Tag: Short story

Afterwards Writing Prompt #5 – Monday 5th of February – “>>>CONNEXION>>>”

>>>Start Transmission…>>>

Over the many years Ive been dabbling on here I have always enjoyed prompts. Quite often I like to create lists for myself, and I always wnjoy them even more when I have an image or two to stir my writing loins.

So I figured I might share some of mine. Use it if you want. or don’t.

Theres no limit to how long or short it should be, just see where it takes you. It could be a short story, a poem, or just whatever takes your fancy.

If you send a pingback or a link to your piece in the comments  I will gather all of the outputs together at the end of the week, so for this one the closing date will be Sunday the 4th of February.

If there is interest or people actually get into it I might compile the best one from each week and pop them into a compilation of sorts and pop it on Amazon at the end of the year (accredited of course). But let’s see how it goes first eh…

So this week your prompt is ‘>>>CONNEXION>>>’, and these are a few pics to go with it.

Oh, and you can do what you want with the miages. They are all AI generated so no issues with copyright.




































			

			
				


	





	

		
		
Darla
	


				

				
Flash fiction kinda stuff…

			

			
	
	

		
	

		

This is in response to my own prompt. The pics below were the inspiration and the prompt title was “Darla”





Prompt Here!
























—————————





 





Darla was born in that timeless perineum of vague uncertainty and half eaten boxes of chocolates that occupies the days between Christmas eve and New years day. A place where time marches to the unfathomable beat of a dozen drunken drummers all attempting to play synchronised opening beats to Phil Collins’ ‘In the air tonight’ whilst being chased by killer clowns demanding they hurry up and get to the good bit.





As a large proportion of the world lurched between one bout of searing indigestion to the next, Darla came screaming into the world, perfectly pink and with a dark shock of hair that her mother claimed was surely from the gods, as she herself was blonde. The midwife’s suggestions that it was surely on the father’s side were dismissed out of hand as Darla’s mother insisted to the contrary as there was the small matter of an unwavering assertion that she had never slept with anyone to allow her to conceive. But who is going to listen to a teen mother with a tendency towards tie dye and tarot? No one, that is how many. Precisely no one at all.





And it was with that unwavering belief in her divine conception that Darla grew up. It did not make for easy friendships, whether she professed her beliefs from the rood tops or whispered it in darker corners was irrelevant, it simply followed her without the need for any effort on her part. As they bobbed along on the ebb and flow of life their past was impossible to completely leave behind, regardless of which small town they were soon packing up from or washing ashore on.





And it was in one of those small towns, which shall remain nameless as it is of interest to only for those flotsam and jetsam of humanity who found themselves floundered there, that Darla found herself when the end came. Or perhaps, when the end came for her.





In those final moments, most things burned and many other things collapsed. A third lot of things exploded into a sparkling cascade of death whilst everything not in categories one, two or three tended to whimper into oblivion with scant resistance. Had it not been so terrifying and cataclysmic it might have even been beautiful.





Darla took a deep breath and pulled her satchel across her shoulder. The skies crackled and spat like embers whipped by the wind, and she thought about her mother, and the stories of how she came from the gods. It had all been too much for mum, and she wouldn’t miss this place or these people.





It was time to leave, they would be here for her soon.





Dad was on his way…



		
	
	


	





	

		
		
Shorts – Tea and Anxiety
	


				

				
A while back i sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads. This was inspired by a piece of art I bought which Ill post about next…

			

			
	
	

		
	

		

Having slowed somewhat in my writing, a while back(September 2022) I sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads. Unedited, raw, and just done for the hell of it…What concerns me most about this one is that I have no recollection of writing it. How curious.










Tea and Anxiety





He sits and watches, patiently, the clink of cup on saucer breaking the silence. Hands fold in his lap as he sets aside the tea and a crooked smile creeps across his snarling lips. He wishes nothing but ill intent, that creeping gloom that overwhelms and petrifies as the Sunday clock marches on to bed time. And bed time, as we know, is the promise of tomorrow and all it holds.





“I don’t want to go,“ the little girl tells her mother, “I don’t like it one bit. They are all horrible to me, especially the boys. The one with the round face pulls my hair when the teacher isn’t looking.”





The mother caresses the girls blonde curls and pulls the blanket up tight around her chin.





“You must ignore them, Cassie,” she insists, “These things pass like all things eventually. When I was a little girl it was just the same and it will get better.”





“Nothing passes,” the creature whispered into the darkness, “nothing passes, no not ever, no never.” He takes up the tea once more and sips from the darkness of the corner of the room, his pale eyes never leaving her.





Cassie breathed deep and turned into the pillow.  It was cold and crisp.





“Nothing passes,” Cassie whispered as her mother stroked her face gently. “You know that, right?”





Cassies mother paused, feeling a cold breeze across her back, and she turned to check that the window had been properly closed.





“That’s not true Cassie,” she said, fiddling with the latch and checking that it was fastened tight. Looking out into the garden she could see flakes of snow starting to drift slowly downwards, caught in the pale light that hung over the back porch.





“It’s going to be…” Cassie’s mother’s voice trailed off as she became distracted by the night beyond the window, the inky black of winter hanging like a pall over the houses that stretched into the distance. Her mind drifted and she watched small plumes of white smoke snake into the windless sky.





“They don’t like you Cassie,” the creature whispered once more, a lyrical lilt in its voice, eyes wild as it climbed slowly up onto the small wooden dresser that sat against the far wall of the room.  It stared directly at her as she lay under her blanket.





“Tomorrow is waiting for you,” it continued, head tilting to one side as it watched the older one pull the curtains closed and walk back over to where the child lay in the bed.





“They don’t like me, mummy,” Cassie said meekly, “please can I stay home tomorrow? My tummy hurts”





“Sleep well,” said Cassie’s mother, placing a kiss on her head. “It will be better in the morning. I promise. And your tummy will be just fine”





“Promises, promises,” hissed the creature into the darkness, it took another sip of tea, eyes bright and ferocious.





“You always promise that,“ said Cassie as she turned into her pillow. “But it never changes.”





The door closed and darkness consumed all. Cassie lay quite still as the creature sat on the dresser and watched her, waiting for her to fall asleep as he whispered indistinguishably into the darkness. Morning would come soon enough, but until then, there was tea to be finished…

	


	





	

		
		
Shorts – Shuffle, loop, repeat
	


				

				
A while back i sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads

			

			
	
	

		
	

		

Having slowed somewhat in my writing, a while back(September 2022) I sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads. Unedited, raw, and just done for the hell of it…What concerns me most about this one is that I have no recollection of writing it. How curious.










Headlights cut through the star specked darkness as Clarissa feathered the breaks of the old pick up nervously, steepling mountain sides to one side and a seemingly bottomless drop to the other. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the lights that flickered at the end of the valley  she could see the moon reflecting off of the ocean as it stretched beyond the small white houses, and out past the small boats that bobbed quietly in the bay. It was a road she felt she had driven so many times before she’d left, but it made her nervous still. Maybe it was the thought of returning home after all these years, or maybe it was just the road. She tried not to think about either.





Tyres squealed as she rounded the tight corners, the scent of the sea already thick in the air and memories of so many summers coming flooding back as she wound down the window to feel the cool night air on her skin. She reached for the battered Bakelite dial on the radio and watched it scroll right to left, the crackle and hiss giving way to a feint music that ebbed and flowed like the tides as she moved in and out of the shadow of the mountain side and wound her way down towards the town.





A battered road sign, pockmarked and faded, told her that it was just three miles to the place she had once called home, the place where she had grown up, and the place she had vowed never to return to. Those brash aspirations of youth now as distant as the life she had left behind.





The radio burst into life once more and it caused her to start, knuckles white as she gripped the old leather steering wheel tightly.





“Shit, “ she said to herself, letting out a nervous laugh. Despite the moon and stars, the sky was still an inky black and the quiet of night added to the anxiety she has sworn would not affect her when she’d decided to return to the old family home.





The woman on the radio was now singing about the troubles that comes from loving a boy with blue eyes and a pickup truck, and she couldn’t help but sympathise, but then smiled as she decided that it was probably the singers own stupid fault for getting in the pickup truck in the first place and that she should probably just stay well away from blue eyed boys if she knew what is good for her.





“Now, now, that’s all a bit cynical isn’t it,” she said aloud to herself as she decided that the quiet of night was a far better option that the woes of the singer and turned the knob on the radio until it made a ‘click’ and fell silent. The road widened and flattened as the roadside markers ticked down from three to two miles, and soon the mountain side was left behind, the ravines disappeared, and tall pines lined the road ahead.





Though she had not been home for twenty years nearly, everything had a familiar feel already. Imprinted memories from her youth resonating as the headlights lit up the last few miles and the trees soon paved the way to the sprawling lawns and large houses that were dotted around the outskirts of town. Speeding up along the long sweep that would bring her home, she smiled as the town church spire appeared over the treetops, still white and bright against the night.





 Reaching down she decided to turn the radio back on and she scanned the dial as she twisted the black know and the thin red marker moved left to right. Music surged and faded, and she continued to search until the signal strengthened and the sound quite suddenly blared from the speakers causing her to start.





“Shit,” she said, heart racing as she looked down, struggling to quicky adjust the volume. The pickup veered towards the middle of the road as the small black knob came off in her fingers.”Oh double shit!” she exclaimed as it fell away into the footwell. It was soon to make little difference, as before she could look up there was a deafening blare of a truck horn over the sound of the music…and then nothing. Quiet.





Headlights cut through the star specked darkness as Clarissa feathered the breaks of the old pick up nervously, steepling mountain sides to one side and a seemingly bottomless drop to the other…

	


	





	

		
		
Shorts – Alignment
	


				

				
A while back i sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads

			

			
	
	

		
	

		

Having slowed somewhat in my writing, a while back(September 2022) I sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads. Unedited, raw, and just done for the hell of it…What concerns me most about this one is that I have no recollection of writing it. How curious.










Part 1 – Jennifer





Her thin, pale fingers still bloodied, Jennifer sat very still in the chair, hands cuffed to the desk in front of her. The room was uncomfortably warm, and the police office sat across from her was sweating more than she was.





“Are you quite okay?” she asked him, quite genuinely concerned as she watched rivulets of sweat run down the sides of his round, pink face. “I’d offer you a handkerchief,” she continued, holding up her hands until the chain clinked against bracket that held it in place, “but as you can see I am somewhat restricted in my movements.”





“Why did you do it?” the office asked, “we know you did it, we have witnesses to the whole thing. What we really want to know though is why would you stab a man through the heart in broad daylight?”





Jennifer said nothing, wishing he would wipe his face. He looked quite unwell and could certainly do to lose a few pounds. That might help. She didn’t mind the warmth particularly, it was actually nice to be warm for a change. This time of year the streets were so very cold, and no amount of blankets or cardboard boxes could stop the cold seeping into your bones.





“Did you know the man? Did he do something to you?” he asked, his eyes fixed firmly on her. “Did he want something from you, was that it?”





Jennifer looked down at the table and shook her head. She could still see his face, eyes wide in surprise, his red lunch pail dropping to the floor and sandwiches spilling at her feet.





From the very beginning she knew that she would have to go through this. There was never a thought that she would get away with it, that was never the point. In fact it was quite the opposite.





“So he was a complete stranger?”





Jennifer nodded again; head still bowed.





For a moment the tone of the officer softened, and he pulled his chair closer to the table and leaned in towards her.





“People don’t just kill complete strangers, do they Jennifer?” he said, “they just don’t do that. Now maybe you ought to tell me why you did what you did, and we can try and figure this whole thing out, eh. Did he hurt you? Is that why you did it?”





Jennifer looked into the face of the officer and sighed. His eyes were kind, despite all he must have seen in his time on the streets. They were very similar in that way she thought, only he was out there by choice.





“I did it, and I would very much like to go back to my cell if that’s okay,” she said calmly, a smile breaking out across her face. “I really do have nothing more to add. I’m guilty,  and its so very nice and warm in there and I believe lunch will be served soon.”





Part 2 – Donna





The door slammed violently, windows rattling, as Frank stomped down the hall. Heavy work boots clattered on the bare wooden floorboards and his voice boomed out.





“Donna, I’m home. Where are you?” His red lunch pail clattered as it was thrown on the small wooden table next to the door.





Upstairs, small feet scuttled and darted and then fell quiet as a sense of apprehension filled the air. A small, soft voice came from the ramshackle kitchen that sat at the back of the house.





“I’m sorry, I’m coming,” it said, a mix of fear and faked enthusiasm. ”it…it’s good to have you home,” she continued.  There was a clink of glass on glass and the sound of a bottle being put back down before she appeared through the kitchen doorway.





She was a small woman, a well-worn dress hung from her, shoulders to ankles, and her hair was pulled in a tight knot. She mustered a smile and it crept awkwardly across her face, a face with too many lines for her still young years. The remains of a bruise around her left eye were still vaguely visible in the dim light and she hurried to meet Frank, holding out a small glass of pale liquor in a thick bottomed cut glass tumbler. It had been part of a set once, not theirs of course, they couldn’t afford such things. Sometimes the family for whom she did washing would give her things they were otherwise going to throw away. As long as Frank didn’t think they were receiving charity, he was happy to not care where the things came from.





“Dinner?” he said taking the glass from her. “I don’t go to work all…”





He stopped his train of conversation as a thump and a crash from upstairs, and there was a small scream before it fell silent, stifled.





Frank roared, instantly enraged, and Donna reached for his arm to try to calm him. She knew it was pointless but she had to try.





“Here, she said,” desperately, “why don’t you come sit down and I will put the television on and I will go sort the twins out.”





Frank waited for a moment, nostrils flared and jaw clenched tight. All day he had worked, he told himself, all day just to come home to this.





“What they need is a dose of discipline,” he shouted, knowing they could hear him.





“I know, I know, please, let me deal with it,” Donna continued, her heart was racing and she knew how this would end.





Frank finished his drink in a single gulp and handed her the glass.





“Let me get you another while you sit, dinner will be ready in just a minute,” Donna said gently leading him into the living room. A large, battered leather chair sat in front of the television, a smaller couch to one side of the room and then very little else bar a few photos on a small side table. Frank dropped into it, and it seemed to groan as he settled in.





“Get me that drink,” he said, fierce eyes darting up to the ceiling and then back to Donna. He reached up and put a hand on her waist, and it took every effort in her not to flinch. He smiled and licked his lips, “good girl.”










Part 3 – Room 101





>>> Transmitting >>>





Cypher: We all set? You sure about this one?





Charon: Good to go. You worry too much. You need to learn to trust me. We’ve done this enough times.





Cypher: Transfers received?





Charon: This one’s gratis. Friend of a friend of a friend, and I was feeling charitable. Your finders fee remains the same though. It’s nearly Christmas, I am feeling charitable.





Cypher: Are you fucking serious?





Charon: Deadly





Cypher: LOL. Such a big heart.





Charon:  And she knows no lawyer right? She knows to just take it on the chin.





Cypher: Now who’s doubting who? She knows the drill. Do not pass go, do not collect 200.





Charon: Matched and dispatched brother, plausible deniability guaranteed. Ive set the server scrub. Tick tick tick…





Cypher: The things people will do for 3 meals a day and guaranteed warmth eh.





Charon: We didn’t start the fire, but we gotta pay the ferryman.





Cypher: You talk a lot of shit.





Charon: Service with a smile my friend.





>>>Transmission end…server reset initiated….>>>

	


	





	

		
		
Shorts – The Great Magico
	


				

				
A while back i sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads

			

			
	
	

		
	

		

Having slowed somewhat in my writing, a while back(September 2022) I sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads. Unedited, raw, and just done for the hell of it…What concerns me most about this one is that I have no recollection of writing it. How curious.










I have always been of the opinion, and remain strident in my certainty to this day, that clowns can just fuck off. And not a little. No, they can fuck well and truly off. They can fuck wholly and utterly and most completely OFF!





And it is with that steadfast clarity of conviction that I found myself sat at an until now run of the mill birthday party for 6-year-olds, beer in hand, when I was confronted by The Great Magico.





Wild eyes and white gloved, fingers torturing balloons and teasing them into twisted animal forms to ear piercing shrieks, he cavorts and darts from child to child. My mouth is dry and my heart races as his wide red lips peel back in a primal snarl revealing teeth with which to rip and tear, or perhaps to eat cake, though I do not wish to prejudge his intent – despite knowing in my heart this is truly a monster in our midst.





I recoil as the garish colours of his clothes flash before my eyes, my white-knuckled hands gripping the paper plate in my lap, an assortment of warm fruits and half eaten chocolate biscuits falling to the floor.





“Do you want a giraffe?” he asks a particularly excited ginger haired boy, and the boy nods and claps his hands, a fiendish contract of desire signed with a mere gesture. He will surely wake in the night when the painted fool returns for payment, mouth wide in at attempted scream that fades to nothing in the darkness.





I try to stand but my legs will not work. He has a hold on me, I can feel it, and I want to scream as bright-eyed girl, the birthday girl, her blood red dress trailing in the grass, runs over to him. Outstretched arms envelop her, pulling her close and she disappears beneath his foul garb. Can no one else see, are they blind to this madness. Surely, they are not blind to the funeral shroud around her lifeless body.





Though what is this? Moments later she is brought back from the precipice, the ferryman perhaps unpaid. The price too steep maybe?





I feel my legs stir, his hold loosened surely through the revival of such innocence in the face of darkness, and stumble to my feet. One in front of the other I attempt to escape his grip as his gaze turns to me, eyes as red as lucifers throbbing cod piece and nostrils flared like a dragon ready to consume me in the fire of his fury.





I fall to the ground, fingers clawing into the clod earth and fallen fruits, like those from the tree of knowledge, soaking through my clothes. The smell of beer catches in my nose, surely it is the breath of the dark jester prince as he prepares to consume my soul. The shrieks and screams of children fill the air. Surely this is it, my end, my moment of judgement.





And then, when things seem at their darkest, she is there once more, a voice as clear as a bell in the night. Sweet and gentle, like rays of light piercing the darkness of the clouds after a storm. She is my refuge, my port, my lighthouse of hope.





“Help daddy up, “she says, and a tiny hand takes mine where I lie.





“Why does daddy smell like toilet?” the small voice asks.

	


	





	

		
		
Shorts – Red dirt
	


				

				
A while back i sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads

			

			
	
	

		
	

		

Having slowed somewhat in my writing, a while back I sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads. Unedited, raw, and just done for the hell of it…










Benz waved his arms and screamed to be heard above the thunder of tank fire as a kamikaze drone tore through the air above the squads’ heads. It screamed through a broken window on the first floor of the admin building behind them, shards of glass hanging from the frame like broken teeth, and exploded with a ‘whizz-thump’ that seemed to pull the very air from your lungs before pulling in the walls and then suddenly hurling them outwards.





“Corporal Hill, get your arse out of that crater and over to sat-com,” he shouted, throwing himself to the ground behind the rubble of a small fallen wall to avoid the falling debris of the admin building. Just as quickly he then regained his feet and sprinted across the open ground towards what had once been a wide car park that had welcomed visitors as they approached the long-abandoned robotics factory.





More drones whizzed overhead, cutting through the billowing smoke that swirled around the tanks as they navigated slowly between the falling buildings. Hill pulled his battle jacket tight around his waist as he lay in the high sided crater, still warm from impact with smoke rising up slowly to join the fog of war that lay thick in the air. God only knew why command had sent them this way, he thought to himself. The bots had been waiting for them – as if they knew exactly where and when they would be there, and if they didn’t get out of here soon those drones were going to finish every last one of them off.





“let’s not make this another San Francisco,” Benz barked as he dived into the crater alongside Hill. Three other wide eyed grunts lay across from him with their weapons clenched close to their chests, probably only 16 years old if they were a day. Cannon fodder. There to serve the war effort.





“Evening boys,” Benz said smiling, eyes wild and steely blue. “Enjoying the war are we?”





All three shook their heads and Benz roared with laughter.





“No shit, they never told you it would be like this down in the caves did they”.





Again, all three shook their heads and seemed to shrink even further down into the crater.





For the briefest of moments compassion flickered across Benz’ face before he turned to Hill.





“I need you to get to forward command and let them know just how royally fucked we are. We’ve lost 80 percent of the battalion and it’s turning into a tank graveyard. Visibility is near zero and we can’t stop those kill drones.”





He turned back to the three grunts that were staring intently and listening to the two senior men.





“Oh, don’t worry lads,” said Benz, flashing them a thumbs up. “I’m pretty sure it will be just fine.”





The recruits nodded once more as Benz turned back to hill.





“It probably isn’t going to be fine,” he said as quietly as he could through the din of explosions and gun fire that rang all around.





Hill knew full well fine was the very last thing things were going to be.





“Can you do that for me?” Benz asked, not focussed solely on Hill. “Can you get that message to forward command? All other channels are down. We need air cover and exit or we are toast.”





Hill said nothing. What choice did he have he wondered? What would happen if he said no, if he admitted just how terrified he was and how he really did not want to be a corporal and that he did not even know why they were fighting.





“Hill,” snapped Benz, placing a hand on the man’s shaking shoulder. “So, can you do it for me? While I try help protect those tanks. Can you get that message to them.”





Hill stuttered that he could and scrambled to his knees, ready to leap from the crater. Benz was up in a flash and grabbed a handful of the webbing on the back of Hill’s battle jacket and helped heave him to his feet.





“Go,” he shouted and pushed hill up and over the lip of the crater.





Benz scrambled after him to make sure he had got away and as he raised his head over the lip of the crater he saw Hill ripped clean in half as a low flying drone tore clean through him. He didn’t even get to scream, his middle third was a bloodied mist before he even realised and his top and bottom thirds fell to the floor as his blood seeped into the dust and dirt.





Benz slipped back inside the crater cursing, fists crashing into the steaming earth. For a moment he closed his eyes to compose himself, taking in a deep breath and then exhaling, his breath mixing with the smoke and steam.





He looked across at the three boys across from him, huddled close together, terrified and unable to move.





“Is…is he okay?” one of them asked, a pale faced boy with a shock of red hair peeking out from under his helmet.





Benz smiled. “Oh yes, ran like a whippet after a hare,” he said, obviously lying. He’s probably  half way there already.





The three boys eyed him up warily. They were young and naïve, but not completely stupid.





“Anyway, “ said Benz. “Which one of you is the fastest…?”

	


	





	

		
		
Shorts – Dead Accountant walking
	


				

				
A while back i sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads

			

			
	
	

		
	

		

Having slowed somewhat in my writing, a while back(September 2022) I sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads. Unedited, raw, and just done for the hell of it…What concerns me most about this one is that I have no recollection of writing it. How curious.










When the dead rose, yawning graves willingly vomiting up their rancid, worm riddled treasures, there were those that cried that this was surely hell. They thumped their chests and proclaimed – often waving leather bound books – that these were the end of days, and that it was time for judgement and oh boy were we going to be sorry. They insisted that we weren’t to complain because the truth had been there all along, mostly tucked away in the bed side tables in hotel rooms they conceded – but none the less it was our own fault for not believing and not paying attention and we should just get on with what was surely coming our way.





Now obviously I should point out that other faiths and theologies were available for commentary on the matter, and in the main those professing them were also found with leather bound books, different ones, but most generally concurred that we had this coming and there was nothing that could be done now.





That is probably one of the positives of the whole end of the world thing. They were all right to a degree and were able to find common ground at last with a shared message. The smug satisfaction did not last long though as they – like most people – were soon trying – and failing – to avoid the dead because they weren’t at all interested in whether you or any of your newfound friends had a leather-bound book at all. They would quite happily feast on you regardless of denomination or size of your leather-bound book collection.





A few months later those of us that remained were rather convinced that in fact almost everybody – regardless of persuasion – had been so very far from the mark.





The dead it turns out just wanted everything else to be dead too you see. They weren’t at all fussy. Cat? Sure, thing they would happily make that dead. Dogs? Easy pickings. One dead dog coming up. Cow found wandering unsuspectingly. You got it. Deaded. And people? There were plenty of those to make dead so absolutely they were all in on people too. It seemed a straightforward and simple lifestyle, and given they seemingly had none of the complexities and strains of modern life to contend with they could focus all of their energies on making things dead, and they were making a bloody good fist of it.





No, this was not hell, because hell would have been preferable in some regards. At least hell was warm. This was something on a whole new level, well beyond the gnashing of teeth and the wailing of the childless mothers the Old Testament had promised in repayment for our iniquities. There was no horned chap sat on a throne with a pitchfork insisting that we calm down, stop complaining, and bend over for our daily anal probing.





This was worse than hell.





This was London 2042.





Oh, and did I mention I’m dead too? Oh yeah. Pretty unfortunate turn of event but that’s how it goes these days. I had wanted to be an accountant but turns out the universe had other plans.





Guess there are things worse than death eh. Accountant. What the hell was I thinking…

	


	





	

		
		
Shorts – Burrito Meltdown
	


				

				
A while back i sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads

			

			
	
	

		
	

		

Having slowed somewhat in my writing, a while back I sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads. Unedited, raw, and just done for the hell of it…










In the endless possibilities of eternity there are things of such horror that they have yet to be imagined. Truly, truly terrible things that defy all description and would drive you mad if you were to know just how awful they might be. But on that list of things that have been both imagined and endured, there is the endless torture of being trapped inside a space suit, thousands of miles above the Earth, with your own fart.





Evolutionists would have us believe that homo sapiens, as well as lower and higher functioning mammals, have a natural proclivity to the stench of their own internal brewing as it is an affirmation of ones effective inner workings. Or something like that.





And here, in the darkness of space, on the edge of Earth’s atmosphere, Buster Wilde found himself wholly convinced that once that list of universal horrors was finalised there ought to be space made on it for the intestinal effects of government ration 158, beef chilli burrito.





It was not exactly a burrito in a way that a potato is not exactly a bottle of Russian standard vodka, though the chemical constituents would undoubtedly argue to the contrary and persist in their assumption that the dark paste he had endured, if coupled with the particularly large and lumpy potato, were in fact the basis for a rather good start to a night out on the town. They would further assert that they were technically correct in their belief in being a great dinner on the basis of being technically correct. And that is of course the purest form of correct and therefore the most compelling.





This was no night out on the town though. This was an attempt to unjam the launch arm of the satellite docking bay, whilst being suffocated by his own bodily functions.





“Screw it,” he thought to himself as he pulled down on the crowbar that he had jammed under the bent plating that had come loose when the bay doors had opened. He took a number of deep breaths and coughed. A couple more followed and for a moment sprite of light danced before his eyes. A warning light beeped on his wrist panel indicating a drop in oxygen levels, and then it blinked green once more and then went off.





“Everything ok out there?” came a voice over his com. “Swallowed a fly?” they continued, laughing.





Buster watched as the jammed plate came loose and drifted past his visor, spinning slowly. He reached out a gloved hand and managed to grab hold of it, clamping it to the magnetic belt hung around his waist.





“I’m fine,” he replied, “nothing to worry about. Arm is freed and I’m heading back to the lock now.”





Buster pushed himself away from the rail that ran the length of the cargo bay doors and drifted slowly back towards the entry hatch. He watched the Earth thousands of miles below, silent in the inky blackness. The smell had mostly gone now, and only a feint remnant lingered on his pallet. 





“Entering hatch one now,” he said as he swung the heavy handle and pulled the large square hatch cover open.





“That’s good,” came the reply across the com, “now get yourself inside, it’s curry for dinner tonight and you have another scheduled walk out there later – one of the access panels needs bolting down.”

	


	





	

		
		
Until Tomorrow #FFC
	


				

				
Another flash fiction quickie.

			

			
	
	

		
	

		

In response to Fandango’s flash fiction challenge.





Will try keep these to no more than 200 words. Today the photo below was posted by Fandango as a prompt. Head over to see him, hes a thoroughtly decent chap.















After all of these years, she is still the beautiful girl I fell in love with. Though time has taken its inevitable toll, on both head and heart, there is still that same sparkle in her eyes which so ensnared me what is now a lifetime ago. 





Lines paint a picture of a life well lived across her face, and even if now frail, everyone assembled in the room knows she remains a force of such joy and ferocious endeavour, and that she carries still more fervently a love quite fierce and unquenchable for those she calls friends or family, of which assembled now  are as many as the days she has lived.





Tears hide that glint now though, and as I stretch out my hand to comfort her she turns slowly to where we spent those many nights, sat quietly, listening to the crackle and hiss of the ‘soundies’ she loved so dearly, and which she taught me to adore nearly as much as I adored her.





I hear my name across the hubbub of the busy room, and somewhere there is an open door as I feel the cold air of December blow through me. It will be Christmas soon. One more reason to celebrate, one more year to look back on. One more year with her.  





Children’s voices drift in and out of earshot as I watch her, still light on her feet as she embraces old friends, her silver hair pulled in a tight bun on top of her head. I prefer it when she lets it hang loose, the way it cascades around her face and onto her shoulders, and oh the hours I have spent watching her in front of the mirror brushing it.  She would laugh and tell me not to stare so much, but these were some of my happiest moments. Just us. Together.





I feel a tug, pulling me away. Probably one of the grand children I suspect. Cheeks red from the cold and hair tousled, eyes bright and filled with mischief. I allow myself to be led away, and the room becomes quiet. And then, in that moment, a sadness and an understanding descends up on me I look down and I am alone, there is no small hand in mine. I smile as I finger the ring that has sat on my finger these fifty years. 





In the distant now I see her turn towards me, my favourite dress of pale blue contrasted against the dark backdrop of the room. She brushes the hair from her face and smiles as I mouth my last goodbye.






	


	





	

		
		
Bottom’s up!
	


				

				
Something that was sat in my drafts. Probably a response to a long lost prompt.

			

			
	
	

		
	

		

Through bleary eyes, Walter could make out moving shapes, dark forms contrasted against an expanse of bright white. There was something even brighter directly above him which he thought must be lights, and despite wanting to, he was suddenly very aware that he was unable to move.





“Where am I?” he mumbled, his mouth dry and tongue thick in his mouth.





“Ooh, he’s awake,” said an excited voice from somewhere behind him. “Is it time, can we start?”





“Hello?” said Walter, attempting but failing to turn his head towards the voice. “Is someone there?” he continued, which they most obviously were.





“Soon,” came a second voice in reply. “it’s nearly time.”





It was a calm voice. It was a reassuring voice. It was the sort of voice that doctors and tax accountants use when they tell you that everything is just fine, and you should trust them, and you absolutely should not worry about a thing. It was the sort of voice that would convince you not to worry when, in every possible way conceivable, you absolutely were not fine and you most certainly ought to be worrying. 





That is, you ought to worry if you were perhaps fond of the use of your legs or, you would prefer not to spend long lonely nights in a small cell with an aggressive sex offender with a penchant for small-mouthed school teachers simply because you’d allowed your wife’s cousin to do your tax returns.





Which just so happened to be what Walter was. A teacher that is, not a sex offender. Whether his mouth was small or not was entirely a matter of opinion.





Walter called out again, his eyes now growing accustomed to the bright lights and clean starkness of the room he found himself in. He coughed politely.





“Hello, I’m sorry but there seems to be a mistake. I’m not supposed to be here, I’m meant to be at…,” Walter paused, his thoughts were elusive and fuzzy, and just out of reach. There was a vague recollection of a bright light in the dark, and he knew there was a pub involved. Then he remembered. “I’m meant to be at a colleague’s leaving party. Thoroughly good chap, fort years serv-, “





Walter’s words faded into silence as a dark shape blocked out the lights above him, and immediately Walter knew things were not going to be fine. Not at all.





The logical part of Walter’s brain considered telling his vocal cords to scream, and that he probably wasn’t going to make the party and that he had wasted ten pounds on that mug with ‘retired, go ask someone else on it’.





It then quickly decided that it wanted absolutely nothing to do with this entire affair and instead chose to leave Walter’s mouth hanging open, and to go think about anything else apart from what it was seeing. It then promptly took itself into a dark corner with a nice cup of tea, leaving Walter wholly on his own with the creature that stood over him.





“Fetch the probes, little one,” it said with it’s calm and reassuring voice, in a most un-assuring way. “let’s see what this one’s bottom tells us about these people.”

	


	





	

		
		
Photon – FOWC Prompt response
	


				

				
Just some random waffly bits in response to a prompt

			

			
	
	

		
	

		

In response to Fandango’s FOWC prompt “Quandary“










If you had a telescope, a particularly powerful telescope, and you knew exactly where to look, and you were somewhat lucky and wholly tenacious, and you pointed it in the direction of the Horse Head nebula at just the right time on just the right day then, without doubt, you would still have absolutely no chance of seeing the SS Quandary.





And if you could not see the Quandary, you could most certainly not see her Captain as he stood proudly on her deck, legs akimbo and hands on his narrow hips. The Quandary shuddered and lurched, the auto-grav screaming against the deafening cacophony of sirens. Yet, resolute, he stared out from the bridge, watching as enemy fighters ripped gold and crimson slashes in the vast blackness of space.





He followed a photon torpedo as it tracked through the darkness in front of him, fast in pursuit of one of his combat drones.





“Funny old word ‘Photon,’ he said to himself, tightening the thick black belt around his waist and straightening his crisp white uniform trousers before pulling his jacket tight by the lapels.





“Photon, pho…ton, photon, photon, phooooo ton,” he said to no one in particular, the word bubbling around inside his mouth. He beckoned to a young ensign who was sat at a console to his right, punching away at something that was almost certainly futile and would not make one jot of difference when it came to their impending doom.





“Yes Captain Myers?” said the ensign, looking up from his screen, the pale light of the  monitor splashed across his pallid skin. 





“Photon, ” said the Captain, “funny old word isn’t it.”





The ensign shifted uncomfortably. It was obviously not a rhetorical question, and given the captain’s tone he assumed the answer was in the affirmative.





“Er, yes, yes it is,” the ensign replied, one eye on the captain, the other on his screen. It was mostly a sea of red and red was never a colour you wanted to see on anything when you were being attacked by an armada of ships that seemed intent on your destruction.





The captain chuckled to himself, silently mouthing the word over and over as he walked slowly forwards towards the vast window that stretched one side of the deck to the other.





The ensign settled back into his seat and returned to his screen. What little colour there was in his face drained as he watched a rather large something beep slowly as it tracked across his screen.





“Sir, ” he said nervously, “Sir, there is something you need to see.”





“Really?” replied Myers slowly as he watched fighter after fighter evaporate into a million glistening shards before his eyes. “Are you sure? It’s just that…”





“Yes sir,” interrupted the ensign. “you need to see it now sir, it is….”





“Oh, no need,” said Myers as he stiffened to attention, his eyes fixed on the thing that was winding it’s way through the drifting mass of debris towards them.





He half turned towards where the ensign sat, the ship shuddering once more and huge geysers of steam bursting from the floor as the lights flickered and dimmed.





“See, look there he said,” pointing out towards where the thing screamed towards them. “Photon…”





















	


	





	

		
		
The place where silence had a voice
	


				

				
Another from the drafts that I continue to clear out…

			

			
	
	

		
	

		

  




Here’s another from my drafts. This one is apparently from October 2019. I don’t remember it at all really. It was one of M’s prompts that I never quite finished (obviosly right). I liked the beginning but never really planned it out, and the end is a bit of a cop out. It’s hardly an original idea, I think it was just s stream of consciousness kind of thing. Oh well, it’s something I guess.  Meh. *Presses ‘Publish’.


________________________


With what should have been his hands, Walter quite unsuccessfully reached for what ought to have been his head and found nothing.


After further exploration he quickly determined that neither his head, nor his hands were in the general vicinity of where one would expect to find them. In fact, without too much effort at all he was able to ascertain that he seemed to be missing rather a lot of assorted appendages and parts. And by a lot, he meant precisely everything.


His leg bone was not connected to his foot bone. And his neck bone was not connected to his back bone. In fact, none of his bones seemed to be connected to any other of his bones in any sort of way that would allow him to sing the song with the measure of confidence he was pretty certain he would have been able to earlier that morning.


In addition, and to compound his growing consternation, Walter also noted that he couldn’t see anything.  Not his non existent hands, or his curiously absent feet. Nor any of his other absent body parts.  Whether it was a deficiency of eyes that was causing the lack of everything else, or whether he indeed possessed eyes but there was simply nothing for them to see he could not tell, and the whole thing really left him feeling rather unwell.


“What the devil is going on?” He said mustering as best a sense of authority as he could, calling upon all he had learned during a two day seminar on ‘Meaningful Management’ in Brighton more years ago now than he could quite recall.  “Is anybody there?  Hello. HELLO!”


“Oh, good day,” replied a voice in the darkness. “I wasn’t expecting anybody, I am sorry.”  The voice was warm and calm, not quite a man’s or a woman’s, just somewhere comfortingly in-between the two.  “Did you have an appointment?”


“Appointment?” Replied Walter, confused. 


“Yes, an appointment, everyone who comes here tends to have an appointment,” replied the voice. “However would we maintain order if we didn’t have appointments.  It would be chaos and that really would not do.  No, it would not do one jot.”


As far as he was aware, Walter didn’t have an appointment and he confirmed as much. He knew he needed to be somewhere, though doubted it was here. It was far more likely he needed to pop to the shops for milk or tea bags. That said, it was was all a little fuzzy and he couldn’t be absolutely certain.


Walter noted that he couldn’t feel his tongue or lips, and that made him wonder how he was managing to speak.


“It’s your consciousness” said the voice.


“What is?”


“You were wondering about where the words were coming from weren’t you.”


Walter managed little more than a mumble in response. 


“I…well you see it is just that….” Walter’s voice trailed away and once more only darkness remained as he waited.


And Waited.


“Ahem,” Walter coughed politely.


“Oh yes yes, so sorry, now about that appointment.  You say you don’t have one right?  Most unusual I must say.”


“Sorry no, I don’t really know what is going on to be honest with you.”


“Best policy that” Replied the voice enthusiastically, “Can’t go wrong with a bit of honesty.  Now let’s clear up this appointment business shall we.”


Walter would have shuffled on the spot had there been a spot to shuffle on. Or feet to shuffle.


“Yes, there’s definitely no appointment.” The voice said. “The book is never wrong and there is nobody due for another one point eight seconds.”


Walter mouthed a silent nothing. He would very much have liked to have something constructive to say, anything, but he had precisely nothing. 


“Well,” continued the voice, “this really is a pickle isn’t it. What are we going to do with you. It’s not like we can just send you back now, is it.” 


It wasn’t as much a question as a statement, Walter thought. 


“Are you sure?” He mustered. “I am pretty sure there is somewhere that I need to be.”


“Oh no, no chance of that. You’re here now. We can’t just stuff you back in now can we. Whatever would those upstairs say if we just went stuffing things where they ought not to be stuffed. It would be chaos. No, no, you’re here now.” 


“You can’t?” Said Walter, remembering where it was that he was supposed to be. “I was supposed to have a job interview this afternoon. In Wimbledon.  Could you maybe not just drop me off there?”


Whether he was being ignored, or the voice had drifted off somewhere to do whatever it is disembodied voices do when people don’t have appointments, Walter did not know, but for what seemed an immeasurable length of time, he waited. And paced. In as much as you can pace without anywhere to pace to or anything to pace with. 


“Good news,” came the voice in the darkness. “We have an opening. I had a word with the boys in lost property and we think we have something that might fit. “It’s not exactly your size but should do the trick.”


Walter did an about turn and then faced back to where he had been originally. “What do you mean by ‘fit’, he asked. “I need to be in Wimbledon. I have an interview. I really cannot be late.”


“Oh no, terribly sorry, but you won’t be going to Wimbledon,” the voice said. “That ship has sailed. Afraid you’re just going to have to settle for whatever we have. Clerical cock up I’m afraid.”


“Sailed? You mean I missed it?” Walter asked. “But it had wonderful benefits and a parking space and….”


“Just step back a little will you,” said the voice. 


Without thinking, Walter shuffled backwards.


“That’s it, just there. Now hold still.”


“But I…now listen here, what do you mean by cock up,” Walter protested, “I want to speak to someone in charge. I have right s you know. This is all very…”


Walter never finished explaining what exactly it was, and he never got to speak to whoever was in charge. The quiet darkness was replaced by a roaring gush of sound and there was an ear piercing scream. All about him he felt a warm wetness, and his chest was tight as his lungs burned.


“Just a little more,” came a voice as the darkness gave way to soft warm light. It was a woman’s voice. “Her head is nearly out…”


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 





	


	





	

		
		
Belugas and dreamlifters
	


				

				
I loved it when I started, hated it by the time I was finished but at least the idea is kind of out of my head now and I can fix it another day.

			

			
	
	

		
	

		

Been a while, so let’s have a look at M’s prompts. I used to do a lot of these and want to do more this year. This one is from January, but I liked the title, and have been dabbling for many months meaning to get to it. If you’re reading it now I guess I finished it. Kind of.  TBH I just wanted it out of my drafts.  I think the idea is an interesting one, just lost momentum along the way. Anyway, it’s a draft but as far as I am going with it – it is done.  Woohoo. 










The Expatria drifted slowly through the inky black of space, Jupiter’s shadow cast across her massive bulk as she rounded the pale moon of Europa and engaged her sub light drives. At over five million tonnes she was the largest of the Heavy Weight Class ships to leave the Martian shipyards, and she was bigger even than the Federal battle cruisers that patrolled the region.





Even in the dark of space she seemed to spark and flicker as light struck the long curves or her upper decks, her gigantic storage tanks buried deep within the bulge at her centre and lower sections waiting to be filled. The distinctive yellow and black Martian livery marked her unmistakably as a Dreamlifter, and as she slowed the small fleet of support vessels about her sprung into life, preparing her for action.





The bridge sat high on the front of the ship, three sides open to the dark of space, and standing on the deck looking out across the surface of the moon, Captain Staines issued his orders calmly.





“Bring her around ten degrees to moon side, nice and easy, ensign. And keep up 10 miles above surface.”





“Yes sir,” came the response from somewhere behind him, and he felt the ship turn slowly, almost imperceptibly. But with 25 years on these birds he could feel her every movement in his bones.





“Engineering, what’s our status?” Staines asked.





Behind him, there were thirty crew sat at long arrays of display banks, arranged in three rows that ran the width of the bridge. Pale green light flickered across their faces as the ship continued to move slowly then came to a halt, hanging above the moon surface.





An angular featured, thick set engineer, his yellow EngCore colours displayed in thick flashes on the shoulders of his dark blue uniform looked up from his display.





“Captain, readouts confirm that all systems are green-for-go, and we are now within harness range of the spike,” he said. His voice boomed across the bridge like approaching thunder and a passing service robot scuttled for cover.





The feint hum of the sub light engines filled the air as they held the Expatria in place against the massive gravitational pull of Jupiter in the distance, the slow hypnotic swirl of the planet’s surface distracting him while the crew waited on his orders. She was a thing of true beauty, and something to be feared if you were foolish enough to stray too close to her.





“Engineering, initiate harness protocols and prepare for harvest.” Staines said, turning back towards the crew. “Time to go to work.”










Barnabas threw a boot across the cabin at Lafayette as she stirred in her bunk.





“Hey, come on!” he shouted as she rolled over, swearing into her pillow. “We’re green, and we need to get our arses in gear.”





Lafayette opened her eyes slowly, and instinctively reached for the bottle next to her bed, noted it was empty and let it fall to the floor as she sat up, tossing the boot back across the room.





“Eat my balls,” she said swinging her legs out of bed and into her her boots.





“Nice,” said Barnabus, “you talk to your mother with that mouth?”





“Thoughts of what I do with my mouth should never even enter your head,” she said, rubbing her eyes and running her fingers through her long dark hair, pulling it into a tight pony tail. “We got a confirmed spike?” She asked.





“Big one apparently,” Barnabus answered as Lafayette got to her feet. She straightened the red overall she had fallen asleep in the night before and pulled the black belt tight around her narrow waist.





“What we waiting for then?” She said, brushing past Barnabus and stooping down to pass through the low cabin doorway.





Barnabus smiled and set off after her. She was one hell of a drinker, but she was an even better harpoon operator, one of the best, and talk was that there was a big one out there.





The clank of boots on steel echoed as they passed the rough the long, dimly lit  corridor that ran from the crew quarters low on the stern of the Expatria. On each side service routes branched off and snaked throughout the bowels of the ship, and it was down one of these that Barnabus and Lafayette headed.





“So exactly how big are we talking?” Asked Lafayette without looking back at Barnabus who trailed behind.





“A Neptune event big, apparently,” replied Barnabus, “maybe even bigger. It has be something special to bring us this close to the planet, I reckon.”





Lafayette smiled to herself. Big haul meant big pay, and the Guild paid the best rates in the sector. They held a tight grip on the shipping lanes that crisscrossed the galaxy, and they couldn’t do this without controlling the dark matter that fuelled the faster then light engines that made crossing such huge distances possible.





“And who else is on duty, have they said?” She asked. 





Barnabus hurried to catch her up. She had a competitive streak for sure, in fact it was more than just a streak, it was a compulsion to be the best and when you were trying to harness pure dark matter it helped to be motivated. 





“It’s you, Jones and Metlichok,” Barnabus answered. “And me and Zulu on radar.”





Lafayette bristled as she slowed and looked back at Barnabus, who was now a little breathless as he struggled to keep up with her.





“Christ, are you fucking kidding me!” Lafayette snapped. “Those jokers nearly got me toasted at Caloris Basin. Jones is a bag of nerves and Metlichock doesn’t give a shit about anything the money. It makes him reckless.” She scrolled through the display on her watch, checking the ship comms for details of who was on duty on the bridge. “I need to see Staines.  Is he on deck?”





“And how do you think that will go down exactly?” Barnabus asked. “This thing is big, big time big, and like them or not they get the job done. There are millions of cubes of DM, just waiting to be ‘pooned and you can’t play nicely with the other children. Not a good look on you, you know.”





Lafayette knew Barnabus was right, they wouldn’t change the crew, and this made her angrier still. 





“Well they can still eat my balls,” she snapped. 





Barnabus grinned. “You seem rather obsessed with having your non existent balls eaten you know.”





 “They’re metaphorical, thank you very much. Metaphorical balls. Big hairy ones.”





“Even so, you know, you really do seem very keen to…”





“Okay, enough, enough,” snapped Lafayette, pushing through a set of heavy double doors, “let’s just go to work shall we.”





Barnabus smiled as he followed her through the doors into the wide, low room ahead. “Okay, if you insist.” 










“Are we ready to engage?” Captain Staines asked as the Expatria hung above the surface of the moon, her huge shadow cast across the surface. He looked unusually nervous, and strode back and forth across the bridge, his hands his hands dug deep into his jacket pockets.





“All service online and ready to proceed Captain,” came a voice from behind him. “Estimated haul…”





There was a pause and the voice trailed away, a tone of disbelief left hanging in the air.





“Yes?” Prompted Staines





“Sir, it’s of the charts.  Readings spiking all over the place.”





Staines turned slowly and faced the room.  The dim light of the computer banks lit the pale faces of the crew that sat behind them. 





“Is there a problem Ensign?” The captain asked, his voice prickling with frustration. He needed this haul, it was critical to the success of their mission and the Shipping Guild were on the comms hourly asking for updates. 





“No sir,” the Ensign replied, “Ive just never seen anything like this.”





Staines fixed him with a stare and waited.





“Sorry sir, no problems reported, we are ready to engage.” 





 “Then do it.”





The Ensign punched in release codes and a red light lit up the room. A ship wide alert barked out. ‘Extraction protocols live. All hands to stations.’





“Thank you Ensign,” said the Captain. “Comms, send a message to the Guild and inform them harpooning has commenced.”





A wiry haired operator  responded sharply. “Yes sir,” he said, looking up, and then returned to his screen, fingers flashing across the flat panel in front of him.





As he punched the ‘transmit’ button all hell broke loose.





In an instant, the Expatria was rocked sideways, and Captain Staines was thrown across the deck and send crashing to the floor against an instrument array that sat raised to the side of the bridge. A screaming whine filled the air as the sub light drives fought to right the ship and lights flashed and flickered as the crew were tossed from their positions and strewn across the brdge.





Horror flashed across Staines’ face as he fought to gain his footing, leaning against the console against which he’d been thrown.





“What the hell was that!” He shouted as a second shudder ran through the ship. A mix of alarms and shouting rent the air as the crew scrambled to regain their positions.





“Massive overload!” Shouted an ashen faced engineer.  “Tanks at 98%. Auxillary hold engaged. Integrity steady but outlet manifolds under sever stress Captain.”





Staines scrambled over to his chair on the opposite end of the deck and threw himself into it, pulling the harness straps tight over his shoulders.





“Get me Lafayette on comms now! He barked. “And put radar on heads up. I need information.”





A holoscreen appeared in mid air about a metre in front of where Stanines sat. It flickered for a moment and then the flustered face of Barnabus appeared on it, no longer sporting it’s usual broad smile.





“What the fuck is going on down there?” Stains demanded.





A control panel behind Barnabus sparked and cracked, lights flickering and the hiss of escaping steam mixed with the shouts and cries in the background.





“It’s a Beluga sir,” shouted Barnabus over the din, “a huge one sir, like nothing I’ve seen before, and it’s pissed.”





Captain Staines shook his head.  As critical as the ‘pooners were, their superstitions, folklore and spiritual view of dark matter defied all sense or logic, and he knew better than to diminish the very thing that seemed to allow them to harness it.





“Just tell me what you’re seeing, Barnabus,” Staines said calmly.





Barnabus flinched as a heat duct came crashing down and collapsed behind him.





“This thing is after us Sir, from the minute I locked on and issued coordinates to Lafayette it was like it knew we were here and it came straight for us.  We didn’t need to try and hit it – it came to us.”





Staines took a deep breath. “Have you unlocked targeting?” He asked.  “Have we disengaged.”





“Yes Sir,” Barnabus shouted in terror, his eyes were wide and Staines could see him shaking. “But it’s still after us Sir. It’s a Beluga Sir, and it’s still coming down the system, I can see it, I can feel it!”





There was a loud scream from somewhere behind Barnabus and the screen fizzed and went black. The Expatria rocked and a cacophony of alarms sounded. Staines unstrapped himself from the chair and stumbled towards a door that lead from the bridge. 





“Keep her steady!” He shouted and he pushed through the doors. “And keep all channels open on me. I’m going below deck.”





________________





 Lafayette righted herself from where she lay on the floor, her head was spinning and there was the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. A searing pain shot up her right leg as she got to her feet and looking down she could see the blood seeping through her coveralls.





“Barnabus! Barnabus!” She shouted. Everywhere was thick with steam and smoke, and the sparking radar consoles threw red and orange shadows across the room. Small fires crackled and hissed and there was a pungent smell of melted rubber in the air.





Barnabus didn’t respond. She called out for Jones and Metlichok, but again, no answer. She tapped the comms piece in her ear, but there was only a feint crackle of static.





“Christ, where are they,” she said leaning against the radar console. It was somehow still functioning, and the usually green screen was awash with the small white streaks that indicated dark matter. Usually there would be a couple at most, but now…well now, there was very little else. 





All she could remember was being told it was a big one, and Barnabus looking terrified and then….Nothing. Just this. This complete and total shit show. Lafayette attempted to move in the general direction of the thick double doors that guarded the harpoon bays, but pain flooded through her and she stumbled forward, collapsing once more onto the floor. Her head was spinning and there was a darkness in the periphery of her vision. Realising she was losing consciousness she attempted to drag herself to the door, a thick streak of blood trailing behind her.





Reaching out a hand through the smoke, she grabbed the leg of what she guessed to be one of the heavy tables that stood either side of the entrance doors. Her fingers were bloodied and her breathing was heavy. 





“Over here,” came a voice. A familiar voice. It was calm and kind.





“Barnabus!” Lafayette shouted. “Barnabus, where are you. I’m hurt, I can’t…”





“This way, just a little further,” it said, “keep coming towards my voice.”





“Where are you?” Lafayette said, panicked. She was dizzy from the pain and everything now seemed so very dark.





“Just a little more,” said the voice again. “It will all be over soon.” She could hear it, it sounded like Barnabus, but there was something different, she wasn’t so much hearing it as feeling it deep inside her, resonating.





Lafayette pulled herself forward and dragged herself upright using the leg of the table, and sat up against it, breathing heavily.  The bleeding seemed to have stopped, though in the smoke it was hard to be certain. She knew it hurt like hell though, and she knew she had lost a lot of blood by the thick red trail she had left across the floor.





“Are you ready?” The voice asked. 





“Barnabus…”





“It’s time. It’s over,” the voice continued, “it’s time to join us.”





Before her, the smoke cleared, and Lafayette felt cold creep over her skin. Small pinpricks of light swirled before her, soon joined by more, dancing and flitting back and forth. Her breath misted as she breathed heavily, and slowly the lights took a familiar form. It was Barnabus, formed by the shimmering lights. His eyes were dark, and as he reached out a hand she felt the cold seep deep into her bones.





Lafayette struggled, but she was powerless to move, and as the sparkling hand touched her shoulder she felt her lungs fill with suffocating cold, like she was drowning. She looked down and watched with silent horror as her legs began to turn to dazzling specks of light.





“Come home now, Lafayette,” said the shape before her, thin silvery lips smiling at her. “It’s over now.”





As Captain Staines crashed through the doors, Lafayette screamed, a desperate silent scream, and as she raised a hand before her face he watched as she dissolved into starlight before him, and then, in a moment, she was gone. In a final crescendo of existence, her light swirled high up into the room, hanging from the ceiling and then, it tumbled slowly downwards, settling on the bloodied floor around him like fine snow on a still winter morning.





For a while he just stood there, motionless, heart racing. The room was cold and dark, it was silent, and it was empty. As he stared to where Lafayette had sat only seconds before, the silence was broken by the sudden clicking of fans kicking into life as the ventilation system came online, and the room quickly cleared of smoke as it was sucked from the room.





A small ping sounded behind him and he turned to where one of the radar bays still glowed green. White lights moved across it, darting and swirling back and forth and as he watched they formed a familiar pattern. It was Lafayette, unmistakable.





He reached to touch the screen and the image flickered for a moment, a thin smile across her face. He knew she could see him, just as he could see her, and then again , for one final time, she was gone.





________________





High above the Moon of Europa the Calista circled the wreckage of the Expatria as she drifted slowly in her lifeless orbit, a mile long gash in her side a reminder of the explosion in her tanks that had ended the lives of so many.





From his vantage point on the deck Captain Staines looked down on the graveyard of a ship he had once commanded. Even now, years later, the nightmare of those final moments still haunted him. His nights were filled with the silent screams of the thousands that had perished in the cold of space  as he watched, helpless, from the small round window of the lifeboat.





“Are we ready to engage, Ensign?” He asked, his voice wavering.





“Yes Sir, all systems green-to-go.”





“Radar, please confirm status,” he prompted as he turned in his chair to his holo screen. 





“Yes sir,” came an enthusiastic reply.  The operator was young, barely out his teens, and Staines could feel the excitement in his voice.





“Engage,” ordered Staines. His stomach lurched.





Red lights flashed across the bridge and the hum of the harpoon’s cycling up could be felt throughout the ship. Staines switched his screen to monitor the radar and watched as the small pinpricks of light on the screen blinked out, one by one, and the monstrous containment tanks began to fill slowly.





“All systems normal,” sounded a confirmation from the arrayed banks behind him. “Tanks at 15% and rising. Pressure levels normal.”





Staines breathed heavily, his focus on the screens as the tanks continued to fill.





As the gauges continued to creep slowly upwards across the  screen there was a brief flicker on the radar, and then another.





“Radar, report,” he ordered.





“All systems normal Sir,” came the response.





“Engineering, report,” Staines said, sitting upright in his chair and pulling his shoulder straps tight.





“All systems normal sir, containment at 100 percent. No anomalies present.”





Staines  continued to watch the screen. It flickered again.





“Radar, report!” He demanded.





“Sir, all systems normal. She’s a big one, but nothing we haven’t seen before Sir.”





“Engin….” Staines’ voice trailed away as the screen flashed from green to an incandescent white. Brilliant pinpricks danced and swirled before his eyes. At first they were random, a confusion of brilliance, and then slowly they began to take shape.





Staines tried to speak but his voice was caught n his throat. He felt unable to move as before his eyes, there on the screen was a face he had seen is his dreams every night. It smiled at him, like a long lost friend, eyes full of wonder and compassion, and then, as the gauges on the side of the screen continued to rise a pained expression crept across her face. The pain turned to a contorted grimace and she mouthed silent exhortations, the remnants of long lost fingers clawing at the edges of the screen.





“Tanks at 50% Sir, anomaly  99% harnessed,” came a confirmation from a dark haired Ensign sat off to his right. “Initiating shut down protocols.”





Her eyes now wild, Lafayette stared out at him, her empty mouth wide in a pained grimace. Tears spilled from her eyes and ran down her starlit cheeks as the hum of the harpoon’s fell silent and slowly, pinprick by silvery pinprick, her image faded from the screen and all that remained was the pale green glow of the radar.





Lafayette, she had come home at last.






	


	





	

		
		
My Second Book…
	


				

				
Bugger, I seem to have written a second book

			

			
	
	

		
	

		Quick recap for you…

I have written before about why I started my blog.  For those who missed it one of the main reasons was due to a friend who’s wife (now ex), an aspiring writer and a vile human being, insisting that anyone that self publishes does so as an act of vanity which is probably why she had never been published and for the most part refused to work.  I proceeded to take up writing and publish a book of limericks – which I dedicated to her – just to spite her.

Anyway, I have now pretty much finished a second one.  This one is much less filthy, has no mention of boobs or prostitutes or weird penis’ and is actually a children’s story book.  Still got some general fiddling and editing to do and need to get it all put on Amazon but hey-ho, there you go.  I won’t be dedicating this one to here either.  She’s had her turn.

Oh and if youre looking for an amazing artist look up Naya Kirichenko, who did the art, damn she’s good and such fun to work with.






More to follow on this!

My fist book can be found at the links below

Paperback in the UK is here https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1916089011

And in the US here https://www.amazon.com/dp/1916089011

UK E-Book is here https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07QF58TYM

The US E-Book is here https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07QF58TYM	


	





	

		
		
Exodus 0.4 – Dust
	


				

				
Just a thing I have been playing with…

			

			
	
	

		
	

		

I’ll carry on with this a bit.  Not sure if anyone will read it but I like waffling on when I am in the mood…I’m still just trying to mostly find time and just keep writing something each day 





Other parts are here, here and here…





_____________





At about the same moment that Fisher changed her mind from wishing she had never been born to instead wishing that fate on the base Commander, an unfathomable distance away at the far side of the universe – and quite a bit beyond that – a Crenorian fleet dropped out of hyperspace.  It then proceeded, methodically and without too much of a fuss, to demolish a quiet and unassuming small planet where just moments before  the magical myriad of molecules and circumstance had collided in a ‘just so’ manner to create what would eventually have evolved into intelligent life.





It didn’t.  Instead, along with everything else on the planet,  it was turned to a collection of space dust and debris in the name of military preparedness.





“Now how about we collect the debris and hurl it into the nearest sun?” Pondered Fleet Marshall Jolt, a broad grin spread across his face from gill to gill.  His scales flashed iridescent in the dim light of the bridge and a sharp red tongue flicked from his mouth licking his thin dark lips.





A junior officer shuffled uncomfortably and informed Jolt that it was a practical impossibility though they could spend a few hours firing ion torpedoes at the larger remaining pieces of planet if that took his fancy.





“And are there any living things out there?” Jolt asked, staring out into the inky darkness of space as he stood legs akimbo and hands on hips looking, in his opinion – and this being the only opinion that actually mattered – quite impressive indeed.





“D-d-doubtful sir” the junior officer replied.  “Pretty certain the exercise put pay to anything that might have been alone though early scans indicated that the planet was quite lifeless.”





“Hmm, that’s a shame.   Would have been nice to do a little hunting.”





The junior officer continued to shuffle his feet uncomfortably.  He wasn’t sure that he would class a planet killer class Crenorian warship’s vaporisation of an entire planet as ‘hunting’.  He was certain however that he was not going to correct the Fleet Marshall.





“Unfortunate indeed sir.  Shall I stand down the armoury for the time being.”





Joltz signed and turned slowly.  “Yes I suppose you better if there isn’t anything else worth blowing up.  Are you absolutely certain?”





“Afraid so.  I’ll stand them down sir shall I.”





“You should probably stand the armoury down then…what was your name again?”





“Drax Sir.  Fenorious Drax”





“Oh there is absolutely no way I intend to remember that.”  Joltz turned back towards the darkness outside of the ship.  “I don’t even know why I asked.  Anyway, stand down the armoury for me will you.  Looks like there’s nothing else to blow up.”





“Yes sir straight away” said Drax saluting with his clenched fist across his chest and spinning on his heels as he hurried from the bridge.





And it was at this precise moment an unfathomable distance away and then some at the far side of the universe that Cole received, by an apparent incalculable chance, instructions to set his faster than light drives to coordinates that just moments before was the home to a planet that was suddenly no longer there thanks to Fleet Marshall Joltz.





___________________________










That will probably be the end of that …for now.  🙂















  






	


	







	

		
		
Always you – Part 2
	


				

				
The second and final part of this short piece…

			

			
	
	

		
	

		
Part 1 is here


The cold metal frame of the trolley digs into my hands as we wander past the bust station, the street lights flickering into life in the growing gloom.


“It’s Just around the corner here” Tom says pointing as he shuffles along beside me, directing me down a long street of identical red brick houses that sit squat over the road like dark haired fisherman on a river bank.


Again he tells me how grateful he is and I reply and tell him that it is no problem at all.  


“Have you lived around here long?” I ask avoiding the puddles trying to keep my good work shoes dry.


“Oh yes” he says, a sense of pride in his voice.  “Been here since they went up new in the seventies.”  He straightens his flat cap and then pauses for a moment as if remembering before I jog him from his thoughts.


“This way?” I ask, shifting the weight of the trolley from one hand to the other.  I can feel the splashes of water soaking through the bottoms of my trousers. 


“Yes, yes straight on, not far now” he says pulling his coat tight around him as the rain continues to fall.  “Quite a thing it was back then you know” he continues.  “To buy our own home, took every penny we had saved up plus some we borrowed from the family.  But it was worth it in the end.”


“I’m sure it was” I reply and he leads me across the road and down a smaller side street.  Cars line one side, the water swirling and swerving around their tyres sweeping litter along.  Weeds strain through crevices in the path, and as we pass the houses the cracked paint, cluttered yards and stained net curtains tell of better times now past.


He tells me how he’s seen everything change so much over the years, and I’m reminded of my own grandparents who I see less than I should. 


“Just over there” he says and nods to a house with a neatly tended front garden and freshly creosote stained fence that stands out from the others.  The Gate squeaks as he holds it open for me and he looks almost embarrassed.


“Better get some oil on that” he says and pulls it closed behind me.


The gravel path, dark from the rain,  leads to the front door and Tom fumbles for his keys as I let him pass.  Eventually he pushes the door wide open and encourages me to head inside.


“It’s straight ahead to the kitchen” he says as I step into a small entry hall.  I’m uncertain if I should take off my shoes but head down the short hall anyway, desperate to put the trolley down. 


“Anywhere in there is fine ” he shouts taking off his coat and hanging it on a peg behind the door.  I place the trolley down gently on the light colored linoleum.


“Would you like a cup of tea?” He asks.  I check my watch.  Not sure if will even be worth going to the pub by the time I get home now.  Even so I decline politely but Tom insists and takes an old battered kettle from the stove and fills it.  “Please, take a seat” he says waving towards a small wooden table and chairs against a wall.  A biscuit barrel in the middle of the table in the shape of a bear grins at me as I sit down.  He seems grateful for the company and I find it hard to refuse.


Slipping off my coat I hang it over the back of the chair and It begins to drip onto the lino.  I start to apologise but he laughs, a glint in his eyes.  “Oh don’t worry” he says, “now if my Kathy was still here that would be another matter.  She liked things just right she did.  Very particular.”


His words are a mix of pride and sadness, and it seems to me a fair assumption that she has died.  Looking at Tom I guess he must be somewhere in his eighties at least.


“How long since you lost her?” I ask looking about. The kitchen is simple and compact with clear work surfaces and plain white cupboards.  A single plate and glass are drying next to the sink and a small vase of tulips sits on the window ledge which looks out onto the garden.  


“Oh nearly eight years now.” He looks out of the window as he drops three tea bags into a pot on a tray with two white china cups.  “One for each of us and one for the pot” he says smiling.  Steam begins to drift lazily from the kettle spout.  “You’d have liked her.” He fetches a half pint of milk from the fridge, “Everyone around here did.  Not a person she wouldn’t help if she could.”


For a while he says nothing more, concentrating on the tea.  He pours the boiling water into the pot and gives it a stir before bringing it over to the table and setting it down.    


“Do you take sugar?” he asks.


I shake my head even though I normally take two.  I don’t want him to have to do anything else.  He moves so slowly as if distracted, yet each action is so purposeful.  I wonder if this is the pattern of his days. A quiet private existence filled with the routines developed over a lifetime which are now all that is left.  


Waiting for the tea to brew he remembers that he has not yet asked my name and apologises. 


“Oh you have the same name as my father” he says when I tell him and his hand shakes as he pours the tea, the china cup clinking as he lifts it from the tray and offers it.  I accept with a thank you and add milk.  Just a little.


“So do you have any children?” I ask.  I don’t like the idea of him being alone all of the time, dragging that trolley to town once a week and then straight back home.


“No, it never happened for us.  it was just the two of us.  We would have liked a family but I guess it just wasn’t to be.”


I take a sip and add a little more milk.  


“Looks like the rain’s stopping” he says and asks if I want a biscuit, reaching for the grinning bear.


“No I’m fine thank you” I reply as he takes a KitKat from the jar and slowly opens it.


“Kathy loved a KitKat, always used to hide them from me.  I knew her hiding places mind, just pretended I didn’t.”


A distant single chime of a church bell tells me it’s half past six.  I check my watch to confirm.   I could actually probably still make it if I set off now, I might be a few minutes late but nothing major.  


“Do you need to get going?” Tom asks taking a bite of his KitKat. “It’s okay if you do, I am just so grateful for your help.  Not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t stopped to help me.”


I check my watch again and then pull my shirt cuff over it and reach for the biscuits.


“Maybe I will have one after all” I say lifting the lid on the bear barrel. “And then I’ll help you put that shopping away shall I.”


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 





	


	





	

		
		
Always you – Part 1
	


				

				
At this point I remember why I wanted to work in an office.  I’ve never been any good with my hands, unless you count typing, which most people don’t.

			

			
	
	

		
	

		
It was raining the day I met old Tom, my light summer coat proving completely inadequate against the violent deluge that fell from the dark November sky.


“Did you not check the forecast?” Joanne asked me as I stood huddled in the office doorway as she locked up.  I started to answer but the question was more an admonishment that an actual interest in my ability to plan for meteorological eventualities.  She didn’t wait to find out though and scurried under the shop awning of the bakery next door and lit up a cigarette.


“Those things will kill you” I told her trying to be funny.  Her withering glance told me I had been anything but.


“See you tomorrow then.” I shouted. 


She nodded and waved as she took a long drag on the cigarette, the embers lighting up the sharp features of her mostly unremarkable face.   


Waving back I turned as the rain cut through the pall of silver smoke and pulling my coat around me as best as I could headed off to catch the bus.


The number 45 runs just a few minutes from my place and If I hurry I’m thinking I might catch the Five-twenty which means I will be home before six and at the pub by seven.


Not wanting to get my good work shoes too wet I avoid the puddles as best as I can and trying to stay under cover I head past rows of unremarkable shops all closing for the night.  Lights blink out and shutters rumble closed as people, seemingly as grey as the sky above, head home after another day not wholly different to the day before and likely quite similar to tomorrow.


The place has certainly seen better times I think to myself, and that’s when I saw him.  


He had the posture that only age can bring, hunched over an old blue shopping cart and the rain cascadied onto his flat cap and spilled down his long brown coat.  


“You alright mate?” I ask him checking my watch.  I’d normally not bother asking but somethign about him said he needed help.  And if everythign is okay there’s still time to get the five-twenty.    


He looks up slowly, his face long and gaunt with thin lips and deep set dark eyes.


“Bloody wheel’s come off” he says pointing a long bony finger at the right side of the trolley, which I can now see is sitting quite lopsided.  “Typical when I’ve just bought my week’s shop.”  He shakes his head and fumbles with the wheel.


I tell him I’ll take a look if he wants and he nods appreciatively. “My eyes aren’t great, thanks” he says.


At this point I remember why I wanted to work in an office.  I’ve never been any good with my hands, unless you count typing, which most people don’t. That said even with my limited knowledge I do know though that it looks knackered and tell him so.


“Oh that’s no good” he says shaking his head and he asks me if I think he needs a new one.


“What do I know” I think to myself and check my watch.  If I don’t leave now It’ll be gone eight before I get to the pub.


I nod and scratch my chin as if I’m suddenly a shopping trolley mechanic.  “Do you need a hand with it?  Are you going far?”


“Oh yes please” he says, his face brightening.  “Are you sure?”


I shake my head and tell him it’s not a problem really and he smiles.  “Not too far” he says, “it will only take ten minutes.”


 





	


	





	

		
		
Electric Dreams
	


				

				
Part of a thing that might be part of another thing.  It probably needs an ending or another part or a first part really…

			

			
	
	

		
	

		
I wrote a bunch of prompts you can read about the process here.  This is my response to one of them.




Benton turned in his seat looking over towards where Blake the OpsCom stood hands on hips staring at the bank of screens.  A hundred different images flashed before him and his gaze flitted from one to the next searching desperately.


“Sir we have her on screen forty seven now, she’s in 1692.  Status red.  She is way off of her time line and it looks like she’s got herself into some real trouble.”


“Jesus Christ” exclaimed Blake stepping forward.  “Bring her up on main comms.  Full resolution, all channels.”


Benton’s fingers flashed across the keyboard and the image jumped to two large screens on the wall above the array of smaller ones.  The screen crackled with interference and the sound was patchy, but from their angle they could see a grey sky swirling above a thick crowd in front of a large oak tree.  There were probably thirty people all told, all dressed in little more than rags and the signs of hard and desperate lives etched across their gaunt faces.


The wind whipped autumn leaves around their feet and dirty faced children huddled against their parents as a larger, round bellied ruddy cheeked man came into view.  Dressed all in black save for the crisp white collared tunic beneath his heavy brass butoned jacket a number of mothers pulled their children close as he stood and stared.


“Are you certain this is Cassie’s feed? Can we get boots on the ground?” Blake asked, panic in his voice.


Benton shook his head.  “It is her sir weve have the genesis protocols in place and confirmed but we can’t get assets in place in less that 30.  We’d need to recalibrate the chamber and we don’t even have a full geolocation.  She’s somewhere on the east coast but she’s so far out of time the techs can’t get a solid ping.  Her tracker is bouncing all over the place.”


Blake remembered his training.  “Officers never run” he told himself.  Dont scare the troops and all that but it was easier said than done though.  It was his wife out there and every sinew in his body told him to run like hell.   “Order Brave team to suite up anyway” Blake instructed. “And tell the techs to get the chamber ready and to get me that geolock asap.  Nothing else tops this.”


Benton nodded.  “Sir, yes sir.”


Blake looked at his watch as the image blurred and then sharpened again.  The man grinned a black toothed smile and licked his lips slowly.   His bulbous and heavily veined nose gave away his love of liquor and the tight fitting tunic was a certain sign of priviledge and power.


“I will ask you just once more” he shouted with a flourish of his hand in which he held a heavy leather bound book which Blake assumed to be a bible.  “You will tell us where you came from and how you know of these things of which you speak.  They say you dream of these things and cry out in the night as if haunted by the dark one himself.”


“She bears the mark” a stooped old woman in the crowd shouted shaking a stick on which she had been leaning.  “And I hear her speak of metal birds that fly and horseless carriages that speed across the land.”


The man raised his hands to the sky.  “She claims to know that which no man can know” he proclaimed and the crowd murmered.  The screen shook momentarily as a stone was thrown that seemed to strike her in the chest.


“Christ Cassie what are you doing there” Blake shouted desperately as the screen panned down and he could see her bare feet where she stood on a pile of wood.  Blake turned his eyes wide and panicked breathign heavily.  “Benton come on man, get me that geo lock now damn it.  We need to get her out of there before they…”


“Sir the techs have said they cannot get a lock.  She’s not showing up in any of the known time streams.  She’s invisible to us and without the lock we cant pull her out.”


“How the hell can she now be showing up?  We’re getting her feed aren’t we.  She’s there.  We can bloody well see her.”


Benton lowered his eyes and tapped at his keyboard as Blake returned his gaze to the screens.


“Where is your tongue woman” the fat bellied man barked, “do you not know the punishment that awaits you?  Have you nothign to say for yourself?  Does the old woman tell the truth?”  He turned to the crown and raised the book in his hand and they cackled and began to shout.  A young boy picked up a stone and pulled back his arm to throw it before his mother grabbed his hand and took it from him sharply.  The screen focussed on her and Blake could see a sadness in her face.


“Benton.  Geolock NOW” he shouted.  “We need to get her out of there before they…”


“If you will say nothing woman then we must assume you cursed” the man shouted spinning around and approaching Cassie.


Cassie seemed to shake her head but said nothing.


“Say something damn it” shouted Blake.  “Do something Cassie you’ve been trained for this.”


Again the screen crackled and blurred and then panned across the crowd as they became more and more agitated and vocal.  Slowly the angry twisted faces came into view and then disappeared until once more only Cassie’s feet could be seen.


“If you will not speak then you will burn” came the now cruel and manic man’s voice.   The crowd bayed and howled as a fiery glow flickeder across the screen.  “You shall return to the place of darkness if you will not repent.”


Blake turned to Benton but Benton just shook his head and looked back down. Fighiting back tears and with clenched fists he turned and walked towards the exit of the room.


“Screens off.  Get me that lock and inform Bravo team to prepare for recovery.”


 


 


 


”


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 

	


	





	

		
		
Leaves of Autumn
	


				

				
Gerald stared out across the broad lawn, leaves skipping across the surface as the wind chased them through the garden.

			

			
	
	

		
	

		
I wrote a bunch of prompts you can read about the process here.  This is my response to one of them.




 


Gerald stared out across the broad lawn, leaves of red, gold and brown skipping across the surface as the wind chased them through the garden.


“Can I get you anything Gerald” a kind faced nurse asked, pulling the rust coloured blanket up onto his lap.


Gerald looked at her over the rim of his glasses for a moment before answering.  “No.  No thank you” he said slowly.   He was pretty certain that she was new but something in the back of his mind told him that he knew her from somewhere.  Somewhere else though.


“Okay dear” she said walking away smiling. “Dinner will be at seven, it’s pork chops tonight, your favourite.”


“Did you hear that Albert?” He asked the man in the blue pyjamas sat next to him.  “It’s pork chops again, third time this week.”


Albert didn’t reply and stared out into the distance.  Albert always stared out into the distance these days though he did enjoy the pork chops.


“Is she a new one Alfred?” Gerald asked him without expecting a response.  “I’m certain she is but she seems to know I like pork chops.”


Albert blinked.


“No I don’t quite remember either” Gerald continued.  “Everything seems a little fuzzy you know.”


Albert blinked again.


“And I’ll tell you another thing, not only are we eating a lot of pork chops Alfred but it seems to have been Autumn for a rather long time.  Do you even remenber when it was anything but Autumn because I don’t.”


Gerald pulled back the blanket from his knees and let it drop to the floor.  There was a word he was looking for but he couldn’t quite find it and then just before he had it he felt it slip through the his grasp like the wind that whistled through the trees outside and teased the leaves until they sailed to the ground.


His old gnarled fingers gripped the arms of the chair as he attempted to lift himself up onto his feet.  He felt a shooting pain in his stomach and stood bent over.


“Gerald, what are you doing?” came the voice of the new nurse before he was able to steady himself.   His legs felt weak, like they hadn’t been used for a long time.  He looked down at them noticing how thin they seemed.


“Come on you” She said placing a hand on his arm and easing him back into the chair.  “Whatever is he like eh Albert?” She asked Albert smiling.


Albert stared straight ahead though Gerald noticed him stiffen ever so slightly.  He didn’t remember much but he didn’t remember Albert being so fat.


“There really is no need to be up and about Gerald whatever is the matter?” She asked sharply.


Gerald tried again to stand but felt once more her arm on his shoulder and this time more forcefully and he sat back in the chair.


“There’s something wrong here” Gerald said as she once again put the blanket on his lap.  “Everything feels wrong, what’s going on?” He demanded.


The nurse’s eyes narrowed and she placed a hand on each of his shoulders as she leaned in towards him.


“Now Gerald let’s not get upset, you know how it effects Albert.  There really is no need to concern yourself and you don’t want to miss out on pork chops tonight now do you?”


She stared deep into his eyes and it sent a chill through him.  He scrambled in the recesses of his mind, everything a blur and tried to remember something, anything.


“What have you done to me?” he whispered as she continued to stare at him, pinning him where he sat.  “What have you done to Albert and why can’t I remember?  Why is it always autumn?”


Albert.  That was it.  He hadn’t always been like this.  It wasnt’t always pork chops and autumn.  Before there used to be…


“Gerald, you really need to settle down” she said, her tone now ominous her smile long gone from her face.  “You’re upsetting Albert see.”


Gerald turned slowly and saw that Albert was staring across at him, tears running down his fat cheeks.


“Albert I…”


Nurse stood upright looking down at him.  Gerald suddenly felt very small and there was a knot in his stomach.


“Now shall I get you those pork chops?” she asked with her fake smile now plastered once more across her face.  “I’ll fetch you some too Alfred.”


Gerald nodded as Albert continued to stare at him before nurse settled Albert back into his chair.  She straightened him up and again he faced the wall as she tucked Albert’s blanket tight around his legs and patted his stomach.


“Albert loves his pork chops don’t you Albert.”


Gerald watched her walk away and push through the double doors at the far end of the room.


“Albert, what’s going on” he whispered.


Albert turned towards him, his eyes wide and breathing heavily.   A mix of pain and fear was etched across his face.


“Christ man what is it” Gerald pressed.  “What’s going on?”


Albert opened his mouth to scream holding his stomach but no sound came out.  His face contorted and eyes bulged as his mouth continued to widen and his face reddened.  His lips, stretched thin,  turned white and then began to bleed as his voiceless scream continued and his eyes began to roll back into his head.


Gerald forced himself from the chair once more, his heart pounding in his chest and his head spinning.  He looked about and began to move as quickly as he could towards the double doors.  His legs felt like they would buckle beneath his as he shuffled in his slippers, and turning back he saw Albert reach out an arm towards him and even in this state it seemed to him to be somethign of a warning.


He slowed as he reached the doors and stood pressed against them, breathing heavily.   Nothing made sense, nothing felt real.  he shot a glance back at Albert and saw he was slumped on the floor in fromt of his chair.  Surely the only thing he could do was to call the nurse.


Gerald reached for the door handle but before he could push through them he heard the voice of the nurse beyond them.


“Just get those pork chops ready” he heard her bark.  “And add extra we need to fatten them up.  The pupae are getting hungry and Albert’s will be ready to hatch before the spring.”


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 

	


	





	

		
		
Firestorm
	


				

				
It’s funny but when you join up you think it’s going to be endless excitement and adventure, and sometimes it is, but what they don’t tell you is just how much time you’ll spend sitting around.

			

			
	
	

		
	

		
I wrote a bunch of prompts you can read about the process here.  This is one of them.




>Log date 2243>>


>Location>>>Confidential>>


>Status >>>Transmitting>>>>>


It’s funny but when you join up you think it’s going to be endless excitement and adventure, and sometimes it is, but what they don’t tell you is just how much time you’ll spend sitting around.


‘Hurry up and wait’ seemed to be the mantra most days once we’d finished basic training , and even with all of that down time there wasn’t much to see on Mars at all so when we were posted to the Orion system everyone couldn’t wait to get star side.


We were stationed about five hundred thousand miles off of Rigel because it was a known dropping in point for the Confederacy, and brass figured that it was best to wait for them and hit them as soon as they dropped out of faster-than-light.  What Brass didn’t figure though was that they had the drop on us and when we dropped out they were already there waiting for us with most of their fleet.


They say your training just kicks in instinctively when it needs to but you know, I remember the klaxon’s sounding shrill as we scrambled across the deck and seeing the Aspidistra getting torn to shreds through the hanger doors, and I wanted to be anywhere else.  Jenson didn’t even make it much beyond the main hanger when a Fed ship took him out and most of the lads didn’t suffer much better.


I took a few of them out before I ran out of ammo but they were all over us because nothing had prepared us for just how ferocious and desperate they were.  Picking us off one by one they didn’t seem to have any regard for their own lives and they just wanted us dead.  All forward vessels were taken out within the first few minutes and those of us that scrambled were no match for them.


I was left drifting when my main power drive took a hit and I guess I was lucky because I was dead to rights but just slowly drifted beyond the carnage.  With my comms down and only life support ticking over I watched as a huge nova bomb took out the main attack carriers of the Foreshadowing and the Callista.  In the silence of space they simply evaporated into a billion shards of pulsating light and in a blink of an eye 15000 lives were lost.


I think it’s been five solar cycles since I saw the last of the explosions, time escapes you when you’re drifting through nothingness, and I don’t think anyone is coming to find me.  Power is low and there is less than a few hours left in the reserve tanks.


I’m not sure this will ever reach anyone, it probably won’t, but if it does then tell my folks I’m sorry I ddn’t write more often.


Status >>>Received>>>>>


 


 


 


 


 


 

	


	





	

		
		
The Soldier Part 4
	


				

				
A thing where I only write every second piece.  Sorry it took so long to get back round to it.

			

			
	
	

		
	

		
A.P. (I am sure he has a name but for the purposes of this we shall go with A.P.) asked me if I fancied some sort of collaboration thing when he writes a piece then I follow.


I was asked to do this before and I wanted to and then I realised I have less time than I would like to really make an effort so I didn’t do it.  Nothing has changed but this time I said yes and so A.P. goes and makes a quite eloquent and intriguing post and I figured I better get it done as it would be frightfully rude not to so I seem to have written the follow up piece below.


There weren’t really any rules other than he does a piece then I do.




The soldier part 4


Part 1

Part 2


Part 3


The amber district is many things to many people, but not one those who call it home choose to do so.  If it were a wife then it would be a stooped old crone with less sense than teeth, though possessing very little of both by most acceptable standards.  Were it a friend then it would surely be the duplicitous wife stealer of a compadre with a taste for the warm wet crone mouth.  Were it a husband then it would surely be the never home and whore addled…well you get the idea.


It was a most unpleasant place indeed and not somewhere that you would choose to spend your holiday or even a long weekend.


With no idea of where she ought to be Tes pulled the cowl of her cloak around her ears and with eyes downcast walked through the tall stone archway that lead to the main market.  Unfamiliar smells assaulted her nostrils and made her eyes water and the buzz and bustle of the market filled her ears.


“Hey Darlin’” came a voice over the hubbub.  “You after something special then?” Somehow she knew it was aimed at her and she couldn’t help but look over. “What can I get for you?”


He was dressed in the usual mix of rags and dirt of most of the people down here, his face worn and wrinkled.  A broad smile met her as she looked up at him.


“No thank you “ she said nervously and turned away.


“Oh come on” he continued.  “Whatever you need I can get for you.  You after a young boy maybe?”


Tes shook her head.


“Girl?”


She turned slowly to face him again.


“I need neither thank you kindly and I would suggest that perhaps…”


“Oh blimey, I know you” he said raising a finger in her direction.  “You really better be careful down here sweetheart there are those that might well not take kindly to you being here.”


Tes looked about worried, pulling her hood further over her face.  He could see her nervousness and lowered his finger and spoke more quietly.


“You might want to come with me” he said his broad smile now gone from his face.  “I think there’s someone you might want to see.”


 

	


	





	

		
		
Old Walter McDad
	


				

				
Really not sure where this came from…

			

			
	
	

		
	

		
You can listen instead of reading if you prefer.




 


 


Old Walter McDad finds such joy in the sad


The depressed and the rather quite tragic


He would dance with delight if your shoes were too tight


Spilled your tea on your crotch? Oh quite magic!


Caught your knob in your zip? Caused your foreskin to rip?


He would high five in great celebration


Birth defects?  He loves those.  Diabetic? Lost toes?


Well to him they’re such cause for elation


 


Enjoys watching the poor, mocks the sick and what’s more


Steals the cash from the tramps at the station.


Takes a dump on your lawn, tells your kids to watch porn


Big wide grin at your grandma’s cremation


Fingers crossed at the vets they declare that your pets


need to be put to sleep with much haste


Phone the docs and the answer is that you have cancer


He’d take joy, he knows its in poor taste


 


For Walt spends all his days in such terrible ways


Don’t ask why he just does ‘cos he can


At a hundred and one he’d still rodger your mum


He’s a rather quite nasty old man


So watch out and beware at the top of the stair


As he’d gladly push you in the back


You go head over tit and he’d chuckle and sit


Watch you bleed as he enjoys a snack


 

	


	





	

		
		
Beginnings  – 5 – Unexpected Revelations
	


				

				
The tale of Darren and Julie

			

			
	
	

		
	

		
M does a marvellous set of prompts each month, today the prompt was Spontaneous Eruptions.  I am sure you aren’t surprised at what I came up with.  I recorded it too though so you can listen rather than actually reading it.  See how kind I am…I hope it works.


 


https://puttingmyfeetinthedirt.com/2018/07/01/july-writing-prompts/




The tale of Darren and Julie




 


Once a chap said “I Do”, his wife said she’d be true


And in bliss they did spend all their days


In bed things were quite hot and they cared not a jot


For the flaws in their deeds and their ways


 


For they say love is blind but alas her behind


Grew quite plump and his ardour it waned


And he seemed now quite dull and there came then a lull


In the bedroom “Boring!” she complained


 


“Well your cooking is foul” he proclaimed with a scowl


She complained that his chores were undone


and with pinky quite crooked she complained how he looked


“You’re a cow” he did cry “like your mum”


 


There were slamming of doors, and so started the wars


And she went for a drink with his mate


So he signed up online had a jolly good time


Second base from an internet date


 


They fought over the cat she poked fun at his fat


Rotund tummy, he scoffed at her thighs


So she scratched up his car, he cut up her best bra


And on facebook he posted foul lies


 


So she slept with his dad and that made him quite mad


So she dry humped a tramp near some bins


Then he had a tattoo of her name and some poo


She jerked off a red head pair of twins


 


And at last it did end, for they just could not mend


The sweet love that was now oh so broke


And they went separate ways but that’s not how it stays


Even though its been weeks since they spoke


 


For one night on the booze he did text “I did lose


Something dear how I wish wed not split”


And she lonely and sad (and she quite missed his dad)


Said “I miss you come round in a bit”


 


Now they’re trying again and it might end the same


Or they could this time round find love true


Now he needs to just find a tattooist most kind


To remove what he inked near his bum…