mind.

I closed my eyes and drifted away.

And the dreams came.

Continued in:- More than dreams (Part 2)

©2012 Stephen. J. Green.

In The Dome

2012-02-03T10:29:00.001Z

We are told that if we ever leave The Dome, we will never be allowed to return.

In all my life I have never heard of one single person who has left The Dome.

Inside The Dome there is safety, comfort, warmth, light, food.

Inside The Dome there is repetition, uniformity, sameness.

We are told that outside The Dome there is danger, starvation, radiation, mutation.

These are just words that no-one understands the meaning of.

We have been given explanations of these words, but without comparison, without experience, they still have no meaning.

I have heard of other things outside The Dome.

Other words that also have no meaning. Forbidden words.

I have overheard them whispered in dark corners.

Words like adventure, excitement, courage, freedom.

I have no idea what these words mean.

But I intend to find out.

©2012 Stephen. J. Green.

On the horizon

2012-01-27T00:01:00.001Z

Dick Edwards slid the ten pound note across the table to the gypsy fortune teller.

“I'm looking for a path to follow.” He said. “For a meaning in my life, for my destiny.”

The gypsy stared long and hard into her crystal ball, her eyes narrowed, her face a mask of mystic concentration.

Eventually she raised her head.

“On the horizon.” She whispered. “You will find your destiny on the horizon.”

“But the horizon is all around, how will I know which direction to travel?”

“You will know, fate will guide you, whichever direction you choose will be the direction your destiny lies.”

Dick thanked the gypsy and walked out of the shadowy booth and into bright summer sunshine.

He turned right and walked along the seaside promenade, threading his way through the swarms of holiday-makers, past the rows of burger stands, amusement arcades and tourist-tack shops.

Eventually he left the town behind and approached the surrounding green foothills. Looking up he could make out the tall spire of a church silhouetted against the skyline.

“There!” He whispered to himself. “There on the horizon, there is my destiny.”

Dick focused his attention on the church spire and began walking again, at a brisk pace, he was eager to meet his destiny, to follow his path, to give a meaning to his life.

Several hours later he stood before the tall-spired church, and for the first time, instead of focusing on the building itself, he looked past it... at another horizon. There on the new horizon stood a sprawling white farmhouse.

“No, my destiny does not lie in this church, but there, there on the horizon, there in that farmhouse.”

A few hours later found Dick standing beside the white farmhouse, and staring off at yet another horizon several more miles away.

“It seems my destiny doesn't lie in this farmhouse either.” He mused. “But over there, amongst those electricity pylons.”

Dick set off towards the new horizon then stopped suddenly in his tracks.

His inner ear was deafened by a resounding metallic “Clang”... The sound of the penny dropping.

The truth and logic finally came to him like a sledge-hammer blow.

Dick turned on his heel and set off back in the direction of the seaside town. His cheeks burning a lovely bright shade of red.

With every step he took he debated with himself whether to threaten the gypsy with a good thumping and demand his money back, or to put the whole thing down to experience and take it as a lesson learnt.

Somehow, he didn't think either option would alleviate just how utterly foolish and stupid he felt right at this moment.

©2012 Stephen. J. Green.

Her words

2012-01-20T00:03:00.000Z

The beauty of the song stilled the very air that carried it.

Her words drifted into me as I walked down the mountain path towards the shack, soothing, soulful. A beckoning siren call, irresistible. Compelling.

My feet barely touching the scarcely trodden earth, the breeze passing through me like rainwater through limestone.

It's been such a long time, such a very long time.

From life, to death, and now, back to life. The prophecy fulfilled.

Closer now, hurrying, joyful, expectant.

The door is ajar, the familiar scent of her perfume is in my nostrils, on my tongue, in my head.

The voice faltered, quieted.

The door fell fully open as I approached.

I walked into the room.

“Hello darling,” she said, “welcome home.”

©2012 Stephen. J. Green.

Freya

2012-01-13T04:23:00.009Z

The five mile drive home from the hospital was very quiet, the early morning traffic on the ring road almost non-existent.

I glanced across at my daughter who was dozing in the passenger seat, she was totally wiped out.
For the last forty two hours she had sat at the side of her daughter's hospital bed, held her hand through the pain, through the tears. Felt her own pain, her own tears, no-one likes to watch their children suffer.

Louise stirred and opened her eyes just as we turned off the main road onto the street where she lived. I pulled to a stop outside her house and cut the engine.

“Well darling, her pain is finally over, she's sleeping peacefully now, they both are. And that's what you need too now, sleep. I'll pick you up in the morning and we'll go back up to the hospital and argue over who gets to hold her the longest.”

The smile on my face was so wide I was in danger of splitting my head in two.

In my mind's eye I could see the photograph...

My mother Lucy on my right, to my left my eldest daughter Louise, to her left her eldest daughter Allana, and cradled in Allana's left arm, Freya Louise, the beautiful new addition to our lives. Five generations of the same family.

©2012 Stephen. J. Green.

Authors note:

I know #fridayflash is a fiction site, and some of the details in the story are fictional, but my eldest grandchild Allana, after a very long and difficult labour, gave birth to beautiful Freya Louise just one hour ago, and I am so proud, happy, and bursting to tell the world that we have just become Great-Grandparents that I penned this instead of posting the story I had earmarked for this week.

Baby, mum, grandmother, great grandparents, and great great grandmother all doing well.

Thank you all for reading.

Steve Green. (A very proud and very happy Great Grandfather)

* * * * * * * * *

Fact from fiction.

(This section of the post was added 14 hours after the original story.)

Hi everyone, and thank you all for your wonderful comments and support.

In the story, the car journey and the dialogue are fiction, we are hoping to get everyone together next weekend to make the photograph come true.

Allana was in the labour ward for over forty hours, her partner Joe (that man is an absolute star), and Louise (An absolute heroine) were with her every step of the way. The last nineteen hours were mostly active labour, with the last eight being the most intense. Due to the incorrect positioning of Freya, coupled with other complications, the labour was much longer than it would normally have been.

Allana was admitted at 11:00am on Wednesday morning, and the beautiful Freya was born at 03:20am on Friday morning, weighing in at a healthy 6lb 7oz.

And she is a beauty, we have just returned from the hospital where I had my first hold of her at 11 hours old. A very emotional moment.

The picture at the top of the post is Freya Louise in my arms at 11 hours old.

Thank you all for reading.

Steve Green.

Prizefighter

2012-01-06T00:06:00.000Z

I hit him again, putting full hip twist and shoulder into the punch.

Blood, snot and spittle geysered from his face as his head jerked sideways from the impact.

He span almost full circle before going down and hitting the floor, hard.

“Stay down... stay down for Chrissake.” My inner voice screamed silently at him.

He rolled over onto all fours, fluids dripped and drooled from his face and pooled on the floor.

After a couple of seconds his head and shoulders lifted, and he slowly... slowly stood up again.

I found out a few days later his jaw was broken in three places and both of his cheekbones were fractured.

His eyes and nose were so badly swollen it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

And he still kept getting up... and coming back at me.

I knew, I just knew that the only way to keep him down would be to kill him, and I wasn't prepared to go that far.

He squared up again, and I just let him hit me. There wasn't enough force in the blow to do any serious damage, but I took it, then went down... and stayed there.

I would take a punishment beating from “The Boys” for throwing the fight, maybe even broken arms or legs, the syndicate didn't take people like me spoiling their plans with any humour at all, not to mention the money I would have cost them.

They weren't the one doing the fighting. They couldn't see what I could see.

If I had known at the time why the money was so important to him I would have taken the dive a lot sooner.

One of his kids needed a life-saving operation, and that kind of motivation can be impossible to beat out of a man.

©2012 Stephen. J. Green.

Hippie New Year

2011-12-30T00:06:00.007Z

New years eve. 23:02

Less than an hour now, man.

I'm going clean at midnight. I've been smoking the stuff for so long now man, it's like.. err..addled my brain... I think.... Maybe... Maybe not... I'm not sure... I can't seem to think straight any... y'know... like... err... any more.

I finished rolling the joint and fired it up. Puffed furiously on it, smoked as fast as I could, I wanted to get as much inside me before midnight as possible, one final splurge.

I'm not giving it up for y'know for like health reasons or nothin' like that, man, everyone knows that a joint a day is medicinal, y'know... don't they man? So my dozen or so a day must have turned me into a super healthy untapped well of sprints, push-ups and star jumps, an' other y'know, like athletic stuff. And god knows, all the relaxing I do must be beneficial too, man.

They say it's addictive, oh man that's such a load of cobblers, I smoke it all the time man, so I should know.. like... y'know... know what I'm talking about.

23:14

I stubbed the roach out in the ashtray, grabbed the makings and started working on another.

Y'know, man... I've heard people say that it can cause y'know like.. err... delusions an' paranoia. That's bull, man... Total bull! And when I get to be king of Europe the first thing I'm gonna do is bring out a law making rumours like that illegal.

An' paranoia, I'm gonna make that illegal too, well, I will if nobody manages to get to me first, cos kings have... err... y'know... enemies, lots of enemies. I think so long as I sleep with my head under the covers I should be okay though, I mean... if they can't see me they can't get to me, can they? They can't... can they?

23:33

Stub. Grab. Roll. Light.

Yeah, I feel good, man. I can't really see my health improvin' at all when I go clean. My mate Jethro says that as long as the blood I err... y'know... err... vomit up every morning ain't coagulated then I have nothing to worry 'bout, an' he knows... err... y'know... err... knows what he's talking about, man... he's been using the stuff for years too.

23:48

Stub. Grab. Roll. Light.

The last one, yeah, definitely the last one, man. Jethro won't half be surprised when I errr... when I err... tell him I'm going clean. He won't understand of course. Well, what is there to understand about it, man? Nothing, that's what. I think... or maybe something. I'm not sure.

00:00

I grabbed my stash and went into the bathroom, took a final drag from the joint then threw it into the pan, as I exhaled I upended the polythene bag and poured the contents from that into the pan too.

With a feeling of supreme confidence and superiority I pulled the chain and flushed the weed out of my life.

00:05

I can already feel the new me coursing through my veins, I feel on top of the err... on errr... top of the world, man.

00:13

All this new me coursing through my veins is making me kinda jumpy, y'know man... like... err... edgy.
What was that noise? Why am I itching all over like this? Why do I feel so restless?

I picked up the phone and punched the numbers.

The phone rang, and rang, what the hell was he doing that was taking him so long to pick up? Friends are supposed to be there for each other aren't they?

Aaaah... At last!

“Jethro? Hiya man, what're ya up to? ... Uh? Oh... sorry man, tell Babs I'm sorry too. Look I need you to come over... Yeah, like... err.. now man, I'm having some kind of panic attack and I can't face it on my own, I need you here with me man.... And Jethro?... Bring your stash with you man, I seem to have run out.”

What the... err... what the... err... hell, next year man... next year I'm definitely gonna go clean man.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Happy New Year everyone.

The happiest Christmas ever

2011-12-23T00:03:00.001Z

Several feet beneath the antarctic ice crust the hull of the immense mothership gave out a low hum as the crew initiated engine start-up. Inside the operations room the final briefing was under way with all chief military and scientific personnel present.

Senior scientist Jabal addressed the room.

“After many years of planning and development the moment is finally here. The strike ships are all programmed with their individual target co-ordinates, altitudes and pace of dispersal. The mission-to release the developed virus into the cloud cover, which will then be brought to Earth via the forecasted snowfall.”

“Why can't we just release the virus directly into their atmosphere?” This from the strike commander.

“The virus is extremely complex and volatile, it will only follow the required behavioural pattern within minute parameters of element combinations and temperatures. The virus will bond to the snow crystals, separating at an altitude of zero to thirty feet from the ground. The virus then reaches the second phase triggered by the slightly higher temperature and altered oxygen and nitrogen combination. After ingestion, either through the skin, or any orifice, the virus begins to attack and destroy the central nervous system, while at the same time causing the subject to experience a state of extreme euphoria...”

“Euphoria? What is that?” Interrupted one of the military staff.

“Happiness.” Replied Jabal. “To the humans euphoria is a state of extreme happiness. This euphoria will intensify as the virus strengthens, and will continue until the moment of death. This would be from several minutes to several days depending on many physical and physiological variables within the subject. The euphoria will work in our favour... the humans will die happy”

“How many other species will be affected by the strike?” This from Under-officer Eybro.

“None. Only the dominant species will be harmed by the virus.” Answered Jabal. “Humans, the biological make-up of the virus causes it to ignore all other life forces.”

“What is the success rate of the virus?” The commander enquired.

“Absolute.” Jabal said, confidently. “There are no recovery percentages, no immunity percentages.”

“Surely there will be some survivors, the snow clouds are not due to cover the whole planet, and as we know, some countries are too warm to have snow.” From the commander again.

“The snow clouds will drift, spreading the virus further than the initial cover area. Most of the warrior nations will be annihilated, of the ones that are left, there will be insufficient co-ordinated force remaining to pose any serious threat to our invasion force. The planet will be ours.”

Several hours later hundreds of strike craft running under stealth shields released their payloads into the dense cloud mass that covered the whole of continental America, and over ninety percent of the northern hemisphere.

Just before midnight on Christmas eve the first flakes of snow began to drift down on New York City.

“Hey folks.” Said the jubilant TV announcer. “The countdown to Christmas day starts in less than a minute, and for all you snow lovers out there, the weatherman says that for almost everyone in the world this year it's gonna be a white one. Happy Christmas everyone, and may it be the happiest Christmas ever”

Background music tuned in with the mellow tones of Bing Crosby...

“I'm dreamin' of a white Christmas....”

Happy Christmas everyone.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Breathe and push

2011-12-16T00:01:00.001Z

“That's it darling, breathe... breathe and push... breathe and push.”

My own breath was ragged in my throat, my heart pumping furiously.

“You're doing great darling, breathe... breathe deeply... that's it... breathe and push... breathe and push. C'mon darling... nearly there... nearly there...”

I spoke to her in a gentle and encouraging tone, she was in pain, and it was all my fault.

When I had first suggested we do it she hadn't wanted to. I can still hear her response now.

“I don't want to do it.” She had said with utter conviction.

But the urge was upon me, I had never done it before, I had heard so much about it and desperately wanted to try it. It sounded so exciting, stimulating, satisfying, and I thought maybe the exercise would be good for us.

I begged, cajoled, pestered, sulked, hinted... all to no avail. She still wasn't for giving in.

Until Christmas eve.

We were cuddled up on the couch, both feeling the glow of the after dinner drinks. She draped her arms around my neck and nibbled on my ear.

“If you could have a Christmas wish come true, what would you wish for? She whispered.

“You know what I want to do, what I want us to do together.” I answered. I could feel expectation rising. Hope blossoming.

“Okay then darling, let's do it.”

“Only if you really want to... I mean, you don't want to do it just to satisfy me, do you? You really want to do it too, don't you?”

“Yes darling I do, I know how much it means to you, and so I'm going to make your Christmas wish come true.”

We embraced, kissed passionately, and made beautiful, beautiful love.

* * * * *

The happy event would take place in the last week of September.

As the spring came, then drifted into summer I could tell she was having doubts. The closer the date came the more afraid she seemed to be that things would not go well. And although she never mentioned it, I could tell she was unhappy about the weight she had put on over the last few months. I tried to reassure her, she would always be beautiful to me.

And now all the waiting was over.

* * * * *

“Nearly there darling, nearly there... just keep pushing. Just keep breathing... and pushing”

She gulped air, emitting a small high-pitched grunt on each exhale, on each push.

I lifted my head and turned sideways to look at her, it saddened me to see her like this. Her face contorted, straining, with each breath hard fought for. Every ounce of her being, every fibre of her muscles, every calorie of energy, every inch of her willpower, all channelled and focused into the act of breathing and pushing.

And it was all my fault. It had been my idea, my need to experience, my selfishness that had led us to this moment.

I wanted to reach across to her, to hold her hand, but couldn't. I was afraid to let go.

I wanted to offer more encouragement but couldn't find the strength to speak.

And I was so proud of her. Proud of her for agreeing to do it. Proud of her for loving me enough to do it with me.

My heart really went out to her. Cycling up this steep mountain road was probably one of the hardest things I had ever done in my life, and she had matched me pedal push for pedal push.

As we reached the summit, and began the free-wheel descent down the other side, both of us puffing and blowing, I decided that maybe she had been right all along.

The bicycle riding mountain tour had looked so good in the brochure, and last Christmas she had secretly booked it for us as my present knowing that it was something that I really wanted to do. I don't think I realised just how much hard work was going to be involved, neither of us was any where near fit enough to take on something like this.

I think the next time I come up with one of my bright ideas for an adventure holiday and she says “I don't want to do it.” I may just take more notice.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Fragile

2011-12-09T00:02:00.001Z

I woke up this morning feeling totally shattered. My night had passed in a kaleidoscope of fragmented dreams and broken sleep. As the first rays of light cracked through the window my unfocused mind flickered with splintered thoughts and fractured logic. The more I tried to snap out of this mood the more I felt I was going to pieces, falling apart.

All in all, I felt rather fragile.

I think maybe I'll go to the pub tonight and get absolutely smashed.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Desert fare

2011-12-02T00:04:00.002Z

I watched them from the scrub line at the top of the desert ridge. The long black robes and pointed hats stood out sharply in silhouette as they danced around the high flames of the fire.

I watched as they discarded their clothes and continued to hop, pirouette, and gyrate around the flames. The pitch of their voices rising and falling, chanting.

I watched as the coven joined hands, completing the circle of sisterhood.

I watched as the circling ceased, and the coven stood and swayed, deep in entrancement.

Then I made my move.

I set off at a sprint, raising the axe high above my head as my feet pounded the soft sand.

The coven, alerted by the rapid footfalls sprang to motion and scattered in alarm, I splintered the skull of the nearest one, as I wrenched the axe free she fell face first onto the scorching fire. I immediately looked for a second target.

After several minutes of futilely chasing flitting shadows I gave up, I had lost the element of surprise, and these witches of the sand were nimble and agile. No matter, one would be enough.

Returning to the fire I dragged the by now well burnt body out of the flames. After leaving her to cool for several minutes I ripped one leg off and took a huge mouthful of meat from the thigh.

Delicious.

I had eaten witchmeat from just about everywhere at some time in my life.

Juicy casserole made from the sinuous tree witches who lived in the eastern forests. They were a bit tough, but made a succulent meal if cooked slowly on a low light, and with plenty of fresh vegetables.

The northern ice witches from the glacial slopes, roasted, then served covered in melted butter with side salad, followed by ice cream and syrup.

The west coast sea witches were a bit salty, and had to be marinated in sauce for a few days first, then mixed with plenty of peppers and spices and curried overnight, served with naan bread and hummus... Mmmmm!

But sitting by a roaring fire gazing up at the star-filled desert night sky, nothing hits the spot quite like a hot toasted sand witch.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

No malice

2011-11-25T00:01:00.001Z

There is no malice in their actions, I have to believe that.

The pain was almost unbearable when they took the samples, when they cut, when they removed tissue, when they opened, when they probed, when they bored.

I have to believe that their thirst for knowledge is benign, that my pain is given to provide answers that will benefit mankind, that will help them to help mankind.

There has to be a reason for them being here, for me being here, for my suffering.

They use no anaesthetics, no numbing agent, no painkiller. Maybe pain is a concept as alien to them as I am.

Maybe their anaesthetics would harm me, or maybe they look upon me as a lower life form that doesn't merit compassion or consideration.

Yet still, I have to believe that there is no malice in their actions... I have to believe that.

The alternative is unthinkable.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Archie and the horse

2011-11-18T00:02:00.003Z

The cart creaked and groaned as it trundled along the rutted track. The horse, a large black and white, skittered nervously, held in check on a tight rein. Aboard the cart Archie Lees, his wife, and their two small children jolted uncomfortably amongst the paltry pile of their possessions.

From the crest of the nearby hill a large band of heavily armed brigands watched the horse and cart approach the city gates. The same gates that had kept them separated from the spoils they had hungered after for so long.

As Archie pulled the horse to a standstill at the massive steel gates a small grille slid aside to reveal a pair of sharp eyes.

“What business do you have here?”

“We used to have a farm over in the valley.” Replied Archie. “The brigands stole just about everything we had, then burnt it to the ground. I brought my family here hoping to find sanctuary, and hopefully employment.”

“What skills do you have that the city can use?”

“I have a strong back, and a willing mind, I will be of use to someone.”

The grille slid shut with a loud clunk, and with the sound of powered pistons the massive gates cycled slowly sideways to reveal several soldiers armed with swords and crossbows.

“Bring your cart in here.”

Archie climbed down, grabbed the horse's bridle, and led it into the area between the inner and outer gates.

Two soldiers searched Archie, his family, and the cart for weapons whilst the others watched alertly. When nothing of danger was discovered the mood relaxed slightly.

The horse tossed its head nervously.

“Your horse seems a bit skittish, I hope he ain't going to run amok through the streets.”

“Don't worry, he'll be calm soon enough. He's a good horse, got real fire in his belly he has. Archie rubbed the muzzle. “It's okay Troy, be still, be still.”

The truth of the horse's unease was probably due to stomach ache. He hadn't wanted what was offered to him for breakfast today, he'd had to be force fed a special meal for the day ahead.

The soldier threw a lever, and the massive steel gates cycled closed behind the cart. As another soldier reached for the lever to cycle the inner gates Archie pressed the stud hidden in Troy's bridle.

Deep inside the horse's belly there was a minute blue spark as the contact was made.

The horse and cart, Archie, his wife and family, several soldiers, and both the inner and outer gates all disappeared in a white hot ball of vapour.

At the top of the hill the brigand leader vowed silently to himself that today's sacrifice would never be forgotten. Archie had given everything he owned for the cause. Having his family on the cart was the only way to give credibility to his story, and to gain them passage through the gate.

He raised his lance... The signal to attack.

A motley selection of powered vehicles built from parts scavenged from the contaminated land raced down the hill towards the city. On board, the brigands whooped their war cries. The weak soldiers and the soft inhabitants would soon be overrun. Archie's sacrifice had given them the city.

* * * * *

The gates have long since been replaced. Over the years the brigands and the captured inhabitants gradually integrated, until there was just a city again, just like before.

* * * * *

A group of five year old children attending their first day at school were gathered around a statue in the centre of the main square. The impressive marble sculpture of a horse and cart and four occupants, stood atop a plinth that bore the legend...

SO WE ALWAYS REMEMBER

As soon as they were old enough to understand, every child in the city was told the legendary story of Archie Lees and Troy the horse.

* * * * *

From the crest of the nearby hill, a large band of heavily armed band of brigands stared down at the city, at its high unclimbable walls and massive steel gates. They watched, and waited, and plotted.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Food for thought

2011-11-11T00:02:00.001Z

When the cell door slammed open the human captives scrabbled in panic. Clawing over one another, fighting to get as far away from the door as possible, trying to avoid being the chosen one. The two aliens separated Simpson from the tangle of thrashing limbs and bodies, they threw him face down on the floor, grabbed a leg each, and dragged him out of the cell, slamming the door shut behind them.

Back inside the cell, the men and women cowered, whimpering, terrified. None of them knew what became of the chosen ones, only that they never returned.

Simpson struggled and screamed as he was dragged along a series of corridors. His face, hands and arms losing shreds of skin as he was scraped along the coarse metal floor. Fingernails splitting and cracking as he fought for purchase. His teeth chipping and breaking during the descent of a steep stairwell.

Eventually they entered a large room, the floor of which sloped gently down to a gaping square hole. The creatures ripped the clothing from his body, unmindful of breaking a few bones in the process, then unceremoniously threw Simpson into the hole. His smashed and bleeding nose had just enough time to register the sickly smell of rotting flesh before he landed on the spinning blades below.

Simpson continued his journey, now in the shape of thick strings of viscous mincemeat he dripped onto a second set of finer, sharper blades, then through a series of crushers, pulpers and rollers, along a conveyor where a liquid bio-electron accelerator was added, and finally through a multi-bladed blender. Simpson ended his journey as a smooth pink liquid at the bottom of a huge vat.

Several minutes later the bio-accelerator activated, and the electrons twitched into life. Minute blue sparks of electricity began to arc across surface of the pink slush, multiplying rapidly until the vat shimmered with light.

Fine wires carried the power from the vat, through the ship, and up to the bridge, where Simpson's two former escorts now stood, awaiting their commander's attention. The commander stood before a gigantic brain contained within a plastiglass dome, off to either side the walls were a mass of blank screens.

The commander watched impatiently. Eventually a small shudder ran through the brain's exterior, causing it to shiver like a shaken jelly. The screens began to flicker, and one by one lit up and started scrolling streams of data. A barely perceptible vibration ran through the ship as the massive Plasmin engines fired into life.

The commander turned to face the two crewmen, a look of deep displeasure on his face.

“If we are ever left drifting, powerless and defenceless again because you two morons forgot to feed the computer, I will personally throw both of you down the chute myself. Got it? At the end of your shift get yourselves suited and booted, for the next six weeks your leisure time will be replaced by hull scrubbing punishment. Now get out of my sight”

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

A beer for Joe

2011-11-04T00:01:00.001Z

Me an' Joe've been neighbours for over fifty years now. We watched each others families grow an' leave home to start their own. Through the years we spent some good amount of time enjoyin' each other's company, yup, we sure did. We helped each other through the grievin' when our good ladies passed on. I can't remember a time when we weren't there for each other. I guess it would be right to say we loved each other in a way.

Up until the argument, that is.

We ain't spoke a word to each other in nigh on seven years now, I can't even remember what the argument was over no more.

And here we are, two stupid stubborn old fools ignorin' each other over the fence.

Today I was gonna change all that.

Joe was sittin' on his stoop rockin' in his chair when I called from the gate.

“Joe?... D'ya mind if I come in?”

“Nope.”

Well, at least it was a start, I got an answer. I walked the length of the path and settled my old bones into the rocker next to his.

“How ya doin?” I asked him, hopin' to melt the ice a little further.

He just carried on rockin', starin' straight ahead, his mouth a straight line. Just lettin' me know he wasn't gonna be no pushover. I had made the first move, it was up to me to apologise.

“I brung some beers.” I said. “Would ya like one?”

“Nope.”

I pulled a bottle from the pack, twisted the cap off and took a slug.

“Hmmm, that hit the spot.” I wiped the froth from my mouth in an exaggerated movement. “Good beer, are ya sure ya don't want one?”

“Yup.”

“Beautiful day.” I ventured.

“Look Sam, if ya came roun' here to apologise, then say your piece.”

“Now look here....” I nearly rose like a baited trout, all fired up an' ready to shout my indignation, but managed to catch myself as I remembered what I came for.

“I didn't come to offer no apology, but ya can have one anyways... Joe, I truly am sorry for whatever it was that I done, or said. And I truly am sorry for all the years when we weren't friends no more.”

“Apology accepted. I guess I'll be havin' that beer now.”

I passed Joe a bottle over, he took it, his hand shakin' a little as he twisted the cap. Joe took a long slug then mopped the sweat from his brow with his shirt cuff.

“Yup, sure is a beautiful day.” He said. “If ya didn't come to apologise, an' don't get me wrong, I'm glad that ya did, what did bring ya roun' here?”

“I came to say goodbye.”

The words hung in the air, like dust after a shell-burst.

Joe rocked in his chair a while.

“Ya goin' somewhere?”

“I guess ya could say that, I have the C.”

Joe continued starin' straight ahead, still rockin'. When he finally spoke his voice didn't sound quite as strong.

“How long?”

“Hard to say exactly, maybe a few weeks, but more likely a few days.”

Joe took another long pull from his bottle, then wiped the sweat from his brow again. He tried, he really did try not to let me see as he caught the tear from the corner of his eye along the way.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

She loves me, she loves me not.

2011-10-28T00:02:00.003+01:00

He loved Halloween, one of his most favourite times of the year. A time of mysticism, of imagination, and possibly of... romance?

His expression alternated from one of pleasure to displeasure and back again as the fantasies scrolled through his mind. Like a switch flicking back and forth.

Pluck... She loves me... He let it fall to the floor, thoughts of heated lovemaking filled his mind.

Pluck... She loves me not... He let it fall, bitter argumentative words echoed in his head.

Pluck... She loves me... Warm kisses before he left for work each morning.

Pluck... She loves me not... Whispering to her friends, and laughing behind her hand.

Pluck... She loves me... A beautiful romantic candlelit meal.

Pluck... She loves me not... Withering looks when he ventured an opinion.

Pluck... She loves me... Holding hands on the back row at the cinema.

Pluck... She loves me not... Not taking his side in an argument.

Pluck... She loves me... Arm in arm strolls along a golden beach.

Pluck... She loves me not... Sarcastic comments about his manhood.

Pluck... She loves me... Running her fingers playfully through his hair.

Pluck... She loves me not... Lying about the price of those shoes.

Pluck... She loves me... Letting him have the last Rolo in the tube.

Pluck... She loves me not... Talking through his favourite movie.

Pluck... She loves me... Foregoing her TV soaps so he could watch the football match.

Pluck... She loves me not... Ridiculing his model car collection.

She'd had a full set of top teeth. Now, he knows that she doesn't have a full bottom set because he can see some gaps in there.

He flexed his aching fingers a few times causing the pliers to clickety-click-click.

He glanced down at the sixteen red and white lumps on the floor, then turned back to face her...

“Okay lady, let's find out shall we?”

Pluck....She loves me.....

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Hi everyone, and thank you for reading. This one was grisly even by my own standards, but I thought I would try to top the gross-ometer reading that I got LAST Halloween.

If anyone who missed that one is up for another grisle-fest, you can find it here:- Pumpkinhead

Happy Halloween everyone. Bwuhahahahahahah... BwuhahahaHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Where spiders dare

2011-10-21T00:02:00.003+01:00

Four fingers...

The view was magnificent from this angle. The river at the base of the cliff a meandering cotton thread sewn through the lush foliage.

Three fingers...

The passing eagle eyed me curiously, possibly wondering if this strange interloper was a threat to its nearby children.

Two fingers...

Yes, “V” for victory, or “V” for screw you. I have lived my life without fear, without limits, without a voice telling me what I couldn't do.

One finger...

The middle... the strongest, held for much longer than I expected. As it weakened and lost its hold on the tiny ledge the thought in my mind as I fell was the probable headlines...

“Casey Burbridge the world famous freestyle rock climber, known by many as The Human Spider, dies in 2,000 ft fall....”

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Zigourney. (A Zombie's tale Part 3)

2011-10-13T19:36:00.002+01:00

Hi everyone, this is the third, and final instalment of “A Zombie's tale.” Anyone wishing to catch up on the earlier instalments can find them here:-

A Zombie's tale. (Part 1)
Zurvivor. (A Zombie's tale Part 2)

Thank you for reading.
Steve Green.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Zigourney. (A Zombie's tale Part 3)

Seventeen days later...

I went through what had come to be my morning ritual, removing the bullet from the revolver, I cleaned it, carefully replaced it, then ran the chamber across the palm of my hand setting it spinning. I closed my eyes, and when the chamber finally stopped turning I drew the hammer back with my thumb, placed the barrel in my mouth, and squeezed the trigger...

CLICK !

I guess fate doesn't want me to die today.

As I placed the revolver back onto the packing crate there came a thud from the door at the top of the stairs...

“Ah Jeez... ” It had been eleven days since there'd been any noises at the door, and I was trying to pluck up the courage to take a look outside. Courage was in short supply down here, my time in the dungeon had done something to me, taken something from me, maybe I would never find the courage to leave.

THUD!

My shredded nerves got the better of me. I screamed obscenities at the stairwell, too far gone to care any more.

THUD... THUD... THUD... THUD... THUD... THUD...THUD... THUD... THUD...

Panic started setting in, would this nightmare never end? Something snapped inside me, yes... yes.. the nightmare would end, it would end right now. I grabbed the gun and raced up the stairs...

Somewhere deep inside my terror-stricken brain I realized there were other noises mixed in with the thuds, smaller noises, muffled, almost drowned out by the banging...

I reached the door and pressed my ear against the wood, listening carefully...

THUD... THUD... THUD... “Hey, hey, is someone down there?” THUD... THUD... THUD...

A voice, a human voice, almost lost on its journey through the heavy door.

THUD... THUD...THUD... “Hey... open the door... ” THUD... THUD... THUD...

I almost wept with relief, taking a firm hold of the heavy bolt I slid it aside, the door slowly opened towards me...

Framed in the doorway was a young woman, probably in her twenties, she was filthy, streaked with blood and grime, her clothes ripped and scuffed, held loosely in her hand, and caked with dried blood and globs of gristle was the biggest, meanest-looking cleaver I have ever seen.

“Hi,” she said, a wide grin spreading across her face, “do you err... have anything to eat down there? I'm starving.”

* * * * *

Over the next hour or so, and between mouthfuls of tinned fish and fruit, she told me how she had survived the slaughter. How she had grabbed a bag of supplies, and made it up to one of the tower rooms. The zombies, unable to climb the ladder had eventually wandered off in pursuit of another resident who had stumbled past the doorway.

Several days later the sound of a heavy engine caused her to look from the window. Some of the survivors were making a run for it. One of the castle's tourist coaches was idling in the yard and several survivors were feverishly unblocking the main gate, whilst others fought bravely to keep the zombies at bay.

The gate unblocked and opened, the ones still left alive boarded the coach, which then drove off through the gate, accelerating all the time, and in a shower of splintering bones and spraying body fluids punched its way through the horde of living dead in the castle's outer grounds. The mass of inhumanity followed the fleeing vehicle, joined by the ones that had chased the residents from the castle's interior.

She had watched with horror as the coach ran off the road and into a tree about half a mile from the castle. Soon the area was a mass of writhing creatures trying to climb over each other to get at the meal now available to them.

Eventually, the feast over, the zombies had walked off in the direction of the city ruins, perhaps drawn by the sounds of moans from other living dead.

A few days later, her food gone, she had been forced to leave her hideout and scavenge the castle for supplies. Wandering through the body-strewn rooms and corridors she had encountered only a few of the living dead, usually trapped behind closed doors, she had then taken great delight in introducing them to her razor-sharp friend, which just now lay on the floor close beside her.

* * * * *

“I have a plan,” She said, “We'll re-seal the gate, then work our way through the castle room by room, drag all the bodies outside and burn them. We can survive here for years, I don't know if there is anyone else left alive or not, but I'm for staying put.”

I looked at this draggle-haired, dirt-encrusted, gore-splattered, post-apocalyptic angel before me...

She was awesome... Beautiful...

“It sounds like a good plan.” I said, my voice quivering slightly. “I don't know if names mean anything any more, but for what it's worth, my name's Adam.”

“Pleased to meet you Adam.” She smiled, that broad confident grin that had greeted me when I had opened the door.

“My name is Zigourney, yeah... I know... it was my dad's idea, I think he was a bit of a closet chav, but I prefer to go by my middle name, which was also my mother's name, it's Evelyn, in the old world my friends just used to call me Eve.”

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

- - - - - - - - - -

A Zombie's tale. (Part 1)
Zurvivor. (A Zombie's tale Part 2)

Alley fight

2011-10-07T20:07:00.001+01:00

As I approached them the sultry-looking guy in the centre of the group gave an almost imperceptible flick of his head, a signal to the other four, who detached themselves from the alley wall and slowly positioned themselves around me until I was surrounded.

They kept their distance for now, waiting for the word to attack.
Each of them tall and well-muscled, their arms hanging loose, hands relaxed by their sides, smiles of supreme confidence on their faces as they eagerly anticipated what was to come.

I glanced across at their boss, as our eyes locked his mouth twisted into a sneer of contempt.
With a click of his tongue and another twitch of his head the others started closing in.

Taking two rapid steps towards the one directly in front of me, I deflected the punch aimed at my face, grabbing the wrist and pulling at the same time, dragging him forward even faster, off balance now. Twisting my body, I planted my elbow solidly into his temple, then pushed hard as he fell, throwing him at the feet of the one to my right, tripping him, slowing him down.

The first guy hit the floor hard, he didn't get back up.

I spun round, fast, my right leg lashing out, sweeping the one on the left off his feet, continuing the spin I circled the leg into the air, and brought it down savagely onto his head as it hit the ground.

Less than than a minute gone... Two down.

Both of the others took on a more cautious stance now, I backed up a few paces, giving myself more space away from the bodies on the ground, and at the same time putting the other two within my line of sight.

The one slightly to my left aimed a very hard front kick at my solar plexus.
Too slow amigo...

Grabbing the outstretched foot I continued it along its momentum arc, and pushed it higher into the air, then planted a solid kick straight into his groin. Stepping forward a pace I thrust a strong palm strike into his chin, and pushed the foot back at the same time.

He staggered backwards, hit the alley wall hard, slumped to the ground, and stayed there.

I heard the unmistakable sound of a switch-blade opening as I turned to face the last man standing.

He closed in slowly...

Holding the knife at arms length in front of him...

I stayed where I was, waiting, let him come to me...

I readied myself, hands held loose and relaxed at chest height...

He came in fast, Rapidly feinted left, then right, then left again...

As he thrust the blade forward I brushed it to my right, then went straight into his knee with the heel of my shoe, as he started going down I grabbed him, twisted him round then threw my arm around his neck from behind, holding him in a vice-like headlock, and squeezed....

His struggles soon weakened and in less than a minute I let him slump to the alley floor.

I turned to face the boss.

He gave me a wide, confident smile as he pulled the .45 from inside his jacket.

He stepped away from the wall as he raised the gun.

I made a dash towards him, I was still several feet short when the gun bucked in his hand.

“CUT!.... CUT!...

How many times do I have to TELL you? Wait until he GRABS the gun before you pull the trigger, JEEZ, we're gonna have just ONE more go at this, if you screw it up again you're off the set, I don't give a rat's ass HOW big a star you are, you're HISTORY, GOT it?”

As we all returned to our start positions I went through the routine in my head once more, the “Star” leant back against the wall, the brooding good lucks that had been his passport to stardom now seemed a trifle too sulky for a twenty four year old to be sporting.

The electronic clapper-board bore the legend, 'Alley fight scene Take 57'.

“Okay, from the top, LIGHTS... CAMERA... ACTION...”

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

The best thing I can do

2011-09-29T23:43:00.004+01:00

“It really is scary... y'know... the way things are goin'?” He said, his voice rising slightly on the last word, more a question than a statement.

I looked across the table at Tom, it was seven thirty in the morning, the first coffee of the day had barely started buzzing my brain, I had to be at work in an hour, I didn't want to listen about the world's problems.

“I'm not scared.” I said to him, “I have too much crap on my own plate to think about, unpaid bills crap, work crap, busted car crap, ex-wife crap, and oh yeah, more unpaid bills crap.”

“But just look at the situation,” He persisted, “most of Europe is paralysed with riots, unemployment is the highest it's ever been, there's massive military build-up on the India-Pakistan border, there was a facebook leak that Israel have gone to red alert, the new Iranian government has thrown out the UN inspectors, the Chinese and American economies are both on the brink of bankruptcy. I think we're heading towards total global meltdown.”

I propped my elbows on the table, let my face fall into my hands and let loose a long heartfelt sigh, after a few seconds I stood and walked out of the back door and up to the shed, opened the door and started pulling things out.

Tom walked up and stood beside me, a bemused look on his face. “What're you doin'?” He said.

“Given the circumstances,” I replied, “I'm doing the best thing I can do.”

“What's that? Getting the spade to start diggin' a shelter?”

I found the item I was looking for. “ No,” I said, dragging the rod out. “I'm going fishing.”

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Author's note:-
Hi everyone, I'm going away for a couple of days, yup, you guessed it, I'm going fishing, so I'll be catching up with the reading and commenting sometime on Sunday. Have a great weekend, and thank you for reading.

Steve Green.

Beartrap

2011-09-23T00:03:00.000+01:00

The shock had set in now, and was doing a good job of numbing the pain, the first thoughts in his mind when the teeth snapped onto his ankle weren't of pain or fear, but to roundly curse his own stupid clumsiness for stepping into his own beartrap.

If he could get the damn thing off, or pull the stake from the ground he'd be able to make it back to the house and use the phone. No go. No amount of pushing or pulling achieved either, he just didn't have the strength left.

For several nights the creature had visited his farm, tearing his stock to pieces, he hadn't managed to spot the cursed thing yet, but there was no mistaking the snarling bark that echoed around the nearby woods throughout the dark hours.

At first he thought it must be a cougar or wolf, but the tracks had told the story of a beast that walked on two legs not four, and no animal he had ever known would tear the animals limb from limb like that.

He tore a ribbon of cloth from his shirt and fashioned a tourniquet tightly around his leg a few inches above the steel, then considered his next move.

His rifle was propped against a nearby tree trunk, so close and yet unreachable, rendering it useless as either a means of defence or signal.

Shouting and screaming had brought no-one, his farm was far from anywhere, and people coming this way were few and far between.

He was still there when the sun went down, as the daylight began to fade, and dusk started to creep over the woods he heard it.....

The first snarl came from a long way off, probably from partway up the mountainside, he listened in abject terror as the sound echoed around the hills.

The second time he heard it he was pretty sure it came from the foothills at the base of the mountain, panic started setting in....

He eyed the strip of white skin between the steel and cloth....

The snarl came again, louder... closer...

All reasoning lost now, he pulled the large, razor-sharp hunting knife from its sheath and began hacking feverishly at his leg....

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Zurvivor (A Zombie's tale Part 2)

2011-09-16T00:01:00.006+01:00

Author's note :-
Hi everyone, this week is my first anniversary of posting on #fridayflash, a year in which I have had so much enjoyment being part of the #fridayflash community. The reading, writing, posting and receiving comments, and of course the banter. Thank you to everyone for visiting, and taking the time to check out my stories over the past year.

My debut story on #fridayflash was posted on 17th of September 2010, and was entitled “A Zombie's tale” And so to mark the milestone I decided to write “Zurvivor (A Zombie's tale Part 2)"

Anyone wishing to read the first part of the story can find it here :-

A Zombie's tale. (Part 1)

Thank you for reading.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Zurvivor. (A Zombie's tale Part 2)

I didn't feel any guilt at deciding to save my own skin, I mean, no-one else was going to do it for me were they?

I had done my share of the fighting, pretty much a losing battle from the start. We never really got on top of the situation. Always retreating, room by room, corridor by corridor, our numbers dwindling as the enemies' grew.

When it first started we were taken by surprise, many of the castle's residents had been partying the night before, and by the time they had half-awoken in their hangover fug it had already been too late for them, and so even before any sort of defence could be initiated the zombies' numbers had already risen rapidly, as they continued to do so over the first few hours.

Six days later... and what small groups of humans were left were holed up in various rooms scattered around the castle, barricaded in, mostly with very little food or water, very little if any ammunition left, very little hope left too for that matter.

The zombie horde shambling around the corridors, or battering at the barricades must number well over three hundred by now. Pretty much a grim situation.

Four of us had fought our retreat down a stone stairway, pushed backwards by the sheer weight of numbers. By the time I reached the heavy door at the bottom I was the only one left, the only one that could be classed as human anyway.

I slammed the door shut behind me and slid the thick steel bolt into place, then continued down another flight of steps into what I discovered to be a sprawling dungeon converted into several storerooms.

It would seem fortune smiled on me this day, or smirked on me maybe, time would tell.

Investigating my surroundings I discovered crates of tinned meat and fish, bottled water and cola, dried fruit, cartons of crisps, enough to feed me for months.

Further investigation turned up a veritable treasure trove of useful items. Blankets, candles, cutlery, just about everything I would need to sit out a long siege. But unfortunately, no weapons or ammunition.

Bumps and thuds came from the top of the stairs, no worry, that door would hold.

I sat on a crate of tinned fruit, and reviewed the events of the past few days.

No-one knew for sure how the zombies had got into the castle, the walls were too high for them to scale, and the massive doors were still intact and braced.

I heard a rumour that the teenager and his parents who lived over at the east wing were the first victims, and that it had spread from there.

That kid was one weird piece of work, he had a way of looking at you, with a strange smile on his face, as though he knew something that you didn't, and he was smug enough to want to blurt it out but smart enough not to. I wouldn't even be surprised if he had let the virus in on purpose as some kind of psychotic joke.

The only thing I could do now was wait, eventually the zombies currently clawing at the dungeon door may die of starvation, although I didn't hold out much hope for that, or they may be distracted by other survivors, or wander off in search of easier prey.

There was only one way out of here, and that was back up the steps and through the door I came in. I was well supplied, and had nothing but time on my hands...

So I guess I'll just wait...

I removed the revolver from my waistband and checked the load, I was surprised to discover there was still one live round left...

I was wrong, there were two ways out of here.

- - - - - - - - - -

A Zombie's tale. (Part 1)
Zigourney. (A Zombie's tale Part 3)

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

An unimaginable thing

2011-09-09T00:02:00.003+01:00

My question is this...

If someone offered you an unlimited amount of money...

To do an unimaginable thing...

Would you do it?

When the question was asked of me I was unemployed, I was deeply in debt, I was living alone, I had no immediate family, I had no close friends, I owned very little in the way of material things. No-one cared for me, and in return, I cared for no-one.

What could possibly be asked of me that would hurt anyone or anything that I cared about?

So I accepted.

As I sit here sipping champagne on the foredeck of my yacht, with a warm mediterranean breeze gently tousling my hair, I cast my mind back over events of the last two years.
The exotic places I have visited, the exciting things I have done, the rich and famous people I have met, the sheer amount of money I have spent.

I look around at the luxurious trappings that surround me, at the beautiful vista, at the clear blue sunlit sky...

And once again, like a lightning strike, the guilt and shame punches into me...

The absolute horror of what I have done hits me again and again and again, like hammer blows.

The champagne leaves a bitter, sour taste on my tongue, the riches and possessions have brought no pleasure to my life, no happiness, no satisfaction.

All I have seen... all I have done... all seem a worthless waste.

The truth of the words “When you sup with the devil, use a long spoon.” Haunts my thoughts.

There has not been one single solitary day over those two years when I haven't wished that I could turn back the clock to the time before I said yes.

So, my question is this...

If someone offered you an unlimited amount of money...

To do an unimaginable thing...

Would you do it?

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Addictions

2011-09-02T00:02:00.001+01:00

My drinking and other vices were becoming increasingly expensive, and my meagre unemployment benefit just didn't stretch to pay for them, so like any self-respecting person, I looked for a way to generate a second income to keep my pleasures supplied.

A career in burglary suited me right down to the ground. The hours were minimal, the pay was usually good, and there was no overheads and no nagging bosses on my case.

One afternoon I broke into what I thought would be an unoccupied premises, as I prowled from room to room I came across a partly open door, and could hear slight movements coming from within, I turned to sneak away but some kind of irresistible force seemed to grip me and draw me involuntarily to the doorway.

I took a peek inside and saw a semicircle of chairs, most of them occupied, by men and women of varying ages.

Seemingly from nowhere a hand gently grasped my arm and ushered me inside, the owner of the hand was a stunningly beautiful redhead, with the strangest brown eyes I have ever seen, I swear I could see flames dancing in them.

“Sit down, sit down, we'll be starting in just a few moments.”

Her voice was rich, and sweet-sounding, images of drizzling honey filled my thoughts.

I sat down nervously, hoping to sneak out after whatever was about to start, had started.

A minute or two later a fat, balding man, with a bright red nose stood up...

“My name is Tom, and I am an alcoholic........”

“Oh dung in a bucket, this is all I need.” I thought, and stood to leave.

“Please... sit down,” said the redhead, “you're among friends here.”

Images of sweet, sweet honey drizzled into my brain again.

“No...” I stammered, “I really don't belong here.”

The honey began to crystallize, to harden... to splinter and crack...

“Oh, I think you do.” She said, and her fiery stare burned into the depths of my soul. “NOW.... SIT.... DOWN.”

And that my friends, is the story of how I took the first step on the road to becoming teetotal.

How I got off the heroin, the cigarettes, and the solvent abuse?

Well, that's for another day.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

47 Days

2011-08-26T00:02:00.002+01:00

I stepped through the doorway into a white corridor which stretched off into the distance.

I glanced backward over my shoulder and watched the door quietly close behind me, the door too was white, and handle-less.

I didn't spare a thought as to why I was here, I knew that the answers would be revealed when the time was right.

I began to walk.

The corridor never varied. Walls, floor and ceiling a uniform shade of white that stopped just short of being a glare.

I didn't worry that the temperature never altered, despite my nakedness I felt neither warm nor cold. The floor was the same temperature as my bare feet, which gave the sensation of walking on nothing. When I touched the walls there was no texture, only more of the sameness.

One Elephant... Two Elephant... Three Elephant...

My internal clock counted the seconds, the minutes, the hours and days.

Just keep walking.

I didn't think about the strangeness of not feeling the urge to eat, or drink, or sleep, or defecate, or urinate.

Just keep walking.

One Elephant... Two Elephant... Three Elephant...

Although I didn't pass anyone else in the corridor, I never felt any sense of loneliness, or isolation.

Just keep walking.

Twenty three days, eleven hours, sixteen minutes, four seconds...

One Elephant... Two Elephant... Three Elephant...

Just keep walking.

Forty seven days, three minutes, seven seconds...

A large signpost stood in the corridor, effectively blocking my way, peering through the narrow gap at the side I could see the corridor stretching away into the distance exactly the same as before.

I stood looking at the signpost, feeling calm, somewhat detached. I just knew that whatever happened, if anything happened, it would be the right thing.

A shadow appeared on the smooth, white surface of the signpost.

The shadow darkened, solidified, became readable, the words said simply...

“GO BACK”

I turned around in the corridor to face the direction I had come from, and there, just a few paces away was the white, handle-less door, the door stood ajar revealing a bright light on the other side.

I stepped through the doorway into a blurred kaleidoscope of moving colours, and the sounds of faraway voices, and a cacophony of bleeps, beeps, pings and burbles.

A bright moving light shone into my right eye, moved to my left eye...

“Just relax, just relax, you're gonna be okay, you're gonna make it...”

The voice seemed to come from the moving blur hovering over me... which slowly, slowly began to resemble a face.

Over the next few days I learnt about the accident, and all the other details.

The doctor said it was some kind of miracle.

“You were forty seven days in a coma, total body shutdown, permission had been given to turn off the Life Support Unit. I actually had my hand on the switch ready to pull the plug...

And you opened your eyes.”

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Neighbours

2011-08-19T00:01:00.000+01:00

I live in a very quiet cul-de-sac.

My elderly next door neighbour was very sweet.

The middle-aged couple on the other side were bitter.

George and Maria at number 22 were rich.

Frederick at number 16 was a sour old git.

Janice Almondey-Smythe at number 11 was a lady of great taste.

In contrast the Belmonts at number 9 were very tasteless people.

The big bully and his overbearing wife at number 23 were tough.

The young man who resided at number 4 was a very tender person.

Robert and Glynis from number 12 were like chalk and cheese.

The big-bosomed wife at number 8 was a real dish.

Whilst I found her compulsive liar of a husband a bit hard to swallow.

Eighty-odd year old Peterson from number 17 was a crabby old bugger.

I didn't like the widow from number 13 at all, but her son was quite nice.

A new girl has just moved into number 27, I can't wait to get my teeth into her and find out if she's as tasty as she looks.

Mwuhahahahahahaha.... MWUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

P.S. I'm going away for a couple of days so I'll be a bit late catching up with reading and replying this week. Have a great weekend everyone.

Steve.

A waste of pain

2011-08-12T00:01:00.001+01:00

Jack had been strapped to the table for almost three days now, the exquisite pain and suffering he had endured were almost over, he would be dead soon, his body had had enough, his mind and will had had enough. Throughout the agony he hadn't spoken a single word, hadn't given his torturers one single shred of information.

They had snatched him from outside the government building where he worked.

A chemical sprayed into his eyes, handcuffed, and thrown into a van, it had happened so unbelievably quickly.

The constant questions were of a military nature, where were the silos? What was the stand off capability? How many troops? Where were the heads of command situated?

Jack had all the answers, and he would have given them to stop the pain, he worked on the computers and had access to the information they sought, and they knew this.

What they didn't know was that Jack had been a deaf mute from birth, and although he could lip-read perfectly, the unwise choice of chemical spray his abductors had used had burned deep into Jack's pupils, the poor man never regained his sight.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Off the boil

2011-08-05T00:01:00.001+01:00

Lance hadn't been able to sit down for over a week now, in fact he had been able to do hardly anything, the rather large, and extremely painful boil on his right buttock was ruining his life. He could manage to sit by perching his left buttock on the seat, but the pain caused by the skin being taut meant that even this position couldn't be held for very long, so he had taken to standing to do just about everything, the cream that the doctor had prescribed may just as well have been rubbed onto the carpet for all the effect it had on the boil.

He had to sleep on his stomach, without covers, but was awoken screaming several times each night as he rolled over in his sleep. The touch of any fabric against the offending, fist-sized lump was agonising, so Lance had to cut a hole in his only pair of jeans just so he didn't have to walk about semi-naked all the time, which he didn't mind so much, but he couldn't afford the extra heating costs.

The constant pain, and the sheer exhaustion caused by being on his feet all day, combined with the lack of sleep, were beginning to take their toll, and poor Lance was becoming run down and depressed.

Thoughts of suicide were trickling through Lance's mind as he stepped out of the shower, straight onto a patch of previously spilt shower gel, both legs flew high into the air, and he landed heavily on his backside, the pitch of his scream almost hit ultrasonic as the boil splattered an impressive amount of blood and pus in every direction across the tiled floor.

A few minutes later the pain had dulled to a bearable level, and Lance whistled cheerfully to himself as he stepped back into the shower, and began to wash the red and yellow goo from his freshly de-boiled bum, thinking to himself that falling on your arse wasn't always a bad thing.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Dust (Part 2)

2011-07-29T00:02:00.007+01:00

Swarm commander Zerki felt a warm glow of satisfaction as he surveyed his attack force, the billions of craft were a magnificent and awesome sight as they flooded towards the major dwelling area.

This was to be the first strike, a test of strategy. He was confident of success, and once the tactics were proven the main force would land and the rest of the planet would quickly fall in the same way.

These were by far the physically largest dominant species they had encountered in their sweep across the galaxy, and stealth rather than fire-power would win this immense, mineral-rich world for them. The massive supplies of natural resources the planet held would feed and supply the swarms for millennia.

The planners had calculated the population of the dwelling area to be in the region of one point three million, his strike-force outnumbered them by over a thousand to one, it needed only one of his brave warriors to guide his craft into a body orifice and release the neurotoxin and the enemy's central nervous system would shut down completely in a matter of seconds.

Panic and confusion would be in their favour too, their smaller size would work to their advantage, the enemy would have great difficulty fighting back against a foe that was virtually invisible to them.

Commander Zerki had commanded many attack swarms on many planets, always finding and exploiting the enemy's weakness, victorious in every invasion.

He watched with pride as the swarm began to disperse and the individual strike teams peeled off to begin the hunt.

Before long total chaos consumed the city, people were dropping by the thousand, car and lorry drivers collapsed at the wheels of moving vehicles adding to the general carnage and mayhem. Injured and frightened people jammed the switchboards to no longer functioning emergency services. The word went out of a possible major terrorist attack, maybe chemical or viral - no one knew.

A few hours later Commander Zerki spearheaded his swarm towards the next major dwelling area, leaving behind just a few hundred thousand warriors to hunt down and exterminate the remaining survivors, and to purge the surrounding minor dwelling areas of the dominant species, his mission had been a total success. He punched the keys and sent the broadcast.

Hundreds of massive motherships hovering invisible above the planet Earth opened the vents in their cloaking shields, and began releasing the thousands of main battle-swarms.

Humankind was about to experience a dust-storm the likes of which it had never seen.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Dust (Part 1)

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Dust (Part 1)

2011-07-22T00:02:00.004+01:00

Doctor Simpson leaned back into the cushions of his garden chair and breathed out a long happy sigh of contentment, he picked up the iced lemonade from the table beside him and took a long, slow drink.

Buying the semi-rural house with its sprawling garden and views of the surrounding countryside had been an expensive venture, but moments like these made it all worthwhile. The small, but well- equipped laboratory he'd had built in the basement allowed him to do much of his work from home now, instead of facing the daily city rat-race. Work that recently had become more and more of the lucrative freelance type.

He placed his glass back on the table and savoured the sweet scent of the flowers, he glanced around appreciatively at the lush foliage, the vibrant colours. Birds chirruped and chirped from the trees, an occasional insect winged past, a few dust motes drifted lazily in the bright shafts of sunlight that streamed through the tree branches.

Doctor Simpson settled deeper into the chair and closed his eyes, smiling to himself, all was well with his world.

His eyes suddenly sprang open, and he sat bolt upright.

A feeling of deep unease flooded through him., as if some subconscious alarm bell had been triggered, as if something was not quite as it should be. The scientist in him tried to shrug off the feeling, he was a man of logic not superstition or irrational fear, but the feeling persisted, the feeling that something was not quite right.

Then it came to him, the dust motes, they swirled and moved in a way that dust motes shouldn't, they were moving against the breeze. He stood and went closer to them and watched the tiny specks for a few moments, they definitely seemed to be moving with purpose and uniformity.

He smiled at his silly fear, there was of course a rational explanation for this, thermal currents or such-like, but his curiosity was aroused, he went to the basement and returned a few minutes later carrying a sample flask and seal.

Capturing one of the motes proved difficult, it was illogical but the damn thing seemed to be trying to avoid the open flask top, eventually persistence paid off and he managed to get the flask around the speck, and place the seal. The tiny bit of dust remained unmoving, stationary in the centre of its transparent prison.

As he walked back to the house he noticed a strange low-lying cloud casting a dark shadow over the nearby hills, this too was drifting against the breeze, and heading directly towards the city.

He returned to the basement, and placed the flask beneath the powerful microscope lens and proceeded to zoom and focus on the dust mote.

A dozen clicks with the computer keyboard and the blurred image appeared on the two-metre wall screen, a few slight adjustments, the image solidified into crystal clarity.

Doctor Simpson stared at the screen, his logical brain refusing to accept the impossible insanity of what his eyes were telling it.

On the screen the minute craft and its uniformed crew of four were almost life-size. The intricate propulsion cones beneath the machine, and the bristling weaponry it carried were futuristic and alien in their detail.

One of the creatures stared through the window of the ship, and directly into the lens. The face that looked back at Doctor Simpson from the wall had a look of malevolently intelligent awareness in its eyes, and an expression of pure hatred.

And it was grinning.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Dust (Part 2)

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

As long as he needs me (Guest post)

2011-07-15T00:02:00.010+01:00

This week is the first anniversary of The Twisted Quill, and I am celebrating my Blogiversary by publishing a guest post from the lady who is in a way largely responsible for its creation.

The very first post on this blog “The birth of The Twisted Quill” explains how this came about, and how Nickie, a talented writer, and Author of the very successful blog “Typecast” played her part.

Nickie concentrates her talents mostly on blogging and various other avenues of writing, but does produce an occasional short story.

As I asked for her to guest post (unknowingly) just four hours before she was due to go on holiday, it gave her no time to write anything new, and so with her permission I chose this previously published story of hers.

Thank you for reading. Steve Green.

AS LONG AS HE NEEDS ME. A flash fiction By Nickie O'Hara.

I felt his finger trace my spine from top to bottom. If I'd have been able, I would have let out a sigh of pleasure. I know he only loved me for my inner knowledge and the stories I could tell but, when he wrapped his strong hands around me and gently picked me up, I knew that we would both be satisfied within a few minutes.

I didn't care that our interaction took such a short period of time; the reason I existed was to appease him. We always captured snatched moments together; one of us with a hint of doubt and embarrassment, the other eager to totally surrender.

He tenderly laid me on the table and expertly opened me up – exposed for all to see. With one finger, he gently stroked me in places that plenty of people had been before. There had been so many that all their faces blurred into one. Only he mattered now; he was the one who needed me.

He looked at me, fleetingly up and down. He murmured something under his breath and then as he released a guttural cry of exclamation, I knew he was finished with me. I didn't feel used this time; I knew he'd be back for more.

He straightened me up, ensuring that nothing was out of place. He lifted me once more, placed me back on the shelf between A-D and I-L and he walked away.

©2010 Nickie O'Hara

Author's note:-

Nickie is still on holiday, and so will be unable to respond to any comments for another week or so.

“As long as he needs me” was first published in August of last year on Nickie's blog “Typecast”.

http://www.iamtypecast.com/2010/08/as-long-as-he-needs-me.html

The Versatile Blogger Award

2011-07-11T22:29:00.004+01:00

The very kind lady Helen, who blogs at Helen-Scribbles has awarded me the Versatile Blogger Award, Helen, thank you so much.

Now, the rules are, I must write seven random facts about myself, and nominate other bloggers to receive the award.

I'm not sure which random facts will interest anyone, but these came to mind.

1) I love peace and quiet, and regularly watch the TV with the sound turned off
2) I love slaughtering things on my Xbox 360, currently I'm replaying Bioshock.
3) I eat lots of fruit, but never eat cherries.
4) I am absolutely NOT a morning person, and am really lucky because my working hours are 12.30 PM – 9.00 PM, and I absolutely luuurve those hours.
5) High on my list of pet hates are drivers who tailgate, and drivers who don't use their indicators.
6) My Ipod has 5,500 tunes on it, ranging from Bob Dylan, to modern pop, and one of my favourite all-time bands is Blondie.
7) The first car I ever owned was an Austin Allegro, and true to its nickname, it really was an All-Aggro. Possibly the worst tin-box of problems ever to be built.

Nominating other bloggers is much more difficult than one would think, because I enjoy reading many people's writing, and it is hard to choose one over another.

So I eventually settled on these three.

Stephen Hewitt at Cafe shorts, for the sheer eloquence and depth of his writing.

John Xero at Xeroverse 101 and at Missing Pieces, for his very deep and dark writing, even though I'm not always deep enough, or dark enough to understand it.

Tim VanSant at otoh because he regularly makes me smile with his razor-sharp wit.

Because I am such a techno-numpty, I don't know how to display the award on this post, so can you please copy it from my side bar, and post it to your own blog? Thanks guys.

Together

2011-07-08T13:22:00.001+01:00

I held her close to me, held her tight, nuzzled her neck and kissed her cheek.

“Don't be afraid.” I whispered into her ear. “I'm here, we're together where we belong, where we've always belonged.

The sounds of the rising panic drifted up from the streets eighteen storeys below, and through the open balcony windows.

The sounds of screaming, the occasional muffled thud of traffic accidents as people futilely tried to bulldoze their way to safety, overwhelmed by the all-encompassing desire to flee, to escape.

And above all, the endless, shrieking monotone of the sirens.

I held her even closer to me, breathing in the sweet scent of her.

My thoughts flashed backwards, then forwards, in leaps, bounds, and jerks.

We were born in the same hospital wing, just minutes apart. Our parents were next door neighbours, and the first time we consciously met was across two feet of space from pram to pram, eyeing each other with that wide-eyed curiosity that only infants seem to possess.

As children we were inseparable, playing together, laughing together, and sometimes even fighting together side by side, defending one another from the school bullies.

As we grew older our love hardened into something unbreakable, I recall that beautiful August afternoon when my parents were out, and we lost our virginity together, another treasured milestone in our inseparable lives.

And soon we would die together.

I gently took her hand and led her up the steps and out onto the roof.

We stood together hand in hand and stared up at the white trails of the outgoing missiles as they arced up and out into the night sky.

A few moments later the bright specks of the retaliatory inbound missiles appeared on the horizon.

We watched them come.

Without fear.

Together.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Punishment

2011-07-01T00:03:00.002+01:00

“You call this a punishment? A sentence? Ha! What joy I have had, what fun this exile has been.

This world is mine, my ball to play with.

These creatures have given me many names, and I love every single one of them, Homicide, Matricide, Patricide, Fratricide, Infanticide... Genocide, my personal favourite.

As the whim takes me I send them war, slaughter and destruction.

I taste their suffering, savour it, gulp it down.

I have guided their hands and minds to the creation of their new weapons, and I shall guide them to turning the keys and entering the codes, and that done I shall hunt down the remnants and turn them one against the other, for this species deserves nothing less than total annihilation.”

“Yes, and when you have succeeded in emptying your world of playthings, then your sentence shall truly begin, an eternity of nothing, an immeasurable time of boredom, of inactivity.

That is to be your punishment.”

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

A piece of my mind

2011-06-23T23:56:00.005+01:00

I held eyeball to eyeball contact...

And said my piece.

“If you EVER park YOUR CAR outside of MY HOUSE again, you won't know what the HELL has HIT you.”

My forefinger stabbed forward repeatedly, emphasising my righteous indignation as I took the moral high ground.

“You BIG DUMB SCHMUCK! don't think I'm scared of YOU mate, I might be half your size, but I could take your lights out ANY day of the week, NO problem!

I am SICK to DEATH of having to park MY car at the other end of the STREET, just because YOU can't be ARSED to reverse YOUR piece of SCRAP back to where it SHOULD be parked., you LAZY, BONE idle, BALD-headed, POT-bellied, HUMPTY-backed, DOG-breathed, WRINKLE-faced, MAGGOT-todgered, BALL-LESS, SNIPE-nosed, KNOCK-kneed piece of CRUD.

If YOU parked YOUR rustbucket where it SHOULD be parked, I would be able to park MY car where IT should be parked, WOULDN'T I? But NO!, THAT would be too SIMPLE...WOULDN'T IT? Too EASY! Too much like using a bit of common bleedin' SENSE!.. WOULDN'T IT? NO! Because YOU have to act like the INCON-bleedin'-SIDERATE, BOULDER-bellied TOSSER that you ARE... I'VE got three buses and a TRAIN to catch before I get to MY car on a MORNING!

It would be really NICE if just for ONCE in my life I didn't need to YOMP across half the ESTATE to get to MY front DOOR When I get home from work! I mean, JEEZ! It would be nearly as quick to WALK home WOULDN'T it?

Are you GETTING all this? Is it sinking through your THICK-boned SKULL into that PATHETIC, LENTIL-sized, THREE-celled BRAIN of yours?

Now get your UGLY-mugged ARSE down them STEPS mister VERNON JARVIS, get into that clapped out, rattling box of SHRAPNEL that you call a CAR, and SHIFT IT!!!!”

There was a gentle knock on the front door...

I walked into the hallway and opened the door to find Vernon Jarvis from next door on the doorstep

“ Oh, hi mate” He said. “I've brought that DVD back that I borrowed last night. Thanks bud, much appreciated. Oh drat! I've parked the car a bit too far forward again haven't I? Must be the second time this month, sorry mate, I'll nip down and move it back a couple of feet.”

“No, don't bother Vern” I told him, smiling. “It's no problem at all mate, I'm only encroaching onto next door's kerb a foot or so, and anyway, Frank doesn't mind, he doesn't even own a car.”

“See ya later mate.” I said, still smiling.

I closed the door gently, and walked back into the lounge, when I passed the mirror I couldn't quite look myself in the eye this time.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

For my own safety

2011-06-17T00:02:00.001+01:00

I've had many labels stuck on me in the time I've been in here, insane, paranoid, delusional, schizophrenic, liar, to name but a few. I think liar was the one that hurt the most.

Not for one single moment did any of these so-called experts consider that maybe, just maybe, I was telling the truth.

For my own safety, their words not mine, I was detained under the mental health act, and brought to this 'hospital'.

Eventually I had grown to like my room, the fabric covering the walls and floor was tough and yet soft at the same time.

“For your own safety.” They had told me, as they ushered me inside.

And yes, it was safe, for now. Eventually things on the outside would get so bad there would be no-one left in control here, and I would have to leave and take my chances, but for now it was safe.

And here I was, in the interview room once more...

The man in black looked across the table at me, his face expressionless, but the glint of concern in his eyes betrayed his inner thoughts.

“People are disappearing.” He said.

“Yes, I know.”

“A lot of people, thousands each day.”

“Yes, I know.”

He shifted slightly in his chair, his body language betraying him further.

“Do you know where they are being taken to?”

“No, but I know where they end up.”

The man in black straightened in his chair, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, he stared at me intently.

“Where?” He asked me.

“The same place as your breakfast, and your Sunday roast, and your Saturday night beer and pizza.”

“What?”

“Where do all meals end up? Down the sewer, they end up down the sewer.”

“You could have helped to prevent a lot of this you know.”

“When I tried to tell people that these creatures were living amongst us, when I tried to warn people about this, when I tried to convince people to defend themselves against this, I was brought here, for my own safety. No-one wanted to listen to what I had to say.”

“Well, we're ready to listen now.”

I sighed, stood up, and walked slowly towards the door. “It's too late.” I told him over my shoulder. To the guard I said “I'd like to go back to my room now please, for my own safety”

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Tapeworms

2011-06-10T00:01:00.001+01:00

“He's still movin'”

We stood a few feet away from Geoff's body, the slug from my .45 had drilled a hole through his forehead, probably gone straight through and into the ground too.

“He's dead.” I told him, matter of factly. “Now pour the petrol an' burn him before the damn thing comes out.”

“He ain't dead,” Said Paul, his voice rising in panic. “Look... LOOK... He's still movin'!”

Geoff's stomach was twitching slightly, small movements, tiny squiggles under the skin.
As we watched, the movements began to increase in intensity, and to slowly edge upwards towards his chest.

I put two more slugs into him, both directly into the twitchy bit, the body danced slightly with the impacts but the movements continued upwards, the ribcage started to thrum, as though a silent jackhammer was being used on the inside.

Paul stared, bulge-eyed with fear and horror.

“Paul... PAUL... Use the goddam petrol, for crissakes will ya?”

He just stood, rooted, useless in his terror.

I made a start to grab the fuel can from his hand when a slight crackling sound came from Geoff's mouth...

I felt the freezing tendrils of paralysing terror crawl up my spine, I turned my head in Geoff's direction...

Geoff's throat was a writhing distended lump. A translucent, ghastly pale, inch-thick head appeared from his mouth, small antenna flickered around as if tasting the air...

Paul snapped, he started screaming... he just stood... and stared... and screamed...

I watched with absolute horror as more of the creature slithered out, like a ghostly segmented viper. The eyeless head turned in Paul's direction, attracted by the sweet sound of his screams...

The hellish creature slowly drew itself back, away from us, then, almost faster than the eye could follow, whiplashed its body through the air, I spun around just in time to see the last few inches of it slither rapidly into Paul's open mouth.

I backed off several yards whilst Paul was gagging and coughing, eventually he seemed to recover, and straightened up, his eyes glazed with something that wasn't there a few moments ago.

We stood and looked at each other, both of us knowing what I would have to do.

Me and Paul had known each other since we were kids, best buddies all the way, it was hard to believe it would end like this.

I walked forward raising the gun, tears blurring my vision as I pressed the barrel to his forehead...

“Do it!” he said, his voice calm, steady.

“Goodbye my friend.” I said, then squeezed the trigger.

Paul's body flew back, landing spread-eagled in the dust, almost immediately the writhing began beneath the skin on his stomach. His unwanted house-guest already packing to leave, these creatures needed live flesh to feed off.

I grabbed the fuel can, flipping the top open and began to pour, liberally dousing his head, filling his mouth until it overflowed, then along the length of his body. Salt water dripping from my cheeks and mixing with the petrol.

I stood back a few paces, struck the match and threw it onto Paul just as his throat started to bloat...

Within seconds the head appeared from the flame-filled mouth...

The creature thrashed around as it tried to escape the flames, writhing, burning, screeching... dying.

As I watched while the worm slumped, and blackened, I pondered my next move.

This had certainly turned out to be some day, I had just wasted two more members of a rapidly dwindling population.

Could we actually win this war? Or even survive it?

Well, whatever happened, I would go down fighting.

A short distance away the road forked left and right, which way to go?

I was unlikely to find good news whichever direction I chose. Good news was extremely hard to come by these days.

The goddam worms were everywhere, every town and city were infested with them.

Decision time...

I fished a coin from my pocket...

And flipped...

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Skitter

2011-06-03T00:02:00.001+01:00

I quietly closed the cellar door and walked down the steps, it is in here somewhere... Hiding...

As I walked to the centre of the cellar, I thought I saw a small movement in the shadows...

Then...

“TINK”... The light went out...plunging me into a wall of black...

Fear surged to the surface, I held myself together just below the panic threshold...

Then I heard it...the sound of sharp claws scrabbling on the stone floor...

Skitter

I couldn't move, my whole body was frozen with terror...

Skitter

I couldn't speak, my throat constricted ...

Skitter skitter

I could barely breathe as the panic threatened to engulf me...

Skitter skitter

Sightless in the pitch black...

Skitter skitter skitter

Heart pounding... mouth dry... eyes straining futilely...

Skitter SKITTER skitter

It's getting closer... bolder...

Skitter skitter SKITTER skitter skitter

Playing with me...

Skitter skitter SKITTER SKITTER skitter skitter

There was a barely audible creak as the cellar door swung slowly open...

Skitter skitter SKITTER SKITTER SKITTER skitter skitter

blinding light in my eyes...

Skitter skitter

The voice, a welcome lifeline in this ocean of skittering nothingness...

“John? I told ya not to come down inta the cellar without a torch... didn't I tell ya that? Ya know how unreliable the lighting is down here. An' what with your darkness phobia an' all... Now, did ya get the hamster back inta his cage yet?

“No, I ain't caught him yet, but I can hear the little blighter runnin' around.”

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Cops and robbers (Part 2)

2011-05-27T00:01:00.006+01:00

Aaah, this truly was the life he deserved, a beautiful sprawling house with its own private beach, speed boat tied up at the private jetty, an endless string of caribbean babes to help him pass the time, and a neverending supply of fine rum and sunshine...

Yes, this was definitely the life for him.

Ex Detective Inspector Bennett eased himself more comfortably into the sun-lounger, and took a long, slow drink from his iced cocktail, a gentle breeze touched his sun-bronzed face, he smiled to himself, he was smiling a lot lately, especially when he recalled the events from a few short months ago...

It seemed like a lifetime ago, another life, another world.

Everyone was so surprised when he suddenly decided to retire from the police force, he claimed exhaustion and stress, most people put it down to his failure to crack the jewellery robbery case, this was the first time in all his years on the force that he had failed, and the strain showed.

As well as being an excellent cop, Bennett was also an excellent actor too, his drawn, haggard appearance was self-induced, night after night he took a minimum amount of sleep, which had a cumulative effect on his appearance, a lined look, bags under the eyes, pale sunken cheeks, all of which reinforced the belief of those who knew him that he was suffering inside.

Many of his colleagues were secretly relieved when he retired, he had lost his edge, it was for the best really.

Inside, Bennett was laughing like a drain, his plan was coming nicely together, a few weeks after retiring, he retrieved the diamonds from beneath his floorboards, then, wearing a cunning disguise, paid a visit to Fat Freddy...

He walked out of Freddy's establishment with just shy of three quarters of a million pounds in his possession.

Second phase...

No-one was surprised to find Bennett's abandoned clothes on the beach, a note in his wallet saying goodbye to all that he held dear, last night's storm tide along the English Channel would have washed a body miles out to sea...

Bennett smiled again as he returned his thoughts to the present. Yes, this was definitely the life.

After several hours of sunbathing, hunger finally began to gnaw at him, tummy growling he eased himself off the sun-lounger and ambled up towards the house, as he approached the building he cast an appraising eye over it, he had the property on monthly lease from one of the local big boys, the beach and speed boat all part of the package.

The sprawling single-storey was a beauty, red-tiled roof, white walls gleaming in the sun, the large picture window, the open door..... OPEN DOOR??

Bennett froze, he had definitely closed the door when he came out, no-one left their doors open here, there were too many little furry things living in these parts that would chew everything inside.

He looked slowly around, there were faint marks in the sand, a barely visible swirling line led from the doorway and off towards the treeline, someone had used a branch to wipe out their footprints.
Bennett slowly crept to the door, if anyone was still inside they would shortly be very, very sorry they had come here.

He peeked around the doorframe... nothing!

He listened for a few moments... nothing!

He silently entered the house, his body ready to spring to violence...

The first thing to catch his eye when he got to the lounge was the seascape picture lying on the floor, from there his gaze travelled upwards to the wall safe, whose door was also hanging open...

Bennett walked to the safe and looked inside... Empty!

All of his money, all of it, gone!!

Panicking, he thrust a hand inside the safe, not quite believing what he was seeing, maybe his hands would find what his eyes could not...

Right at the back of the safe his fingers touched a scrap of paper, Bennett pulled it out and stared at it unbelievingly...

There was something very familiar about this bit of paper, obviously torn from a notebook.

On the paper, in his own handwriting, were the words THANK YOU. And next to this was a cartoon drawing of a grinning Bugs Bunny.

At the bottom of the page was a clumsily drawn picture of a fist with the middle finger sticking up,

And the words CATCH ME IF YOU CAN... signed... YOURS TRULY.

- - - - - - - - - -

Cops and robbers (Part 1)

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Cops and robbers (Part 1)

2011-05-19T22:44:00.010+01:00

I was pretty sure that I was going to go down for this one, even though at this point they didn't have a single shred of evidence to fit me to the crime, and I would usually give myself a ninety nine percent chance of walking out of here had anyone else been on the case, just my rotten luck, I had the misfortune to be looking over the interview room table at Bugs.

Detective Inspector Bennett, aka Bugs, was a good cop, a very shrewd cop, his powers of deduction were legendary. Many a crim' had sat smugly in this room, giving him the runaround, only to be tripped up by something that they HADN'T said.

Bugs' thought processes were almost psychic, it was like watching an episode of Columbo.
There was no guesswork when he was on the case, he KNEW if you were guilty or not.
For him, then, it was just a case of using his extremely clever questioning technique to dig out the proof.

All the while we talked he was writing in his notebook, not writing notes, to be re-examined later, as he would like you to think. No, he was doodling, drawing to be more precise.
If you could sneak a look at his book, like 'Johnny The Dip' had once managed to, he would be sketching miniature cartoon characters, namely pictures of a grinning Bugs Bunny.
Of course this soon became common knowledge courtesy of Johnny, and the nickname was born.

No-one ever called D.I. Bennett Bugs to his face, not any more anyway.
The few people who had dared to had earned themselves a good slapping. He was a right hard nut he was, athletic, tough, his hobbies included rock climbing, pot-holing, sky diving, and he held a second dan black belt in karate too. Definitely not a man with whom you would want to bump heads with!

As I sat there I cast my mind back to earlier in the evening...

I had done the jewellers, a piece of cake it was too. After coming back outside I had cut straight across the old cobbled yard that ran alongside of it, and dropped the shoulder bag down the old dry well, I would recover it later when the heat was off.
It was pretty much laid on that I would get hauled in, every time a job like this was pulled I was in the top five names.

Just my luck! As I was coming out of the other side of the yard a police car cruised past.
Spinning on my heel I turned back into the yard, unzipped my flies, and pretended to be taking a leak. The boys in blue must have had a slow shift, they arrested me for possible indecent exposure.
Give me a break will you? There was no-one else around to look at the bloody thing apart from me.

Well, at least the ice was safe, and they'd have to release me after I'd spent several hours giving them nothing.
I would recover the loot in a few days, nice and quiet like.

Whilst I was in custody, news of the robbery came in. That was when it all went up a notch, and Bugs got onto my case. I would have been picked up for questioning on this one anyway, and there I was, all conveniently sitting in a cell, just ripe for the plucking.

“So!” Said Bugs. His tone soft, relaxed, “what were you doing in the yard?”

“You know what I was doing.” I replied, very casual. “I was taking a leak. Yeah I know, a bit naughty, but I got caught short on my way home from the Dog and Duck. I had a few pints in there, and when the cold hit me outside, well...”

Bugs scribbled in his notebook for a while.

He looked up from his doodling, and slowly looked me up and down, from my scalp, right down to the soles of my Italian leather shoes, and back again. His deadpan expression gave nothing away, but I felt like a laser had just burned its way up and down me.

“With anyone I might know?” He asked me.

“Johnny Preston, and Stumpy.”

I hadn't seen either of these two in more than a week, but they would spin Bugs a line for me.

More scribbling.

“Put him back in the cell, I'm going to have a word with Stumpy and 'The Dip'”

He glanced at the clock on the wall, ten past one.

“Those two fine upstanding citizens'll most likely be in the Sugar Cane club at this time of night.”

About an hour later, I was sat in the cell, idly examining the moss stains on my nice shoes, I must've scuffed them against the well wall when I threw the bag down there. I'll give 'em a good polishing tomorrow, can't stand having dirty shoes. I mean, you can tell a lot about a man by the state of his footwear can't you?

The door clanked, then swung open to reveal Bugs filling the door frame.

“Out” He said “Looks like you're in the clear.”

“What about the bollocksy indecent exposure charge?”

“I can't be arsed with the paperwork. Now off you toddle before I change my mind.”

I hit the street feeling like a million dollars. I could hardly believe my luck! I had fronted it!
I don't know what steered Bugs away from me, maybe something Johnny or Stumpy had said to him, but lady luck was definitely smiling my way. This tale will go down in history, once I've got the lovely untraceable cash for the goodies.

Bugs had me, and for once in his exemplary career he had screwed up. Ha!
Maybe his legendary intuition was finally beginning to fade!

I wasn't waiting for later to get the sparklers, as far as I was concerned the heat was already off. I would go for them now, collecting a torch from home on my way past. There was still three or four hours of darkness left, and I intended to grab the stuff, visit Fat Freddy the fence, and get myself home with the cash whilst the luck was still with me.

Half an hour later I was winching the bucket down the well. I slithered down the rope, holding the torch in my mouth, before long I felt my feet touch the soft earth at the bottom of the well. The torch beam fell across the bag... lovely jubbly!

Five minutes later I was walking down the road on my way to Fat Freddy's, when a familiar figure came lurching drunkenly towards me.

“Hey Stumpy, you're in a right state, you are. Thanks for helping me out with Bugs earlier on. There'll be a drink in it for you later.”

Stumpy looked at me as though I was talking gibberish. “Wha' the fug're ya talkin' 'bout?” he slurred, muttered something under his breath, then lurched drunkenly on his way.

Fat Freddy was very pleased to see me.

“OK, lets see the gear.”

I took one of the velvet envelopes from the bag, and emptied it out onto the table. Smiling broadly at Freddy.

“Feast your eyes on them stones Freddy.”

“Is this some kind of a joke?” Said Freddy.

His two minders eased their shoulders from the wall and ambled over to stand behind me at the table.

I looked down at the stones, that's exactly what I was looking at, stones!
Well, gravel to be more precise.

“What the...?”
I felt like I had just been slapped.

One by one I emptied the small black velvet bags onto the table...

And for each one I emptied, the pile of gravel grew bigger...

A few minutes later I was sitting on the pavement outside Freddy's, after unceremoniously being thrown down his staircase by the two very nice minders.

My shoulder bag followed me down, hitting me in the back of the head.

I picked up the bag, and started walking, still numb with disbelief...

I idly slid my hand inside the bag, half expecting that this was some kind of dream, and the diamonds were really still in there.

I didn't find any diamonds, but my hand brushed a scrap of paper...

I pulled it out and held it up under the glare of a street lamp...

It was a page torn from a notebook...

The note said simply. THANK YOU

I couldn't recognise the handwriting...

But I sure as hell recognised the grinning cartoon character drawn next to it!

- - - - - - - - - -

Cops and robbers (Part 2)

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Guilty party

2011-05-13T19:51:00.005+01:00

She did it!

There was absolutely no doubt in my mind. Oh yes, she killed him all right, little miss 'butter wouldn't melt' was as guilty as hell.

I had digested all the evidence, collated all the facts, dismissed all the red herrings, and seen through all the lies, and as far as I was concerned they could handcuff her, drag her off, and throw away the key.

I was born to do this, I had the logical type of mind that could cut through the bullshit and aim straight at the truth, oh yes, and the truth was exactly what I was looking at.

She had lied through her teeth. Oh, very convincingly, I'll give her that much.
You wouldn't think it would you? Upper middle-class sloane ranger type , cucumber sandwiches on the lawn, and show jumping trials every weekend, jeez, give me a break will you.

Oh ,how the lads at the station had laughed when I failed the exams for the CID. What a thoroughly good jape, eh?

“What? Old Griggsy? A detective? God help us.... har har har “

Cretins!

I can still hear the Superintendent's condescending voice.

“You must realise constable Griggs, that not everyone is cut out to be a detective, and you lads on the beat are the first line of defence in the endless fight against the criminals and lowlife that are trying to undermine the integrity of our society. You are a very large, and very important cog in the policing machine. So, chin up, chin up lad, eh? ”

Supercilious plummy-voiced twat!

Old Griggsy? Doesn't make the grade, eh? Hasn't got the smarts?
Well, I'd managed to work this one out without any help, hadn't I?

Oh yes, there were suspects a-plenty, the place was overflowing with them, they were under every stone, and behind every tree, but one by one I had eliminated them all.
All apart from her that is.

Means, motive, and opportunity. The three main building blocks to solving any crime.
Picking out the truth from the lies and the half-truths.
Who stands to gain? And who stands to lose?

The father in law, and brother in law, didn't arrive until after it was all over, the time of their breakdown on the M6 was well documented, and logged by the recovery company that they called out.
Out of the equation.

Martin and Rebecca had been a bit more cavalier with the truth, turning up just minutes before the first squad car arrived.
They swore they had been at the village fair all afternoon, a lie, oh yeah, they'd been at the village all right, shacked up in a hotel room.
They were both in deep trouble with their parents, but still eliminated from my list.

Most of the guests had been down in the lower garden when the shot was heard, and were discounted as not having the opportunity almost from the outset.

Aunt Julia had held my attention for a while, her bygone love affair with the victim was common knowledge, and the resultant bad feelings and acid conversations between them after it all went sour had been the source of much gossip.
Now revenge hungered for by a woman scorned, is a powerful motive, but at the time of the murder she was draped over the toilet pan noisily vomiting up the effects of far too many glasses of wine at the afternoon meal, whilst Georgina and Tobias listened in disgust outside the bathroom door, waiting impatiently to escort her to bed so they could return to the party.

Another three names crossed out.

Several family members stood to gain financially, or should that be ' hoped ' to gain financially?
For he had been rich. Very rich.
And god knows, some of them certainly seemed to have had ulterior motives too, for he wasn't exactly what you would call popular.
But one after another were dismissed as possible trigger pullers, mostly due to their lack of opportunity.

But SHE had had the opportunity, hadn't she?
There was a twelve minute gap in her presence accountability wasn't there?

According to her story she had been in the greenhouse, about to water the seedlings when she heard the shot, but no-one saw her either going to, or coming from, the direction of the greenhouse, did they?
No! She was just suddenly running into the house along with everyone else.
How bloody convenient!

No, my little miss murderous, I think you fired the gun, dropped it on the carpet, then ran out of the back servant's entrance, stripping off the surgical gloves and throwing them onto the open fire on the way past.
You then ran around the west side of the house, hidden from view by the shrubbery, and joined the crowd of guests flooding in the front entrance on their way to investigate the gunfire.

Oh yes, very clever, but not clever enough miss smarty pants.

“Oh yeah, Griggsy. A good plod Griggsy is, salt of the earth is Griggsy, but a detective? Nah!”

This coming from D.S. Bannister, who was a dead ringer for one of the 'fat sweaty cops' from 'The Fast Show'. Bleedin' slob, what the hell did he know?

Well, I knew this much, I had a lot more going for me than any of them gave me credit for.

Well, this was it....... The moment of truth.

I felt smug, and confident knowing that my superior intellect, and well honed powers of deduction were about to be proven.

I picked up the book, leafed through to the final chapter, and began to read....

I had only read a few paragraphs when the realisation sank home....

I was wrong!

I continued reading with a steadily sinking heart, as the final chapter laid out in meticulous detail exactly how the BUTLER had done it.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

The betrayal. (Guest post from Louise)

2011-05-05T22:22:00.007+01:00

Following a request from ABSOLUTELY*KATE, that talented lady who resides AT THE BIJOU, my daughter LOUISE has agreed to guest post on The Twisted Quill this week.
I always enjoy my daughters writing, and I hope that you do too.
Steve Green.

* * * * *

I was delighted to be offered a guest spot on Dad's blog, and flattered that it had been requested. I'm normally a novel writer, even my short stories tend to run to a few thousand words, but I do have this little piece. It was written for an activity as part of my course work. We were given the basics (the figure, the man on the church steps and the baby crying) and had to construct a story from them. It didn't take long for my mind to turn these elements into something disturbing. I loved writing this piece, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Thank you for reading.

Louise.

THE BETRAYAL

In the quiet dawn of Midsummer's day, even the bells of the village church are silent. Tendrils of steam rise from the damp grass, and from the coat of the man laid on the church steps. A tweed cap covers his face, and his white hair has been neatly combed. At his feet, a single red rose.

A figure strides past the church wall before the silence is cracked by a baby crying. The figure pauses, listens with its head cocked a little to the side, fat fingers fluttering at its pale, thin lips. At the swollen tongue that slips out and licks at the corners of its mouth; tasting salt and the bitter copper of blood. The creature salivates, hunger blossoms in its belly and lower, a different kind of desire gnaws. Breathing heavily, it slips between the graves and approaches The Place.

The corpse on the steps is pitiful. An old man desiccated by age and cancer. His hands, clasped neatly together and holding a rosary, are little more than skin over bone. His body is as rigid as a fallen branch. Not so much laid on the steps as resting against them. The creature plucks the hat from the corpse and brings it to its nose. It inhales deeply, sucking up the aromas of sweat; of hair wax and of sickly death. Then flings it away, watches with amusement as it spins into the distance beyond the graveyard.

The face beneath is yellowish and taut with rigor. The creature grimaces. The meat will be tough, stringy. Barely worth cutting at all. It reaches out a hand to open the eyes, to gaze upon the sweetest of the delicacies offered. Dissatisfaction turns to anger. It is not rigor mortis that has stiffened this deceased, but a failure to thaw. The sacrifice is not fresh. The agreement has not been kept.

Once again the silence is broken by the infant's distress. The creature grins.

©2011 Louise Craven

Any comments or feedback would be very much appreciated.
Thank you.
Louise.

Zalvation

2011-04-29T00:00:00.003+01:00

AUTHORS NOTE:-

April is zombie month on The Twisted Quill, ZALVATION is the fifth and final of the five April zombie #fridayflashes. Thank you all for reading, and for all the very kind comments and positive feedback.

* * * * *

They had been working for months now, trying to find a cure, or some way to halt the virus, to stop the infected from infecting the healthy, even the tiniest bite or scratch was a death sentence, or a living-death sentence to be more precise.

They had an endless supply of specimens to experiment on, everything was tested over and over again, hope soared as each new serum was injected into a subject, only to be dashed as it proved just as fruitless as the last.

Until vaccine 420J...

Within hours of 420J being administered, the zombie, subject number 307, showed signs of improvement, its skin took on a healthier look, its eyes began to shine, to reflect light, the aggression dwindled...

Several other subjects were injected, all with the same astonishing results, there were indications that not only were the zombies improving, they were actually becoming alive again.

Three days later, 307, looking almost human again, was placed in a cage with a freshly caught subject, a snarling rotting hungry grey, subject 352, the scientists watched with disbelief as 352 completely ignored 307, even when 307 bit its arm. Oddly, once 307 had bitten 352, he then showed no further interest in him.

A few hours later 352 began to take on a healthier look...

352 was allowed to bite several subjects himself, each of which showed signs of improvement shortly after. Once again the pattern repeated itself, the zombies showed no acknowledgement of 352's presence, and 352 showed no further interest in the zombies once he had bitten them.

Over the next few weeks countless experiments were conducted, all with positive results, by this time 307 was eating regular food, he could open doors and perform other simple tasks, and seemed to have a grasp of basic logic, he was improving more each day, the team believed his grunts would eventually turn into speech, and that he would begin to interact on a deeper level.

Strangely, once the current batch of 420J ran out, none of the subsequent batches of the serum seemed to work, despite countless attempts using the exact same formula, but although puzzling to the scientists, it was not really that important, they had a self-perpetuating weapon against the zombie hordes, the new virus would spread, just as the old one had, only this time curing instead of killing.

A junior lab technician, who had recently recovered from the miseries of a common cold, did wonder if his bout of sneezing whilst preparing that particular batch of the 420J serum had any bearing on the results, but dismissed the idea as being ridiculous.

On the eleventh of June the subjects were released into the city...

Now, all mankind had to do was stay safe, and wait...

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

* * * * *

NEXT WEEK'S GUEST SPOT

Next week I shall be handing the pages of The Twisted Quill over to my daughter.
LOUISE normally writes much longer projects, but following a request from the talented ABSOLUTELY*KATE who resides AT THE BIJOU, she has agreed to post a #flashfiction-length story on here. I hope you enjoy her work.

Thank you for reading.

Steve Green.

Zweetmeat

2011-04-22T00:02:00.004+01:00

AUTHORS NOTE:-

April is zombie month on The Twisted Quill, ZWEETMEAT is the fourth of the five April zombie #Fridayflashes.

* * * * *

Donnie Sheldon had been shambling along for several hours now, he had no sense of the fact he was moving, just the same as he had no recollection of being attacked, infected, dying, awakening.

Anyone observing Donnie's route would probably come to the conclusion that he had a definite destination in mind, Donnie would neither agree nor disagree to this, as his mind no longer functioned on any kind of conscious level.

He paid no attention to the screams and sounds of slaughter, the scenes of panic, mangled cars, and even more mangled bodies, the rapid tattoo of fleeing footsteps, the occasional gunshot rising above the lesser noises.

At the intersection he turned left, shuffling past several fellow undead biting huge mouthfuls of flesh from a still living, still struggling, screeching young woman, and although on some basic instinct he felt the lure of the feast, and his being burned with a ravenous hunger, he ignored it and carried on walking.

Trudging along, glass from shattered store fronts crunched beneath his shoes, the fragments shining like rubies in the mixture of coagulating blood, bits of flesh, and body fluids.

Turning right at the next intersection he was narrowly missed by a speeding car, rocking dangerously from side to side as the driver fought to control both the vehicle, and the snarling, snapping passenger beside him.

Two blocks later, Donnie walked through the shattered doorway of an expensive-looking restaurant, the place was wrecked, broken furniture, china, silverware, and glassware littered the floor.

His attention was attracted to a tangle of writhing limbs, and the sounds of a violent struggle coming from the far corner of the room.

Donnie mindlessly plodded across to the melee, kneeling, he joined the other diners in their wriggling meal of what used to be the haughty Maitre'D of the very exclusive place.

Of course, Donnie had no memory of his long walk to get here, or took any relish in his meal.

Bibby's was the swankiest restaurant in town, and eating there had long been one of Donnie's desires, but he could never afford it when he was alive.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Ztaffing levels

2011-04-15T00:02:00.002+01:00

AUTHORS NOTE:-

April is zombie month on The Twisted Quill, ZTAFFING LEVELS is the third of the five April zombie #Fridayflashes.

* * * * *

Derekson finished placing the implant into the back of the zombie's skull, then sealed the incision with superglue.

“Okay guys, we got another one, start counting your bonuses.”

Permastaff had been snowed under with work since inventing, and patenting the electronic gadget that could turn zombies into workers. The product couldn't perform anything complicated, but the hard-wired implants, and the pulses they emitted, enabled the zombies to absorb and follow simple commands. They made perfect packers, line workers, labourers, and could perform a myriad of other types of repetitive work.

The people at Permastaff were rich, the money was flooding in, their product was snapped up just as quickly as they could make them, the demand was staggering.

Manufacturing companies couldn't buy enough of these workers, workers who worked twenty four seven without lunch breaks, toilet breaks, holidays or wages. Workers who never bitched or complained, who never went on strike, who were never off sick. Oh yes, they were expensive to buy, but one initial payment was all that was required, three months later the unit had paid for itself and from there onwards it was all gravy.

There was no need for these companies to employ expensive supervisors or managers any more either, the zombies didn't require any overseeing, just one semi-skilled tech could keep them functioning correctly.

Over a period of time Permastaff grew and began to take on production-line capability, the zombies were fed in at one end, progressing through anaesthetics, cleansing, incision, insertion, testing, clothing, and eventually to despatch.

* * * * *

The boardroom of Permastaff was almost empty, at one time it had held thirty five executives, managers, and directors, now there was three men in the room, each of them a one-third owner of the company.

“Gentlemen, if you would like to open the folder before you, this is the final draft of 'Operation Replace', the papers explain the alteration of the staffing levels to the finest detail. It will be far more cost-effective to use zombie workers on our production line instead of humans, it is forecast that production will increase by sixty two percent, at a third of the present cost. Any questions?”

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Zomeone to love

2011-04-08T00:01:00.004+01:00

AUTHORS NOTE:-

April is zombie month on The Twisted Quill, ZOMEONE TO LOVE is the second of the five April zombie #Fridayflashes.

* * * * *

Graham instinctively knew something was wrong the moment he walked into the house.

“Honey I'm home... Darling?... Lisa?.... ”

He opened the lounge door and looked inside, Lisa was lying on the couch, she appeared to be sleeping but there was no rise and fall to her chest, no sound of breathing, her face was ashen and drawn, with a sinking heart Graham went to her, kneeling beside her he took her hand in his, it was cold, lifeless, his own blood ran cold with shock when he noticed the teeth marks just above her wrist.

He knew he didn't have much time, Lisa was in the advanced stages of infection, soon she would awake, reanimate, become one of them.

How she had become infected he had no idea, she must have ventured outside and been attacked while he was out, no matter, he would worry about that later, right now he had to act fast.

Graham picked up his darling wife, the woman he met when they were children, the woman he had married seventeen years ago, the one and only love he had ever known, cradling her gently in his arms he carried her carefully upstairs and into the spare bedroom, the room that would have become a nursery if they had been blessed with children.

He laid her gently on the bed, kissed her tenderly on her forehead.

“I'll never leave you my darling, I will always love you... always... ”

He rushed to the garage, returning quickly carrying his small toolbox, working as fast as he could, all the time keeping one eye on Lisa for any sign of movement, he made a hole in the door, several inches square, and at head height, this done, he walked to the bed and gave Lisa a final kiss before leaving the room and sealing the door shut using several long steel screws.

Graham trudged back downstairs and poured himself a very large scotch, he slumped down into the chair, and let the tears come.

He kept hitting the scotch until finally he was all cried out, and he fell into a drunken sleep.

He awoke several hours later feeling nauseous and hung over, and to the sound of small noises coming from upstairs, the sounds of shufflings, and soft thuds.

Standing slowly, Graham walked unsteadily into the hallway and up the stairs, at the landing he turned in the direction of the guest room, but paused just before reaching the door, he couldn't allow Lisa to see him in this wretched state, it would upset her.

He went to the bathroom, showered and shaved, then into the master bedroom and put on fresh clothes.

He quietly walked to the guest room door and looked through the hole, Lisa was standing with her back to the door, arms hanging loose by her sides.

“Lisa my darling.” He whispered.

She slowly turned to face the door, the moan that came from her mouth chilled Graham to the bone.

He took a pace backwards as Lisa shambled to the door, she thrust her snarling face into the hole trying vainly to reach him.

Graham stood there for hours, telling Lisa how much he loved her, reminiscing about happy times they had shared, the holidays they had been on, her favourite films and books, the things that made them laugh, anything positive that came to mind....

This would be how he was to spend most of every day from now on, it would be a long time before Graham would finally accept that Lisa was never coming back to him.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Zomband

2011-04-01T00:02:00.003+01:00

AUTHORS NOTE:-
In the comments section of my March 4th #fridayflash ZOMBAITING, I happened to remark that I found zombie fiction “quite easy to write”, and so my daughter Louise, a talented writer and published poet, who is also a lover of zombie fiction, challenged me to write only zombie stories during April, so I accepted the challenge, and ZOMBAND is the first of the five April zombie #Fridayflashes.

* * * * *

Gary 'Boulderbelly' Lucas shuffled through the open door of the nightclub, unmindful of his threadbare appearance, the ripped and shredded suit, the torn frilly-fronted shirt and bow tie much blood-stained from the many violent and gluttonous mealtimes. He was also unmindful of the other shuffling, shambling undead as he made his way through the moaning crowd towards the stage.

Boulderbelly's brain flickered with memories of his former life, images of the jazz band he fronted, his musical genius, his drug addiction, he had no understanding of the images, but somewhere deep inside his cortex, a compulsion formed, brewed, fermented, became irresistible.

As he dragged his feet across the boards there came a dull clang as his wingtip shoe sent something brassy-shiny spinning.

“Peeeek uuuuup” Spoke the voice in his dead head.

Boulderbelly slowly reached down and curled his fingers around the instrument, straightening, he lifted the mouthpiece to his lips.... and blew....

Pfffffffffffffffffffftttttttttttt

In his zombie mind the tone of the trombone sounded compelling and sweet.

Pfft.. Pfft... Pfft... Pfffft... He launched into the mindless, one-note, walking dead version of “When the saints go marching in”

The other shamblers paused in their aimless shambling, all heads turned toward the stage, eyes wide, mouths agape.

A skinny guy wearing a flowery shirt shuffled forwards, if his brain still worked he would have memories of being called Ronnie 'Flaky-fingers' Bagshaw, he fumbled his way onto the stage and picked up the guitar...

Drraannng.. Drraannng... Drraannng... the three remaining strings made a fine accompaniment to the trombone.

Another found his way up there, a very tall man with a pencil moustache and a high forehead, any jazz fan would have no trouble recognizing his torn features as that of former musician Jimmy 'Quickstick' Williams, he groped his way to the seat, picked up the drumsticks and gave it his all.

Boom..clash... Boom..clash... Boom..clash...

The hundreds of walking corpses began finding their way to seats, their defunct minds somehow telling them that this was getting interesting.

Before long several more rotting bodies had made their way to the stage, and the instruments...

Noah 'Needlearm' Shulky tinkled the ivories and ebonies.

Danny 'Lushlips' Oliver, despite both of his lips having rotted away, still managed to tease a note from the cornet.

The double bass was manned by one-legged Alan 'Hoppy' Hopkins, the only hopping corpse in zombie history.

Big Jimmy “Peepers” Peterson peeped out a soulful monotone on the clarinet.

The band was topped off by ex-sensational vocalist Leo Claine, whose multi-octave moans echoed around the room alongside the cacophony of instrumentalism.

The crowd went wild, those that still had both hands clapped along, those with less than both did the best they could, toes tapped along to the PffftDrranngBoomclashDungdung beat...

Benny Percival looked down from where he was hiding amongst the spotlights and electricals, as a music agent he could see the potential, now all he needed was some signed contracts and a name for the band.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

A short detour

2011-03-25T00:03:00.007Z

The lights of Palm Springs were a distant glow in the rear-view mirror, and dwindling by the minute.

I pressed the accelerator to the floor, the car rocked slightly as it barreled down the deserted road, the sun would be up in a couple of hours, and I wanted to cover as much distance as possible by then.

Just one short detour to make, then eastbound all the way.

Julia was staring out of the window, her head resting on the glass, in the reflection I could see her eyes following the overhead lights as they sped past.

I flicked on the CD player, the smooth voice of Glen Campbell flowed through the speakers...

“By the time I get to Phoenix, she'll be risin'...
She'll find the note I left hangin' on her door...
She'll laugh when she reads the part that says I'm leavin'...
'Cause I've left that girl so many times before...”

She would not be rising by the time I got to Phoenix, and if I had taken the time to write a note, and hung it on her door, I'm absolutely sure that her twinkly blue eyes would not be reading it, or her very sweet kissable mouth laughing at it. And there was no way I would ever write a part that says I'm leaving, I never had any wish to leave her.

“By the time I make Albuquerque, she'll be workin'...
She'll prob'ly stop at lunch and give me a call...
But she'll just hear that phone keep on ringin'...
Off the wall, that's all...”

By the time I make Albuquerque her shift will be almost over, I'm afraid the diner would just have to manage without her sparkling personality today, at least the other waitresses would get the benefit of any tips that would have come her way in recompense for sharing her workload. I'm sure her boss will be disappointed though, he had an extreme interest in her attendance each day.
Her dainty fingers will not be holding any phone handset today either, or her cute little ears listening to any ringing, off the wall or not.

“By the time I make Oklahoma, she'll be sleepin'...
She'll turn softly, and call my name out low...
And she'll cry just to think I'd really leave her...
Tho' time and time I tried to tell her so...
She just didn't know, I would really go..."

By the time I make Oklahoma she will certainly be sleeping.
As for turning softly and calling my name out low, I would be speaking to her about that soon.
I never gave her any reason to cry, I never once threatened to leave her, I couldn't leave her, I loved her, she always knew that.

The song came to an end as I took the exit ramp, a couple of miles later I turned onto a narrow track and then into an abandoned farmyard.

Julia struggled ferociously as I dragged her out of the passenger door, thrashing against the ropes around her wrists and ankles, trying to scream through the duct tape over her mouth.

Her eyes were shiny with fear and hate, sweat beaded on her brow, her hair, usually so perfect, a tousled mess.

By the time I had managed to get her over to the old well I was breathing heavily, you wouldn't believe the amount of strength that such a petite pretty little thing could have.

I held her against the low wall of the well, and pulled the .38 from my waistband...

“When you turn softly and call a name out low, it's not a good idea if it just happens to be your boss's name, you cheating bitch.”

I shot her straight between the eyes, threw her body over the wall, then made my way back to the car.

As I pulled out of the farmyard, and set off towards the freeway, the sweet tones of Olivia Newton John drifted from the speakers.

“Almost heaven... West Virginia...”

When I reached the main drag I floored the pedal again, I had a long journey ahead of me.

It was seventeen years since I'd walked those Blue Ridge Mountains, or seen my brother, boy was he in for a surprise, see you soon bro... I'm comin' home.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Author's note:

Although the story "A short detour" is my own creation I give thanks and credit to Jimmy Webb, the original composer and performer of the song "By the time I get to Phoenix"

The version I am more familiar with, and the version I had in mind when writing this story was performed by Glen Campbell.

I extend my thanks and credit to both of these great artistes, for the lyrics, and for the inspiration.

Awakening (Part 2)

2011-03-18T00:01:00.005Z

Bulmer and his team worked in the locked-down government building sub-basement, collating all the facts from the events over the last two weeks.

The reports, backed up by eyewitness accounts and CCTV footage were coming in from every Megacity in the civilised world. Contact with the Megaslums of the third world had been lost eleven days ago.

No-one knew where these things had come from, just that they were here... now.

The facts:-

They were strong:- They had been seen to flip vehicles over, and rip doors completely from their frames. They were also very adept at ripping people limb from limb.

They were fast:- There are reports of them running alongside trains and cars travelling in excess of forty miles per hour.

They were nimble:- They could scale buildings and high walls with unnerving speed, and leap wide distances between structures.

They were virtually bulletproof:- There were hundreds of accounts of small arms fire just bouncing off their scaly skin leaving no apparent damage.

They were organised:- Many massacres involved dozens of them working in unison rounding up the human victims.

They were smart:- Their learning curve was disturbingly steep. They had learnt to utilise lift keypads and the like, and they were learning more, rapidly.

They were cunning:- They were masters of concealment and ambush, they seemingly appeared and disappeared at will.

They were carnivorous:- They ate anything in the food chain, including humans... especially humans. And they had voracious appetites.

They bred fast:- Only two weeks after the first sightings, infants were seen on the streets joining in the hunt.

They were numerous.

The phone rang, Bulmer picked it up and curtly said “Yes?”

“Mister Bulmer, this is the president, what do you have for us?”

“Well, Mr President Sir, after assessing the massive amount of data we have collected, and collating all the facts at our disposal, studying thousands of hours of CCTV footage, speaking online to many hundreds of eyewitnesses, and bouncing dozens of hypothetical ideas around the think-tank, my team and I have run several possible computer scenarios, and in the final analysis, and after much deliberation, our considered opinion is....”

“Just give me the bottom line, will ya?”

“Well sir, we believe that the human race is very soon going to be in a world of shit!”

- - - - - - - - - -

Awakening (Part 1)

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Awakening (Part 1)

2011-03-11T00:01:00.014Z

The eggs had lain dormant in the underground cavern for thousands of years, awakened now by a slight shift in the earth's core temperature, there was movement.

Eggshells cracked...

Snouts emerged, sniffing, tasting, sensing.

Claws slowly extended and retracted....

Jaws yawned....

Fangs bared....

Muscles stretched....

Scales rippled....

Tails twitched....

Stomachs cramped....

Hunger burned....

Mouths salivated....

Thousands of claws began burrowing feverishly upwards.

Above, the city of Megapol was awakening to another hot August day.

- - - - - - - - - -

Awakening (Part 2)

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Zombaiting

2011-03-04T00:03:00.003Z

On the outskirts of town was a weather-worn sign.

JAGERVILLE...POPULATION 7,242

Right next to it stood a relatively new sign declaring in bright red paint....

FRANKSVILLE...POPULATION

LIVING...1

WALKING DEAD...5,117

REALLY DEAD....2,124

The numbers were of the 'slide in-slide out' type, this was to make life easier for Frank because he updated the board just before sundown each day.

Frank was a martial arts teacher before the infestation snatched all of his fee-paying students, thus taking away his livelihood and his beloved sport in one fell swoop, but now he had a new sport to play.

Frank was the sole survivor, custodian, and (in his eyes) owner, of the freshly re-named Franksville, and he was systematically clearing out the town, and immensely enjoying his new sport at the same time. He had set up a well-equipped gym in one of the rooms of his penthouse fortress, and worked out daily with weights and hand weapons, he prided himself on never using or carrying firearms, he didn't need them, he was strong, tough, and very very fast.
In a sheath at his side hung Macca, a fourteen inch machete, and strapped to his back, a beautifully crafted samurai sword, oh, he loved taking the Zacks out with the nunchakas or stars, but for serious Zombaiting you couldn't beat Sammy the sword, he was a little worried at the fact that he had given the weapons names, but reflected that maybe it wasn't so strange after all, as they were the only friends he had now.

Zombaiting was Frank's new sport, and he was the world champion, because as far as he knew, he was the world's only player too. It consisted of teasing the Zacks, dancing in and out of reach, and occasionally lopping bits off them until they were just a crawling lump, and it was time to administer the coup-de-grace.

The game was much more fun, and required much more skill, when facing several Zacks at once, but right now he had a lone shambler, in full working order, and it was almost sunset, so Frank decided to have one last dance before adding the day's tally to the pop-sign, and retiring to his suite before nightfall.

Frank turned up the volume in his earphones, the classic sounds of 'Ode to joy' pulsed through his ears, “Okay, let's dance.” He said,and pirouetted towards the walking corpse.

As the Zack reached for him Frank moon-walked backwards keeping a mere inch from the grasping fingers, he swivelled lightly on one leg, swinging Sammy in a wide arc, and lopped one arm off at the elbow, continuing the movement he ducked under the other arm, then danced full circle around the zombie, flickering Sammy out again to take the other off at the wrist, he waltzed around twice more before doing a double spin, culminating in a low slash that took both legs off at the knees.

The rain began just as Frank was raising Sammy to give the final blow, “Okay,” thought Frank, “game over, time to get going.” He sliced off the head in a single blow, then picked it up from the street. Holding the head by the hair he hoisted it high, tilted his head back, and laughed his triumph to the sky, as the rain fell onto his face, the single drop of virus-filled liquid that dripped from the zombie's lip went unnoticed as it landed on the side of his nose, and was washed by the raindrops into his open laughing mouth....

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

No longer

2011-02-25T00:02:00.004Z

“We no longer hunt in the forests... For the forests are no longer here.

We no longer fish in the seas... For the seas are no longer here.

We no longer gaze at the clouds... For the clouds are no longer here.

We no longer look to the future... For we no longer have one.”

The words were carved deep into the cliff face, an epitaph to a species no longer here.

The scorching breeze seemed to sigh with sadness as it swirled across the barren landscape, sadness for the loss of the beautiful world it once knew.

The three beings stared up at the strange symbols, uncomprehending, uncaring.

The taller of three turned and took a long, sweeping look at the cracked, baked ground, and the swirling sand devils.

It took a slow, deep, satisfying breath of the carbon monoxide rich atmosphere.

“The planet is perfect for habitation, start shipping the colonists.”

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Plagiarism ?

2011-02-18T00:01:00.004Z

“Hey, one of my stories has been picked up by a book company, they're gonna publish it, and they've sent me a cheque for two thousand smackarooneys, how does it feel to have a published author for a brother then?”

“Hey bro, that's great, which story is it?”

I flicked the keys and brought the story up onto the screen.

“This one,” I said, swivelling the laptop around so he could read it, “It's called 'Bound homeward'.”

I watched in nervous anticipation as he began to read the fruits of my imagination, in my mind I could already hear the gushing praise that was soon to come.

He turned towards me, a vicious snarl spreading a cross his face....

“YOUR STORY?... This ain't YOUR story, this is MY story, you stole it from my computer didn't you?”

“No I didn't, your stories are full of crap, who the hell would publish any of YOUR drivel?”

He pressed a few keys, then turned his own laptop so I could view the screen.

“Here, read this then you thieving asshole.”

I skim-read through several pages...

“Well, there ARE certain similarities......”

“Similarities? Similarities?... The only similarity is the title, mine's called 'Homeward bound' apart from THAT little similarity the story is a word for word replica, right down to the last capital letter, comma, and full stop. I'm gonna split you in two, you... you... PLAGIARIST you!”

“Look, this isn't helping either one of us, tell you what, I'll split the money with you eh? A grand apiece, eh? How does that sound?”

“I should get BOTH grands... It's MY story.”

“It is NOT your story, I wrote it MYSELF.....”

“Oh yeah? And you expect me to believe that? You really expect me to believe that we both wrote exactly the same story as each other?”

“Well, given what we are, is it really so hard for you to believe that it could happen? Anyway, this is getting us nowhere, do you want half of the money or not?”

He dithered for a few moments, then his face softened as he made his decision.

“Okay, we usually end up sharing everything anyway, sorry I got mad at you.”

“And I'm sorry that you think I stole your story. Pals again?”

“Pals again.”

He went into the kitchen and returned carrying two bottles of beer, handing one to me as he sat back down.

“A toast... Here's to an endless list of best-sellers, and the rewards they will bring bro.” We both said in unison, clinking the bottles together.

My identical twin and I opened our beers, took a long, slow slug, sighed, then leaned back into our chairs, all in perfect synchronisation.

I pondered the fact at how impossibly identical we were in every possible way.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Kindred spirits

2011-02-11T00:02:00.003Z

She had come for me, I knew she would. I held her to me, I held her as tight as I could, crushing my cheek to hers, our tears mingling, I would never let her go again, the love we shared was too deep to be denied, the barrier did not exist that could keep us apart forever.

She was cold.... so cold, the heat flowed from my body to hers, sharing what warmth we possessed between us, balancing the difference, whatever we had, we would share.

I couldn't stop crying, the guilt, the pain, the memories, all washed over me like surf over shingle.

The last time we spoke was a year ago, almost to the minute.

“Please John, we'll get a cab, we can come back for the car tomorrow.”

“S'okay darling, s'only two miles, we'll be fine, I've only had a few glasses of wine, gerrin' the car honey, y'know I would rather cut my own legs off than let you come to any harm.”

I watched it all happen again, The bend, the skid, the tree.

Eventually the flickering lights, and the voices....

“She's gone.... he's pretty smashed up, but he'll most likely make it.”

Countless times over the last twelve months I had thought about taking my own life, I ached to be with her, my true love, my soul mate, my kindred spirit, but I waited for her, as I knew I must.

And now she was here...

The tears flowed even more freely.

“Oh.... oh honey, I'm sorry... I'm so sorry darling......”

“Shhh John, it's okay darling, we're together again now.”

I gripped her even more tightly...

We kissed tenderly as we began to drift upwards towards the shimmering light....

It felt good to lose the wheelchair.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

High rollers

2011-02-04T00:01:00.003Z

Well, I can tell you, you win some, you lose some.

Some lose more than others.

I did okay, I had more money than I needed, and I wasn't limping yet, unlike most of the guys in this game.

At a knuckle and ten grand per roll, the night would bring consequences.

I looked at him long and hard....

“Did you ever roll against McJaidy?”

“Yeah, I lost a finger and two toes in that game... less than McJaidy did though.”

I looked at his hands, a thumb and a pinky on the right, the index and middle on the left.

I kept my empty hand below the table, and pushed my money forwards with my full right.

“Yeah, you look like a lucky guy, so... roll the dice, huh?”

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Reality check

2011-01-28T00:03:00.004Z

I had a dream, and in my dream I possessed super powers, I could fly, not with wings, but like Superman, defying gravity. I was blessed with superhuman strength, and bulletproof skin.

In my dream I put these powers to good use, saving the damsels in distress, rescuing the unfortunate victims of accident and crime, I became a legend, the city's saviour, where there were wrongs to be righted I was there.

In my dream I looked down from the window of my seventh storey apartment, a crime was taking place directly below, the mugger was sprinting away with the purse in his hand, this was another case for SuperDan, in scant seconds the criminal would be captured, and the purse returned to the sobbing young lady.

In my dream I launched myself from the window and gave chase....

In reality I didn't succeed in catching the mugger, but I did succeed in killing the sobbing young lady who I landed on.

In reality there is now only this bed, and the occasional face that enters my limited line of vision.

I now take all of my meals through a drip, and communicate in morse code eye-blinks.

Any dreams I now have are dominated by remorseful reflections on the folly of combining hallucinogenic drugs with tall buildings.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

A man's need

2011-01-21T00:01:00.003Z

He had survived the aftermath of the war and the nuclear winter by doing what was necessary.

At first he fought other survivors for the contents of the stores and houses, eventually it was down to hunting dogs, cats, rats, even insects.

It was almost three days since he'd last eaten, and now hunger was rapidly turning to starvation. His stomach growled, and cramped painfully.

A small movement caught his eye...

A cat maybe, or if luck was with him, a dog.

He lifted the rifle and trained the telescopic sight on the animal...

Not a dog...a woman, a young woman, maybe eighteen or twenty years old, certainly not much more, was picking her way lithely across the rubble, keeping low to the ground.

The desire boiled in his body, it had been a very long time since he had seen a woman.
His mind was swamped with memories of women he had known, had loved, had made love to.

Images flooded his thoughts, intertwined flesh, skin beaded with the glow of exertion, mingling juices, hot staccato breath, whimpers and small noises...

As he watched her approach, the exquisite sensation in his groin became almost overwhelming.

Almost....

A man's need to breed is one of his most basic instincts.

As is a man's need to eat.

A solitary tear rolled down his cheek as he squeezed the trigger.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Creative Genius

2011-01-18T21:52:00.002Z

Genevieve Ching the excellent writer who resides at So, Write has very kindly awarded me the Creative Genius Blog Award, thank you Gen, I am so pleased.

It seems that I now have the privilege of nominating some of my own favourite writers on #FridayFlash, certainly not an easy choice as there are so many very good writers on the site, after much thought, these are the three that I finally decided on, and the reasons why I chose them.

Stephen at Powder Burns & Bullets. For the enjoyment I have had reading his excellent western serial “Heroes Wanted”.

Rachel Blackbirdsong at Ravenwood. For her beautifully eloquent and darkly poetic writing style that I absolutely love.

Harry at Harry B Sanderford. For being so uniquely entertainingly different in his stories.

Please copy the award from my right-hand side bar guys, and post it to your own Blogs.

Thanks to you all for the pleasure you have given me through your writing, and best wishes for all your future works and projects.

Steve Green.

Going down

2011-01-14T00:02:00.003Z

I don't like it here, man... in fact I hate the place.

I used to have my own penthouse suite, the band was riding high in the album charts, the tour was going well, my plec and Gib slammed out super-sexy heavy metal, man...

and I had my pick of the rock chicks too, three at a time if I wanted.

Sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll baby, yeeehaah!!

The rags were calling us a modern day Guns N' Roses....

Guns N' Roses? Ha! More like Buns N' Pansies, man, a buncha pussies with an Axel to grind.

We were THE band, man.... THE BAND.

It's a bummer how just one more snort, one more joint and a midnight Hog ride can change things.

Now I have to share a cloud.... jeez man, SHARE a cloud, the harp is more out of tune than in, and plays nothing but plinky-plonky crap anyway, and the “chicks” are so goody-goody they make me want to puke!

What kinda shit-fer-brains incompetent was put in charge of the decision that sent me here in the first place, huh?

My transfer will come through any day now, I just know it....

They're already gettin' sick of me...

Grabbin' the chicks asses, wiping my nose on the guys' wings, belchin' and fartin' during the chorals...

Patience was wearin' thin man, ha!

Yeah, man, I'll soon be on my way.

A one way ticket to Hades baby....

well, it sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than this place.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

Misdirection

2011-01-07T00:02:00.003Z

People tended to see what they wanted to see, or what served their own individual purpose to see, or what their prejudices, narrow minds, bigotry, upbringing, or inadequacies, steered them in the direction of.

Underestimation can be a very dangerous thing.

When most people looked at George Least, one glance was enough to tell them everything that he was capable of, or incapable of to be more precise, in that one glance they could read everything about him, he was, and always would be, a failure at everything he ever did, he would never succeed at business, he would never win the fair lady, he would never win a two-fisted fight, he was a weedy, cowardly, brainless, four-eyed no-hoper, this is what people saw, even his name belied what George really was inside.

Appearances can be deceptive.

George was Five feet three inches tall, weighed a scant ninety eight pounds, wore glasses, and bore more than a passing resemblance to Steve Buscemi, all this combined to cause people to constantly dismiss him, belittle him, and underestimate him, and this burned him deeply.

George was originally from New York, but had moved to Chicago soon after graduating three years ago, he had a degree in mathematics, made an absolute fortune on the internet, had bedded dozens of beautiful women (paid for, but beautiful women nonetheless), hidden beneath his clothes, his body was hard toned muscle from working out for two hours each day, he was also a third Dan shotokan karate expert.

In the last three years, one hundred and eighteen men and women had been brutally slain in Chicago, the M.O. Was always the same, they were found where they had died, eyes gouged out, smashed ribs, broken teeth, broken neck, a multitude of other internal injuries, a large 'M' carved into the forehead, and as a final violation, posthumously raped.

The police experts profiled a man aged twenty five to forty, black hair, approximately one hundred and ninety to two hundred and ten pounds, powerful build, approximately six feet two tall, blood type O, taking a size eleven shoe.

George laced up his size seven brogues, ran a comb through his blond hair, he took a final glance around his expensively furnished apartment, then stepped outside. His rather weak looking expression hid a smug and superior attitude.... And something else.

By the morning the body count would be one hundred and nineteen, there would be further clues to support the profile, and the police would be no nearer to catching the monster.

Misdirection was George's middle name.

©2011 Stephen. J. Green.

A new year to remember

2010-12-31T00:03:00.003Z

New years eve. They watched the Earth from the viewport, a glass of champagne at the ready, the Universal clock read 23:59. The six of them had been celebrating and dancing in the confined floorspace of the orbital pod for almost two hours now, and their mood was high.

The clock flicked to 00:00, and they each took a sip from their glasses, there were hugs, kisses and cheering from them all.

“Well, the lack of funding in the space program has made the last twelve months totally forgettable, here's to a new year to remember.” Said Barker, she raised her glass to the others, then took another drink, a huge grin spreading across her face.

“Wow! Those fireworks displays must be absolutely awesome this year,” said Rawlings, “I can spot them even from this distance.”

Barker, her grin spreading even wider, walked across to the monitor, switched it on, and zoomed the view, her face fell, then paled. “They aren't fireworks,” she said, “they're mushroom clouds.”

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Merry Zmas

2010-12-23T18:13:00.004Z

Zachary Johnson was working as an in-store Santa when the infestation overran the town.

The early hours of Christmas morning found Zach walking slowly along a dark suburban avenue, the area was littered with body parts, wrecked cars, and the resultant debris from several days of slaughter, pandemonium, and panic.

He turned his head towards the sound of a door opening, and the sudden brightness of a porch light.

“Mommy and Daddy said you wouldn't come this year, but I knew you would.”

The voice came from a small girl framed in the light of the doorway.

“Come on in, Mommy and Daddy will be so surprised to see you.”

She scampered off into the house, leaving the door swinging wide. “Mommy, Daddy, wake up, Santa's here, he looks beautiful, he's all dressed in red and white, even his beard is red.”

Zach emmitted a loud moan, which was heard by every other walking corpse for over two hundred yards, then shambled towards the house in pursuit of his Christmas dinner.

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Worried to death

2010-12-17T00:02:00.002Z

Frank worried about anything and everything, just lately he had started fretting about the fact that he was constantly worrying over trivial matters, and this fretting became a cause for deep concern, and although he tried not to let it, the concern itself was something which became a cause for much worry.

The doctor had told him that the itchy inflammation all over his body was just a nerve rash and nothing to worry about, but as the itching increased, and subsequently his scratching intensified, so did his anxiety, and he became extremely stressed about his fretting over his anxiety regarding the worrying concerning his nerve rash.

Frank sat in a bath full of hot water, which did nothing to alleviate the effects of the nerve rash, or for that matter, the worry over the stress caused by the fretting about the anxiety concerning his nerve rash.

He picked up the straight razor from the table at the side of the bath, and immediately began worrying over whether he would be doing the right thing.

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Darklight

2010-12-10T00:02:00.008Z

( A darkening world part 3 )

The two beings hunched over the Darklight gameboard, and considered the intricate positioning of the pieces, centuries passed....

“I am winning the game my friend, the Darklings are close to victory, and soon your Lightlings will be overrun, and you will lose.”

“It is true that you appear to be winning, but the best strategist in the fourth quadrant you are not, you may have overlooked one or two moves along the way.”

“I think you try to bluff me, admit your defeat and yield the game.”

“I think not my friend, I believe if I take this piece from here, and place it here, it allows me to relight two of their suns, does it not?”

“Oh... I hadn't seen that move, relight the suns then, but this game is not over yet, and I still hold the lead.”

“Then play your next move my friend.”

The two beings hunched over the Darklight gameboard, and considered the intricate positioning of the pieces, centuries passed....

--------------------

A darkening world (part 1)
Darklings (A darkening world part 2)

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Phobic

2010-12-03T00:02:00.003Z

I stared through the windscreen, my heart was beating fast, too fast, an irregular tattoo of bumps and thuds pounding against my ribcage. Almost deafened by the gushing, sporadic pulse in my ears.

I held the steering wheel in a death grip, hands twitching and shaking, arms rigid, muscles solid.

I felt the sweat begin to trickle through my hair, dampening my scalp, soaking it through, plastering my hair to my head, weaving its way down my already clammy forehead, dripping from my eyebrows and nose.
It cascaded from the back of my head, running down the nape of my neck, soaking my collar.
My shirt drenched wet at armpits, back, and chest.
It streamed down my spine, puddling on the car seat, and trickling to the floor.

My mouth was dry, arid, my tongue a lifeless leathery slug stuck to the roof of my mouth, my throat constantly dry-swallowing, adam's apple yoyoing rapidly.

Cold, steely, writhing worms of tension iced their way through my guts, my scrotum pulled tight against my body.
My sphincter constantly contracting and relaxing, bowels threatening to empty as the fear washed over me in continuous tidal waves.

A glance in the mirror showed a face haggard with terror, apprehensive, drawn, pale, lined with tension, the mouth tight, and thin-lipped, eyes impossibly wide open, round and staring, each one a bullseye of white, blue, and black.

Then the visions came...

And the sounds...

I watched in horror as the cars collided…

Racing engines...

Squealing tyres...

Shrieking brakes...

Screaming voices....

A never-ending continuous cacophony...

A horrifying montage of colour and movement.

I watched as the cars piled into one another, impacted, compacted, flipped over, somersaulted...

Bones cracked and splintered against steering columns, faces punched through windscreens, flesh and sinew shredded against glass and steel, limbs torn from torsos....

On and on, until all I saw stretching from horizon to horizon was a rolling boiling ocean of tortured twisted mangled metal and Minced meat.
Intertwined, interlocked.
Bent bumpers, gnarled grills, crumpled bonnets and doors.
Shattered windows, light glinting off the odd diamond of glass still stubbornly clinging to the rubber seal.

A viscous globby cocktail of coolant, brake fluid, fuel, and gore splattered over it all.

The voice brought me back to reality...

“Don't worry.” Said the instructor. “ It's quite normal to be a bit nervous on your first driving lesson.”

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

A useful death

2010-11-26T00:02:00.002Z

I watched as the team of surgeons set to work.
They worked in virtual silence, quickly, efficiently.
Time was of the essence, time was not their friend, the clock was ticking...

I watched as they stripped the body of its parts....

The eyes would give sight to a nine year old girl, blind from birth.
They would bring light and colour to her life, and enable her to become the leading geneticist destined to discover the cure for cancer.

One of the kidneys would save the life of a fourteen year old boy, who would grow up to become the famous auto-engineer who developed the car engine that would run on tap water.

The other would ensure a post natal mother would still be alive to love her baby when he became a man, the same man who would eventually become the leader of the political party that was instrumental in successfully restructuring the World Health Organisation.

The liver would continue the existence of a nineteen year old girl, who would one day become the physicist to discover the link between time and space, restarting the space programme, and eventually leading to the possibility of deep space travel.

One of the lungs would save the life of a peace activist, who many years later would be the leader of the global network that successfully negotiates the destruction of all nuclear weapons.

The second would enhance the breathing of a twenty four year old man, who would go on to father the child who becomes the botanist famous for creating the fast-growing hybrid tree, enabling the rapid replacement of the rain forests.

The pancreas would extend the life of the meteorologist who in years to come would accidentally discover a cheap, and permanent way to repair the ozone layer.

The heart would save the life of a twenty three year old medical student, destined to make ground-breaking discoveries in the world of organ and limb transplant. The man who would be the great grandfather of the woman responsible for initiating the political programme that would eventually lead the way to world peace.

I watched all this from above the operating table as the link between my body and soul slowly evaporated, and I began to float away....

And I reflected on the irony that I had just signed the organ donor card, and was placing it into my wallet as I stepped off the kerb, when the lorry hit me.

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Attention to detail

2010-11-19T00:04:00.004Z

I met Arnold Bollinger in a slightly seedy hotel bar, I had wandered inside more to escape the blistering heat than in the pursuit of alcohol.

A sombre faced man sat alone at the corner table, the only one with available chairs.

“Excuse me would you mind awfully if I shared the table with you?” I asked him.

“No, please join me sir,” he replied, “I hate drinking alone, and I could really do with the company on this sad day.”

He rose and offered his hand, “Arnold Bollinger sir.”

“Bernard Romford sir.” I replied, shaking his hand firmly. “Sad day sir?” I enquired, as I sat down.

“Yes sir, a very sad day. I have just attended the funeral of my best friend, Reginald Pollock.”

“Oh my!” I said, slightly taken aback. “How did he die?”

“Attention to detail sir, that's what killed the poor chap, or lack of attention to detail to be more precise. Please sit awhile with me sir, and you shall hear the story.”

Mister Bollinger sat back in his chair, and began...

“I first met Reggie thirty seven years ago sir, in the army in Eighteen ninety nine, at the start of the Boer war. There we were, two young tigers, barely out of our teens, newly commissioned. We fought many battles and skirmishes together. Saved each others lives on more than one occasion, I can tell you.
One time we were on a scouting mission, Reggie, myself, and a dozen infantrymen. We were about to set up camp when there commenced a loud thrashing and trumpeting from the bush. I told the men to post guard, Reggie and I would investigate. We stole quietly through the trees until we came to a rather large clearing with a sturdy tree in the centre of it. Attached to the base of said tree was a length of steel wire, a snare sir, laid by damned blasted ivory poachers, the other end of which was wrapped around the foreleg of a baby elephant.”

Bollinger paused for a moment or two, and his eyes took on a blank stare as his mind's eye returned him to the clearing.

“The poor animal was thrashing and dragging at the wire in vain attempts to free itself, losing more blood as the wire bit deeper. I was for shooting the animal to end its pain sir, but Reggie would have none of it, he always had a special rapport with animals, he had no fear of them you see, and they could sense this. He approached the elephant and talked soothingly to it for a few minutes, rubbing its trunk gently, eventually the animal calmed, and he led it nearer to the tree, which enabled him to remove the snare. A nasty looking wound ran full circle around the poor beasts foot. Talking quietly to the animal all the while, Reggie took his medical kit from his pack, and the elephant stood docilely whilst Reggie applied salve to the wound. The animal stared into Reggie's eyes for several moments, and then wandered off through the trees.”

“Over the next few months we saw the animal on several occasions, easily distinguishable from the other infants by the vivid white scar round its leg, on these occasions Reggie would call out to it, the creature would separate from the herd and amble over to spend a few minutes nuzzling up to him, you see sir, an elephant never forgets a friend, or indeed an enemy for that matter.”

“After the war we left the army to seek our fortunes here in Africa, through the years we travelled the length and breadth of this great nation, doing many different things sir, diamond and gold prospecting, bodyguarding, we made rather a large amount of money as mercenaries here and there too.”

“Last week we were commissioned to seek out and … er... discourage a particularly troublesome team of ivory poachers who were operating in the district. We located the elephant herd, and tracked it as we waited for the poachers to show up. Three nights ago we were hidden in the scrub about fifty yards from the herd, and a rather large bull elephant appeared, he had got our scent and was walking towards us, I thought we may be in danger sir, I reached for my rifle in order to defend myself but Reggie motioned for me to be still. He stood up, and I watched with horror as he laid down his rifle, and started walking slowly towards the massive animal, all the while talking soothingly to it, and then sir, I noticed the vivid white scar that circled the animals front foot.”

“I called to him to come back... he wouldn't listen sir....”

“Reggie walked right up to the towering beast, the elephant stood calmly whilst he reached up and gently stroked its trunk.....”

“After a minute or two the elephant lowered its massive head, slowly wrapped its trunk around Reggie's waist, it lifted him high into the air, then savagely slammed him into the ground with tremendous force.......”

“I watched sir, frozen in shock and disbelief as it lifted the scarred foot, placed it on top of his head, and squashed his skull like a grape.... like a grape sir!"

“The animal then slowly wandered back to the herd without so much as a glance in my direction.”

“I brought poor Reggie's body back here over his horse sir. If only he had paid attention to detail, He would have noticed as I had, that the old snare scar was on the elephants left forefoot...”

I looked at him, not really understanding the point he was making....

“Sad to say Sir,” Bollinger continued. “The baby elephant who's life he had saved all those years ago had been snared by its RIGHT foot.”

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Sweet home Alabama

2010-11-12T00:04:00.003Z

I stood outside the apartment door listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd bouncing through the woodwork, a glance at my watch told me it was 3:14 A.M.

I kicked the door open and walked inside, the volume ramped up a couple of notches.

“SWE-ET HO-OME AAALABAMA” …............ “WHERE THE SKIES ARE SO BLUE....”

BLAM..... BLAM BLAM

“SWE-ET” BLAM “AAALABAMA” …............. “LORD” BLAM “COMIN HO-OME TO YOU....”

“HERE I” BLAM “AAALA Scrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtt...

I walked from the apartment and quietly closed the door behind me.

I had asked them time and time and time again, to please not play their music so loud.

I pushed the .45 into my belt as I walked downstairs to my own apartment.

I really needed to get some sleep.

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

The Drop

2010-11-05T00:09:00.002Z

It was known as 'The Drop', almost two miles of sheer vertical cliff face dropping straight down onto open plain.

Most of the young men who had tested their courage against The Drop had died in the attempt, the number who had made it to the base, clutching the rare blue flower that grew from the cliff face were few.

The hard part wasn't in getting to the bottom safely, it was getting to the bottom at all.

The extreme low gravity of this planet caused a human body to drift down very slowly, resulting in a feather-light touchdown at the base...

If you could get to the base.

The danger was the rising thermals raising the body back up the cliff face. These currents had to be negotiated precisely in order to get past them, you had to feel your way through the intricate layers of warmth and cool, divers got trapped inside the warm air pockets, and drifted up and down until they starved to death, and continued drifting whilst the flesh rotted from their bones.

I slowly scanned my powerlens downwards from left to right, at various points along the wall, and at various heights, I could see specks, some slowly rising, others slowly falling, the bodies of failed attempts, sentenced to an eternity of highs and lows.

I pushed the lens into my pocket, raised my arms, and leant forward ....

I fell from the cliff edge, and began the descent....

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Pumpkinhead

2010-10-29T00:03:00.003+01:00

Ah, Halloween is here again, I just love Halloween.

Today I was making my lantern.

The knife was short, but sturdy, and very sharp.

I pushed it in almost to the hilt, then twisted it round, scrolling my wrist over and back, over and back, delighting in the squishy-squelchy sounds it produced. I withdrew the blade, globs of soft flesh and tendrils of thick liquid clung to the stainless steel.

I ran the flat of the blade across my tongue, savouring the juices, aaah...sweet, sweet.

Okay, now for the second eye.... A slight pop as the blade went through the skin, then squish- squelch, squish-squelch. I caught myself singing a few bars from an old George Benson song “In your eyes” and smiled.

I carved the nose out with three deep cuts, leaving a gaping, dribbling, triangular hole.

I held it against my lips, tilted my head back, and sucked deeply, allowing the sweet liquid to trickle down my throat.

The mouth was a bit more tricky, the teeth proved to be a problem, but I hacked and slashed and gouged, until it took on a look that pleased me. A rather lopsided, but gap-toothy smiling look.

I kissed the mouth, running my tongue slowly along the contours of the teeth, flicking it deeply into the wet hole, searching out the loose tiny morsels.

After removing the top I carefully scooped out all of the insides, slopping them into a large bowl, I would eat them for dessert after dinner tomorrow.

I pushed the candle deep into the soft base inside the head, lit it, replaced the top, then turned out the light to appreciate my efforts.

Hmmm, not bad, the Halloween lantern was probably one of my best efforts to date, the candle's glow flickered eerily from the carved apertures. All in all I was quite pleased with it.

I glanced across at the rest of the corpse in the corner of the room, and debated whether or not to use a real pumpkin for next Halloween.

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Slaves

2010-10-22T00:04:00.002+01:00

I used to be a slave-catcher.

We caught them, we shaved their heads, we put them in a blue jumpsuit, we put them to work.

I broke the rules, I fell in love with a catch, such beautiful red hair, such beautiful green eyes, such beauty.

What would a man do to protect all that beauty?

I ran, I took her with me, we ran together.

The further we ran, the more I loved her.

The more I loved her, the harder I fought to protect her.

The harder I fought, the more men I killed.

The more men they lost, the harder they chased.

In the end, I did not fight hard enough.

* * * * *

My freshly-shaven head feels cold, cold like my heart.

The jumpsuit chafes my skin, but the blue definitely suits the colour of my soul.

All that beauty has been taken from me.

And I still live.

My heart will ache for the rest of my life.

In the gaseous tunnels of the Basidium mines beneath the surface of Epsilon 4, 'life' is about six months max.

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Picking up the tab

2010-10-15T00:04:00.004+01:00

He screamed like a bitch when I ripped his fingernails out, even through the gag he made plenty of noise.

I tossed the dripping pliers onto the pile of tools on the table, then waited....

Eventually he stopped thrashing around as the pain dulled. The leather straps held tight, the chair stayed solid on the floor.

“I'll bet you're wondering why this is happening?” I said as I removed the gag.

The thing in the chair sobbed and mewled, tear-flooded eyes downcast.

“Eleven seventeen East Hardaker Avenue mean anything to you?” I asked him.

He raised his head and took a good look at me, I could see the connection being made.

“Look, she never told me she was married, how could I know?”

“All the pictures around the house of me and her would give most people a clue, anyway this isn't about you screwing my wife.”

“Look, I... She was... ”

“I already told you, this isn't about you screwing my wife. I've been impotent for years, and she misses the physical side that I can't do no more, so we have an arrangement, I always know who and when, and I give her the space she needs. I love my wife, and she loves me, she uses men like you, but she loves ME! Comprendez?

“Please... look... I... I'll never see her again...”

“Oh, I already know that.”

“So... why?...” He said, lips quivering, eyes streaming, snot and blood dripping.

“Because you took advantage, that's why.”

“Wha...?”

“You should have left the house when she asked you to, you should have left my booze alone when she told you to, and you shouldn't have slapped her and then fallen asleep in my bed.”

I refastened the gag tightly around his mouth.

His eyes bulged as he watched me pick up the secateurs from the table...

“Now, I reckon you've just about paid for the bed, so I figure you still have to pick up the tab for the slap, and half a bottle of Jack Daniels.”

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Darklings

2010-10-08T00:02:00.009+01:00

(A darkening world part 2)

There was a time when our kind could exist in only the deepest, darkest holes and caverns beneath the ground.

As the death-bringing, skin-scorching suns above began to die, so our world grew.

We emerged, bred, and flourished in our new kingdom, as more of the hated skyfires dimmed and finally darkened, we swept across the Nightland.

The detestable Lightlings flee from us, they run from the silky life-giving blackness that sustains our eternal existence. They scamper to remain in their searing heat-filled slice of this planet, desperately clinging to the clawhold left to them.

Yes, they run....

And we follow.

We follow, watch, plot, and wait.

Be afraid Lightlings, we will feed on your fear, for we are here, just one step beyond the light's edge.

We will have you, and your piece of this world. Soon.... Very soon.

Your only remaining sun has begun to flicker, just as the others did.

The time of the Dayland is almost done.

Our time is near.

And we are hungry.

----------------

A darkening world (part 1)
Darklight (A darkening world part 3)

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

A darkening world

2010-10-01T00:06:00.007+01:00

(Part 1)

There was once a time when our world bathed in the life-bringing warmth of nine suns, our species lived in a constant daylight, and the Darklings could survive in only the deepest darkest pits beneath the land.

One by one the suns began flickering, paling, diminishing, until finally they died.

Now we must travel ever eastwards to remain in the light of the one remaining sun.
For us the dark means pain, suffering, and eventually death. Our skin that absorbs the life-force from the rays, enabling our immortality, would blister in the shadow.

Not so the Darklings, as our world contracted so theirs expanded, they bred and grew until they covered the Nightland.

But as we are cursed, so are they, for they must travel constantly eastwards to escape the creeping daylight, just as we must escape the creeping shadow of night.

I have travelled far today, I have time to sleep before the dark is upon me again.

I am afraid.

Are my eyes playing tricks.... or did the sun just flicker?

-----------------

Darklings (A darkening world part 2)
Darklight (A darkening world part 3)

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Deadline

2010-09-24T00:30:00.002+01:00

The deadline was upon me, and I had nothing!......NOTHING!

I stared at the blank screen in despair, the shame of certain failure weighing heavy as a rock.

I leaned forward and rested my forehead wearily on the keyboard.

And then the tears came.....

Trickles of them....

Streams of them....

Rivers of them....

Floods of them....

As my body shook with great racking, heaving sobs, the salty deluge soaked the keys, seeping through the tiny gaps, and into the circuitry below.

Tiny blue sparks and arcs lit up the underside of the keyboard like a miniature lightning storm....

I became aware of the screen flickering, a white lightning mingling with the blue...

I looked up.... words were appearing on the screen, faster and faster, too fast to read....

And suddenly, they stopped.

I wiped my eyes dry, and began to read, my heart lifting more and more with every word....

Before me was the wittiest, deepest, most meaningful short story I have ever read in my whole life.

A miracle had happened, I would hit the deadline.

And more... It was a gem... an absolute masterpiece... a piece of such literary genius that the whole of the writing world would be taken by storm.

Nine hundred and ninety nine words of supremely perfect eloquence.

It would make me famous.

Visions of all the awards and accolades that were certain to come my way filled my ecstatic mind...

I reached toward the mouse to save the story to the hard drive....

But before I could grasp it....

There was a final staccato spiderweb of blue arcs across the keyboard....

A small tendril of grey smoke curled upwards from the computer tower....

And the power went off.

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

A Zombie's tale

2010-09-17T09:13:00.007+01:00

The bark of the tree felt rough against my back and the damp from the grass had soaked through my trousers bringing a cold chill to my buttocks and thighs, no matter, I wouldn't be in discomfort for much longer.

I looked once again at the small bite mark on my forearm, strangely there was no pain, and though it was a freshly opened wound, there was no blood. I could feel an odd sensation like mild pins and needles radiating from the wound along my arm to the shoulder, and starting now to infiltrate my chest. The virus was spreading, I wondered how long it would be before it encompassed the rest of my body.

Once I had reanimated there would be no hiding place for any of them, the virus would wash over them like a tidal wave, engulfing them all. Within a few short days their impregnable fortress would become a charnel house, its rooms and corridors spattered with blood and strewn with shreds of meat, the walls echoing the screams and overlapping moans and howls as the carnage intensified.

Oh yes there would be resistance, the fighting would be fierce to start with, decreasing as the infected gradually outnumbered the healthy, eventually they would all succumb.

And they deserved it.

*****

The castle, once the property of a wealthy land owner was the gathering place of over four hundred of the nations rich and privileged, a stone fortress that had survived the outbreak. Its high walls and thick solid gates had kept its smug residents safe from both the zombie hordes, and the living survivors. There was much partying and hedonism going on inside the walls, whilst the cities outside one by one fell prey to the ever-growing army of the infected as they swept across the land like a wild fire, unstoppable, uncontrollable.

*****

I had begun to get the bad thoughts again, the kind of thoughts that I used to get before I was diagnosed, before the medication.

I used to do bad things, to think bad things, they said it wasn't my fault, they told me that my I.Q. Bordered on genius and that's what made me behave strangely.

My parents were rich, very rich, they bought me the very best treatment, they bought me out of trouble, paid people off to keep me out of prison.

And when the dead started rising they brought me here....

And eventually the medication ran out....

*****

The easiest way would have been to simply open the gates, but they were sealed shut, braced with massive beams and rocks, and anyway, this was going to be my party, and I wanted to be the guest of honour.

I began the preparations for the fun and games....

from the parapet I lowered the rope down and into the shambling mass of inhumanity that pressed continuously against the castle walls, before long I managed to flip the noose over one of the heads, and dragged the writhing wretch upwards until the head and shoulders appeared through the castellated gap. As the decomposing hands reached for me I picked up the axe and hacked both arms off at the biceps, I didn't want the damn thing grabbing hold of me, I could hardly start my own party if I was torn to pieces could I?

The head twisted and turned, snarling and snapping, the stumps of its arms still trying to reach out with non-existent hands. I thrust the corner of the axe blade into its mouth to prevent it from biting me too deeply, then pushed my forearm against the teeth, as the mouth clamped down on my arm the axe blade allowed it to bite down just far enough to puncture the skin, opening the wound....

And letting the virus in.

phase one accomplished.

I let the creature fall back into the seething throng below, rope still attached, then threw the arms over the parapet after it.

As I walked down the stone steps, and made my way across the garden to the trees I had a warm, happy feeling inside me, I smiled, and rejoiced at my own cleverness.

I walked through the garden and found a nice shaded spot, sat down against a tree trunk, and savoured the idea of the coming party.

Tomorrow wasn't my real birthday, that was months away. No, tomorrow I would be reborn, as something else. So in effect it would be my Birth Day.

I didn't much enjoy being me, and I didn't like the way people treat me. They looked at me like I was a freak, they spoke to me in condescending voices as though I were stupid or retarded. Well, we would see who looked stupid when the celebrations began wouldn't we?

*****

I watched with a quiet detachment as a small spider climbed my thigh and started to make its way up my leg, it reached my hip at the same time as the tingling sensation that was spreading downwards through my body did. The spider suddenly seemed to lose its footing, falling back into the grass, then hurriedly scuttled away from me.

I wondered if there was such a thing as zombie insects, or birds, or fish.

It would be time for me to make a move soon, I wanted to be in my bedroom before my whole body was infected.

The first thing my parents did every morning was to check in on me, anyone would think they didn't trust me. Mind you they had been keeping a close eye on me since my tablets had run out, but I was smarter than them, I was a good actor, even the doctors had said so.

Oh well, time to get going, I could feel my shins tingling, and I was ready for bed.

I didn't want to be too tired to greet my parents tomorrow morning when they came into my room to help me begin my Birth Day party did I?

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Zurvivor. (A Zombie's tale. Part 2)
Zigourney. (A Zombie's tale Part 3)

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Jail bait

2010-09-11T10:31:00.005+01:00

I hadn't been inside the prison for long, when I realised that I was under scrutiny,

I was listening to the tall skinny fellow droning on in a high nasal whine about the impossibility of escape, when I got the feeling of eyes on me.

Turning slowly, I looked across to my right, standing a few feet away was a big athletic looking guy, and he was looking me up and down, much the same way a guy might cast an appraising eye over a sleek sports car, or a powerful racing boat...

Or a buxom, bikini-clad babe.

As I watched him watching me, his gaze travelled appreciatively back and forth across my body, lingering here and there.
His lips were pursed into the kind of look someone gets about them when they're assessing the value of a purchase before they part with their cash.
I got the feeling that he was imagining something else roving all over my body, his gaze eventually worked its way back up to face level, and when he caught my eye he winked at me.

Not a full 'eye completely shut, head-twisting' wink, more like a tic in his lower lid, but a wink nonetheless ...

then he raised one eyebrow slightly, pursed his lips and he blew me a kiss!
He blew me a goddam KISS!

Oh Christ, I could feel a ball of tension starting in my guts. This was all I needed.
I'd never had to deal with this kind of situation before, and I felt the first stirrings of unease worm their way through my stomach.

I'd heard about the things that went on behind bars. Scenarios from various prison films I'd seen throughout my life kept popping into my head.

I glanced around at the others, no-one else seemed to be aware of what was going on...

I thought maybe if I ignored him he would just leave me be...

I looked around at the depressing concrete walls and floor, god, what a place to have to live in.

I hoped my face wasn't reflecting the discomfort that I was feeling. If there was ever a time I needed to look like I could handle myself, this was definitely it.

Some of the inmates had spent over twenty years in this shit hole, jeez, my eyes had barely had time to adjust to the gloom, and I already felt like I'd done half a life sentence.

Turning back to look, I took stock of my admirer.
He was powerfully built, and I'd be willing to bet that he was well accustomed to pumping iron, Christ, he looked like he ate dumb bells for breakfast. He was about eighteen stone of pure muscle, and had a chiselled, eastern European look about him.

Great, I'd barely walked through the prison gate and I was getting the glad eye from an Arnold Schwarzenegger look-alike.

I wondered what the chances were of me fighting off a guy that size if push came to shove.

My fear intensified as scenes from 'The Shawshank redemption' wormed their way into my mind.
Images of Tim Robbins being brutally attacked by the vicious Sisters.

I made my way deeper into the throng, Hoping for safety in numbers.

No good, he just followed, nonchalantly pushing his way through after me.

The next time I plucked up the courage to glance at him he'd returned his gaze to my backside again, This situation was not looking good.

For the next two hours or so, wherever I went he was never more than a few paces away.
Watching, looking, leering suggestively...

I wish to god that I could just walk out of the door and go home.

But I was in here now, and I'd have to deal with it, wouldn't I?

I glanced over in his direction again… oh Christ, he had moved closer...

I wasn't exactly sure what to do about the situation. I looked over at the tall skinny guy who was still talking, but didn't really expect any help from that quarter .

I walked slowly along the landing, peering into the cells as I passed, running my hand over the cold steel bars, anything to distract my mind from what was happening.

The tall, skinny guy was still rambling on, I couldn't tell what he was saying, the only thing my frightened mind could concentrate on just now was dealing with the predicament I was in.

I became aware of a slight movement at my side...

I felt the velvety light touch as the back of a hand brushed against mine... Oh jeez!!

Without looking I just KNEW he was standing next to me...

And then he spoke.

“Hi, I'm Scott”

I turned to face him, looked him in the eye, and said “Look Scott, I'm not that way inclined, so why don't you try your luck somewhere else, huh? And if I catch you looking at my backside just one more time I'll break your goddam jaw.”

His face took on an expression of surprise and he stepped back a pace...

He opened his mouth as if to say something, seemed to think better of it...

Then he turned around and wandered off.

“Right, Ladies and Gentleman.” Said the tall skinny guy. “ We hope you enjoyed your tour of Alcatraz prison...blah...blah...”

I turned on my heel, and joined the rest of the tourists as we started making our way back down towards the ferry.

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Job sorted

2010-09-04T09:14:00.003+01:00

I hate my job.

As I sat at the kitchen table looking at the pistol before me, I fantasised about its past.

Used by a mugger maybe? Pushed into some poor victims face to instil fear, and ensure co-operation whilst their wallet and valuables were taken from them?
.
Or perhaps taken along on a bank heist and brandished menacingly whilst some terrified cashier threw wads of money into a holdall?

Who could tell where the pistol had been to before I discovered it in the bushes at the bottom of my garden?

Whatever its past, it was mine now, and for the purpose I had in mind it would suit perfectly.

There was a birthday in the office today...

In days gone by a birthday in the office was a day of cream buns and biscuits, brought in by the happy birthday boy or girl. But not any more...

And certainly not today ...

Today was HIS birthday, and I was going to ensure that it was a day that would be remembered in the office forever. Today I was going to make his life shit, just as he had made the lives of many other people shit, people who I liked and admired, people who were my friends.

Today was payback day.

I didn't give a thought to the consequences, he needed sorting, and it seemed that I was the only one who was prepared to do the job.

Eleven years I had worked there, eleven happy, contented years, enjoying my job, enjoying the company of my work colleagues. Good men and women each and every one of them.

We had never hesitated to do the odd hour of unpaid overtime to get the job done. The appreciation showed by the old manager paid it back tenfold.

The birthday bashes and Christmas parties were always filled with jovial bonhomie, and genuine cameraderie.

Apart from the odd 'bad hair day that everyone gets once in a while, I can't for the life of me ever remember any true animosity in that office in all the years I worked there.

Until HE was employed as the manager.

In just six short months he had managed to virtually destroy any sense of goodwill that existed, his constant berating and bullying had reduced the lovely ladies to tears on many occasions.

He felt quite safe from any reprisals, who would dare answer back when their job was on the line?

Yes, he put a whole new meaning on the phrase 'abuse of power'.

Such a big brave man, eh?

Never missing an opportunity to pass sarcastic comments, never passing up the chance of using a put down, or a confidence-knocker.

Did he really think that this was the best way to get maximum effort from his staff?

He put me in mind of the drunken father returning home from the pub to take out his inner demons on his defenceless wife and children.

Well, today would be like no other day at the office.

Today I would take revenge for all the tears he had brought forth from my dear lady friends.
Today he would come to regret all the needless stress he had laid at the feet of my male colleagues.

And before I pulled the trigger, I would expose him for the coward that he really was.

I picked up the pistol from the table, its weight felt good in my hand, I checked once more that it was fully loaded, then slipped it into my inside jacket pocket and set off out of the door to work.

* * * * *

The atmosphere was very subdued when I walked into the office, just the muted ticker of fingers on keyboards and the whirr of copiers and printers. No tinkling laughter, or the sounds of coffee cups clunking onto tables, the sounds that used to accompany a very efficient workforce ploughing their way happily through their daily workload. No, those were the sounds of bygone days.

I walked straight to his desk, pulled out the pistol, and pointed it at his forehead...

His face went deathly pale, he placed his hands flat on the desk and rose shakily to his feet, staring at the weapon...

All sound ceased... All eyes turned to watch...

At first he pleaded, oh my, what he would or wouldn't do if I would just lower the gun...

The pistol stayed squarely aimed at his forehead...

I stared silently… my face deadpan ...

Next he started blubbering apologies to everyone, and “oh please just forgive my past behaviour, I didn't really mean any harm, it's just the way I come across. I've been under a lot of stress to get the workload out … You have no idea what it's like at the top.”

Yeah. Right.

The pistol did not waver... I said nothing...

Then the tears came, and the accusations...“How can you all just stand and watch this happen? You'll all be accomplices .. You'll be as guilty as him...”

And finally the begging… ”No. No. Please, someone help me, anyone, I'll do anything, oh God... Oh no… Please… No… No...”

“Happy birthday” I said as I squeezed the trigger...

* * * * *

The water hit his forehead, then trickled down his nose and chin, at almost exactly the same time as his bowels and bladder purged themselves, and the piss and shit ran down his trouser legs, an ever-widening dark stain covering the grey flannel.

His face turned purple as he ran crying from the room, taking his stink with him, and helped on his way by the loud cheering laughter of every other member of staff.... including the senior manager.

There was a flood of overlapping laughter and chattering, as windows were opened and a mop and bucket were brought to clean the floor with.

* * * * *

I love my job.

I am now the manager of a very happy office.

I never even received a disciplinary for the birthday prank, he never came back, just phoned the next day to say he had found another job. Yeah. Right.

And of course... his post needed filling.

Tomorrow I shall be calling in at the bakery on my way to work.

Because...

Tomorrow is MY birthday...

And as for the very realistic-looking water pistol?

Well, I threw it into someone else's bushes on my way to the pub with the rest of the office crew.

For some reason we felt the need to celebrate that evening.

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Hunted

2010-08-28T10:03:00.005+01:00

Why the hell had I ever let myself get involved in this?

I pressed my body closer to the ground, trying to keep as low a profile as possible. I hadn't heard any movement for a while, but I was pretty sure they weren't far away, and they wouldn't stop looking until they found me. My uniform was soaked through, and the early evening chill caused me to shiver making it almost impossible to remain silent in the long grass.

It was hard to believe that it was only six hours since we had set out, eight of us, walking jauntily with all the arrogance of the supremely confident. Oh yeah, we were gonna kick some ass. Our weapons held loosely, grins on each and every one of our faces, actually savouring the anticipation of taking down the other side. There's nothing to equal the thrill of watching your rounds impact as the rifle recoils in your hands. Well, that's what I had been told.

The thrill and anticipation had long since evaporated, the only rounds I had managed to fire had hit trees, earth, walls, anything but bodies. We were outclassed, that was clear from the first time we made contact. Johnno and Fishy had both copped it in that first skirmish. Eliminated!

Eliminated! A very cold word, eh?

They had opened fire simultaneously from both sides of the track, taking us completely by surprise. Christ! We thought they were still miles away. I just set off running, firing blindly, panicking, this was nothing like the fun time I was supposed to be having. A quick glance to my right and I had a brief view of Fishy, his mouth wide open in surprise, his chest covered in an ever-widening pattern of red.

I continued running for several minutes, listening to the heavy footfalls of the men running behind me, the lack of slugs hitting my back told me that it had to be my own buddies. When we finally collapsed, breathless, into a patch of dense shrubbery, we were down to six. That was when I learned that we had lost Johnno too.

Johnno! He was the one that had got us all involved in the first place.
“We'll be dealing with total amateurs,” he had said “ It's not like they're military or anything is it? They're just weekend sodding warriors.”
Well it didn't seem that way to me now.

I shifted slightly to alleviate the numbness creeping into my hips, and reflected on the lows, and lows, of the day.

After a brief rest we had continued Northeast towards our objective, moving slowly, quietly, keeping low, our confidence slightly dented now

We had no idea where they were, how close they were, in front or behind? No matter, we had to push on.

Coupland was next, big Tony, no-one heard or saw anything, one minute he was bringing up the rear, the next minute he was gone. Just vanished. How the hell can you snatch someone who weighs eighteen stone, and walking through rustling grass, without making a sound?
Christ but they were good. Who the hell were these guys?

There was plenty of sound when Grimes got wasted. There was a light click, followed shortly after by a loud whoosh, followed immediately by his screams for help as he was dragged up into the air, and left dangling upside down eight feet from the ground.
He was still screaming in fear, and anger as the weapons opened up from the treeline, and dozens of rounds impacted into him, quickly turning his body and head into a dripping mess.

I was running again, trying to get to the woods I could see in the distance.
I remember seeing a flurry of movement out of the corner of my eye, as two camouflaged blurs took Fleming to the ground.

The sing-song chant of “Run rabbit, run rabbit, run run run...” Dwindling as I put more distance between us.

I nearly freaked completely when little Mark Fuller got snatched.
Bradley was several yards away taking a piss against a tree trunk, nervously trying to look in several directions at once.
Me and Fuller were whispering about what to do next...

There was a sudden, rapid thud of heavy boots, and this camo-clad goliath ran past, snatching up Fuller on his way, and without breaking stride disappeared off into the trees carrying poor wailing Fuller along with him.

I mean, what the...?

Its like fighting sodding ghosts!

That was it for Bradley, he'd had enough.
He set off running through the trees, I could hear him crashing his way through the undergrowth for a while, then abruptly the noise stopped. Just like that. Crash!... Crash!... Silence!

I remember throwing myself to the ground, and crawling slowly, pushing gently through the undergrowth, trying to avoid giving away my position. I crawled for maybe two or three hundred yards.

Then it started raining...

Oh, not just raining, but one of those showers that goes from a couple of spots, to an absolute deluge in about fifteen seconds. Soaks you through to the skin, then stops just as suddenly as it started.

For gods sake, could this day possibly get any worse?

I took stock of my situation.
Soaking wet, covered in mud and god only knew what other slimy shit... and alone.
Perfect! Just perfect!

I was just over a mile from the objective, and I had less than an hour to get there...

I could make it!

I listened intently for a few minutes...

Not a sound.

I lifted my head, very slowly, until I could just see through the tips of the grass...

Scan three sixty...

Nothing!

I was in the clear!

Rising...

Slowly... Slowly...

Inching higher...

As I rose, they all rose with me...

I was completely surrounded, they had positioned themselves in total silence, and just waited...

* * * * *

The first slug hit me in the chest...

I could hear them all laughing as the rest of the weapons opened fire...

My whole head and torso vibrated with the impacts as eight magazines were emptied into me...

I was the last one, and they were making sure they got their money's worth.

And all the time they fired they were laughing... laughing... laughing...

I fell to the ground, a rolling, writhing lump of red, pink, blue, and luminous green...

I was glad it was all over, I just wanted to get cleaned up, and get to the pub.

There was one thing I knew for sure...

No way would I EVER put myself forward to go PAINTBALLING again.

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

A small wager

2010-08-20T10:00:00.007+01:00

As I approached the taverna I could See Sotiris on the paved patio, sitting in the same chair, at the same table, his face turned to catch the early evening sun.

Was it really a whole year since my last visit? This was my twelfth holiday here, and almost every one of those holiday evenings had been spent at this taverna, in the company of these people whom I had come to love like my own family.

It now seemed like only yesterday since I last saw Sotiris. He looked as though he hadn't moved a muscle since then.

He was wearing his usual uniform of blue jeans, and a white shirt open at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to expose powerful forearms burned almost black by the mediterranean sun.
And, of course, his very expensive Ray Ban sunglasses.

“Yeia sou Sotiri my good friend, pos eeste?” I called as I walked across the marble.

“Steve, you are here again already, oh I am so happy that you are here.” A huge grin spreading across his lined, suntanned face.

He rose from his chair, and we embraced, and kissed each others cheeks. A tear of happiness threatened to escape from my eye as we hugged one another tightly with the great affection that we shared.

As he sat back down into his chair he called over his shoulder...“Eleni, Eleni, come outside... Steve is here...”

A few moments later Eleni bustled out through the taverna door, wiping her hands on her floral print apron.

“Oh Steve, welcome back, welcome back, we have missed you so much. Oh I am so happy to see you.”

We grabbed each other in a joyous grip, both laughing, and this time the happy tear did roll down my cheek.

We finally loosened our grip, and I took half a pace backwards, holding both of her delicate hands in mine. Looking her up and down.

“You are more beautiful each time I see you.” I said. The smile on my face threatening to split my head in two.

“And you are more handsome.” She replied playfully.“Now sit down with Sotiris, I will bring wine to celebrate.”

A few minutes later there was a plate of biscuits on the table, and we all held a glass of the local Robola wine in our hands.

“Yeia mas” We all cried together as we clinked our glasses.

As we sat there chattering away to each other, my mind drifted back to the first time we had met...

* * * * *

It was eleven years earlier that I had first set foot on the Ionian island of Kefalonia. The package holiday had been booked on a last minute deal, and it was purely by chance that I ended up here.

My lodgings turned out to be a small, and spotlessly clean studio in the Panos apartments at the western end of a rather large, sprawling resort called Lassi.
On the second day, I decided to have a look at the island's capital, a town called Argostoli.
A glance at my tourist map showed me that Argostoli was only a fifteen minute walk away, up the main road, then down the other side of the hill straight into the town.

Or there was a coastal route around the peninsular, I imagined this would take the best part of a couple of hours, but I thought it would probably be a far more pleasant walk, and anyway, I was in no hurry.

I set off strolling along the coast road, which I later learned was known locally as the Fanari road, Fanaria being the Greek word for lights, and named after the lighthouse which was half-way along the road, and stood on a finger of land jutting out into the water.

A bottle of orange juice and a sandwich lay in the small knapsack which hung from my shoulders, as I intended to stop for a rest at some point for refreshment.

The views were absolutely stunning, the clear blue sea to my left, olive groves and the occasional bright white house, complete with colourful gardens and orchards to my right.
The sun pleasantly warming my body as I ambled along. Smiling and nodding to any tourists who passed walking in the opposite direction.

About an hour later I came upon a small taverna set only a few yards from the edge of the ocean.
A short rest and a glass of beer or wine seemed like a very good idea to me just now. The orange juice and sandwich would do for later. So I left the road and walked across the paved area towards the building.

A broad shouldered, middle aged local sat at one of the tables. He was wearing the attire that most Greek men adopted, blue jeans, white shirt, and sunglasses.

As I approached him he spoke to me, in almost accent-less English.

“Hello my friend what would you like? A glass of wine maybe? Or coffee?”

“I would like a glass of wine please, a local wine if you have one.” I answered sitting at the table next to his. “Would you like to join me in a glass?”

“Of course, efkaristo... thank you. Please, share this table with me... Eleni, krasi aspro parakalo.” He called to the open doorway.

A minute or two later a slim, attractive looking woman whom I would guess to be in her mid fifties came through the doorway carrying a tray, and placed on the table two glasses and a large jug of white wine.
She smiled pleasantly, bade me hello, and welcome, then excused herself to return to her baking.

I never did get to Argostoli that day, by the time the second carafe of wine was nearly empty I had decided to leave it until tomorrow, or maybe the day after.

We had sat and talked for hours, Sotiris and I, laughing and joking, I found his company so pleasant, it was like we had known each other all our lives.
In the space of this one afternoon we had got to know many things about each other, if destiny exists then I think it must have engineered our meeting.
I felt that today I had found a true friend.

At some point during the day, Eleni reappeared, and said goodbye to me, as she was going to visit her sister in Assos towards the North of the island.

The sun was beginning to set as I eventually rose to leave....

“Well Sotiri, I have enjoyed myself so very much today. I feel certain that we will see each other again before my holiday is over.”

“Oh I doubt that very much.” He said. A knowing smile playing on his lips.

“You seem very sure.” I said. Still smiling, but a little confused.

“Oh I am very sure.... If you don't believe me, maybe we should have a small wager on it?”

“Okay then, Shall we say ten euros?"

“Agreed” he said. And we shook on the deal.

* * * * *

The very next day I set off down the Fanari road once more, I hoped to repeat the enjoyment of yesterday, and also collect my winnings.

Sotiris looked intelligent enough, but he must know it was a wager he simply could not win.

If I didn't return to his taverna, he would win the bet, but would not be able to collect the money.

If I did return, then I won the bet, and collected the winnings at the same time, I simply could not lose.

The money involved was just for the fun of it, we could just as easy have made it one Euro, I was burning with curiosity as to why he thought I wouldn't return.

I was also aware that the Greek people were renowned for their impish sense of humour, and their love of practical jokes.

* * * * *

He was sitting in exactly the same spot when I arrived, I walked across the patio to him.

“Good afternoon again Sotiri.” I said.

He rose to greet me, holding out his hand, which I shook warmly.

“I am glad you came Steve, please, sit down, we will talk about my winnings once we have a glass of wine before us.”

I could barely contain myself as Eleni laid the wine and glasses on the table.
I was just itching to lay before him the flawless logic of how I had won the wager and not he.

This time Eleni had brought three glasses, and she sat with us in the sunshine.

“Now, about my winnings...” Said Sotiris, smiling like the cat who had got the cream, Eleni sat beside him, grinning her head off, obviously in on the joke...

“But I bet ten Euros that we would meet again, and we have met again, so I think you must agree that the wager was won by me.” I stated, smiling all the while, I was so enjoying this friendly banter.

“If you remember correctly my friend.” Said Sotiris, almost on the verge of laughter, as was Eleni. “You bet ten Euros that we would SEE each other again, and as you can tell, that is definitely not the case ...”

They both burst into uncontrollable peals of laughter as Sotiris removed his expensive sunglasses, to reveal two very opaque and very sightless eyes.

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

An early start

2010-08-14T00:49:00.009+01:00

We needed an early start in the morning, if there's one thing I hate, it's traffic jams, so I intended to make sure we set off in good time.

The camp site office was open from 8am onwards, and I had the journey planned to the last detail.

I meant to ensure that our drive down went with military precision. About four hours, I reckon, so to miss out on the bank holiday traffic, we would be setting off from the house at 4.00 am precisely.

The kids were already tucked up in bed, I thought they might have been too excited to sleep tonight, but, no, they had gone to sleep within minutes. The little darlings were going to have a whale of a time down there.

Lovely green countryside to look at, rolling hills, gentle walks along woodland trails, good clean country air to breathe.

Oh, I could hardly wait...

The site was highly recommended, and it looked absolutely fantastic in the brochure.

A fishing lake, children's playground, on-site shops and bar, the clubhouse laid on entertainment every night, and kids were allowed in there until ten o-clock, which would be fine, as we usually went to bed early anyway.
No point sleeping in and spending half of your holiday in bed, is there?

The wife was already in bed too, she hadn't been sleeping too well lately, feeling a bit stressed I think, well, the holiday would do her a power of good, take her mind off things for a while.
She had taken one of her sleeping pills about half an hour before going upstairs, good, it would ensure her a decent nights rest, she would probably sleep most of the way down too, the pills were quite strong ones, and sometimes after taking them she wouldn't wake until nearly lunchtime.

Everything was already packed into the estate car, couldn't be thumping about with the camping gear in the early hours, could I? The neighbours would have a fit.

Well, better turn in myself, I needed to be sharp tomorrow, I was the one that had to get us all there.

* * * * *

2:59. I woke up just in time to flick the alarm clock switch to the 'off' position before it went off, I wanted the wife to get as much sleep as possible. My intention was to leave waking her until the last minute and bundling her more or less straight into the car, that way she would most likely just drift off back to sleep again. The pill would probably help with that.

I crept quietly into the bathroom, and showered making as little noise as I could, wandering downstairs naked, I had left my fresh clothes on the armchair the night before, so that I wouldn't disturb her when I was getting dressed.

Thinking ahead. Planning. Planning. Up there for thinking... Down there for dancing...

3:30 I quietly went through the adjoining door into the garage, I gently lifted the up and over door, climbed into the car, released the handbrake and rolled it forward onto the driveway, getting out and leaving the door open, I gently raised the bonnet and latched it open.

Oil? Check!
Coolant level? Check!
Brake fluid level? Check!
Windscreen washer bottle? Full!

Quietly closing the bonnet, I sat back in the car and turned on the Ignition. All warning lights working okay. Fuel gauge? Full!
I started the engine, and whilst it was warming up, checked that all the lights and indicators were working, which meant leaning in and out several times to flick the switches, a few minutes well spent, preparation was the essence of a successful journey.

Lifting the tailgate I had a good look inside the back. Tent, box of tinned food, those site shops were notoriously expensive, so we trimmed a bit off the cost of the holiday by taking some supplies with us.
Four large holdalls with all our clothes in, fold up stools, yes everything seemed to be there, and why shouldn't it be? I had loaded it in ticking off each item on my checklist as it went into the car, not to mention a re-check at eight o-clock yesterday evening.

Planning. Planning. Up there for thinking... Down there for dancing...

I turned off the car engine, locked it up, and retraced my steps back through the garage into the house, locking both doors along the way.

I couldn't wait to get started...

* * * * *

4:03 I drove quietly out of the driveway onto the street, didn't want to wake the neighbours at this time of day, did I?

I was right about the wife, she had barely opened her eyes as I helped her to put her clothes on, shepherded her down the stairs, and out to the car.

She was dozing off again before I even had her seat belt fastened.

The only cars we saw on our way through the neighbourhood were stationary ones, the roads were absolutely dead, brilliant.

39 mph all the way round the ring road, wouldn't want a speeding ticket to spoil our holiday would we?

An occasional car, and heavy goods vehicle rolled past in the opposite direction as we neared the motorway, still making good time, I was a happy bunny, everything was going to plan.

I flicked on the CD player, turned the volume very low so I could just hear the gentle strains of classical music. Oh yes. A brilliant start to what was going to be a brilliant fortnight.

4:47. We turned onto the motorway only two minutes later than I had planned for, no problem, I increased the speed to 71 mph to make the time up. No traffic cop in the world would bother about the extra 1 mph on a motorway.

The motorway was slightly busier than the ring road, but still very quiet yet. More lorries and vans than cars, we were still making good time.

“I love it when a plan comes together” I said under my breath, smiling broadly.

The wife mumbled something to herself , and shifted slightly in her sleep. Bless her, she so needed this break.

7:14. We turned off down the sliproad at junction 23, I was ecstatic, we were actually four minutes ahead of schedule.

Planning! Planning! Up there for thinking... Down there for dancing...

Along the country lanes now, I was behind a large 4 x 4 for a few miles, keeping up with him, even though it was travelling 3 mph above the speed limit. No worries, I didn't expect to pass any speed cameras on this road.

7:51. I saw the first signpost for the camp site, 3 miles.

8:01. We turned into the camp site gate and pulled up at the office just as the lady was flipping the sign from 'closed' to 'open'.

The wife stirred slightly, opened her eyes, and looked around her with a confused expression on her face.

“Where are we? She asked, blinking the sleep from her eyes.

“We're here Darling, we're at the camp site, two gloriously relaxing weeks away from all the cares and worries here we come.”

I smiled broadly at her as she glanced over her shoulder at the back seat.

She spun round to face me, her face a mask of horror...

“What's wrong Darling?” I asked gently.

“THE KIDS ?” She screamed at me. “ WHERE THE HELL ARE THE KIDS?”

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

An untimely theft

2010-08-06T22:17:00.005+01:00

Now, the first time I ever met Turner, he wasn't called Turner.

They wouldn't even tell me his former name. “ It's better not to know.” They said. “ He has too many bad memories associated to that name.”

“A new start, that's what he needs. A new name. A new life. Another chance.”

As we eyed each other through the bars, I could feel some kind of connection between us. Emotional? Mental? Psychological? Call it what you will, but in those first minutes something definitely clicked into place.

“You don't have to be afraid any more.” I told him. “ You're coming home with me. I'll look after you now. We'll look after each other.”

“Now, the first thing is to give you a new name, eh?”

I looked him up and down...

He was without doubt the biggest sodding dog I have ever seen in my life.

I don't know what breed he was, some kind of mastiff cross probably.
He reminded me of the slobbering hulk that Tom Hanks had in ' Turner and Hooch ' only he was about four stone heavier.
He was absolutely IMMENSE.

“Well!” I said to him. “How do feel about Hooch?”

Big mistake! His ears flattened to his head, his whole body tensed, and a low rumbling growl worked it's way up from the depths of his massive chest.

I stood my ground. I felt no fear. There was no threat to his actions.
He was just expressing his opinion of someone trying to lump him with a stupid name, that was all.

“Okay then, You don't look much like Tom Hanks, but how about Turner?”

Well, what a switch, his jaw hinged open into some kind of lopsided grin, with his tongue hanging out like a roll of wallpaper. Sitting back heavily on his haunches, he cocked his head to one side, and lifted a massive paw into the air.

I reached through the bars and gently grasped his proffered paw, “Pleased to meet you Turner.” I said, shaking hands with him.

“My name's Steve.”

* * * * *

Turner quickly settled into the life we now shared. I worked from home, scraping a living manipulating stocks and shares via the internet, so we were in each others company virtually twenty-four seven.

We ate together, went for long walks, he had brought a whole new meaning to my life.
For the first time in years I felt happy again.

Many an evening I sat there talking to him, telling him of my past, my hopes and ambitions, my fears.

Now, Turner had this way of looking at me when I was waffling on during these occasions, I swear that he could understand every word I was saying.
He used to lie there with his jowls resting on his oversized crossed paws, his big brown eyes staring straight into mine, with an air of intense concentration about him.

One of the aforementioned fears I told him about was the endless blight of burglary, and petty theft that continually plagued the housing estate where we lived.

I told him of the teenage gangs that roamed the streets unchallenged, at all hours of the day and night.
I told him of the drunken, drug-fuelled, thuggish intimidation, that turned the lives of decent residents into a life of never-ending total shit.

And I told him about the ringleaders...

The two chief gang-banger 'waste of spaces' that regularly amused themselves by 'borrowing' peoples cars during the night, and leaving them smashed and useless after they had finished their 'joyriding'.

Joyriding? Now there's a misnomer if I ever heard one. And the police would say “Well, we have an idea who it is, but we have no proof, have we?”

No! and they never would have any proof, at least not for as long as Malloney and Grogan were allowed to continue their campaign of fear.
Breaking the windows, and vandalising the cars and property of any potential witnesses, leaving the poor victims too afraid to do anything other than cower behind their curtains of a night time.

* * * * *

One day we were on our way home after one of our long strolls, Turner walking at my heel.
I never trained him to walk like that, he just did it of his own accord.
It would have been pointless having him on a leash anyway, he weighed more than I did, and if Turner was determined to go somewhere, That's where Turner went.

I had no fear that he would attack anyone, he never showed the slightest aggression towards man nor beast, let's face it, he could afford the confidence, who in their right mind would even dream of taking him on?

Well, we were about fifty yards from home, and lounging on the corner were Malloney and Grogan, along with another five smirking, sneering, hoodie-encased mother's little darlings.

“Put a sodding saddle on it! sodding big numb lump!”

This from Grogan, accompanied by loud hoots of sycophantic laughter from his entourage.

Malloney, not the brightest lamp in the street, must have felt the need to add his two-pennorth,

“Er, Yerrrr, big soft hairy slaver-bucket! Hur hur hur.”

Turner left my side and walked slowly into the middle of them, he didn't bark, he didn't growl,
he eyed each and every one of them in turn, a long, slow stare...

And one by one their gazes dropped to their scuffed trainers...

They shuffled their feet... their faces turned red...

When he had finished staring them all down,
Turner then let forth a loud raspy fart that seemed to go on forever...

Then, after checking that none of them dare look him in the eye again, he ambled nonchalantly back to my side.

I tell you! This dog had more sodding cool than the sodding Fonz...

I could hear them mumbling amongst themselves as we walked past on our way to the gate, but frankly, I didn't give a hoot! They had been put in their place!

* * * * *

Strange, and terrifying events took place a few days later...

Events that were to alter the lives of almost everyone in the estate...

Including mine...

And Turner's.

* * * * *

I was taking Turner to the vet' for a booster injection. We climbed into the car. Well, I climbed into the car, he squeezed himself through the back door, and sprawled himself across the fullness of the back seat, and it was a tight fit, I can tell you.

I was fiddling with my seat belt, when my elbow caught the door stud, causing the central locking to engage with a loud 'clunk'...

What happened next was beyond belief...

Turner changed into a snarling, bristling, hell-sent demon...

His mouth a gaping pit of razor teeth...

His eyes flaming coals of hatred...

the sound had triggered something in his memory... something very... very... bad.

It took several minutes of soothing words, and gentle stroking to quiet him, and I have no doubt at all in my mind, that, had anyone else been in the car with us, he would have ripped their heads straight off their shoulders.

He had been there on numerous occasions before when I had used my key fob to lock, or unlock the car, but he had always been on the outside of the vehicle.

This was the first time he had ever been on the inside when the locks had engaged.

I needed to address this problem as soon as possible to prevent it happening again.
The poor dog obviously had some terrible, and traumatic memories connected to being locked inside cars.

I would do anything necessary to prevent a repeat of this, Turner needed to know that he was safe from his past now.

It seemed to me that the best course of action would be to lose the central locking, so I decided that I would trade the car in the very next day for a lower model that didn't have the luxury of central locking.

I glanced over my shoulder into the rear seat, he was back to his old gentle self again, he was snoring quietly, his paws twitching occasionally as he dreamt his canine dreams.

We were almost at the vets, when I realized my wallet was still on the coffee table in the lounge.
Damn! I drove back through the heavy traffic, all the time getting more wound up. What had set out to be a relaxed drive, had turned into a race against time.

I was now in danger of missing my appointment... sodding hell!

I squealed to a standstill outside the house, and raced up the steps, quickly unlatching the door, and dashing into the front room

A glance at the table told me my wallet wasn't there...

where the hell was it?

I raced from room to room, getting more agitated as I went. Finally I found it on my second search of the lounge, yes, on the sodding coffee table, under a magazine.

As I turned to run for the door, I heard the familiar sound of my own car starting...

Oh no! In my haste I had left the sodding keys in the ignition...

I dashed through the door, and down the stairs to see Malloney and Grogan about to ride the joy out of my car!

I almost managed to get the passenger door open, but just as my fingers touched the door handle, Malloney, who was in the drivers seat, grinned at me triumphantly, then depressed the door stud engaging the central locking...

I watched with absolute horror as my car screamed away from the kerb...

And Turner's massive, snarling, tooth-infested head rose into view in the rear window.

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Immaculate conception

2010-07-30T09:28:00.012+01:00

I have been here many times over the years.

Observed, collected specimens, experimented, manipulated.

Yes. Many times.

But my old body now protests at the rigours of the travelling.

Though it saddens me, I know that it has to be.
When this visit is over, I shall pass the task to someone younger.

The garden still needs tending, and the animals, left unsupervised, would destroy it.

No-one lives forever. My old frame is spattered with weaknesses, and feeblenesses, and the time of my ascension draws nearer.

I have come to believe that this garden is mine, mine alone, even though many others have assisted in its building.

I am the one that has always been there through each important decision.

It was I that planted the first seeds.

And was it not I that vetoed the destruction of the higher fields?
Some of the animals prevailed the cold climate, and survived.

I saw to the irrigation of the ground, so the plants would flourish, so the animals could feed.

Yes, there were times, and my shame burns my soul when thoughts of them come to haunt me.

Times when I was unable to prevent the witherings, and the wastings.

Times when I was unable to watch over every leaf, and every creature in my care.

Times when I provided more water than was needed to one plot, whilst allowing another to sere.

Yes, I have made mistakes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I watched my precious flock grow, and evolve. I watched the herds become larger, and breed until they covered the land.

I watched them learn to traverse the water, and interbreed, and diversify, and strengthen.

Oh, there were other gardens. I visited many, on numerous occasions.

Some flourished, others were destined to fail.

Even the most diligent gardener cannot nurture life where the soil is not suitable.

We built them far apart, to prevent cross-contamination. So that diseases and genetic weaknesses from one, could not spread to another.

Yes, there were other gardens. But this one is mine.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I chose the female with great care and deliberation.

She was strong, and of good stock. Healthy, robust, and genetically suited to my plans.

Her herd lived in an area of warm clime, this would improve the chances of survival.

I sedated the female, surgically implanted the seed, and returned her to the herd, very quietly, and carefully, so as not cause distress amongst them.

For this was a crucial time.

I watched, and waited.

The infant was born. Healthy and strong.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

My work here is done now.

In their primitive tongue, the female was known as Mh'ai'ri.

The infant was given the name Jh'ee'suz.

“Come now Gh'o'td, my old friend.” Said my companion. “It is time to leave.”

“Your son shall guide them now.”

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

A burglar's tale

2010-07-24T00:16:00.038+01:00

I stood on the pavement looking at the house, weighing up my chances.

The houses at either side were dark, and lifeless, no telltale flicker of a television in a darkened room. No music drifting from any open bedroom window.

I looked at my watch, almost three am. As good a time as any.

There was no-one inside the house, I knew this for a fact, it was the neighbours that I was concerned about.

Most people, being disturbed by a sound at this time of the morning would listen for a moment, and unless the sound continued would shrug their shoulders and drift off back to sleep.

My trade had taught me this. And if I was nothing else, I was good at my trade.

But these were good neighbours, they looked out for one another, and the last thing I needed was lights going on all over the place, and the sound of closing sirens.

Well, I thought, it should be a piece of cake. I've been breaking into houses in this area since I was thirteen, never been caught, never even been chased.
It must be in the hundreds by now, and believe me, it pays well. I had the best.
Designer clothes, hand made Italian shoes, two Rolex watches.
An Audi TT and a Range Rover Sport sat side by side in my garage.

The furniture didn't come from Ikea or MFI either.

It was the bathroom that was my pride and joy. I never tired of showing it off to people.

These same people, with their nine year old Fiestas, and their shitty 'forty hour a week plus as much overtime as you like' slavish existences, who believe that I'm some kind of property inspector.

Oh yes, I inspect property, usually just before I throw it into a pillowcase for ease of carrying.

Yes, the bathroom, the taps alone had cost nearly a grand, and the tub! Oh my, It was a seven foot whirlpool jacuzzi, big enough to take up to five people.

Anyway, this reminiscing wasn't getting me inside this house was it?. No. So, down to business.

I glanced all around before setting off up the steps, no-one around.

First thing, check the doors, people sometimes forget to lock their door once in a while, especially if they've had a few in the house before setting off out on a Saturday night bender.

I remember doing it myself a few years ago, one New Years Eve I had gone to bed absolutely paralytic, and left both doors not only unlocked, but actually standing open.
I had also left all the lights and the stereo on, so I suppose any passing scrotes were either too drunk to notice, or assumed that a party was in full swing.

When I had come downstairs at dinnertime on New Years Day there were seven sodding cats in the house. It took me weeks to get the smell of cat pee out of the suite.

Okay, here goes, front door...

Locked.

Around to the back. Quietly... quietly...

No good, locked too. Well I didn't expect it would be that easy.

The alarm was set, I could tell by the alternating red and blue LEDs, but if I could get to the control panel without tripping one of the PIRs It would be no problem at all.

Okay. Think! …. Think!

I checked all the downstairs windows, all closed and locked, and these were quality windows, with good locks, not your 'six for seven hundred pounds you buy one, you get one free, from a bald idiot in a stupid coat' rubbish. No, these were the Fort Knox of windows.

Back to the front... Always have a system...

Eyes roving over the front of the house... no joy with the upstairs windows either, not that I could reach them if they were wide open anyway. There were no convenient ladders in gardens around here, either padlocked or otherwise. I know, I've checked that one out before.

I certainly didn't want to start smashing my way in if I had any choice.
Now holding your coat to the glass when breaking a window minimised the noise, but any noise was best avoided.
Silence is golden in my line of work.

Back to the rear again... smiling, and singing almost inaudibly to myself.

“Naaaayyyyybours... Ev'rybody needs good naaayyyybours...”

I wasn't worried at this point, I knew I would get in eventually.

I looked up at the open bathroom window, small, but I could squeeze through it at a push.

The soil pipe, and drainpipe, ran down the wall a couple of feet to the left, Hmm... Reachable.

The window was open about two inches, latched from inside, well, it seemed like the easiest choice.

Okay. I would need something to flip the latch with.

I never carry crowbars, screwdrivers and the like when on a job, that way if I'm searched I can't be charged with 'going equipped'

On the patio was the garden furniture, through the centre of the table poked the bottom half of a sun parasol stand, Hmm, hollow, but made of steel alloy, yeah, that would probably be strong enough.

I lifted the spike high to clear the table, and pulled it towards me, when the end nearest to me went below parallel a sodding great spider fell out, washed on its way by about a third of a pint of stinking stagnant water, which went over my shoulder and straight down the back of my neck, spider and all.

I staggered backward in surprise and sat down heavily on what I soon discovered to be a huge pile of dog crap, courtesy of the mutt that lived across the way, I thought, it's the only sodding dog that lives in this cul-de-sac.

As I rolled over and started to rise, the sodding spider started to do some sort of eight-legged butterfly stroke at the base of my spine, startling me enough to fall again, this time I was lucky enough to break the fall with my hands...

Yeah, you guessed it.. straight back into the sodding dog crap...

I rolled onto my stomach and started punching myself in the back with my crap-stained fists, squashing the spider flat, bruising my kidneys in the process, I will probably be pissing blood for the next month, and pummelling dog crap into a very, very, expensive jacket.

I looked in panic at the neighbours windows.

No lights came on. No windows opened. No curtains twitched. Phew!

Right. Up the drainpipe.

What, with trying to hold the spike, coupled with the stinking slime on my hands, it was impossible to get any purchase on the smooth drainpipe. Dammit!

I looked round for something to wipe my hands on... A bush!

Pushing my hands into the soft greenery I began the task of de-dogcrapping my hands.

Within seconds I had not only succeeded in just smearing the crap around a bit, without actually losing any of it, but I had managed to pick up a few more sodding spiders too!

I patted frantically at my head and body, trying to dislodge the little sods, and managing to rub the dog crap into my hair and face in the process.

Oh, just half an hour ago life was so sodding sweet!

I looked again for something to clean myself with... Nothing!

Sod it! I took off my very sodding expensive coat and spent a few minutes cleaning what I could from my hair, face, and hands with it.

What the hell, in for a penny...

In temper I then threw the jacket onto the floor and angrily wiped my feet on it too.
My shoes a flurrying tantrum of Italian leather.
Kicking, and scuffing, until the coat was no more than a crap-stained rag...

Aaaaand breathe...

I scampered up the drainpipe with the spike in my mouth.

Which turned out to be a big mistake, it was the only thing I hadn't bothered to clean with the coat.

What the hell, I'd had so much dog crap tonight I was beginning to like the sodding stuff.

Hell, I may even have it for breakfast tomorrow.

Hmmm........ Bacon, egg, dog crap, tomatoes, and mushrooms, gave a new meaning to the term a full english!

Well, up the pipe like a sodding pirate I went.

I was just about level with the bathroom window, when a I saw a movement!

I froze. I glanced around...

It took me a moment to realize that it was yet another sodding spider hanging from a thread right in front of my sodding eye.

Damn it! I thought. I might even have some of them little sods for breakfast too.

I grabbed the spike, and pushed it forward through the small gap.

This was where I had a stroke of luck. ( That's me! Lucky lucky lucky )

The spike caught the latch on the first attempt, I pressed lightly downwards, and the window sprang open.

Not wanting to drop the spike, and risk the resulting noise waking the neighbours, and since I couldn't be arsed climbing down, and back up again, I flicked the spike through the gap, and into the bathroom.

There was a sort of quiet tinkling sound from inside the window. Followed by a fairly solid thud. Followed by more musical tinkling.

I shrugged my shoulders, reached across, grabbed the window sill, and started to drag my body through the small gap.

No problem!

My body fit through the gap easily.

My sodding clothes didn't though.

I managed to virtually rip my shirt off when it caught on the latch,not to mention scoring a sodding great gouge into my chest.

Falling forward into the room I landed heavily across the basin, grabbing hold of it in reflex, the momentum carried me forward, and downwards, bringing the basin along with me, ripping it completely from its pedestal. I landed heavily on the carpet, taking most of the skin from my nose in the process.

Luckily (That's me again... lucky lucky lucky , sod me! I'm starting to feel like Kylie sodding Minogue here) the flexible pipes attached to the taps held, so there was no water spraying everywhere.

Mind you, it might have washed off the rest of the dog crap..... And the sodding spiders...

Especially the little git that was still in front of my eye.

As I went to grab the bleeding thing, it dropped from its thread to the floor, and scurried off under an impossibly small gap between the bath panel and the carpet. Bastard!

I eyed the shower cubicle, god, I could just strip off and jump in there, it was spotlessly clean, you couldn't even tell there was glass in it it was so clean!

Hang on a mo! There WAS no glass in it! Now it dawned on me what the tinkle-thud sound was that I'd heard a couple of minutes ago.

At least I was inside now, there was still the question of the alarm...

I slithered out of the bathroom on my belly, keeping low to avoid the PIR on the landing.

Down the stairs, still on my belly, managing to wipe most of the remains of the dog crap from my hands onto the stair carpet as I pulled myself downwards.

I managed to get to the control panel without the PIRs detecting me, five seconds later it was disabled.

Walking into the darkened lounge I tripped headlong over the sodding coffee table, smashing it to bits, the momentum sent me staggering forward to headbutt the TV set, which then came off its wall mounting, and fell to the floor with yet another tinkly-thud-tinkle sound (I was getting to really sodding HATE tinkles) hitting me in the face, splitting my top lip and chipping my two front teeth on the way down.

God I need a sodding vacation!

I sat down wearily on the couch, and ran my tongue over my bleeding top lip, slicing my tongue on the chipped sodding teeth in the process.

Jesus! That sodding hurt!

What a sodding night this had turned out to be...

I leaned back into the couch, and allowed my head to roll backwards until it rested on the top of the couch...

The next thing I knew it was morning.

I opened my gluey eyes, and glanced blearily around me...

A few weeks later I was counting the cost of a night out...

Taxis to, and from the nightclub ( plus tips ) .................................£ 17. 00
Booze, ( Christ knows how much ) …...............................................£ 120. 00
One chicken vindaloo. ( With extra chapati ) …..............................£ 14. 50
One slate grey single breasted Armani suit …................................£ 564. 99
One Saville row shirt. ( With button down collar ) ...........................£ 44. 99
one Delphini curved shower screen ( plus installation ) .................£ 720. 65
One berguna twin-tap basin ( plus installation ) ….........................£ 365. 70
One professional 'dog-crap cleaner-offer' ( Various carpets) .........£ 185. 00
One 'Classique-mode' coffee table. ( plus fragile ashtray )............£240. 55
One Samsung 46” Full HD Plasma TV ( free installation ) .............£ 4,999. 99
Several dentists appointments ( Robbing gits )......................£ 563. 34

Losing my front door key in the night club........................... SODDING PRICELESS.

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

Road Rage

2010-07-16T23:43:00.009+01:00

My name is Steve,
I am fifty seven years old, happily married, proud father of two, and grandfather to seven.

Well... I’m just an ordinary sort of guy, who lives a pretty mundane life, with not many extreme peaks and troughs... but...

Let me tell you of something that happened to me yesterday...

I pride myself on being a safe driver, I drive defensively mostly, always watching for potential danger from other road users, always keeping a safe distance from the car in front.
This attitude has kept me accident free for almost forty years now.

The car I usually drive has “ please tailgate me “ screaming out of every orifice, the faithful old dog is a fifteen year old Citroen AX, with a punchy one litre engine, and an extremely lived-in look about it.

But, hey ho, forty five to the gallon, group two insurance, and in the six and a half years that I have owned it, it has never failed to start, and never broken down. (except on one occasion when the lining stripped from a brake shoe)

Yes, this is the car that I am USUALLY in control of...

Yesterday I found myself in control of something else...

Sleek, shiny, fast, the kind of machine that has more attitude than a bull terrier with a hangover.

A kind of mist descended over me from the very first second the wheels started rolling,
I couldn’t seem to control myself.

No-one, and I mean NO-ONE was going to overtake ME... NOT TODAY BABY !!!

I set off with the tyres burning, and within seconds had the engine screaming in protest...
Up a gear... up the revs... God...the sheer POWER...

Of course, before long another car appeared in my rear-view mirror, twitching from side to side as the driver fought to control the G-force that his reckless speed was creating.
I increased my speed further, laughing to myself, I wasn’t going to let him pass, I weaved from side to side to narrow his chances of getting alongside of me. SCREW HIM.

I had become an absolute monster, all that mattered to me was staying in front of him.

We hit the triple carriageway at god knows what speed, and the car started to slide on the smooth tarmac, causing me to lose some traction, and by the time I had managed to get the car straight again the prat was beside me...

and he was actually inching AHEAD.

I wasn’t laughing NOW... I could feel the anger rising within me...

He handled a slight right hand bend better than I did, and within seconds I was looking at his rear bumper.
I started grinding my teeth in frustration...

DAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMN...

I was startled by the sound of my wife’s laughter, I’d totally forgot that she was sitting there, she seemed to find the situation extremely amusing, this just fuelled my rage more, there was NO WAY that THIS guy was going to beat ME !

The carriageway narrowed to two lanes, then one, I was still glued to his bumper, I found myself screaming in anger...

“GET OUT OF THE WAY... GET OUTTA MY GODDAM WAY!”

Several times I nearly lost control as we slewed round tight curves, but my wife’s giggles at my inability to pass him drove me to ever more reckless maneuvers.

A tight left hander was coming up, with a large expanse of grass leading away from the roadside....

“RIGHT YOU PRAT! LETS SEE HOW YOU LIKE THESE SODDING APPLES!”

As he slowed slightly to negotiate the tight turn, I actually increased my speed and headed straight for the grass, I was going to cut straight across the corner, and get in front again.

My wife watched intently, with her face screwed up as she tried not to laugh out loud again, she knew I would blame her if things went wrong.

Halfway across the grass was where I lost it...

The front end slid, and I over-corrected, causing the car to go into a full broadside that it was just never going to recover from...

When the front wheels hit the tarmac on the other side of the bend, the sudden grip caused the car to flip over...

It rolled over and over, finally coming to rest on its roof in the roadside ditch...

I watched with absolute fury as the other guy disappeared over a slight rise.

“DAMMIT!” I shouted, my voice almost drowned out by my wife’s uncontrollable fit of giggles.

“These sodding Playstation games don’t half wind me up."

I tossed the game control to her, and said “Here, you have a go, this level’s doing my crust in.
I’m gonna get another beer, do you want one bringing in too?”

I then set off in the direction of the kitchen as my wife scrolled down to the PLAY AGAIN option.

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.

The birth of The Twisted Quill

2010-07-16T23:25:00.013+01:00

My blog came into existence through an odd chain of events. For several years my wife and daughter had been members of a parenting forum called Bad Mothers Club, which had, by association, become a part of my life too.
(Parenting forum is a very loose description for BMC, as the membership consists of people of all ages, from all walks of life, and covers just about every subject under the sun.)

Late in 2009 when I finally decided to get my own laptop I joined the forum myself, and started to post on it occasionally. ( Dads were also allowed, though pretty thin on the ground )

One Saturday night in July 2010, I was reading through the posts on there, and Nickie, a gifted authoress and blogger was asking for people to do guest posts for her blog while she was on holiday.

Now, being a frequent reader of Nickie's blog Typecast , and made very brave by the wine, I put my name forward, without really thinking what I was doing, I just felt that I wanted to be a part of this.

The next morning, I sat looking at my keyboard feeling slightly hungover, and more than a tad panicky, coming up with, and discarding ideas one after another.

Well, from somewhere in my wine-fuddled brain came the worm of an idea.....
I began to type, and two hours later I had the finished version of ROAD RAGE.

The more I looked at ROAD RAGE, the more I became convinced that it wasn't a half bad effort.

I sent it to Nickie, who aired it on Typecast ten days later.

I had been bitten by the bug in a big way, I had found something that I was really enjoying doing, and during those ten days whilst I was waiting for my first attempt to appear on Typecast I wrote GUILTY PARTY, partly wrote HUNTED, laid out the bare bones for AN UNTIMELY THEFT, and set the ideas brewing for IMMACULATE CONCEPTION and A BURGLAR'S TALE.

My daughter, a talented authoress and poet who has her own blog called Defective Tykewriter, had tried to prod me in the blog direction on more than one occasion, but up until now I had always refused. I think fear of failure, and lack of confidence played a large part.

The positive feedback I got when ROAD RAGE was aired tipped the scales, and two days later I set about putting the blog together.

I have always had a great liking for short stories with a twist in the tail, and this is the kind of thing I wanted to write, and so THE TWISTED QUILL was born.

I don't profess to being a good writer, and I don't profess my stories to be good, or bad, I leave that to the reader to decide, I am just doing something that I am enjoying doing, and shall continue to do so for as long as the enjoyment is there.

It is my hope that my stories give enjoyment, interest, and entertainment to anyone who reads them.

Any feedback, or constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated.

Thank you for reading.

Steve Green.

©2010 Stephen. J. Green.