Short Story Competition 10 (Zappa) - Vote HERE!

pickarooney

This is the voting thread for round 10 of the Variations on a Theme writing contest. For more details, see here.

The theme of the contest this time around was 'The songs of Frank Zappa'

Ten boards members submitted stories and you can read them all in this thread. For the next ten days, we're asking you to vote for the best of the bunch and choose the winner.

All entries will be posted anonymously for the duration of the contest and the authors revealed at the end. Contestants, please resist the temptation to respond to questions on your stories or defend them until voting is over, so as to retain anonymity and fairness for all.

You may vote for as many entries as you like, but we would ask you to please provide feedback on the story or stories for which you vote and for as many of those for which you didn't vote as you can. Don't hold back if you have negative criticism, but please make sure any and all feedback is in some way constructive. Voting is public, and votes without a post in the thread will be ignored.

Voting will open today once all stories are up and will end on the morning of Thursday, 25th of October 2012. The winner will be announced shortly thereafter.

Best of luck to all involved and thanks in advance to those who take the time to read and rate the entries.

pickarooney

Story 7

Phase Two

Peter heaved himself off his back and shifted his considerable heft onto one elbow. He felt the raft bob beneath him as he finished the chocolate bar he’d stolen from Councillor Bill. The sound of laughter drifted towards him from the shore. Picking the honeycomb from his teeth he wondered if Camp Shady Acres had ever heard the sound of children’s laughter before.

A couple of the boys were already in the cabin when Peter got there. Victor sat cross-legged on his bunk attacking a giant jar of M&Ms. He put a protective arm around it as Peter walked past, his little eyes following him all the way.

“Were you swimming?” asked Victor. “Why were you swimming?”

“I was just out on the raft,” said Peter, grabbing his towel.

“We got into the pantry,” said a weak voice. Peter looked over to see Tim lying on his bunk with his eyes closed. He rubbed his stomach gently and stopped as it gave a loud groan. Opening his eyes, he slowly lifted himself from the bunk and shuffled through the door. Peter was about to say something but Victor raised a hand and cocked his head. The sound of vomiting drifted in through the open door and Victor dropped his hand, laughing.

“Thats the second time in an hour,” he said. “He has no self control, the fathead.”

Peter threw his towel around his neck and leaned back against his bunk.

“So,” he said. “I was thinking…”

Victor raised his eyebrows, almost losing them in the roll of fat that folded over them.

“It’s just, we were wondering,” said Peter.

“We?”

“Me and Mindy, well mostly Mindy. She’s worried.”

“You’re not having second thoughts are you?” asked Victor. “Cause its a little late for that.”

“I know, I was just thinking, but its nothing.”

“Good,” said Victor. “See that?” He pointed to the back wall of the cabin. Their master plan was still tacked up, “Phase One” written in bold letters along the top.

“It didn’t take us long to come up with that did it? And look how well that worked out. We have plenty of time to figure out the next step.”

Victor was right, it hadn’t taken them long to devise Phase One, and that had been a complete success. Appeased, Peter began digging through his clothes.

“Unless you want to end things now,” said Victor. “Cause we can do that, we can go get them right now if you want. Councillor Alice will have us right back in the regime before supper.”

Peter shuddered at the thought of her last workout. He had learned a lot about his body that day. He’d learned that his pudgy arms weren’t built for flipping tree trunks around a field. And he’d learned just how much vomit his stomach could produce. If he hadn’t felt so awful he would have been amazed at the volume and ferocity with which it had left him.

“No,” said Peter. “We’re not going back to that.”

Satisfied, Victor turned his attention back to his M&Ms.
#

Peter stacked the crackers, marshmallow and chocolate by the light of the campfire. He was so engrossed in the construction that he didn’t notice Mindy until she sat down on the log beside him. She threw a quick longing look at his food and Peter felt torn. A gentleman would offer her the treat. He looked from the smore to her face, and her eyes softened. Nobody ever looked at Peter like that. Back home when people looked at him they did so with distaste. Holding his gaze, she smiled. Peter stuffed the food into his mouth, looking away guiltily as he chewed. Mindy took an orange from her pocket and began to peel it.

“Theres tons of real food,” said Peter, his mouth gloopy with marshmallow.

“I shouldn’t.”

She put a segment of orange into her mouth and seemed to sigh with every chew.

“Theres no point being here if I’m going to cheat,” she said.

“I guess not,” said Peter, gripping his smore tightly.

“At this rate everybody will go home fatter than when they got here,” said Mindy.

Peter looked at the rest of the children around the campfire, greedily stuffing their faces.

“Why is there so much chocolate here?” he asked. “The pantry was full of banned food.”

“Its all the stuff people tried to sneak in,” said Mindy. “Almost everyone had something, I guess thats where they put it.”

Peter feigned a cough and wedged some more into his mouth.

“I was thinking,” he said, swallowing. “About what you said earlier. And I don’t think you should be so worried.”

“Is that what Victor says?” asked Mindy.

Peter didn’t answer.

“We’re all screwed,” she said. “Even those of us that didn’t do anything.”

“You won’t get in trouble. Even if we get caught, I’ll make sure they know you weren’t involved.”

Mindy looked away and began biting her thumbnail. Peter noticed Mindy’s friend Jessica picking at a limp salad nearby.

“I guess not everybody is hungry,” he said.

“We’re all hungry,” said Mindy. “Its just some of us are holding out.”

“Holding out for what?”

“To be thin.”

Thin, he thought. God, he wanted to be thin. The chocolate seeped through his fingers as he shoved the rest of the smore into his mouth.

#

Mindy was gone the following morning.

“Maybe she was homesick,” said Jessica, fiddling nervously with one of her ginger braids.

Victor’s face darkened as he scraped at the ground with a stick.

“She didn’t go home,” he said. “She’s gone for the cops, we all know it.”

Peter and Jessica swapped looks. Victor stopped scraping and tapped his stick a few times.

“She can’t have gone far,” he said. “We’ll find her. And when we do, she’s gonna be made an example of.”

“An example?” asked Jessica. “Who made you the boss?”

Peter shook his head, trying to warn her off with his eyes.

“It was my plan,” said Victor, his voice getting quieter. “I came up with Phase One. I got everyone in on it. I made sure it happened.”

“Well you can’t tell me what to do,” she said. “You’re just a fat kid with a big mouth.”

The stick swished as it arced round and bounced off Jessica’s face. The skin on her cheek opened in a red line and she clapped a hand to it in surprise. Victor prodded the stick slowly into Jessica’s belly.

“This is our camp now,” he said. “And I’m not going to let any stupid girls ruin this for me.”

Jessica stepped back, her hand still pressed to her face. Tears began to form but she blinked them away angrily. She looked accusingly at Peter as she backed away from them and turned towards the cabins. Victor exhaled, whistling as he did.

“Women, huh?” he said.

“Victor,” said Peter. “What are you doing?”

Victor looked at him quizzically.

“You hit her with a stick. And you’re going to make an example of out Mindy?”

“Don’t white knight me now fathead,” said Victor. “This was your plan as much as mine.”

“Yeah, the takeover, but not this.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Victor. “We’ll find Mindy and once we deal with her we’ll be back on track.”

Before Peter could tell him exactly what he thought about that a noise interrupted him. The door of the Councillor’s Cabin banged shut. Jessica leaned next to it, folding her arms defiantly. Councillor Alice stood at the top of the steps, a mess of unkempt hair and smudged eye makeup. One of her wrists was still bound with rope. Her fists opening and closing tightly as her gaze landed on Victor and Peter.

“You,” she bellowed, pointing a shaking finger at them. “You’re dead.”

Holding Jessica by the ankles, Councillor Alice dipped her, head first, into the bucket of coke.

“Drink,” she said. “You love it so much, drink.”

Jessica gurgled and gasped as Councillor Alice continued dunking her in and out of the bucket.

“You little dirtbags,” said Councillor Alice to the rest of the campers huddled in the clearing. “You lousy little dirtbags.”

She lifted the girl clear of the bucket.

“Refreshing, isn’t it?”

Without waiting for a reply she released her ankles, sending Jessica tumbling to the ground. Knowing better than to hang around she quickly scrambled into the safety of the group. She had given up trying to plead her innocence hours ago. She bumped Peter’s elbow on the way past and he winced, cradling his ear gently. He wasn’t sure that it was still fully attached to his head. He had definitely felt something crunch as Councillor Alice had twisted it.

From above them they could hear a whimper from Tim, who was still stuck in the branches that she’d thrown him into.

“No tears allowed at Camp Shady Acres,” bellowed Councillor Alice.

Head cocked, she waited for the tears to get gulped back and become hiccups. Satisfied, she began pacing.

“Turning your councillors into prisoners,” she said. “How did you think this would end?”

She stopped in front of Victor and prodded his shin with her boot.

“Huh Lardass? what was the plan?”

“It was just a joke,” he said, his nose crooked, and bleeding.

“We were tied up in there for over 24 hours,” she said. “And you know about Councillor Bill’s bladder problem.”

She rubbed one of her wrists, which was raw and still embedded with slivers of rope.

“The stench,” she said, delivering a sharp kick to Victor’s shin. He yelped and shuffled backwards

“Well,” she said. “The fun’s over now. The regime is back on, and you little tubs of lard still have a full summer ahead of you.”

The boy sitting beside Peter produced an inhaler and Councillor Alice batted it away.

“We’re going to have some…interesting times, I’ll tell you that.”

But before she could expand on this a siren sounded in the distance. Peter felt the breath catch in his chest, Mindy! Councillor Alice heard it too and eyed the campers suspiciously.

“You’re screwed now,” said Victor. “You can’t explain this.”

“I’m screwed?” she asked. “How are you going to explain my rope burns? And Councillor Bill is still tied up in there, try hiding that.”

“Big deal,” said Victor. “So we get in a little trouble. What you did is way worse. You’ll go to jail.”

“A little trouble?” she said, and laughed.

“Kidnapping and Imprisonment? Thats juvenile detention buddy.”

She hunkered down in front of Victor, ignoring the siren growing closer.

“Oh the boys they have there. What will they make of you?”

Peter thought of the tough boys that went to his school. The ones that made his life a misery. They were teddy bears compared to the ones in juvenile detention.

“Ringleader,” said Councillor Alice pointing at Victor.

“Ringleader,” she pointed at Peter.

“Ringleader,” she pointed a finger in the air at Tim.

“And everyone else? Phone calls to parents, social workers involved, there’s plenty of fun to go round. We’ll all tell the truth and we’ll all enjoy the spoils.”

The clearing took on a blue tint as a police car crunched up the road and into the camp.

Peter and Victor shared a look.
#

The grey haired police man told Victor to hold his breath as he clicked his nose back into place.

“I understand that boys need to let off steam once in a while,” he said. “But you boys gotta take it easy. Stick to the body. Punching and grabbing at the face? That’s gonna leave marks son.”

He rested his hand on his holster and looked at them.

“Now, I did the best I could, but thats probably gonna heal crooked.”

Victor touched his nose gingerly.

“Don’t worry,” said the cop. “It’ll add character.”

He turned back towards his squad car.

“Thats all I need,” said Victor. “More character.”

Councillor Alice and the younger cop stood next to Mindy.

“Its hard being away from home,” he said. “And I’m sure its hard being at fat camp.”

“Fitness camp,” said Councillor Alice. “Only positive F words allowed.”

“But telling lies Mindy? Wasting police time? You can’t do that honey. You understand that right?”

“Its ok Mindy,” said Councillor Alice. “We all make mistakes.”

A rustle was followed by a thud as Tim dropped from the tree he had been wedged in.

“Tim!” said Councillor Alice. “So thats where you’ve been.”

She grabbed his cheek and pinched it.

“This one,” she said to the cop. “This one loves to climb, don’t you Tim?”

Startled, Tim nodded.

As the patrol car pulled out of camp Mindy turned to Peter.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Oh shut up Mindy,” said Councillor Alice. “You’re in big trouble.”

“Me?” asked Mindy. “But I didn’t do anything, I went to get help?”

“You left camp without permission.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes seriously,” said Councillor Alice. “Now go to bed, we all have a big day tomorrow.”

They turned to leave.

“And for God’s sake, someone go and untie Councillor Bill. Its going to smell like a homeless shelter in there.”

Peter caught Mindy’s eye. She studied him for a moment before a familiar look spread across her face. Distaste. As she brushed past him he felt a great shame settle on him, twisting his stomach.

Or maybe that was hunger.

pickarooney

Story 7

Them or Us

The yellowing bulb hung in fly spotted splendour in the spartan hut, the cold light giving little comfort to those within. The sole window was boarded over and further hung with a piece of heavy dull blue cloth. An oversized clock sat incongruously on the end wall, it's coloured triangles in contrast to the lack of colour everywhere else. Anxious eyes watched it's slow inevitable clicking hands as they stop started their way towards it's summit.

"Time to go then"

"Can I finish my bacon?!

"Only if you bring it with you."

Both of them looked at the small piece of bacon briefly. The younger man shoved it all into his mouth in one go, cheeks bulging at the effort to hold it all in as he crammed it between his jaws. His fair coloured moustache twitching in time to his attempts to chew.

The other men, looked with slight envy at him, but none showed more than a vague hunger. Mostly the eyes showed fear and trepidation. They left the dilapidated hut in single file, fastening the jackets against the cold as they went. They would get a lot colder before the night ended. Here and now there was a frosty feel to the ground and faint light twinkled underfoot as they crunched their way towards the huge dark shadow ahead of them. Their breath came billowing out in clouds of quickly dispersing white vapour, and nobody said anything, each man wrapped inside his own thoughts.

The crew reached the big and dark brooding bomber, the darker area of an open hatch beckoned them inside out of the weather with false hope of security. They all knew it a false hope, but hurried to clamber aboard anyway. Inside it was cold and a bit dank, mixed smells of oil, fuel, sweat and old fear mingled and wound around them as they settled into their positions. With squinting eyes slowly getting accostomed to the dark interior they started the preflight checks. A crackle and slight hum pervaded as the radio was switched on and warmed up.

"Looks like the Erks fixed that oil pressure problem on number three Skipper."

"I should bloody hope so, they have had a full day on it." Pause. "Here we go, I am starting the engines now."

One after another the big engines began to turn the huge propellors, and the vibrations built inside the airframe until they had to clamp their mouths to prevent the chattering of their teeth.

"Taxying"

The dark fearsome shape began to move slowly towards the threshold, joined by others of it's evil kind.

"Update from Met Skipper. They say target will have partial cloud cover."

"Noted"

The roaring hum of the mighty engines reached a bone shaking crescendo and then the brakes were released. The vast monster almost leapt along the runway. "Rotation"

The vibrations settled almost immediately as the great creature entered it's true home. The blackened skies. Steadily it climbed until it could circle around and await it's brethren, before setting off like a pack of dragons in search of prey.

"Anyone want a cup of coffee?"

"Save it for now, we will need it more on the homeward trip. Gunners test your guns as soon as we are over water."

Low over the water, to avoid detection, they flew onward. Somewhere from down below came a radio signal, it had music on it. The radio operator tuned it in properly, and the crew listened to a woman singing about her lost love. "Shut that moanig bitch up will you, can't you find anything more cheerful." Some crackling and squealing later, a big band dance song came on. "Thats better. Hey guys remember that night we went down town clubbing?"

"Coast coming up Skipper."

"OK, Everyone watch for fighters."

"Skipper we are too far south, watch for flak, watch for flak."

"Nose guns take out the search lights. Jesus they are straight on us. Shoot the damn lights man I am blinded here." The urgent rattle of twin machine guns and the lights started to go out. Other bombers in the formation following suit. "Take them out will you. It is them or us for heaven's sake. Here come the fighters. All guns fire at will."

"They got C for Charlie in the first pass Skipper."

"Never mind C for Charlie, we can't do anything for them, Just their bad luck, Watch the bloody fighters."

"Skipper nobody got out of C for Charlie."

"Screw C for bloody Charlie if you don't keep an eye on the fighters I will come back there and throw you out myself, then you may see a bloody parachute."

"We're hit. We're hit."

"How bad?"

"Cooper copped one in the head Skipper He's a gonner."

"At least we won't hear anymore about C for Friggin' Charlie."

"Coop's Brother was on Charlie Skipper."

"It was them or us Sparks, take over Coopers gun."

"Aye Skip." Pause, "Fighters gone away. 'Ware the Flak."

Massive explosions barely seen in the darkness shook the great plane. It rose and fell violently as it rode the shockwaves.

"Target ahead Skip, keep her steady. Pathfinders laid it out lovely."

"Bomb doors open. Bomb aimer has control."

"Bombs gone."

"My god did you see that. F for freddie copped a biggie just as he opened his bomb doors. They didn't know anything about that."

"Give me a course for home and let's get the hell out of here."

"Skipper look at that, it looks like we set the entire world on fire, what the hell did we just drop?"

"HE and Incendiaries, God you are right. Look at that devastation."

Eyes widened in shock at the massive devastation they had wrought.

"But Skipper, there are people down there. I mean civilians. They will burn up in that, those incendiaries have white phosphorous in them, and you can't stopp that stuff. "

"Them or Us Sparks. Them or Us."

"But the children Skip. There must be children down there."

"Them or us. Lets go home. Dresden is gone, target destroyed."

pickarooney

Story 7

Darling
Remember that time you told me I had no heart? I can’t remember the exact circumstances now, though I am sure you do. What we were, twenty? God, that seems so young. Hard to believe we have known each other this long, and we are only getting around to doing this now, isn’t it?

But yes, that moment, that moment when you slipped from the clipped tones you were learning to polish at university back to the ones that had kept you safe and sheltered on the streets, protected from the bad boys of the borough. I don’t remember what it was I had done that upset you so; left the toilet seat up perhaps, or regaled you with stories of excessively joyous drinking when you had stayed in studying the night before. Or perhaps it was something more serious, a kiss maybe, with somebody else, drunkenly in the corner of a nightclub, that I could shake off as nothing, but you could not. The context of your words melts in my brain now, its texture sodden in the ocean of time that’s passed since, but there is one thing I remember, as if it happened every morning without fail and how I wish it actually did.

You weren’t shouting you see, like you used to when you were angry. You were quiet and bitter, your voice low in the littered kitchen you then called home. Gosh, to think of you living in such a state now, well – I can only chuckle. I remember every detail of that morning, the way your hair dripped slowly onto your fluffy shoulders, jet black in the wake of showering and slicked like a 1950s greaser. You had no make up on and your skin was almost translucent in the early morning light (whatever was I doing up that early at such an age? Perhaps it had to do with whatever it was that upset you, I shan’t ever remember, but it is strange nonetheless). There was a faint dust of purple under your eyes, that I would soon come to learn was a permanent feature, but until that point I had never seen you without make up and I assumed only that you had spent the night studying, though I look back now and wonder if in fact you were crying.

You are probably wondering why I am reminding you of all of this, now of all times? We are supposed to be happy, don’t bring up that ѕhit you’d say. Maybe you’d slip back into a bit of Hackney. I’d like that you know. I always liked who you really were.

But that’s not the point, that’s not what I’m trying to do. Not quite. What I was – am – trying to tell you about, in a round about way, is the moment I loved you. I mean that I knew I loved you. I’d fallen in love with you before that but I was always a pragmatist, wasn’t I, and I said yeah, I love her now, but we’re young and these days will pass, and the feelings will drift with them. So you see now why I was a bit lazy in those early months of dating; I expected nothing from it, nothing but a bit of fun with a pretty girl and an excuse to be distracted from my studies. But that morning, that frosty November morning when you slipped back to your roots, glaring at me with those almost oriental eyes and hissed, ‘You bastard. You ain’t got no heart. Not a fuсkin ounce,’ I came alive inside. It was the part of you I had been waiting for, the part you promised now and then, with a little slip of the tongue, the odd word here and there that wasn’t quite right. You were beautiful right there and then, a raw, fierce sort of beauty that some would not see or quite get, but I saw it and I got it, and I knew in that moment I would never let it go, because I loved you. I really loved you.
Do you see why I brought this up now? I hope it holds no truly bad memories for you; this is to be a special day, and I do not want to spoil it. So don’t take from it the memory of what I did or said to make you so upset; take from it the fact that in that moment, the four or five seconds after you uttered those words, that I loved you.

The heart that you said I lacked exploded in my chest; it couldn’t handle the joy, the worry, the remorse. It struggled with confusion, wildly trying to escape its cavity to see what was going on, scrabbling furiously up my throat to get a glimpse of the women who tormented it so.
But I swallowed, and pushed it back down.

That was a long time ago now, wasn’t it? God, how we’ve changed in the meantime. I remember the jeans I wore that very morning, still have them in fact. I haven’t fit them for at least ten years, but they hang there in the wardrobe, next to the dress you bought the following week that didn’t fit you either, though you swore it would in two months. It never did.

Think of all the things that have happened in the meantime; we grew up. We stopped partying every other night, we stayed in on work nights and took to soaps and football. Do you remember when we travelled? That was the best time we ever had together, in my recollection, even when you got Delhi belly at the hostel in Tehran and spent two days sprinting between my shoulder and the bathroom, ruining my brand new shirt with your mascara.

You said the other day you were happiest when we got our first place, our first jobs, and we moved in together, playing at husband and wife, fuсking like condemned lovers. Each to their own I suppose.

It’s funny, isn’t it, that it’s taken us so long to get here? To this point, that so many lovers come to long before us, that our parents thought we’d come to long ago, hoped, probably.

I am glad we didn’t do it the way of other couples. There, that is my confession for the evening. I hope you won’t dislike me too much for it – I know how you always wished for the white dress, and the flock of cherubic children – but I must tell you now. It wouldn’t be fair to go through with this without telling you that when that doctor, the one I swore to you was a woman in another man’s flesh, so loose and baggy did it hang on it his delicate frame, came to tell us the sad news, I admit darling, I was more than a little relieved.

There. Do you hate me now? Please do not hate me. What I meant was only to tell you that I was happy, you were enough for me, too much sometimes. I did not want to initiate some other person into the world we had so cosily made our own. I wanted no disruptions, no distractions. I wanted you all to myself and when that dry said those words it was as if God himself was vindicating my position.

But – another confession. For I have since wondered what it would be like, and even wished. I pictured a boy, tall like me, with your thick black hair and the accent you always affected that was the thing I hated most. He would be called William, or Richard, or something equally Norman and dull, and he would play football and cricket and rugby and swim on the weekends. He would play the piano, or possibly the violin, and attend extra French from very young, just to give him an edge on his peers. He would be witness to our lives when we were gone, to the love, the hatred, the fights and the ambivalence, the startling moments of tenderness and most of all, he would be there purely to fulfil our vanity.

So I am glad he never came along, nor a girl either, for I can see she would only have been insufferable with a mother like you.

No, I am glad we did not do things the way of our peers. We took the courtship, and the wooing, skipped the marriage and the babies. We took up the fights and the loathing, we brushed them off and started back where we began.

And now we are here.

I hope you are looking forward to it, though I dare say you’re not really. You’re scared, aren’t you? You always were, when things got serious. But you won’t back out of it, I know you won’t. You can’t.

I thought I’d make the place nice for you, as a surprise. I cleaned – imagine that! – and tidied, laid out your favourite table settings and lit up candles like romantic people do in the movies.

Last night, my mother asked me why I am doing this. She had tears in her eyes and terror in her heart. Imagine that love! Well, she is OK now, I made sure of that, allayed her fears as best I could, though doubtless they’ll always be there, hanging in the air like a bad fart no one will own up to.
You look beautiful, you know. Almost as beautiful as that night all those years ago. Your eyes glisten beautifully in the soft candlelight, black as your hair used to be. It’s dim in here, so I’m not sure if they questioning or pleading, nervous perhaps, or simply tired. Perhaps they are asking me, in that silent way we once used to communicate – what are you doing? This is not you my love, that’s it, that’s what they say. All of this – this is not you.
Ah, I shall tell you, but people change. They do, I believe it. You did. You were a pretty little punk once, rough around the edges, broke but not broken, educated but edgy. Where did you go?

So that’s why, I’ll say. Once, many years ago, you told me I had no heart. But I have loads. I always have. You can rage and you can nag, but I when I have ever been untrue to who I am? I have not sold my soul for the sake of a mortgage, given up my love to make a “living.” It is you, my love, who has been the traitor. And do not pretend you do not know the price of treachery. I have put it off this long. They always marvelled that we never part, and secretly wondered when we would. Well, they can have their satisfaction now.

I am not sorry to do this. Well, I am, but not in the way you would think. It will be satisfying, and you will thank me for it later, trust me. I’ll be as quick as I can. I’ll make it sharp and throw my body into it and you won’t feel a thing, though part of me wishes you would.

Because it sticks you know? Sticks in the mind. The moments we treasure, the ones we never forget.

I ain’t got no heart you said. Well now, darling, neither do you.

pickarooney

Story 7

Room Service

As the plane touched down at La Guardia airport in New York City, the twilight creeping in as the Sun was setting; I cleared the carousel, walked outside with my bags, and scanned the White Zone for the limo I had ordered back in Great Falls. Over the speakers, a monotonous message: “The White Zone is for loading and unloading only,” droned on, over, and over.

I finally saw the sign being held up, as requested: “Zach Glickman.” I walked over, trundling my bags behind me, and as I got closer, I looked down from the Zach Glickman sign that was stapled onto a pole -a long pole that led down to a hand - a hand attached to a very small man; my pygmy chauffeur. We said our hellos, jumped into the sugar plum coloured Hummer, applied rotation on the ring road, and we were off.

“Where to, Mr Glickman?” The pygmy said in a diminutive tone, as we ramped onto Grand Central Parkway.

“East Village, Fillmore Hotel, please.” A moment of silence ensued, and then a chuckle came out of the mouth of my soon to be new friend, a smoking pygmy, named Nanook, on what would end up being a 6.5 hour road trip, deep into upstate New York.

We headed North, then West on I 280.

“Like my new ride?” Nanook said, while looking at me, expectantly, in the rear view. I nodded, smiled and said nothing, instead, listening to the musical crescendo and descendo tones of the revving engine, while gazing through the windshield as he zipped from lane to lane, jockeying for an even odds on getting ahead.

We chatted. It turns out there never was a Fillmore Hotel in the East Village, and that both of us, coincidentally, were heavy Frank Zappa fans, which explained my assumption as to the historically unnamed hotel actually existing, due to misconscruing up the “Dub Room Special” many, many times.

I should have looked at my work order more closely, rather than making such a blunder on the flight and not booking the room in advance.

“The Fillmore facade is now an Emigrant Bank branch, and the rear hall was torn down in the rear to make way for apartments. Pity; it had good acoustics, with that planetarium dome.” Nanook was a fountain, nay, a literal geyser of Zappa-centric fanboi information. Tearing down The Fillmore East was a violation - a victim of the Big Concert Venue trend – pushed out in favour of the mega stadium venues.

It happens that Nanook was an avid subscriber to The Zappa Channel on SiriusXM satellite radio, so, needless to say, the now detoured last leg of my business trip to The Fillmore Hotel, in Fillmore, just South and East of Buffalo, NY was a series of random overnight sensations.

While “Wind Up Working In A Gas Station” was playing, we initially reminisced and laughed where we mentally “were” the first time we heard it, but then, we realized that back then we were young and insensitive about other people and their lot in life. We agreed that any job is a good job, if it is useful. Winding up doing nothing is much worse than winding up working in a gas station.

We chatted, we laughed, he smoked; we listened to much Frank Zappa, and many of his intricate musical inventions. Nanook became my friend. I learned Nanook used to be taller, before the multiple slipped discs, leading to multiple bone fusion operations on his back; he learned I was an undercover software and hardware technician, being sent all over the USA, modifying machines with a little extra programming “tweak” to make them self-heal – a virus installer.

And that I missed my wife.

Over a quick breakfast in Scranton, PA, a City Of Tiny Lights, we mused about Frank Zappa’s massive discography over our burnt weeny sandwiches, ordered as: A Hungry Man Breakfast - hold the eggs, hold the grits, hold the bacon, hold the Garni Du Jour; the remaining sausages, fried, Voodoo Cajun Blackened, sliced lengthways, inside toast, drowned in Ketchup.

“No substitutions,” the waitress said, as she looked up from her notepad. I thought Nanook was going to sweep the table accoutrements onto the floor, fly out of the Cuckoo’s Nest, and go all Mexican Mafia over her ass, but, in the interest of brevity, and a possible segue into Part Duh: “CinemaShow,” let’s just say, the waitress saw The Shining in Nanook’s eyes and got the message from his mentally challenging telepathic grinning stare quite quickly; we got our meal, exactly as specifried.

I liked this guy even more, now.

As we pulled up to the Fillmore Hotel parking lot, or stoned excuse for a parking lot, the building looked like an overgrown Cape Cod home. We had finally agreed that Frank Zappa’s lyrics were great, but mentally disconnected from his music. Zappa just wanted to shock people to get attention, and sex shocked people. His lyrics made no sense, but his music was heaven sent.

A voluptuous Dora gave me a welcomorra at the front deskorra. (I looked at her nametag – I swear) I checked her out as she checked me in. I said my goodbyes to Nanook, but he had already spotted an adult dwarf named Stevie Martino, that Dora had been breeding. They got into a conversation about S&M (Shrimps and Midgets,) and took off in his Hummer - he got his next ride.

Sidetracking myself to cool off, I thought about the three tests I had to do in town. Job one: add my secret “intuition sub-routine” to some equipment at Cuba Specialty Industries. I looked up the subject machinery on my hit list – “a See ‘N Sea fishing assembler” – makes a “random combination hook, line and sinker.” A CNC modified robot, cum brake machine, combo compression, injection and blow moulder. “Potential problems with the random hook bender,” the ”defect” note from Head Office said.

I had a little bovine perspiration on my upper lip area over the challenge ahead.

My attention was again drawn away from the job at hand, or the job later at hand, when Dora was suddenly in my face again.

“Hello again, Dora, what’s the scorra?” She eyed me up like tonight’s bed-time snack. I couldn’t say where she was coming from, but her sister peeked up from cleaning up some sort of slime off a spot on the floor. What a pair!

Dora had an aura, and that other woman sitting quietly at the table over in the corner: very pneumatic, as Aldous Huxley would say.

Hmm, I guess I just miss my wife, I thought to myself.

I again tried to divert my attention back to something a little more saltpeter-ish. Yes, I remember very early on, on the actual 7 hour road trip, giving a shallow explanation of the trade I ply to Nanook: I’m a “tester for an investor” – my company is called “Zircon Entrusted Tweekers Inc.” Fairly boring to discuss, but I said I enjoyed setting up machines so they didn’t need me anymore, making the investors at Head Office feel better that we implant, what could be considered helpful viruses. Viruses that report back in real time about production levels, quality, and MTBF, which is mean time before failure, for those that don’t know my trade vernacular.

Ah yes, my wife. Maybe I’ll be back at home soon?

Napoleon, the bellhop, brought up my bags to room 3-3, then proceeded to slip me a note: Willy The Pimp @ 606-0842. I said no thanks, and handed it back, giving him a $40 bill for his trouble, saying to split it with Dora and her sister.

I settled in, unpacked my bags, and went down for lunch.

The Lady sitting in the corner and I, had a nice quiet chat. She seemed full of energy like a dynamo, and not a care in the world - a bit of an airhead, but nice enough. She had a somewhat SouthMidWestern persona, with rosy cheeks and tattooed on make-up. I think she was partial to red herring, as I could smell it on her, front and centre. That smell, mixed in with a Georgio Eau De Toilette, or toilet water, as I like to call it, as I hand it to my wife with an accompanying grin every St. Valentine’s Day, made for an intriguing adenoidal isotope.

“How much are the room service meals?” I said. She motioned to the menu on the table in front of her.

It said: $69.95. I was shocked at the price. I looked at her, then back at the menu, then back at her. I didn’t even see her lips move, but she said: “$69.95, boy, give one a try!”

I’m pretty cheap. $69.95 for dinner in my room was a little rich for me.

I said my goodbyes. I never remembered her name. “Ms” something or other. I passed by Dora, and her sister, on my way to the stairs. Her sister was wearing some sort of Poncho. I wasn’t sure if it was a Mexican poncho or a Sears poncho, but I wasn’t about to ask her to take it off so I could look at the tag. She and Dora may have got the wrong impression of me.

As I settled back into my room for a rest, I heard a knock, knock. I opened the door and saw no-one in the hallway, but down on the floor, was a tray with a note. On the note was written: “PI.”

Crap, I thought, are they onto me?

I went to Cuba Specialty Industries later in the afternoon, secretly injected and tested the machines– they passed with flying colours, and were online and handshaking with the Head Office servers quite nicely by the end of the day.

Feeling pretty tired, I had a shower before going downstairs for dinner. After the shower, still wrapped in my towel, and dripping wet, I heard a knock, knock once again. I stuck my head outside, saw no-one again, looked down, and saw a small jar of KY.

Hmm, I said to myself: PI and KY. No foolin’.

I remembered my wife suggesting I stop being so cheap when on a road trip, so I decided to splurge and get room service.

“Hello, is this room service?”

“This is Slick, here, what can I do you for, Sir?”

What’s on the menu, Slick? I’ll have anything that doesn’t taste like dog poo.”

Slick proceeded to ramble on about how Room 3-4 loves the taste and the smell of dog poo, and I should not write it off as being inedible, and advised m at the outset of the conversation, that unfortunately, there was no short order cook tonight; room service would be a little slow.

“I’ll have a Green Hocker. That’s right. And no Garni du Jour. Meat? – no, I have that. Yes, I know. $69.95. Thanks. 10 minutes? OK.”

About 10 minutes later, and with great anticipation, I heard a knock, knock, once again. I opened the door and looked down.

On the floor, nekked, was the room service girl, all painted up a nice shade of broccoli green. I looked up and down the hallway, carefully lifted her inside, and placed her next to the door, propped up against the wall.

I picked up my Android phone, and pressed the speed dial for Juliette, my wife. She answered: “hey Romeo,” and once again I was captivated by her beautiful melodic voice as we chatted the night away. Some of our conversation was smokin’, and far too personal for me to be sharing with you, here, so you’ll just have to imagine what we said.

As we wound up our heated discussion, she asked me if the testing and program insertion went OK in Fillmore.

“Yes, hun, all 3 programs are properly injected, infected and running perfectly. I’ll take the morning flight out from Buffalo. I’ll see you later tomorrow.”

pickarooney

Story 7

Spider of Destiny

A stench interrupted Mike. It was Monday he last had chicken.

The scrapes of the knife crossing the canvas comforted him. His mother painted the same way. Those sounds lulled him to sleep as a child. Her perfume entered his memory, a unique blend of Coco Channel No. 5, Cigarettes, Red Wine and Oil Paint. Mike loved that smell. Spread, filling as much of the couch as his five year-old body could fill he joined the dots on her jeans and inhaled the atmosphere.

He dreamed of being close to her when she worked. She never asked him to leave the studio. She would move the easel to the couch so that he could make pictures on her clothes. As the paint was scraped on, Mike would doze off.

Occasionally he woke when she was on the phone. He would pretend to be asleep. He knew that Colin was bad. Her voice would tremble.

Mike met Colin once.

Eight spiders with eight legs each spun eight webs. The webs were silky and reflected the bathroom light through the crack over the bedroom door. Mike was scared. He was six the day before. He got nothing from his mother. He was reminded of this when the spiders started singing:

Mike got no presents.
Mike got no presents.
What did Mike get for his birthday?
Nothing, nothing at all.

The spiders all turned towards Mike and their big red eyes burned their stares into him. They laughed and laughed and laughed. Mike jolted from his sleep. He didn`t even touch his army tank which was his entire toy collection. He ran straight to his mother.

There was someone in the bed with her. He climbed over the lump and held his mothers neck tightly. Mike heard the mans voice screaming at his mother, “take the little ѕhit out of here right fuсking now, you fuсking cow. He should be locked in the room if he`s going to be up at night.”

Mike`s whole body was shaking, and that lump stared at him just like the spiders. Another lump developed in Mike`s throat and he didn`t know if he should cry or shout out. Mike felt thirsty.

She lifted Mike up and cuddling him she walked through the landing making "ssh" sounds. She gently placed Mike in his bed. She kissed him, and through his panicking voice he asked her to stay. “I can`t,” was her reply. Mike noticed a tear sliding down her left cheek. He could see the track it made. Just like the snail track he followed that day. He squashed the snail when he found it. Mike wanted to kiss her on the tear. He wanted to tell her to be happy.

A shadow blocked the illuminating slither of light from the un-shaded bathroom bulb. The footsteps that followed were loud and unfamiliar. One jerk of his arm reached her and grabbed her: She was gone.

It was brighter than normal when Mike`s eyes opened. He thought of playing in school with Tommy and Nora. Mike wanted breakfast. He touched his army tank and then pretended to put on a dressing gown. He imagined going downstairs to the family on the corn flake ads. “Mom,” would be squeezing orange juice forever smiling. “Dad,” would be joking with his little sister in the high chair while trying to keep his shirt clean using the newspaper as a guard. Mike thought that this “Dad” would be reading about money stuff because they lived in a house with more than two bedrooms.

Mike turned off the bathroom light. She never forgot that before. Mike walked slowly downstairs. His imagination repaired the hole in the front door glass. The square of corn flake box taped over it to keep out the breeze would never be needed again. Mike saw a thick wooden door. The hall was bigger too. There was room for a bike on a stand. The stains on the wall were gone and there was even some carpet. Her perfume was strong. He had a look in at the studio. It was a sitting room really. He took a deep breath of her.

He ran into the kitchen. She was not there this morning. Bottles and bottles of drink crowded the table. An overflowing ashtray vied for space with her bra. A hold-all bag slouched from the chair.

Mike counted the bottles: two of his mothers red wine, one small white one, one big white one, one big bottle of cola and fourteen brown ones. There were five empty packets of cigarettes; two were what she smoked and three were different.

Mike ran upstairs to her bedroom. She was lying on the ground. He ran over and saw a big bruise had grown on the place where the tear was. Mike remembers it took a long time to wake her up. Even then she sounded like she was still sleeping. She groaned a lot and when Mike hugged her neck she screamed. Mike cried like never before. The tears flew down his face as fast as racing cars.

Mike remembers being on the street outside his house. A guard was holding him. The ambulance men took a long time in there. The guard was asking Mike if he had any aunts and uncles. Mike didn`t know.

Mike needed to scrape more paint on. He was happy.

The stench interrupted once again. Monday he thought. Chicken. He counted the days in his head. Monday was Chicken. Tuesday was Pasta. Wednesday was drinking the dole, Thursday was a blur, Friday was cans at Anna`s house. Saturday he couldn`t remember. Mike wondered if today was Saturday.

He spent another 15 minutes scraping paint before he went to investigate the stink. He saw his phone near the bin. It was never charged, no one rang him anyway. He plugged it in and had to attach the piece of blue tack and sticky tape to the charger where it forms a union with the phone. Male and Female connectors, it`s all about sex or money he thought.

He dazed at the kitchen. It was a tidy kitchen, however the bin was full. He focused on switching on the phone. Mike took two attempts to enter the pin.

He continued to the bin. He moved the pile of potato skins that littered the top of the bag. When did he have potatoes last he asked himself. As his hand moved deeper he felt the sharp rim of the tuna fish can on his finger and knew that it would cut him again if he didn`t employ his other hand to help negotiate a safe release.

The phone beeped indicating a text message arrived. Mike smiled to himself and hoped it would be from Una. He lifted out the tin. He always washed the tins but never recycled anything. He wondered about that. He let the tin fall and picked up the phone.

The text read:
“Hi Mike. I`m running an exhibition of local painters on the 5th of next month at the library. Would you like to submit a piece? Please let me know ASAP. Una.”

He checked the date of the message. The phone told him it came in 5 minutes ago and that was all. He opened the calendar to see today`s date. Tuesday September 25.

He wrote a reply.
“Hi Una, Thanks I`d love to. Where is it on? What size space would I have? And how are you? Mike”

He pressed send and returned to the bin. Instantaneously the message beep rang out. That was quick he thought. Dropping the potato peels this time he rushed to the phone.

With excitement Mike opened the text:
“This message was not sent. Please top up your account to avail of our services”

The light from the fridge was blinding as he took out a can of beer. Mike knew why the chicken smelt bad. Today was Tuesday. He wondered how he had spent the last few days. He couldn`t remember anything after Anna`s house.

He sat on the couch in front of the space where the TV used to be. He looked at the wall. Spying a spider scurrying along the floor he considered the eight legged creatures. He had that dream about spiders when he was a kid. He never called it a nightmare. He wondered why after nearly thirty years he had the dream again. Mike thought it might be time to paint that dream.

He leaned his head back and tried to remember all the families he lived with since that night. The Murphy`s were the nicest. He spent the longest with them. The Wickham`s were the worst. Mr Wickham had a collection of skinny branches that he called the police. Each member of the Wickham Police had a name. Mrs Wickham never knew. The Devereux`s were kind but the older boy used to beat Mike. He stopped remembering now.

Mike decided to walk outside and take deep breathes of air. It might wake him up and he needed credit.

He strolled past the school and he created an image of Tommy and Nora playing without him. He never met them after that night. He leaned on the wall and imagined what his life would be like if Colin had never met her. He often wondered if Colin was his father.

Mike thought of the first day he met Una. He was totally transfixed by her eyes. He loved her from the first smile she gave him. He must contact her. She lived in a house with a thick wooden door.

When he reached the shop the star shaped day glow stickers were replaced with a new window sticker for the lotto. Billy is modernising. Mike stalled at the row of newspapers. Every front page carried the same photo.

“Butcher released” stated The Sun.

“Killer roams free” said The Mirror

“Ireland`s first convicted serial killer released from prison: Legal technicality makes Colin Williams a free man.” Claimed The Irish Times.

pickarooney

Story 7

More Trouble Every Day

Monday 5pm

Diary, it’s been four hours since Dad left. I suppose I better keep writing here. It’s something to do. I’ll write quickly, it will be dark soon, and we have to spare the lamp. Jonathan has slept, mostly. He mumbles in his sleep, I don’t like listening to him. He makes sounds like someone is hurting him. I won’t wake him though. Having him awake is worse, he complains.
Dad left once the wind died down and the rain quit. Said he would be a few days and to hang tight. Every time I think of him out there my chest gets tight. But I won’t cry. I’m brave. I’m Daddy’s brave soldier.

Monday 11pm

Diary, I’m scared. It’s been dark for hours and the wind has got up again. Its making the most horrible noise and the tent is shaking. I’m afraid it’s going to blow down. The trees creak outside too and I wish I was in my bed at home. I’ve been crying, diary, but quietly. Jonathan is crying in his sleep again too, and I don’t want to disturb him. I don’t know how to help him. He is awfully hot. I pulled down his sleeping bag and wiped his face, but I don’t think it helped. I couldn’t bear to check his leg. Maybe Daddy should have stayed.

Tuesday 8am

I’m so glad its daylight. The night seemed so long. But it’s raining hard now. I need to go to the creek for fresh water, but it’s so muddy and cold. We can’t light a fire, it’s too wet outside. At least Jonathan woke a while ago. He said he felt better, but he is still sweating. We looked at his leg. The cut looks puffy and gooey now. I said it was gross. He said it was better but it didn’t look better.

Tuesday 12pm

Everything is wet, even our sleeping bags. I hung them out on some brambles but there’s no sun so they’re not getting dry. At least the rain has stopped so I collected firewood. Maybe Jon will wake enough to help me with the flint, he was always better than it than me. Then maybe we would be warm. I keep thinking of Daddy. I wonder where he is. I hope he is warm.

Tuesday 4pm

We ate the last of the crackers just now. They were soggy, like everything. I didn’t like them but my tummy hurts, I’m so hungry. Jonathan didn’t have many, but I was so hungry. Daddy said to spare them, but we’ve eaten them now so it’s too late. I was still hungry so we talked about food afterwards, cookies and ice-cream and even mashed potato, but I think that made my tummy feel even worse. I told Jonathan about my birthday cake last April when I turned eight. He said he remembered it. It was green to look like a field and had sheep made of icing on top. Mummy made it and her hands went green from the icing. But the cake made Jonathan think of Mummy and I told him I was sorry I said anything. I’m not thinking of Mummy, I make myself stop when I think of her. Of what happened. I know Mummy is just lost like us but she doesn’t have a tent. Daddy found ours on the river bank and we only had one. I haven’t called out for her for days. I called for her all the time before Daddy decided he had to go find help but he said I was just going to hurt my throat so I didn’t do it anymore.

Tuesday evening

I went to the creek for water . I don’t like the water rushing by so fast. I was like being back when it happened. Cold. So cold in there! And I didn’t know which way was up and I choked on all the water. It tasted brown, like mud tastes, I think. Till Daddy pulled me by my hood and I was out of the water. I coughed and coughed. He got Jonathan too, but Jonathan had been hurt when he fell out of the boat and that’s why his leg is all messy. That’s when Mummy got lost. Daddy got us but he couldn’t find her. I looked up along the creek again today in case maybe I would see her red jacket. I called her even though I know Daddy said not to. I want her to find me. She wouldn’t leave me.

Tuesday night

Oh, Diary, I’m glad I can talk to you. I get worried that Daddy won’t come back and I can’t say that to Jonathan. I know he is ten but he is scared too. We don’t have anything to eat tonight because we ate all the crackers when we weren’t supposed to. I want to say sorry to Daddy for that but he isn’t here. I hope he comes back soon. At least it didn’t rain today so our sleeping bags are not as wet as this morning. We didn’t light a fire because the wood was wet. I’m going to get in and cuddle Jonathan when I finish writing here. He is shivering, which is funny because he was too hot earlier.

Tuesday night

I know I shouldn’t turn on the lamp, Diary, but it’s so dark and cold and I’m scared. The trees are making funny sounds again, and I think I can hear dogs too. At least I think its dogs. They are howling, it sounds far away. But it’s spooky and I don’t like it. It sounds like Halloween. There was rustling in the bushes outside too and I had to put my hand over my mouth so I wouldn’t cry to loud. I want my Daddy. I want Mummy to come back. I’m cold, Diary.

Wednesday morning

Jonathan hasn’t woken up yet. He was quieter last night, but very hot again. He sweated so much I got wet. I want to wake him up, it’s too quiet here with him sleeping. I didn’t sleep because I was scared, and I used the lamp too much I think. I hope Daddy won’t be cross with me.

Wednesday daytime

Jonathan wouldn’t wake up just now, even when I shook him. He just mumbled at me. His skin looks funny. It’s hot and sticky and blotchy. I want to talk to him, but he is too sleepy. At home he always gets up first. I tried to give him some water but it just went down his chin. Daddy must have got help now. He said a few days. I bet he will be back soon. I’m going to sit outside and keep watch for him till he arrives. I know he will be here today.

Wednesday evening

Daddy isn’t here yet. I don’t want it to get dark again. Jonathan was asleep all day. He is very quiet now, but not hot anymore. His skin looks like chalk does when you get it wet. He is breathing all weird too, kinda jumpy, like he would if he was playing a trick on me. I wish he would sit up and talk to me. I want him to pull my hair and be annoying even. I don’t like him all strange and asleep. I don’t want him to be like this when it is dark. I’m trying to be Daddy’s brave soldier, but I want to cry. My tummy feels hot and sore. I tried to eat some leaves to see if they would stop me thinking of bacon and pancakes and maple syrup but they tasted so bad I spat them out. I threw up then. I feel a bit dizzy tonight. I hope the trees are quiet and there’s nothing in the bushes. Daddy’s coming soon. I’ll hear him soon. Goodnight Diary.

Thursday, sometime

I have to write here Diary. I don’t know what to do. Jonathan isn’t doing that funny breathing anymore, and I can’t make him move at all. He is really cold. Daddy hasn’t come back yet. I shook Jonathan again and again and again but his face just went saggy and his mouth was open. He looks scary. I cried and told him to quit messing but he didn’t do anything. I remember when our dog Toby died and he was just like that. Jonathan can’t be dead. He is ten and my brother and brothers don’t die, just dogs and budgies do. I went outside and screamed for Daddy but all I could hear was the creek and the trees and the wind. I want to go home, Diary. I want me and Mummy and Jonathan and Daddy to all go home and be happy and have a barbeque. Why did we go out to camp anyway? I hate stupid camping. I hate stupid tents. I want to go home.

Thursday nighttime

I covered Jonathan up. It doesn’t feel like he is here anymore. But I know he is there on the other side of the tent under the sleeping bag and it’s ok. I just can’t see his face. Its better when I can’t see his face. It’s so quiet except for the trees outside. I know the dogs or wolves or whatever they are are out there too. I heard them. But I feel sick and cold, that’s all I feel. I wonder why I don’t feel scared anymore. I wonder where Daddy is. Did he lose his way back to us? I think he just lost his way back. The lamp is very flickery tonight, like a candle. I’m very sleepy and my head feels like I’m on a boat. I got sick again and my coat got stained. I’m going to just think of my dolls house at home now, and what I’m going to get for Christmas. Daddy will be back soon, and we can talk about Christmas.

Friday ???

I don’t know when it is, Diary. Its daytime. My eyes are fuzzy so I hope I’m writing this okay. I didn’t get up today, I was so cold and sick and so tired I just stayed here. But I’m not shaking anymore, I just feel all slow and weird, my head hurts real bad. I’m still here beside Jonathan. I feel safer not going away from here. The water is all used up but I don’t want to go get more. Daddy didn’t come back yet.

???

Diary. The lamp is not working, and it’s nearly dark now. I’m tired. I love my Daddy. I’m his soldier. My head hurts lots, Diary. I don’t like the dark. I’m sorry I didn’t help Jonathan stay awake or find Mummy. I hope Daddy is back soon. I know he’ll come back soon. He is coming to get me. He promised.

Goodnight, Diary.

pickarooney

Story 7

Friendly Little Finger

Long, long ago in a land far away,
A pair of strange boys were born the same day.
Their features were curious and defied laws of nature,
For they were smaller than most and tiny in stature.

The first was no bigger than his poor father’s thumb,
Tom he was called and a star he’d become.
Frank was born next and named for a singer,
He never grew taller than the old man’s baby finger.

Brothers they were who would part very gladly,
Tom being bold and quite mean and wily,
While Frank was too meek and kind to a fault,
Always lending a hand when his brother would not.

And when time had come to leave their small nest,
Armed with a needle, Tom went to the west.
But wee little Frankie, fearing all beasts,
Mounted a pigeon and flew to the east.

Tom lived a life that was full of adventure,
Killing and maiming and refilling his pitcher,
While Frank toiled and worked until he was spent,
Earning barely enough to pay for his rent.

All he would greet with a smile and a wave,
But all looked away with long faces grave,
Shielding their children and muttering low
About the famed tiny lad who belonged far below.

Frank soon found out that making one’s name
Would be no simple task and no easy game
With a brother like his who was known far and wide
For princesses bedded and livestock defiled.

And so Frank worked on until one fateful day
When his path in the forest went too far astray.
Fatigued and exhausted he stopped by a river
Then wound up head first in the cold rushing water.

Swept up by the current the poor little man
Could not swim to shore and failed to reach land.
Fish bait he’d be as a result of his blunder;
He gave a great kick but was only pulled under.

Sometime thereafter our man stirred awake
To find that his life was not saved but at stake,
Trapped as he was in a giant’s huge hand,
Doomed he was sure to a meal he had planned.

When the giant insisted he was not foe but friend,
Frank was relieved not to meet such an end.
He was welcomed to stay in his new comrade’s home;
The pair those two made: the giant, the gnome.

All was quite well in our short little story
Until a witch came along in a terrible fury
Over the giant’s default and taxes unpaid
In a share of his harvest and a few newborn babes.

On the giant she cast a great sleeping spell;
At the base of a tree he succumbed and then fell.
But wee little Frankie the witch left intact
And flew off on a broomstick before he could act.

Amid the great snores Frankie faltered and wept
Though he knew he would help for he owed him a debt.
A bowl full of berries he ran out and got
For let the man starve, he would certainly not.

Not too long after, who came by that way
But Tom on the back of a field mouse all grey.
He stared as his brother crushed up a berry
To give to the giant like some misguided fairy.

When Tom saw up close the giant’s great feet,
He let the mouse go and said ‘What a treat!’
For seven-league boots he had heard much about
But seen them in person of course he had not.

And so he entreated his poor little twin
To agree to the plan he laid out with a grin:
A good price he’d get for such a fine boot;
He’d even give Frank his fair share of the loot.

Frank flat out refused and told Tom to go.
The man was his friend; of course he’d say no.
But Tom knew just how to belittle his brother,
Laughing he called him the runt of the litter.

Perched on the giant, wee Frankie felt swell
A feeling of hate he could no longer quell.
Leapt onto Tom and saw nothing but red,
Punched him and kicked him until Tom had bled.

To a long empty burrow Frank retreated in anger,
Chopped off Tom’s hands and snapped every finger,
Then ground it all down to a watery paste
To feed to his giant with none gone to waste.

Once to the giant his brother was fed
Something went wrong in Frank’s little head.
He took Tom Thumb’s name and the boots as his plunder,
And wee little Frankie was friendly no longer.

pickarooney

Story 7

Once upon a time

Once, upon a time – that being a Thursday morning, at four or five or six o’clock; right around sunrise, at least, or thereabouts – the Down & Out awoke to a bastard of a headache burgeoning between his eyes. He groped along the ground for his elixir, the only cure for his ailment – while also, conversely, the very thing that caused it – and drank deep of this precious bottle; he would then spend the rest of the day in a dull stupor, entertaining himself in his own head with stories from his childhood (the only ones he remembered, or had possibly ever known), and using any lucid intervals to vacate his suburban squalor and forage for meagre scraps of food or charity in the city. This was how the Down & Out passed his pitiful life, and though not wholly content with the hand that fate had dealt him, it was nonetheless the existence to which he had become accustomed, and one which he could not envision ever changing – until, that is, this fateful day arrived.


As the sun started its languorous descent a full twelve or so hours later, the Down & Out was just making his return from the city when he spotted an Up & Coming in the distance, easily discernible by his immaculate grey silk suit, expensive leather briefcase and slick, modern hairstyle. The two factions were, generally speaking, sworn enemies, and as he did not wish to become embroiled in a skirmish, the Down & Out averted his gaze and scarpered down a familiar sidestreet, rounding a corner at the bottom and, drained from this sudden burst of exertion, sinking to the ground atop a pile – his pile – of sodden cardboard. However, as the violent thumping of his heartbeat in his ears subsided, another rhythmic two-beat took its place: the unmistakable sound of footsteps advancing down the laneway.


Panicked, the Down & Out sprang to his feet and crouched in preparedness for battle. The Up & Coming soon stepped brazenly into view and silently took in the scene that lay before him: the Down & Out with his matted hair, untamed beard and filthy clothes and gabardine; his rudimentary living conditions; the foul, all-encompassing odour surrounding him... A tense moment passed before the Up & Coming cleared his throat and spoke.


“Come, come, my friend. Why did you flee just now?”


The Down & Out cautiously lowered his fists, somewhat taken back, though when he retorted his tone was nonetheless terse.


“Ya know well why. Ya know what ’tis like. Yer sort looks down on mine, spits on mine, distrusts mine – why should I hang ’round for that?”


The Up & Coming smiled serenely.


“I look down on no-one, friend; indeed, I consider us to be on the same level... And I shall prove it.”


“Aye? How’s that?”


“By proposing that we swap. You shall take my place and I yours.”


It took a few moments for these words to register with the Down & Out, upon which he found himself wholly lost for words. Once he rejected the notion that the Up & Coming was being sincere, though, they flowed more easily – and surely it had to be a joke, for no rational person would dare even consider it.


“Let me guess – yer me fairy godfather or summat? Grantin’ me three wishes?”


The Up & Coming chuckled and shook his head.


“No, no – just the one, and only for a week, mind, though I hope that will prove sufficient. And my motives are largely selfish, I assure you; I want a break from it all. I need a change of scene, just for a little while; something completely different, and your life seems as far removed from mine as that in any exotic land. Perhaps this all sounds ungrateful or churlish to you – and it is, in a way. I’ve had more than my share of good fortune and I’m still not happy. But consider this my giving something back – through you.”


The Down & Out was struggling to keep up.


“So, what, we just... swap lives?”


“If that’s what you want to call it; to me, we’re merely exchanging uniforms, engaging in a dash of pretence – it’s mere child’s play, is it not? But see, I’m in the mood for play – I’m so very bored of the 9 to 5 drudgery. It’s more than ‘ambition’ old Dolly was spiking her morning coffee with, I’m telling you...oh, sorry, perhaps you don’t get the reference.”


“ ’Course I do,” the Down & Out snapped back. “I’m down and out, not deaf – or blind, I s’pose... But won’t everyone notice when I walk in that I’m not, well, you?”


“You might be surprised, but no, I shouldn’t imagine so. A long shower – maybe two – and a shave, and you’ll pass. I work for a consultancy firm, in an office with scores of others who never make eye contact with each other, while no-one really knows what they’re supposed to be doing – we just answer phones all day, occasionally there’s a report due; you’ll pick it up. It’s only for a week, as I said; my altruism doesn’t extend quite that far. And I’ve no wife or children; you’ll have the house entirely to yourself. Here...”


He reached into his jacket pocket and held out a set of keys. The Down & Out hesitated before accepting them.

“Christ,” he murmured. “Yer serious, ain’t ya?”


“One hundred percent,” the Up & Coming answered cheerily, now beginning to remove the jacket itself. “For the next seven days, I’ll be you and you me – do we have a deal?”


The Down & Out nodded mutely and the two men shook hands. It all still seemed too good to be true, yet if the Up & Coming really was just playing some elaborate joke, it was hard to tell who its audience was supposed to be. And his words had seemed to hold more than a trace of sincerity...


As the Down & Out slipped on the Up & Coming’s silk jacket, he found his eyes drawn to the name-tag affixed to its lapel. It read: A. Knight.


***

And so, for the next seven days the Down & Out took the place of the Up & Coming, living in his house, wearing his clothes, spending his money, eating his food (and oh, what a difference there was in this regard; each night consisted of a lavish banquet for one) and, finally, performing his job, which was more or less exactly as the Up & Coming had described. With vacant stares and morose airs, his colleagues absently traversed the wide, open plan office with its recycled air and industrial hum, without ever seeming to communicate with one another. Even on their lunchbreak – which the Down & Out had been delighted to discover took place in a fully equipped kitchen, thus increasing the opportunities to gorge himself – conversation was kept to inane, phatic small-talk, which didn’t strike him as a healthy approach, yet also suited perfectly in that his ruse was unlikely to be uncovered.


And this would likely have been the ritual for the duration of the exchange, were it not for the fact that on the following Thursday afternoon – the final day of the men’s bargain – a pretty, young Bold & Beautiful tapped him on the shoulder.


“Hey – Arthur, right?” she chirped breezily. “I’ve got a bit of a paper jam or something – help a damsel in distress?”


The Down & Out, naturally, knew nothing about fixing paper jams, but dutifully accompanied her to take a look, and as they waited by her desk for a technical advisor to arrive, it became clear that her true aim seemed to have been simply engaging him in conversation.


“I’ve been meaning to introduce myself for a while – people here are so cold, don’t you think? Then I noticed you again this week; did you get a haircut? It looks good... That fire alarm during the drill was pretty eardrum-shattering, wasn’t it?”


The Down & Out’s practice throughout the week had been to say as little as possible, but as he didn’t wish to cause offence, he engaged the Bold & Beautiful in conversation. It came surprisingly easy to him to pretend he was – and had always been – a part of her world, and for any topics he couldn’t comfortably feign familiarity with (such as modern music; he knew snippets of songs from passing blaring shop radios, but nothing beyond this superficial level), a smile and a nod sufficed to see him through. What he was wholly unprepared for, however, was the climax of their discourse, as she segued neatly from discussing a favourite band of hers to the news that they were playing in the city the very next night.


“My friend Sandra was meant to come with me, but she’s such a fluke, I should’ve known she’d bail out – but that’s great that you like them too! What d’you say, wanna come with?”


It would have been rude to decline; and indeed, in that moment the Down & Out saw no reason why he shouldn’t go. It was only as he switched off his computer for the day that he remembered where he was to go after work, and therefore where he would really be the following night. His heart sank, but he had made a promise; he’d got to sample another’s life, and now it was time to give it back to its rightful owner.


Although...


Well, what life had he really experienced without this extra element, cruelly introduced so late in the play – a chance to be a part of something more than oneself, a second half to make a complete whole... Could he truly say he had ‘lived’ without this vital addition? And it was only one extra day (though thereafter might depend on exactly how the ‘date’ went); the other fellow had – literally – his whole life before him, while all the Down & Out had to look forward to was more of the same misery and decrepitude he’d put up with for years. On balance, did he not deserve this chance?


These thoughts kept him occupied all the way from the office to his old familiar suburb, and as he finally paused and got his bearings, the weight of indecision tugged heavily at his heart. How had the Up & Coming got on, for that matter? Had the unusual sojourn provided everything he had hoped for? Maybe he even liked it, and he too was now considering extending their contract...


But this, perhaps, was rather too unlikely, and the consequences of that were rather too much to bear.


And so he remained frozen in place, wearing his grey silk suit, carrying his leather briefcase, boasting his slick, modern hairstyle, but still the same Down & Out beneath it all, sensing the tangible bliss of another reality slipping from his grasp as looked down the street that lay ahead of him; all the way down to where it tapered to a turn at the end.

pickarooney

Story 7

The Radio is Broken

Alan’s family sat around the radio and listened intently, as they had done for the last half hour. He still marvelled that even they could sit quietly without arguing for this, every day. None of the usual squabbling, yelling, chattering, for one peaceful half hour.
“Well folks I think we can skip the weather forecast today!”
They smiled dutifully; he still cracked this joke every so often.
“Our correspondent in the North – thanks, Ger – tells us conditions are still the same. The official groups are still working to restore supplies and suits to families and are making their way slowly down. There is no reported shortage, and so we are still asked to wait patiently while they do their jobs. Yesterday’s report covered what we can expect when they arrive, and tomorrow we’ll talk about how we can manage on the outside. It’s been a long year for most of us, but there is light at the end of the tunnel. But remember: do not attempt to go outside without proper protection.
“And for the end of today’s news, we have a few birthday announcements.” He reeled off a list of names. “Happy birthday guys! Remember to give me a shout if you want your name called out too. Same time tomorrow!”
“I wish we could do that,” muttered Ruth yet again. “Why didn’t we get a two-way radio? It was my birthday last week.”
“Don’t start, Ruth, we’ve had this conversation before.”
She kept grumbling and stalked off to read a book. Alan wondered how she wasn’t tired of reading them. Her younger brother was already buried in his games again. He’d remind them about their homework later.

Kate turned to him, looking thoughtful.

“Do you really think they’ll come?”
“Why wouldn’t they? You heard him, he tells us what’s happening out there. We’ll be out of here before we know it. All those families we’ve heard about have been able to get out there and live again, and so will we. There’s all sorts of equipment. You don’t have to live underground if you have the right stuff. The worst of the animals will be gone by now, he said.”
She shook her head. “We’ve been so long in here, I don’t know what it will be like. Cold all the time. Wearing strange protective suits.”
He grinned. “Fewer arguments from the kids, I reckon. Peace and quiet.”
She smiled and went back to sitting under the UV lamp for the usual 20 minutes.

They had a similar conversation more often, now. They’d spent the first months in uncertainty, not able to go outside and not knowing what was happening. They’d heard about the pending impact, been told quietly to get into their shelter, avoid any riots, avoid any aftereffects. The tv had stopped working almost immediately and their phones had no signal inside. The radio was their only contact with the outside world, and all they could do was listen and hope.





“Why isn’t the show starting? It’s 3pm?”
Rob rolled his eyes. “It’s not even switched on, Mum.”
She blushed and turned the dial as they all shared a laugh.

Nothing happened.
“I only put fresh batteries in last week.” She tried replacing them again, but it wasn’t working. It wouldn’t switch on. Alan began to feel a small creeping dread in the pit of his stomach. He grabbed the radio from Kate, examining it impatiently and urgently. It was definitely stone dead. He slammed it down angrily.
“I bet you broke it, Rob, stole the batteries for your stupid games!”
“Shut up, I did not! You’re the one always complaining about wanting a two-way radio!”
They began to descend into their usual bickering, until Alan roared at them to shut up.
They all stared at him with huge eyes. It wasn’t like him to yell.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. The dread was spreading through his body, cold tendrils gripping his bones. They all looked solemnly at the radio.

“They’ll come for us anyway, won’t they, Dad? I mean, we don’t need the radio to know that. They’ll come for us sometime, and then we can go out again.”
“That’s right, Rob, they will. It’ll be ok. We’ll just have to get by ourselves for a while.”

Strange, what one little radio show could do for them. He never realised before how much they depended on that small contact they had. Without it, they were truly alone. The room suddenly seemed a lot smaller. He went to lie down.

Kate followed him and sat on the edge of the bed, holding his hand.

“Alan, you know it’ll be fine. They’re still going to come, whether we can hear the progress reports or not. You told me that yourself, yesterday.”
“I know,” he whispered.
“So what’s wrong? It’s just a radio, one half hour from one person each day. Nothing will change. It’s a nuisance, we’ll try to fix it, but if we can’t….” She shrugged.
“It’s just us now. Us alone in the world. Never talking to anyone else. Maybe they won’t come. How long will it take? We’re stuck here, in this small place.”
“Alan, you know it’s not just us. What’s come over you?” She frowned.
He closed his eyes and turned his head away. He heard her get up, sigh, and walk away.


The rest of the day passed in a daze. He sat there staring at the radio the next day, 3pm on the dot. They’d been unable to fix it at all, and given it up as impossible. The whole family was unusually subdued, though not as bad as him. There was no more arguing, only quiet talking when necessary. The tension in the air was palpable.
It continued on for another week, getting worse. Even Kate was becoming visibly strained. Alan sat and stared.

Ruth finally snapped and announced she was going to go open the door. “I’ve had enough of this. We can’t cope and I want to see what’s outside. It’s probably not even that bad.”
“Don’t be ridiculous and sit down, Ruth.”
“Why? Nobody is going to come and we don’t even know what’s going to happen anymore. What if they told us it was ok and we didn’t know?”
“Ruth, I’m getting a headache. Sit down and stop this nonsense about going out, please.”
“What, sit down and look like Dad?”
Kate slapped her, before clapping her hands to her own mouth in shock. Tears welled up in Ruth’s eyes and she ran to fling herself down on her own bed. Kate sat with her head in her hands. Alan sat and stared.




“Mum, wake up.”
“What? Rob? What time is it? What’s wrong?”
“I heard Ruth getting up. I think she’s going to try open the door.”
Kate grabbed her dressing gown and ran for the main shelter door. Ruth was covered head to toe in her heaviest winter clothes, had just managed to swing the heavy door open and was walking outside.
“Ruth, STOP!”
But Ruth kept walking, and then suddenly stopped. Kate had been so focused on her that she didn’t see anything else when following. Now she too stopped and looked around. Their house was gone. They had just walked into a large building, white and sterile, full of machines. There were no windows.
Two strangers were staring at them. They were dressed normally, and seemed nearly as shocked as Ruth and Kate. The man cursed. The woman shook her head at him. “2 more months, you said.”

“What… where’s our house? What’s going on?” asked Kate, uncertainly. Ruth was taking off her coat and hat; it wasn’t cold.
The strangers looked at each other.
“Why isn’t it cold? We were told it would be extremely hostile, not to even attempt to step outside. Are you the group that are giving out supplies? Did you build this?”
Ruth spoke in a dead flat tone of voice. “There was no impact, Mum. There wasn’t, was there?” She addressed this last to the man and woman standing in front of them. The man shook his head and looked nearly embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” said the woman. “This wasn’t supposed to happen so soon… well. Here we are.”
“I think you owe us an explanation,” replied Kate coldly. Her arm was around Ruth. Alan and Rob had followed and were standing behind them.
“Your daughter is correct. There was no impact. We’ll work on restoring your memories shortly. You were volunteering for the first Martian colonies. Given their extreme isolation, we need to ensure all candidates can cope psychologically.”

“But the radio…” ventured Alan.

“There was no radio show, of course. He was just an actor.
“I regret to inform you that you’ve failed the testing. You were close, but recent observation indicates claustrophobic tendencies …” – she glanced at Alan – “…overall near breakdown, and you’re simply not suitable. Especially since you broke the test early.” She frowned. “You weren’t doing so badly until that radio broke, but all candidates will need to cope with situations like that. Normally, we inform the candidates a bit more gently at the end of the testing, if they manage that long. We thought you’d make it to the end. Of course, the fee will be in your accounts for the time spent… well, you’ll remember all that later. Don’t feel bad about it, roughly sixty per cent of the candidates fail. Now, if you’ll follow my colleague….”


“There was no radio show,” whispered Alan. He had felt like part of a community, listening to it every day. Hearing the stories about other people trapped in shelters, celebrating when they heard that some of them had been able to move outside again, hoping for their own turn. Laughing at the jokes. Felt so isolated without it. None of it was real.

Head down, he shuffled along behind his family as they walked together out the door.

pickarooney

Story 7

Johnny Darling.

“I spy with my little eye something beginning with G!” My mother shouted up the stairs.

“Oh fuсk,” I sighed pulling my blue woollen jumper on over a white vest.

I took a quick glance in the mirror before legging it down the stairs to the door.

I was too late.

“Hello gorgeous!” My mother exclaimed as she opened the door to Johnny.

Her tiny figure looked amazing in skinny jeans, a tight white vest top and zebra print high heels. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She didn't need to since the boob job. Her large nipples protruded through her tight white vest top, you could hang teacups off them. I could see Johnny trying not to stare. And failing badly.

He stood at the door wringing his fingers as my mother looked him up and down. She turned her head and winked at me in approval.

Johnny was cute, another reason I didn’t want my mother meeting him. He started to think something was up cause I kept telling him not to meet me at my home. Eventually I'd given in, knowing he’d have to meet her some time.

“Johnny, this is my mother. Mam, this is Johnny.”
“Hello Mrs, eh…”
“Oh call me Stella!” my mother roared before shooing him into the lounge.
“Sit down, sit down, my darling! Would you like a drink of something? A tea, coke or something a little naughty?” She giggled.

Johnny stood with his back to the large armchair, looked at her and shrugged, “em, yeah sure I don’t mind, whatever you’re having.”
“Wait there; I know just what a young man like you wants.”

She placed her hand on his shoulder before gently pushing him onto the seat of the armchair. Then she turned on her heel and sashayed out of the room.
I sighed and slumped on to the sofa across from him.

“Sorry about Mam, she can be a bit eccentric. We’ll just have one drink and then leave. Ok?”
Johnny smiled, “it’s grand, your mam seems real nice. I didn’t realise she’d be so...”
“So what?” I glared at him, accusingly.

I knew exactly what he wanted to say; so hot, so sexy, so not like a mother.

But he didn’t.

“So young.” He finally offered.

“I’m back!” My mother tottered into the room and handed Johnny a tumbler.

“JD and coke alright?” She smiled before sitting next to me on the sofa. She had one for herself and began to sip from it.

“Blue never wants a drink, I sometimes wonder is she my daughter at all. So bookish, so dorky!”

She ruffled my hair as she insulted me.
Johnny laughed and took a sip from his glass.

“So… You’re a very handsome boy Johnny. Do you get that from your father?”

Johnny took a gulp of his drink. “Em... I dunno.”

His cheeks glowed and I hissed at my mother to stop. She dismissed me with a giggle and wave of her hand.

“A man of few words. The silent type, hmmm? Still, I doubt my Bluebell dates you for the conversation!”
“Mam, Jesus, would you shut up.” I glared at her.

“Oh, don’t be such a square, Blue. You know how open we are about sex in this house. After all, everybody's doing it. Isn’t that right, Johnny?”

“Ok, we’re going.” I jumped up from my seat. “Come on Johnny, let’s get out of here.”

“Oh don’t go, please! I’m sorry Blue; I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Please stay, pretty please.”

She grabbed my hand and stroked it, looking at me in desperation.

“I’ll behave myself, I promise.”

She looked so pathetic, and with a bottle of JD in the kitchen I knew I couldn’t just leave her.

“Ok, but we’re not staying here all night Mam.”

“I know that, don’t worry. Just long enough for me to get to know this darling of a boyfriend of yours.”

She smiled at Johnny and he grinned back at her.

“You see that photo on the wall there, in the yellow frame?” Mam pointed at a picture of her and my dad. She was very young and very pregnant in it. My Dad had his arms around her, sitting them on top of her bump. He wore a navy pin stripe suit, with flared trousers and a tight fitting waistcoat that accentuated his trim frame. Mam wore a mini dress with knee high platform boots. Her hair was long and blonde and collected in curls around her shoulders. They made a striking couple.

“That’s little Bluebell in there. Oh, we were so happy that day! Your father had just signed a huge contract with Burberry and we were celebrating at The Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin. Did Blue tell you her father was a top model?”

“Eh, no, she never mentioned it.”

“Oh yes, he was so good looking and charming to boot.” She began to sniffle and I knew the tears would soon start.

“Oh Blue, if only he could see you today, he’d be so proud of what a beautiful and smart woman you’ve become.”

Sure enough they began to fall and I cringed, shaking my head at Johnny helplessly.

“Oh, enough of that though, eh? Me being all nostalgic and silly.” She brushed her tears away dramatically.
“I’ve ruined the good mood now.”

She pouted and sighed but pepped up suddenly, grabbing her bag off the coffee table in front of her.

“I’ve an idea, why don’t we have a sneaky joint?”
“Mam! Please, stop this nonsense. You’re really making Johnny feel awkward.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. Johnny would love a joint, wouldn’t you darling?”

I looked at Johnny and he gave me an apologetic smile.

“Actually Blue, I wouldn’t mind a quick toke.”

My shoulders dropped. “Fine, have a joint. I’m going upstairs for a second though, have to check something.”

I left the lounge and went upstairs to my bedroom. Sitting on the side of my bed I began to cry. I fuсking hated my mother. Every time I brought someone around she made an idiot of herself with her “cool mom” role. And that fuсking tissues and tears farce. Christ, I wanted to strangle her sometimes.

I grabbed a tissue from the box on my locker, blew my nose and checked my reflection. I applied some more foundation to my nose, powered it and then fixed the mascara smeared under my eyes.

I took a deep breath, went back down stairs and opened the door to the lounge. The place stank of grass. I plonked myself down on an arm chair. Johnny was sitting beside mam on the sofa now. He looked at me, red faced, dropping his head as I made eye contact.

“Are you alright?”
“He’s fine.” My mother answered, squeezing his knee.
“What are you doing?”

She took her hand away quickly and gave a nervous laugh.

“What are talking about Blue, you’re so paranoid. We were just having a smoke.”
“I mean it mam; you need to stop this now.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She snapped.

I stared at Johnny, trying to get some idea of what my stupid mother had done. But he didn’t give me any clues to what had happened, just sat there with his head down, holding a cushion on his lap.

“Gimme that joint.”

She passed it over, huffing and puffing like a spoilt child.

Silence. I watched her closely. She drank the rest of her whiskey, got up and left the room.

“What the hell just happened? What did she say to you?”
“Nothing… can we just go?”
“Yeah of course, I’ll grab my stuff.”

I went to the utility room to get my jacket and bag. I was about to shout for Johnny to leave with me when I got a sick feeling in my stomach. I put my things back and stepped quietly out into the hall. The lounge door was slightly ajar. I tiptoed over and pushed it open a tiny bit more, peering around the door.

My mother gasped as she saw me. She quickly dropped her hand from Johnny’s crotch and pulled away from him.

“I was just giving Johnny a goodbye hug.”

“Well, don’t let me disturb you.”

I got out of there, into my car.

As I backed out of the driveway, Johnny came running from the house.

“Blue, I’m sorry, please!”

My mother followed him out, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. He struggled to get away but she didn’t let go. I wound the window down.

He stopped struggling and she let go.

I leaned out of the window.

“Just fuсk and get it over with. I’ll be back in an hour to collect my things.”

I drove off, watching them in the rear view mirror; gesturing back and forth before he finally followed her inside.

Hrududu

Story 10

I haven't voted yet, I think I need to read through them again before making the decision but I have some comments on a few of the stories :

Story 2 - Them or Us
There was some really nice imagery in this story, I particularly liked the section at the start. I also liked the way all of the action at the end was relayed through dialog rather than description. It gave it a more immediate effect.

Story 3 - I Ain't Got No Heart
This one really played its cards close to the chest until the end. I really liked that it could have gone either way for a long time. The second read through is very different from the first, and lines like:

"It’s funny, isn’t it, that it’s taken us so long to get here? To this point, that so many lovers come to long before us, that our parents thought we’d come to long ago, hoped, probably."

Read so differently the second time around.

Story 4 - Room Service
I really don't know what to make of this story. I don't know enough about Frank Zappa to know if this story is written in a similar style to his songs. Or if it just kind of loses itself. Its funny, at certain times I'd be reading the story and I'd think it had just become nonsensical. But then a turn of phrase would win me round again and make me think that it was a deliberate choice. So I still can't make up my mind about it.

Story 7 - Friendly Little Finger
This one really stood out. For lots of reasons. The decision to relate the story to Tom Thumb, the decision to turn it into a poem, and the decision to have it go quite dark. I thought it worked really well. Particularly to have it end on the note that it did.

Story 8 - Once upon a Time
This one threw in a couple of clever things I liked, such as using 'Up & Coming' and 'Bold & Beautiful' after we'd already met Down & Out.

Rubecula

Story 10

Good quality stories from first to last. I am not going to publically say which one is my favourite though until after the voting. I am not sure it is fair to influence others.

I like humour, I like sadness, I like stories with a bit of a twist to them. I enjoy a piece of poetry or verse. I like war stories, adventure stories and sci-fi stories.

Basically what I am trying to say is I enjoyed all of the entries and I had to switch my thinking about a fair bit to decide who to vote for. If it wasn't you it is not because you wrote poorly, simply the mood I was in at the time. I wish all of you the best of luck, a very talented bunch you are.

pickarooney

Story 7

Just finished re-reading these. I've voted for 1,6 and 10 and will comment a little later.

Agent Weebley

Story 10

Rubecula wrote: »

Good quality stories from first to last. I am not going to publically say which one is my favourite though until after the voting. I am not sure it is fair to influence others.

I like humour, I like sadness, I like stories with a bit of a twist to them. I enjoy a piece of poetry or verse. I like war stories, adventure stories and sci-fi stories.

Basically what I am trying to say is I enjoyed all of the entries and I had to switch my thinking about a fair bit to decide who to vote for. If it wasn't you it is not because you wrote poorly, simply the mood I was in at the time. I wish all of you the best of luck, a very talented bunch you are.

What a great comment, Rubecula. I haven't scanned to see if you submitted a story as well, but, since I did, your comment is a great template for me to write mine - general melange a dix.

Yesterday, I read all the stories, and enjoyed them all, but some of them I had to re-read, because there were so many characters, and it was difficult to keep them straight in my head - probably due to the word limit.

Tonight, I will listen to all the songs.

Oryx

Story 9

These were all strong stories. If each was read in isolation, it would be a standalone good story, but for me, some stood out more than others, and the ones that lost out did so simply because their style did not suit me.

Story 3 I read twice, the second time it has tilted completely from a romance to a chilling, horrible threat. I loved that. Cold and nasty, but only when you know the ending. Very clever.

Story 7 Rhyme is a nice way to tackle it that we dont see much. Twisting a well known fairytale and standard rhyming couplets into something fresh and new is a good trick.

Story 8 Was nicely written and I loved the naming used. The ending was flat to me, like the author ran out of words so closed it up quickly. But still it won out because of how it began and drew me in.

Story 4 Drove me nuts. It may be smart, it may be knowing and clever, but what good is that if I havent a clue whats going on? I couldnt read it more than once, and once was a struggle. No reflection on the author, they can surely write, but I detest that kind of randomness.

Story 10 Seemed a little cliched and simplistic. The characters didnt have enough depth for me.

Agent Weebley

Story 10

I listened to all the songs tonight, but some were instrumentals, so I had to listen to the entire album for context. Here are the links:

Story 1 - Phase Two - instrumental on the Burnt Weeny Album, so here's the whole album

Story 2 - Them or Us - instrumental, but cannot find album

Story 3 - I Ain't Got No Heart

Story 4 - Room Service

Story 5 - Spider of Destiny

Story 6 - More Trouble Every Day

Story 7 - Friendly Little Finger - instrumental buried on Zoot Allures, so here's the whole album

Story 8 - Once upon a time

Story 9 - The Radio is Broken

Story 10 - Johnny Darling

Edit: I may take a few days to comment constructively and equally on all the stories . . . then I vote.

Das Kitty

Story 10

Great stories, people!

As I didn't take part I'm going to comment on them all.

#1 -- I really liked this one, the kids' personalities were very well sketched. The scenes were nicely set and I liked Peter's inner turmoil over his allegiances. It had a distinctive Lord of the Flies vibe which I think was intentional and I was sure it was going to get very dark, but then they sudden reintroduction of the adults saved them from the spiral (albeit violently).

#2 -- I liked the juxtaposition of the horrific act they were committing and the everyday dialogue. The men piloting the 'dragons' talking about tea. I thought it was a bit overly descriptive in places, there was a lot of scene setting when I wanted it to get to characterisation or action.

#3 -- I liked the idea of this, but unlike others I read it as dark from the very outset. They characters struck me as generally not very well people, so the ending wasn't such a surprise to me. It was very nicely written, I liked that it was presented in the style of a letter, but I thought it wandered a bit in the middle.

#4 -- This felt like a chore to read. It was chock-full of knowing reference, most of which I didn't get. I still have no idea what it's about, but I'm not going to attempt a second pass. I think the author can certainly write, and I'd definitely like to read something more of a straightforward story from them, because they have neat little turns of phrase.

#5 -- I really liked this one too. The description of the palette knife on the canvas and Mike's memories of his mother are really evocative. He paints to remember her. The sadness is captured really well at the beginning. Then his unsettling dream of the spiders, the spiders in his mind, voicing his inner torture as a child, coming to him 'randomly' so many years later. But it's not just in her art that he followed his mother, he followed her drinking too. Drinking to forget. Then we find out why the spiders returned and why he lost the days and it feels like a weight. The characterisation is fantastic and I love the structure and the little nuances that make it feel like a real life.

#6 -- I liked how this one progressed, the growing dread as time went on. And the ending was creepy and horrible. Her guilt over eating the crackers and her unwavering belief that her Daddy was coming back. A child thinking about Christmas in her last hours. Ouch.

#7 -- The rhyme is a nice idea. I liked how it progressed and in the act of murdering his brother, Frank became Tom. Some of the rhymes didn't quite rhyme, and it was a bit jarring on reaching the end of the line...

#8 -- I loved the fairy tale style of the story and it was gorgeously written. I wasn't sure of the point it was trying to make as it ended pretty abruptly though.

#9 -- I really like the premise of this one, and the quick disintegration of the family underground once their only connection to community was lost. The reveal felt like a bit of an info dump though, it could have been a bit more subtle about it. Otherwise though, great job.

#10 -- Whilst I liked the style, I did feel like the mother and daughter were a bit clichéd. A small twist in one of the characters' behaviour near the end could have lifted it a lot, but I just felt like they were on a prescribed path and they were doomed to follow it to its logical end. The way the characters were painted was flawless though, Bluebell and her sad sexy Mammy.

The Pooka

Story 10

Great stories everyone! I went for 3, 7 and 9 - 3 for being so deliciously twisted, 7 for doing something a bit different and largely pulling it off, and 9 for its excellent premise and characterisation!

Silverfish

Story 10

First time reading and voting!

I voted for 6 and 9.

No. 6 just drew me in, and was pretty depressing. Managed to get things across without overstating or spelling it out. Subtle, and I like that.

No. 9 - I like the twist, and I like the examples of human nature in it. I found the title of the story made it a bit more chilling, when you consider it as the point of the story (imo, anyway)

Agent Weebley

Story 10

Story 1 - Phase 2

Peter, Councillor Bill, Victor, Tim, Mindy, Councillor Alice, Jessica, the grey haired police man . . . so many characters, so little time.

On my 1st read, I didn't really like it. Too much talk . . . confusing plot . . . too little narration. Maybe I was rushing to get through all 10 stories at the time?

On my 2nd read, which was just now, it smorfed into a hilarious story. I loved it! The Ryvita-thinly described characters didn't matter. This Councillor Alice person . . . who is she? A woman with superhuman strength, who waterboards using a bucket of coke, which would be rather flat, and wouldn't last 2 seconds being poured into a container at a phat pharm.

I dunno.

How did Councillor Alice get roped into being held captive, what with such chocolate ant-like strength that she can throw a fattie into a tree, hold a blobboliscious Jessica by the ankles and dip her into said coke?

And Jessica let Councillor Alice go, while Mindy waddled off to the get the po po . . . how come they didn't let her go at the beginning?

All in all, if one suspends disbelief in a tree, while munching on the words between the pound signs (wadupwidat?) it was an enjoyable read, and only needs some justification as to the main sticky points. I would love to see a re-write - a little more padding that has some narration and explanation as to Alice maybe being 10 feet tall, but they fed her some 'shrooms and she became 3 inches tall for a few minutes so they could tie her up, and that Mork and Mindy, dang, I was trying not to say that . . . Jessica and Mindy were initially in on Phase 1 , but got gout, I mean cold feet on phase 2. What was phase 2, anyway?

I'm voting for it, because it made me laugh.

pickarooney

Story 7

1. One of the better stories in the contest. It takes a careful read, or even a re-read to get the whole story but the sparing use of descriptive prose is actually key to the success of this story.

2. A decent story with a few technical flaws but the strong ending elevated it above the mediocre. It's thought-provoking without being heavy-handed.

3. Strong writing but the ending seemed telegraphed and there wasn't much of an actual story in this.

4. Self-indulgent and although it tries desperately to force a story out of disconnected ideas and prompts it ultimately fails as a story. Perhaps took the Zappa challenge too literally.

5. I wanted to like this but something felt off about it. The end seemed sort of tacked on, dissociated from the rest of the piece. I might have missed some pertinent detail in two readings but I felt it let itself down. I did love the 'police' image.

6. The sense of panic is well formed with the increasingly vague time stamps in the diary. It's bleak and not hugely original but a solid enough piece to get a vote from me.

7. A brave effort. Writer sets him/herself a tough challenge and almost rises to it. Sketchy rhyming the last line of most stanzas makes me wonder if this might have been better all round with a less rigid poetic style. The story itself is a nice subversion of a fairy tale.

8. If the ending had lived up to the beginning, this could have been a great story and was for the first 80%. Instead it's a case of what might have been. A shame, as the title and the story allowed for limitless possibilities. The naming convention for the characters is fantastic.

9. Personally, I couldn't get into this one. It's hard to fault it but on some level it just didn't appeal to me. The idea was good but maybe if the ending was written in such a way as to make the reader realise at the last second what was going on it would have worked better.

10. This is kind of the opposite - on the face of it not a particularly original or well-crafted story but something about it just hit the spot.

Da Shins Kelly

Story 8

Number 7 was easily my favourite.

Permabear

Story 10

This post has been deleted.

Story 7

I liked 5 and 6. I like reveals like that, subtle until the end.
Both well written.

4 was impossible to read

dogmax

Story 9

Great stories everyone, the real winner here is creative writing, which make you all winners, good luck to everyone.

--Kaiser--

Story 8

Wow, really good stories from all. I voted for 2, 6 and 7

1:
Interesting and well-written, like a miniature Lord of the Flies. Didn't quite get how someone could get thrown in a tree though

Fav Lines
cradling his ear gently. He wasn’t sure that it was still fully attached to his head.

2:
Richly described with arresting descriptions, even if it fizzles out a bit towards the end (could have been a bit longer, I think)

Fav Line
The yellowing bulb hung in fly spotted splendour in the spartan hut, the cold light giving little comfort to those within


3:
A bit meandering, could have been sharper paced but a nice bitter 'love' story

Fav Line
playing at husband and wife, fuсking like condemned lovers.

4:
A loose connection of Zappa titles and trivia, a bit hard to decipher but some great turns of phrase

Fav Line
I had a little bovine perspiration on my upper lip area over the challenge ahead.

5:
Strong writing and good start but slightly weak ending

Fav Line

Spread, filling as much of the couch as his five year-old body could fill he joined the dots on her jeans and inhaled the atmosphere.

6:
Moving, simply but effectively written, the thoughts of an innocent child are conveyed well

Fav Lines
We don’t have anything to eat tonight because we ate all the crackers when we weren’t supposed to. I want to say sorry to Daddy for that but he isn’t here.


7:
Daring retelling of a fairy tale, definitely dark and defiantly different

Fav Lines
He took Tom Thumb’s name and the boots as his plunder,
And wee little Frankie was friendly no longer.


8:
Not particularly original and no definite ending either - though I like some touches like the names (Bold and Beautiful etc..)

Fav Lines
With vacant stares and morose airs, his colleagues absently traversed the wide, open plan office with its recycled air and industrial hum, without ever seeming to communicate with one another.

9:
Nice sci-fi twist, would have fitted in The Twilight Zone competition as well. I thought the claustrophobia and/or terror could have been built on a bit more

Fav Lines
The radio was their only contact with the outside world, and all they could do was listen and hope.


10:
Didn't really appeal to me as a story I'm sorry to say

Fav Lines
Her large nipples protruded through her tight white vest top, you could hang teacups off them.

Arlecchina

Story 10

I voted for 1, 8 and 9. I've been too swamped to write up comments for all the stories, so I'll try to get to post something this weekend — I just wanted to get my vote in before the poll closed. Great work, everyone!

Brian Lighthouse

Story 7

I voted.
I too am up the walls, with not much time to comment on the stories that I haven`t voted for. I can`t promise that I will, however if I get time on Sunday I will go into more detail if needed.

On a personal level, I dislike large chunks of dialogue in a short story; although it flowed quite well in one of the stories.

I enjoyed reading the majority of work displayed on this post. Well done to all for finishing your pieces and allowing it to be posted for all to comment on. That could be considered brave or foolish, depending on your viewpoint.

This was an enjoyable experience for me. Once again please accept my apologies for not providing feedback at this stage.

Brian

Leafonthewind

Story 9

Each of these stories has its own charm, but I voted for 6 and 8 for leaving a lasting impression. The child’s voice in story #6 was strong, the reveal of what happened to the family well drawn out and the ending heartbreaking. And though I wished story #8 ended differently, its style and the strong writing won me over.

Agent Weebley

Story 10

Story 1 - Phase Two
As I said here, this one got my vote.

Story 2 - Them or Us
Oh no, not another war story. It could have been more positive, as war is so yesterday. It was well written though. I also felt there was too much dialogue; narration breaks it up into manageable chunks.

Story 3 - I Ain't Got No Heart
The muddled up story was perfect, as it showed how muddled up one can be in an emotional situation. The back and forth was great. This one has my vote, too.

Story 4 - Room Service
I thought I was a Zappa fan until I read this. More Zappa references than I could handle,. But I was confused as to why 2 Cuban Romeo And Juliet cigars were the main characters, and Juliette was spelt wrong,by the way. And why the segue to 5 Easy Pieces? And what were the 2 other jobs? Yowch.

Story 5 - Spider of Destiny
I'd like to see a re-write of this story, as the crease in the story between Mike as a child and an adult was not pressed carefully with an iron. And I think the oil paint allegory should be changed out for something that actually smells - unless the oil paint I've always used was smell-less. I never read the labels on the tubes, and I don't have any in the house to check right now. And why did this story make me think of The Cure's Lullaby?. This story has my vote.

Story 6 - More Trouble Every Day
I liked the layout of this story, but an extreme ending was not needed. Maybe they cold have been saved to make it more positive, then another bad thing happened that sent back down the negativity path.

Story 7 - Friendly Little Finger
Not a big fan of the "Rupert The Bear" AABB style, and the Grimm ending, but I'm voting for it because it was excellent, and as tight as a drum.

Story 8 - Once upon a time
The mechanics of the swap were too much for me. And the nomenclature of the 2 main characters was a little trite, to be honest. Although, it had some believability problems, if they had just swapped minds to save words, then there would have been more time to explore her possibly photocopying her bum. That would've been cool.

Story 9 - The Radio is Broken
I liked this one - very Twilight Zone-ish. I'd love to see a rewrite, as the ending was a little mushy. It has my vote.

Story 10 - Johnny Darling
Very strange. Would she bring any guy back there with that MO?

That's odd. I'm voting for 1, 3, 5, 7, 9 . . .

Oryx

Story 9

Foiled again.

Congrats number nine, whoever you are!

Story 7

:eek:

Brian Lighthouse

Story 7

Hi all,
I just had to log in to see the results.
Congrats to the writer of Story 9.

Mine was Story 5 "spiders of destiny"
Yes you are right, the ending was snapped on.
I agreed to write the story whenever that was;two hours before the deadline I remembered I hadn`t submitted anything.
I had a rough sketch done on Word, and what you read was the first draft of a sketch.
Naturally, I`m delighted I got any votes at all.

Well done to all.
Brian

P.S. One reason why painters are switching to acrylic paints is that oil paint is not oil paint anymore. When Oil paint smelled it would last for 400-500 years on canvas. Today you`ll get about 100 years from oil paint, and it will eat into the canvas. Some major work by Picasso was destroyed by the paint itself. Acrylic is cheaper, friendlier, and will give about 100 years without and degrading the canvas.

--Kaiser--

Story 8

Anyone else try to guess who wrote the stories while they read them?
I think Arlecchina wrote #2

Das Kitty

Story 10

--Kaiser-- wrote: »

Anyone else try to guess who wrote the stories while they read them?
I think Arlecchina wrote #2

I thought that was Rubeleca.

I think hcass was 10 and Weebly 4.


Congrats bluewolf, richly deserved.

pickarooney

Story 7

Congrats Blauwolf!

Arlecchina

Story 10

--Kaiser-- wrote: »

Anyone else try to guess who wrote the stories while they read them?
I think Arlecchina wrote #2

Hee! Because I wrote about WWII last time? Alas, none of them are mine — I actually flunked from submitting a story thanks to a heap of last-minute work. I have a sneaky idea about the identities behind a few of them, but I'm keeping schtum until they fess up.

Was the winning story yours, bluewolf? It was great!

Story 7

Yes I'm #9, thank you :o

Hrududu

Story 10

bluewolf wrote: »

Yes I'm #9, thank you :o

Congrats bluewolf, I voted for you (and number 7).

Mine was number 1. For some reason this was the most fun I had writing a VOAT story. Great mix of stories to read too.

pickarooney

Story 7

Oryx wrote: »

Foiled again.

How many silvers is that now?

Leafonthewind

Story 9

Congratulations, Bluewolf!

Mine was number 7. I agree that some of the rhymes weren't perfect, but to my Canadian ear, they sounded close enough. And no, Canadians don't say aboot.

Agent Weebley

Story 10

Congratulations, bluewolf . . well done! . . . are you going to re-write and post it?

Leafonthewind wrote: »

Congratulations, Bluewolf! . . . And no, Canadians don't say aboot.

And gidday, Leafonthewind . . . er, what's it all aboot, leafie?

Oryx

Story 9

pickarooney wrote: »

How many silvers is that now?

Too many. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.

--Kaiser--

Story 8

Leafonthewind wrote: »

Congratulations, Bluewolf!

Mine was number 7. I agree that some of the rhymes weren't perfect, but to my Canadian ear, they sounded close enough. And no, Canadians don't say aboot.

Pffft, next you'll tell me that the top half of your head is attached to the bottom half!

Well done with your story, did it take long?

Rubecula

Story 10

Congratulations Bluewolf. Well deserved I think.

And yes Das Kitty, I did write number 2 (Them or Us) I am quite pleased with it although I must admit it took me ages to write it. Did you realise I spent an entire half an hour on that?

Anyway it was my very first competition and the experience was fantastic. To those who actually voted for the story I am very thankful. (wish I had a word count app)

overall it was a great experience and I will certainly look forward to the next one. Although looking at how good the other entries were I started to feel a little inadequate by my effort. So onwards and upwards, when is the next one? :pac:

EDIT: PS, I don't find it easy to 'work' on a story, I just write it straight off in the boards.ie. I wrote this one in the PM to Pickarooney and simply sent it off. The half an hour is accurate enough, maybe a little less.

--Kaiser--

Story 8

Rubecula wrote: »

Congratulations Bluewolf. Well deserved I think.

And yes Das Kitty, I did write number 2 (Them or Us) I am quite pleased with it although I must admit it took me ages to write it. Did you realise I spent an entire half an hour on that?

Anyway it was my very first competition and the experience was fantastic. To those who actually voted for the story I am very thankful. (wish I had a word count app)

overall it was a great experience and I will certainly look forward to the next one. Although looking at how good the other entries were I started to feel a little inadequate by my effort. So onwards and upwards, when is the next one? :pac:

EDIT: PS, I don't find it easy to 'work' on a story, I just write it straight off in the boards.ie. I wrote this one in the PM to Pickarooney and simply sent it off. The half an hour is accurate enough, maybe a little less.

For half an hour that was very good. I'd spend more than half an hour deciding what to write about. Oh, and
http://www.wordcounttool.com/

Rubecula

Story 10

Thank you Kaiser that will certainly come into use next time. And I will do my very best to take a bit longer on my writing. We will see if it improves it or not.
(Want to keep some of the spontaneity though)

Leafonthewind

Story 9

Agent Weebley wrote: »

And gidday, Leafonthewind . . . er, what's it all aboot, leafie?

Careful, Weebley. I know where you work.

Are you going to reveal which story was yours? Or are we meant to keep guessing it was number 4?

--Kaiser-- wrote: »

Pffft, next you'll tell me that the top half of your head is attached to the bottom half!

Well done with your story, did it take long?

Thanks! When I first saw the prompt my mind went straight for the gutter and I was planning on waiting out the 48 hours and asking for a new one. But then I latched onto the Tom Thumb idea and the story took on a life of its own. It only took me a few hours after that, with the research and working out the rhythm, and that's incredibly fast for me. I'm usually a slowpoke.

pickarooney

Story 7

Leafonthewind wrote: »

Thanks! When I first saw the prompt my mind went straight for the gutter.

Pity. We don't get enough stories about bowling.

Agent Weebley

Story 10

Leafonthewind wrote: »

Careful, Weebley. I know where you work.

That's not me, that's Steve . . . I'm just a little shoemaker that helps him out . . . a leprechaun with a magic flute (aka a scaffold connector.)

Are you going to reveal which story was yours? Or are we meant to keep guessing it was number 4? . . .

I'd rather not be a Legolas about it, but you and Das Kitty are spot on. How was I supposed to know that the stories weren't going to be based on Frank Zappa? I got punk'd.