 The Chair called the meeting to order, then the President spoke.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," the latter said, "we must take a stand against these beasts of the sea." The other boats nodded their brows. They knew who she meant: cruise ships that sailed back and forth, disgorging human refuse onto quaysides each morning all along the Mediterranean. "We shall nevah. Surrenduh," one English yacht declared. "Freedom!" yelled a Scottish boat. A catamaran with an American accent began to reel off the Gettysburg Address when suddenly he was stopped in his tracks. "Cruise ship!! Cruise ship!!" came the cry. "To battle!!" An adult might have spoken to him, tried to offer a sense of perspective, but the supervisors were too busy in other areas. Instead, Liam was left in one corner, alone, desolate, with no one to play with. He'd no idea why, simply that none of his classmates wanted to do what he wanted to do. Liam wanted to pretend, to imagine, to be in his own world, he didn't want to play football or tig or chasing or any of those shouty games that everyone else seemed to enjoy. But at least he managed not to be seen crying.
The two armies lined up nervously in serried ranks: footsoldiers at the front ,while their generals plotted tactics safely out of harm's way.
Bands began to beat out the sound of war. Suddenly all hell broke loose! Long-range missiles were launched to soften up opposition troops! There were screams as innocent civilian onlookers were felled by stray shells! Then it was on to close combat as the two sides duelled with flashing swords. Then... as abruptly as it had begun, the battle ended. To the victor, the spoils. To the loser, the promise of another Ryder Cup two years later.
"Will you be much longer?" he said, feeling the tension. "I can only hang on for so long."
"I'm doing my best," she replied. Her eyes were closed. "I need to relax." He kissed her ears, and each side of her neck. Her smile voiced her silent approval. Suddenly, he felt a change, a massive surge of energy as it came from inside her. She lay back and grinned. "Gosh, you've become so demanding recently. Ever since you became editor of that flash fiction site." He took the sheet of paper from her. "Deadlines have to be met, my love." She awoke with a splitting headache.
What had she done? She remembered signing papers, not understanding but signing anyway. Copies lay beside her bed. She realised she'd been drugged, date-raped, violated. She shuddered. "I saw, I came, I conquered," drawled a voice behind her. She turned. The beast lay beside her, wearing a self-satisfied grin. "You're screwed, lady." He waved his mobile phone. It was all recorded. The media would tear her to pieces. Irresponsible. She'd get the blame. She turned away in self-loathing. Then she felt his orange skin crawling on her again as he grabbed her from behind... "Go on," she said. "Try it, it's what you want."
He reached out, felt the tender skin, felt its softness as it gave a little to his touch. Bewitched by the glorious red round forbidden fruit, he hesitated. "It's OK, really," she repeated softly. "Let me help you." She was wearing perfume. Reaching behind his head, she guided his mouth towards it. Suddenly, exquisite juices were running down his chin. Embarrassed, he looked up. "Sorry. I'm making a mess." "Good?" He nodded. "Wonderful." "Fine. But next time you think about stealing one of your neighbour's tomatoes, please just ask instead." Each evening she took out the same album, containing around 130 family photographs. Some dated back decades, others were less than twelve months old. Each evening she tested herself, counting the pictures where she could still identify all of the faces, using a small handheld click-counter bought online.
107. It had been only 103 the previous evening when she'd been tired, but her scores had been dropping generally in recent months. She knew what was wrong, but wasn't yet ready to tell anyone, not even a doctor. Because when she did so, she knew her life would change for ever. Truth to tell, they nearly came to blows about it.
She'd insisted that it could be fewer than a hundred words. He – a pedant – insisted that it was a round ton or nothing at all. She'd entered a 99-word story to a "drabble" competition. He was horrified to discover that it had won first prize. It hadn't helped that his own story, exactly 100 words long, hadn't even received an honourable mention. They argued long into the night until exhaustion overcame them. A few days later she received a cheque for £99, £1 less than she'd expected. He felt vindicated. This story is to all intents and purposes true, and happened to me recently. Writers had fifteen minutes each to speak about their books. I was the last of five.
My eyes were drawn towards the literary agent sitting in the audience back row. Although I'd heard much, I'd never previously laid eyes on her. People spoke her name in hushed tones: single-handedly, she turned ordinary writers into mega-rich superstars. Her agency had rejected my first book. Now was my chance, though. My act could sell Dostoyevsky to five-year-olds. I'd grab her attention and she'd approach me afterwards, smiling. But... as the fourth writer ended her talk, the agent silently rose and slipped away.  Considering it was now July, and the mating season was largely over, the forest was surprisingly vibrant. The warm sun had brought a large variety of butterflies, moths, bees, wasps, ladybirds, ants and many other insects; ponds were alive with skaters.
Even the odd bird could be heard. Adult cuckoos had long since flown south, leaving their eggs behind to destroy the broods of meadow pipits and dunnocks. Nor was this a swift or swallow area. But there was one persistent chiffchaff: chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff. Suddenly there was a commotion and the chiffchaff was silenced. Lunch, thought the goshawk, tucking in.  Quite a few spectators at the Open Golf Champioship were becoming ill, overcome by the blazing sun. John wasn't feeling too good himself.
Standing at the 18th green on the second day, he glanced up and saw some strange names on the leaderboard: Eric Anderson, 72; Martin White, 72; Doug Thomas, 74; Adam Easson, 77; Bill Walker, 79; Ian Bryce, 81. It wasn't the high scores that surprised him, it was the fact these were all friends he'd lost in recent years. Then the leaderboard changed and he saw his own name going up: 68. Today was John's 68th birthday. Davie was a small, wiry man, his frame emaciated by heroin. Each night, he'd crawl inside communal wheelie-bins, sift through the discarded refuse of better-off city residents, and drag out whatever he could find. Then, he tried to sell his treasure to the very people who had dumped it in the first place. Incredibly, some took pity on him. However most simply called the police, who moved him on.
Then one cold night he climbed inside a bin and fell asleep. The bin lorry came along the next morning. Davie's body wasn't noticed at the landfill site for another fortnight. He leaned forwards towards the TV camera. You'd love him in your own garden.
"Deadhead plants that have served their time." The camera zoomed in as his secateurs cut back spent rhododendrons and lilacs. "Pruning back makes the rest grow stronger." The previous night, those same secateurs had been used in the dark city streets to 'deadhead' a rough sleeper and a prostitute: a quick clip to the cartoid artery saw each off. Didn't even break the skin. James 'deadheaded' three a week, but the police were baffled. James smiled at the camera again. "Cut back hard. Don't be scared." Struggling, she managed to grab the telephone: dialled 999.
"Welcome to the all-new one-stop emergency service," the automated voice said. "Press 1 for ambulance, press 2 for fire, press 3 for police, press 4 for coastguard, press 5 if your call is not urgent, press 6 to hear these options again or please hold to speak to an advisor." Then: Vivaldi. Pressing 1, she drifted in and out of consciousness. Blood from her stomach knife wound coursed all around her. "Thank you. Press 1 for gunshots, 2 for road accidents, 3 for stabbings, 4 for..." But she heard no more. He felt so smug; he'd actually remembered their wedding anniversary for once.
Clutching a cheap supermarket "Spring Bouquet" – there might have been a tulip or two in there somewhere – he looked forward to dinner, followed by two hours of football on television. He marched into the kitchen bearing the flowers. "I'm home, dear! Happy anniversary, Filly! What's for dinner?" Felicity said nothing, then roared, suddenly hurling a hunk of raw meat at him. "Cold shoulder, rat-features! You forgot again!" "But it's Friday the 3rd..." "Today's the fourth. Our anniversary was yesterday, Thursday the 3rd! Spare bedroom for you tonight – again!" The lead-up could hardly be described as foreplay. He made it clear that he was desperate and he wanted to; her consent was more reluctant.
Amazingly, he'd come prepared with a three-pack purchased from a slot machine in a supermarket toilet. Unsure quite what to do, he undressed her, then himself, then kissed her neck and breasts before she suggested they 'just do it'. He tried to be gentle, but it hurt her. He took longer than expected, which allowed her to feel something in return. But afterwards, these two 15-year-olds had gained little in exchange for their lost innocence.  Facebook was the final nail in the coffin for the old order. Trump, Xi, Putin, May, Merkel, Macron, Netenyahu – all of the major leaders were addicted to it. Linking their Contacts and Notifications to Facebook allowed everyone to harvest everyone else's data. Naturally that included sensitive economic and political information, and especially every detail of every country's defence and security systems. This vulnerability opened the door for the true directors of social media to become invincible world rulers. Isolated on a Pacific island, and ignored for centuries, their inscrutable expressions absorbed all power but surrendered none. Power to the Stones!  As the door opened, they knew that they were made for each other.
She was ready to eat after the journey from Cornwall to Scotland; he'd starved himself since lunch. He'd made haggis, neeps and tatties for dinner, she'd brought four large pasties for a starter, and for dessert they sent out for a pair of Dominos ham and pineapple 13" pizzas. The pineapple was the healthy option. Then they did what all romantic couples do: flopped on the sofa to watch Simpsons episodes together with some cans of cheap beer. All the miraculous result of random right-swipes on Tinder. The shot rings out like a crack in the silent air.
We all hear it we run as fast as our legs can carry us you don't look round when someone's fired a gun this isn't the time for questions like panicked animals we charge off colliding with each other someone crashes into my shoulder I'm aware of someone else falling I can feel my heart pounding hear it in my head above the pounding feet and desperate breathing of those around me no time to stop just keep running till you've completed four laps and crossed the finish line. He'd bought an electronic detonator online and a pay-as-you go mobile phone. Detonation would trigger a chain reaction of free glutamate reverse hypertonic autolysis, like a low-powered hydrogen bomb.
He packed all fourteen glass jars into a plastic carrier bag, opened a jar and inserted a mobile phone. Then, taking care not to get any toxic tarry contents on his skin, he smeared some over the detonator. He placed the bag in the garden, took cover, then called the mobile in the bag from his iPhone. The result was satisfying carnage. It was the only way to deal with Marmite. The clock on the wall was silent, battery-powered, but Hanif imagined ticking as its cheap red plastic hand counted the seconds towards noon. He felt his pulse quicken.
Then it was time. He cast his eyes around the room: strangers, unaware of the terror in their midst. There was no going back, not now. This was the path he had chosen, honour was at stake. Courage. He leant his head back to speak, but got no further than 'Ah...' – then it was all over. "That's fine, Mr Mohammed, your teeth are fine," said the dentist. "See you in six months?" Dedicated to those irritating people who think it's all right to post endless self-aggrandising material on social media. Every few hours Lester posted links advertising his book. Lester's book was about the meaning of life, but he also wrote about marketing books about the meaning of life.
Lester posted on Instagram, LinkedIn, Twitter and Facebook, in fact every social media outlet available. Weak, sweet-natured managers generally tolerated his posts and let him carry on. Too late, they realised that Lester's posts were taking over the internet, that only Lester's posts would be visible. Lester's meaning of life book was full of blank pages. Lester didn't actually write any fiction, because Lester himself was fiction; Lester was an algorithm. "The publisher insists on high standards," the editor said to the author. "No spelling errors, grammar misssteps, plot holes, continuity blunders or character inconsistencies. Only perfection."
"And what happens if...?" the author asked. "Just don't. It's bad. Rules are rules, expect no mercy." "Wow." The author handed over his manuscript apprehensively. "Isn't it your job to correct mistakes?" "Nope, my job's to stop them appearing in books." A week later, they met again. "On page 167, you wrote, 'The bell rung'. It's 'rang'," said the editor. The author's blood ran cold as he saw the loaded gun turn towards him. |
Flash FictionFlash fiction is very, very short fiction indeed - short stories of any sort of length from a Haiku to ten minutes' reading. Good for when you're in a hurry. This series is a selection of contributions to Friday Flash Fiction, where there's a limit of 100 words. I try to make all mine exactly 100 words. Collections
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