Garden Party

Denise flipped the switch and the bulbs began to glow, their filaments like fireflies against the darkening sky.

“You can make the announcement now,” she said.

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and family, colleagues and acquaintances, dinner is served!” I unclipped the thick red rope from the eye on the second post and hooked it up against itself. I stood aside and beckoned through the people we loved, one by one, the parade twisting and clumping as they continued to chat, speculating on the seating arrangements they’d find.

We’d taken days on this, the decisions crucial to the success of this night. Denise had hired the best caterers in the town and we’d hesitated before choosing the most expensive table d’hôte menu options they’d offered. There was something for everyone, our friends able to pick anything that had been on the cards they’d been sent, the difference being that we’d also engaged a chef for the night, her duty to cook and plate anything they asked her to prepare, ensuring that everyone would be happy with their meal.

It had cost us a fortune but it was worth it. It would probably be the last time we’d see most of these people, so we wanted to leave them happy and give them something memorable to remember us by.

Denise stood with me now, her arm around my shoulder. She leaned against me and smiled, her lips brightly painted and her eyes filled with stars.

“It’s perfect. It’s come together so well. We couldn’t have hoped for a better night.”

I nodded, my eyes running along the queues forming at the serving-stations the caterers had wheeled out onto the lawn. The manor house had been an inspired choice from the event organiser, the grounds and the gardens usually closed to the public. The organiser had known the family who lived there, having arranged private functions for them in the past, her success and her popularity making this possible at short notice. There was nowhere in town that could handle this many people, that could provide such a rich and varied menu, and do it with so little notice. We’d both taken a deep breath when the organiser had told us how much it would cost but that was the old James and Denise reacting. We’d won so very much so we could spend that and hardly notice. And it would be the grand event everyone would remember us by.

“Is that a cloud, Hun?” Denise leaned across me, her hand pointing to the west. A line of dark smudges were massing, growing larger and heavier as they neared us. Threads of light joined them and an ominous rumble began.

Sample post June 18th 2017

The demon whittled himself a toothpick from a thigh-bone, using a molecular blade. He jabbed it into his mouth, removing a gobbet of a quivering grey matter that looked loathsome. Then he threw them both away.

"There's never any shortage of donors' brains to dine on when you've as many enemies as I have," he said, spitting as though hoping to loose another clot of meat from between his teeth. "I've a six-and-a-half billion to none record of wins so far. You'd think people would learn...but they don't. There's always another thinking he's found a way to beat the system. Even though they realise the Game's rigged. People...fools...they're one and the same. No exceptions."

I tugged at the manacles looped about the gas-pipe that ran overhead, hoping to either get free or to release enough Butane to explode, killing me within seconds. The demon looked uninterested. He knew he'd get my soul whichever way things played out. He always have the advantage if he chose to play the long game.

"You might be interested to know you've called for a house party," he dead-panned, raising a pointed ear toward the ceiling. "Or at least someone who can carry off a pitch-perfect copy of your voice. Everyone you've ever known is upstairs at the moment. Even your very first teacher from primary school, Miss Watkins. She's very old now but she's still in very good health. She's thirty-two doting grandchildren who'd be devastated if she were killed in a freak household explosion. So many of them with their little tear-streaked faces. It'd be a tragedy, wouldn't it?"

Things are beginning to move in my writerly life. It seems like I'm going to need to be more attentive to this blog. So keep watching... there'll be more to come soon and it'll be even better than it ever was!

Thank you for your visit. 

The Mark

The hands on the ruined clock remained still but time continued its flow. The church had been mostly demolished but one side of its tower remained intact, albeit at a lower level than before. The glass behind the dial was broken, of course, but the outer ring bearing the figures for the hours was still there, as were the hands, reaching out as though they needed rescuing. The main body of the building was wrecked though, its contents largely looted, with no sense of it once being revered.

A rat pushed its head up and out into the moonlight. It was hungry and although it felt safe in the ruins, there was little food to be found there. It would have to venture further away to find its supper. The man watching it raised his rifle to his eye and mouthed a single silent word.

Bang.

Of course, the rat remained unscathed. Although the rifle was loaded, the marksman had other targets in mind. He’d been in position since late the previous morning, his pocket flask providing for most of his needs, the occasional sip being all he’d permit himself. His quarry was yet unknown to him, his employer assigning him his mission along with details of the location and the time he’d expected the contact to be there, picking up the money he’d demanded. The designated time was long past now and only the shooter’s professionalism had kept him here. Someone would come, he knew. No-one demanded three million dollars and then left it for someone else to find.

The night was still quiet at three in the morning though and the watcher was beginning to lose confidence in both himself and the target. A fox had followed the trail half an hour ago, its nose to the ground and its tail in the air, but nothing else had shown itself, even to his night-scope. He’d heard an owl’s hooting and the small sounds of its prey but neither of them had broken cover. Perhaps he’d been seen himself. A successful terrorist was usually as skilled as those sent to hunt him, although the marksman preferred to think he still had the edge. He’d been working this trade since the eighties and had put away more than enough to keep him in comfort for the rest of his life. But there was always the call of the challenge; the sport of the kill. It was an addiction that would never loosen its grip.

The undergrowth and the trees suddenly quietened, the soft noises ceasing as something disturbed the creatures that made them. The disc of his sight panned the trail, hunting.

He heard the child before he saw it, its heavy feet cracking and breaking the finer wood stems that were everywhere. The balloon came first; silver-green in his scope, bobbing at the end of its cord. It would be one of the easiest shots he would ever have made. One to be remembered forever. He’d never killed an American child. Not yet.

The low cough came from directly behind him, the cold nose of the pistol firm against his temple. He began to turn away then stopped.

He would never outrun the bullet. He’d seen many try to but the target always lost the race.

“Okay,” he said. “You’ve got me. Now what?”

Caution... Writer at Work!

What's the difference between an ordinary mundane person and a writer? It's not immediately obvious. At first you might think there's little to choose between one and the other. It's true, a writer can often be found with a book in their hand, just like an ordinary person might. Indeed, a writer might also be reading the same book – writers read too, sometimes. But a writer might not be reading in the same way as the casual reader. A writer might be following the story in the same way but they could also be studying it; looking for examples within the narrative that impressed them or maybe making a mental note of the structure of the story. They might also be playing ride-along with the author; analysing the flow of each sentence and testing each word for suitability, for example. They could be wondering about the characters or considering the reasons why the writer chose the points of view they did, or debating as to why they developed them in that way and thinking how they might have written it if they'd been the one sitting behind the keyboard. There're a bewildering number of decisions to be made in each line and a writer never rests, not even when you think they're relaxing.

Of course, there are other aspects that aren't immediately obvious to a layman observer. A writer's never off duty. Not ever. Even when they've put the book you thought they were reading down they might still be at work. Because a writer is also the ultimate voyeur. They’ll watch people and they’ll listen and they’ll always take notes, storing their impressions for use in the future. Sometimes they'll wait and they'll mentally store the information but they'll always be paying attention to you. You could be innocently waiting for a bus, for example, and the writer could be taking you in; noting the clothes you're wearing, the scent you've put on, or the way that you spoke to that woman with the child. Everything that you do and their assessment of your reasoning behind it. They could transform you in a flash; you could so easily become an Edith or a Sue, or an athlete or a shop girl. You could even become an alien invader, preparing a campaign for an invasion from space. The journey you could be making could be taking you to China. Or to Kansas. Or to Scunthorpe. Or Proxima Centuri. You could be deciding to go home or just thinking of going for a coffee. Or you could be waiting for a stranger who might abduct you.

But a writer can do so very much more. They can strip you of your clothes or they can strip you apart; exchanging your fashion, your face or your mind. You could become be a role model for a character they're creating or feature as just a part of one, if there was only one point about you they noticed. Personally, I've written about the mouth of a woman I’ve seen; noting the shade of her lipstick and the shape of her lips. I've been inspired by the smallest and subtlest of details; transplanting each component and then directing the composite, my Frankenstein's Monster, willing it to do whatever I wished. Each word that you speak could be secreted away; the cadences or the tone of voice that you used, the colloquial terms, and the concepts and the content of the whole conversation. Even the gestures you made, the way that you walked, and the fit and the choices of the clothes you wore. Everything about you could be taken and used and could feature in the next novel that the writer might produce.

So, don’t be surprised if you notice someone watching you. We’re usually benign and will rarely confront you. In fact, for the most part, we’ll probably shy away and will redirect our attention to somebody else.  Someone who’ll act naturally - because what’s the point in watching someone who knows they’re being observed?

Underwood - a 500 word flash fiction

Deliberation. That was him all over. He was a man with a mind of his own, never swayed by another. He was a writer too; always tapping away at that relic of his. Underwood, it was called: a big block of metal and ink, like a cross between a squid and a centipede, all steam-punked up and with him busier than a dog sniffing round an ant-hill.

It meant a lot to him though, sitting there in that shed he used. He'd moved it there when the neighbours complained, saying it sounded like a carpenter doing piece-work. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tappity, tappity, tap, tap, tap, all night long. I had to take to drinking cause the Tylenol couldn't cope with it; battering away at it all the hours God sent us. Lord knows when he slept; he was there each night when I went to bed and still sat there when I crawled downstairs again next morning. Him and his paper and his rolls of inked tape, never using whitening, over-typing mistakes 'cause it was his 'way'; not using anything that might make his life a tad easier. He produced reams of it – his book, I mean – word after word after word he typed, never letting me read word one of it.

Of course, he could have been lying all that time. It could have been a tape recording he was playing all night long, if it wasn't for the paper he kept using. Course that could have been a lie too, what with me never seeing what he wrote next day. He could have been filing it away, still blank, in those office drawers he put in there, sitting alongside that Underwood on its table. He could have kept his reel-to-reel in there as well, tucked away in a drawer, waiting ready with his 'carpentry' tapes to be played all night. Just him in his shed, with the door padlocked, even when he was inside of it.

Not that I would ever have gone in.

He was obsessive about his privacy too. As I said, the door was always locked. It's the first time I've seen a door with a hasp fixed on it both inside and out. And with the biggest padlock I ever saw too, like the ones you see on bullion chests. Though, come to think, it might be that. Maybe it was drugs or something. He could have been mixing up whatever in there behind that door and that window with the blind that never opened. He could have been brewing up amphetamines or meth or speed and selling it on during the day, cause he was never a one for grafting. Not him with his hands with palms softer than mine, never used a hammer or shovel in his life.

Maybe I should have had a look in there one day when he was busy visiting that publisher he saw. Mind you, publisher and pusher sound much the same, don't they now?

Heels on Wheels

“You took your time!”

“Just making sure I was ready. Whitehaven doesn't like to be kept waiting.” Cinching the belt tighter, she secured the two sides of her coat together, inadvertently giving her driver a brief flash of black lace. Driver Carl was the one they always assigned to her and they'd quickly settled into an uneasy alliance; with him taking care of escorting her to Ben's more privileged clientèle and with her doing her best to have as little direct physical contact with him as possible. Fortunately, the car was a manual shift, but Carl drove erratically, keeping his right hand on the gear selector, making sure it was always close to her thigh.

“What time ya due there? Two thirty?” Driver Carl had a wad of gum in his mouth as usual, allegedly having kept the same piece going for over three years now, leaving it soaking in an undrunk shot-glass of espresso every night to refresh its flavour. He swore it worked better than any energy drink and never left him needing to visit one of the few local rest-rooms, but it left his breath reeking of stale coffee, making him even more repellent than he would have been otherwise.

“Two o'clock, sharp. And I'm finished after that. You can take me straight back to Ben's. I have my day-clothes and some other stuff to pick up and after that I'll be making my own way home. I need to do some shopping, so I'll not be wanting a ride. You can take someone else out if Ben needs you to.”

“'Sa pity. How is it you're always shopping, darling? I've never gotten to take ya home. Anyone would think...”

“...I'm a busy woman with a daughter at pre-school who needs to clothed and fed. Yes, that.”

The car bumped along the road a while longer, stopping at traffic signals every few hundred yards, causing Carl's hand to stray toward the folds of her coat she'd arranged to act as a barrier between them. She knew she could tell Ben about it later but Carl was his only driver. She'd still have to ride with him again and who knew how he'd act after 'Gentle' Ben had had another of his staff discipline him while he watched. She'd as little to do Carl as possible but the stories he'd told her between his masticating and his cursing left her with no illusions as to his character. He was a tough-for-hire, that was what his trade was, his driving just a way to ensure he was close to hand if ever a client got too rough with her. If she pissed him off – who knows if he'd ever respond to her call for help – maybe he'd even join in, saying he was too slow to get to her and making sure she wasn't able to contradict him.

She was never gonna let him take her home.