Tag Archive: fiction


Raw (unrefined, unbleached) sugar, bought at t...
Image via Wikipedia

The town of Gallumptia, Idaho, was in many ways an idyllic and peaceful town. The population was only two thousand and there was plenty of room for everyone. Although the  houses varied, no one really had it bad. The Mayor, of course had he grandest house, with more than 100 acres of land, mostly forest, overlooking the river Gallump. The bank manager too had a massive house, three floors and 22 bedrooms and a lake as big as a small sea. No one minded, there was little jealously in Gallumptia because even the lowliest of townspeople, and lets be honest, Jack Hardacre was definitely the lowest, with his limp, his dimwittedness and his unusual shaped head, even Jack  had it pretty good.

He had a modest house with a modest garden and a substantial orchard where he grew the most delicious apples. Even though he was a bit unsightly, the good townspeople of Gallumptia frequently visited him, especially around September time when the apples started to ripen.

He didn’t mind that they only loved him for his apples, better than not having any attention was how he thought about it. He changed his mind though the year he had a bad crop, hardly anything edible and once word got round the stream of visitors almost immediately turned to a dribble and within a week, no one came at all.

He thought he wouldn’t mind but he was incredibly hurt by this and vowed to get his revenge on the fickle folk of Gallumptia.

Gallumptia, though beautiful, was remote. The nearest town was two hundred and fifty miles away and only the mayor and the bank manager had cars. They’d become very good at self sufficiency and hardly needed anything from anywhere. The exception to this was sugar. They all had a sweet tooth, they all loved their desserts and biscuits and tea with 3 sugars and luckily they had 6 dentists in the town so it wasn’t really a problem.  People were happy, mostly quite fat, but happy anyway, apart that was from Jack Hardacre.

He felt that he needed to share his unhappiness around a bit and come November after seething for a few weeks about his lack of apple inspired visitors, he hatched a plan. Took him a bit longer than most, what with his dimwittedness and all, but in the end the plan was simple and effective.

That night he stole the petrol tanker from Hank Jackson’s yard. He knew it was full because Hank always got back late after filling up and didn’t set off on his rounds until early Tuesday mornings, even dim old Jack knew this. It was small town, everyone knew everyone’s business.

He drove straight to the sugar tank and proceeded to pump a load of petrol in the top, ruining all the sugar.

He drove back to Hank’s, left the tanker, walked home and slept a contented sleep for the first time in weeks.

The mayor got the first call, he called the grocer and the bakers and the whole town soon knew what had happened. That night there was a crisis meeting. People shouted and screamed at the mayor demanding that he come up with a plan. Most of them had only a few days of sugar left…

To be continued

Enhanced by Zemanta

Supportive powers

I find myself wanting to get to know more about the old woman in the corner shop. She looks strange with her blue hair and sharp little teeth, but I am used to strange.

Since I moved here the ordinariness of most people has been the biggest struggle. Who could understand me, who could I possibly talk to about what I’ve been through without them calling the police, or the newspapers or completely avoiding me.

This life is so misunderstood.  OK I can teleport and a few other things but I still want to talk to people about normal everyday shit. Why Mondays are so dull, what the weather’s like, how to talk to that woman I keep seeing in the park without making a fool of myself. There’s no one I can do that with at the moment and it really sucks.

I need to talk to people who might understand and be able to empathise. The idea I’ve been toying with for a few years now, but have never stayed in one place long enough to do anything about, is a support group or a self help group for people like me. People with powers, or weird and unusual people, the outcasts – maybe that’s too broad though, I don’t know.

The point is they don’t have to be exactly like me, they don’t have to be teleporters; it could be people who have something about them, something they can do that others wouldn’t understand or if they knew about would just think about how amazing or weird or cool it was.

–          Teleporting, wow that must be amazing? –

It is pretty amazing but I couldn’t share it with anyone and it means I’ve  lived a very lonely life, and that was far from cool. I wanted to talk to people who had similar experiences, who knew what it was like to be strange.

I don’t know why but that old woman seemed like she’d be able to help – just a feeling.


Inspired by


Enhanced by Zemanta

Make a wish

A decorated birthday cake
Image via Wikipedia

Arms like tree trunks and a head the size of a boulder. His fantasy defender was strong and effective but kind of hideous looking. He didn’t really think it would come true when he wished on the birthday cake, but he closed his eyes like his weird auntie told him and this is what he wished for. Obvioulsy he had to keep it hidden and the shed was about the only place he could think of. Trouble was its head was too wide for the door.

He woke up the morning after his birthday and saw it: the enormous craggy head resting at the foot of his bed, tiny eyes staring straight at him.

After screaming like a girl and hiding under the covers for a while he realised what it was.

It didn’t talk but it seemed to understand what he said and followed instructions. After failing to hide it in the shed he told it to wait in the woods for him until tomorrow morning.

He would collect it on his way to school and annihilate anyone who gave him a second look. Freddie Jenkins was obviously the first on the hit list but now that he had the power, he realised there were quite a few others that he wanted to hurt.

Enhanced by Zemanta

Thick and ugly

Thick and ugly, she’d told him, that was the last thing she’d said in fact before she walked out, slamming the door, never to return. Since that day he’d not been to work, not been to the shops once, ordering all his food in, the vast majority of it take-away. He’d ordered a load of booze in too and managed to get through 48 bottles of strong German lager, two dozen bottles of wine and half a dozen bottles of whiskey; this in only three weeks.

He knew he had to clean up, buck up and get outside, but he just couldn’t. He didn’t see the point until he could persuade her to come back.

He had pissed off all his friends in the first two weeks, constantly crying and talking at them about his lost love. George, his closest and longest serving friend, could probably be won over but he couldn’t be bothered frankly.

Like all the others, he’d become more and more disgruntled over the last 5 and half months of his now non-existent relationship. They said he’d forgotten about his friends; that he needed to slow down a bit and that he was a selfish prick (that was Dave, always a bit extreme) also, unanimously, that he would regret it if he moved in with her after only 2 and a half weeks. He ignored all their advice and complaints and refused to admit even now, that they had been anywhere near correct in their analysis and entreaties.

So now he had no friends, no girlfriend and no job pretty soon unless he managed to get to work next week and catch up with the huge backlog that had accrued and also manage to explain his absence and the stream of insults he’d left on his manager’s phone. He knew too that he was way way past his overdraft limit and was maxed out on all 3 credit cards

So it was a slightly shittier Monday than usual. He dragged himself out of bed because he couldn’t sleep, even though it was only 5.30 in the morning,  and was weighing up, for the tenth time since waking 10 minutes ago, whether or not he should try ringing her again. After all, he hadn’t phoned her at all today and it was at least 12 hours since he left the last message and probably 36 hours since he’d actually spoken to her and been reminded about his thickness and ugliness and also been informed ( something she’d apparently forgotten to mention as she rushed out of the door three weeks ago) that he was pathetically endowed and shit in bed.

He nodded to himself as he came to a decision, standing up and walking towards the phone – she would have had a chance to calm down now wouldn’t she?

Kill the cocksucker

Shutting up had always been a problem for the cocksucker. He’d tried it a few times back when he’d left school, but it didn’t suit him.

Fenton knew this, he’d known him for a long time and it was why he hated him and wanted him to have a bad accident and if possible to die. Even though he knew it was probably one of those things you just thought or said when you were angry, he’d aways thought it about the cockcsucker so he figured it was probably real enough.

If he did die or even, sometimes he thought, on a particularly bad cocksucker day, when he’d humiliated him or set him up or just acted like a cunt in one of the many ways he had, even if he actually had a hand in his demise in some way, it would be OK.

He had thought about remorse and the idea that after an event like that there’d be all sorts of guilt and maybe even flashbacks, and then what might seem like a good idea, like tampering with his brakes or pushing him off the platform late at night, would suddenly not seem quite so good.
He really didn’t want to be tortured, that would be like the cocksucker having the last say or continuing to have the last say or getting the upper hand like he nearly always did.

He’d thought it through though and he was pretty sure, having imagined all the details, the incident, the aftermath, other people’s faces, the girlfriend’s tears, the mother’s anguish etc etc, he was pretty sure he’d be OK. That he wouldn’t be too badly affected. Maybe a couple of sleepless nights, but the upside, the fact that he would be able to enjoy free rein at work without the cocksucker getting in his face, sending him an email which he copied into everyone else so they’d all know he’d fucked up, or shouting his name across the car park, that would override everything.

Plus, obviously, he’d take his job, get the company car and, if he was lucky and a little extra bit conniving, maybe even the grieving girlfriend. Show a bit of sympathy, no, a lot of sympathy, cry, they loved that.  If she tried to kiss you after a drunken grieving evening, say ‘no – it doesn’t feel right’ , all that sort of shit, and she’d be up for it after a few months, maybe even a few weeks. She’d always liked him.

That’s how the plan came together. It felt like he had to do it in the end.

Kill the cocksucker.

A bit fishy

SAN FRANCISCO - APRIL 11:  A farmed Loch Duart...
Image by Getty Images via @daylife

Haddock, cod, salmon and loads of other  fish that I didn’t remember the names of but it didn’t really matter if I remembered really. The point was that I had to live here now, above the bloody fishmongers and although I’d spent most of my life hating fish, the smell of it, the taste and the look and the texture of it, I had to find a way to cope now. After all, I would probably be here for years, maybe for ever, a horrible thought but not so horrible as going back. At least I was safe here and the hideousness of the fish was nothing compared to the hideousness of waking up in the middle of the night thinking I’d heard someone downstairs or being afraid to open the front door just in case it was someone coming to kill me.

Karen said I was being melodramatic, well, dear, you wouldn’t say that now would you, if you could say anything, you might be saying,  yes dear, I’m so sorry you’re right, I am scared, in fact more scared than you and can we go now, get away, like you suggested.

Didn’t get a chance though did she, poor cow. Borrowed my car, without asking, serves her right, obviously didn’t check it, not that she would have known how, or what to look for and then bingo, up in smoke.

Funny in a way but not really, she was harmless, if a little irritating. Didn’t deserve that did she, still, rather her than me frankly. It might sound harsh but who didn’t think like that, really, deep down, who didn’t want someone else to die rather then them.

Parents maybe, wouldn’t know, never been one or wanted to be one, all those snotty nosed little brats running around in the school near the old place was enough to put me off for life

Frankly what I want, what I really want, is to just be left alone. Not sure I would have chosen this dead end seaside resort in a flat smelling of fish day and night, but that’s why I left it to the experts. It might be a little bit unpleasant but frankly, not as unpleasant as getting your throat cut, like Greaves, or having your cock cut off and stuffed down your throat like Harrington.

No, in comparison a little whiffy fish seemed OK. Lately though, I’ve been feeling  a bit like I used to, back before I got involved in all this bullshit and had a normal life,  socialised a bit, had a laugh, spoke to people  without having to hide anything, well not too much anyway.

I fancied, yesterday when I woke up, I fancied a bit of a chin wag, with an old friend, someone like Graham Jenkins, good old Jenksie. Whatever happened to him? No idea, no idea about any of that lot. Once I joined the firm I left it all behind, they insisted and I was happy to, at first anyway, seemed totally worth it. The thrill of not being able to tell anyone. All a bit childish and like boys playing at war but so fucking what, that’s what I thought, so fucking what,  why not have a bit of a thrill.  If only I’d known.

Inspired by: http://www.writingforward.com/exercises/fiction-writing-exercises/fiction-writing-exercises-step-out-of-your-shoes

Enhanced by Zemanta

Caramel mood


Sunlight in the snowfield


Golden Caramel mood

Slowly walking towards the sunset barefoot

Something there flickering at the back of his mind

Doesn’t matter

Nothing can get past the bliss

Gwen screaming, blocked out as the guitar kicks in

Then it starts to build to a crescendo and he’s lost , utterly lost, he runs around the padded room, no one can see in and he cant see out and if he falls over its soft and luxurious everywhere.

He’s never felt so completely without care or pain or as loose and numbed.

Gwen screaming, blood running down her face

He turns to an imagined sound or movement but there’s nothing there

The music takes him way again, this time he sees on the wall in front of him the ocean, in Hawaii,  10 years ago when he went with Gwen, their first time away, he’d taught her how to surf. He can see her now standing on the board. She fell off time and time again, the first three days that’s all she did, fall over, but she kept wanting to go back.

If you can do it I want to learn

And she’d get that slightly stubborn look on her face.

He knew she’d just keep going.

Her face now as she stands without falling for the first time and slowly rides into the beach on a small wave, she’s beaming and he’s running towards her and she leaps off the board into his arms nearly choking him. They are rolling around now in the shallows, waves rolling over them, he can taste the salty water and feel the sand on his skin and smell her salty hair.

The screen’s blank now though and Gwen’s not there.

He remembers the scream now and looks around him again, trying to figure out what’s happening. The music has stopped and it’s utterly silent in the room now. He turns round slowly in a circle looking for the door, it was over by the screen he thought but the screen is gone now and all that’s there is the soft white padding of the, cell…

He’s in a padded cell; even a padded cell in a mental hospital would have a door or a window or something to watch him by.

There must be a camera, maybe in the light up there. They were watching him, somehow he felt certain of that now and he needed to act as if he didn’t know, it was vital they didn’t know.

He walked around with a carefree swagger, trying not to make it too obvious he was trying to look carefree.

He couldn’t resist a look up at the lamp every now and then and he was sure he saw some tiny movement up there as he moved, the lens following him, maybe, zooming in and out.

Gwen needed him to get out and he would get out. He just had to figure it out, wait for a bit, she’d know he wouldn’t let her down, he’d be there but not yet. He might have to wait and listen and watch and soon, or maybe in a day or two he’d work it out. They might be clever but he was a genius, he was top of his class, of any class, he couldn’t be outfoxed, and that was the genius of it. No one really knew how clever he was.

He seemed like an average kind of guy, did quite well, didn’t seem to get into trouble, managed to cope with life, but nothing stood out, or so they thought.

That’s why they’d probably thought they could get away with this, but they couldn’t. He’d known, he knew it was a trick, the music, the drugs, the hallucinations.

They had Gwen and he would make them pay for that, whatever they’d done to her he would do to them three times over, only way to teach them

His Dad taught him that, or something like that.

If you get in a fight, you either have to run, or be prepared to do far worse than they are, kill them if necessary.

He was only 11 at the time and he freaked out a bit, thinking he’d have to kill anyone who gave him a dead leg in the playground or put chewing gum in his hair. Eventually he’d got the hang of it though, well he didn’t really ever have to do anything like that but he knew he was ready, he’d been ready all his life, waiting for a moment like this so Gwen, I know they’ve got you, but don’t worry.

He was shouting now he realised and that was good, they would hear him and see him on the camera and think their stupid plan had worked that he’d gone crazy and they’d think , soon, that they could come in and get him, he wouldn’t be a risk, would he, if he was loony. They could just sedate him and trick him into staying there longer so they could do things to Gwen, horrible things. He saw her bleeding again then and he screamed out in a terrified high pitch.

No! Gwen No!

Those fuckers. Once he’d had a bit more time to think he would work out exactly how to get out and get Gwen and get them. He was going to fuck them up and no one would be able to stop him.

The music started again and he swayed from side to side feeling his brain melting and the air around his head turning warm and soft and smelling of caramel.

He lay down in the room and stared at the ceiling smiling ecstatically.

Enhanced by Zemanta

A spoon’s tale

I’m not like some of these others. They’ve only been around since the move and the refit and the upgrade and the general decision to get rid of most of the reliable old faithful and replace them with these shiny new little bastards. I’m sure it’s just as bad in the other rooms, but I can only speak for the kitchen, well mainly. Obviously I get around, bedroom, front room, most mornings, with his nibs coffee. Still have that to look forward to I guess. He seems a creature of habit, maybe it was her idea, all this new stuff, new plates, never seen anything like these freaks, they’re not even round and they’re certainly not white. All sorts of bizarre colours and no respect for their elders.

I heard that octagonal side plate the other day, talking about Winston, my old pal, from  the bone china set, been around longer than I have, in the family, the old parents, presumed dead now. We never see them anyway. Anyway, where was I, oh yeah, that little octagonal shit, calling Winston granddad and threatening to smash him, push him off the shelf – it’s a disgrace. I’m expecting the same from these stainless steel upstarts, whole load of them next to me now as we wait, cringing for the timer to kick in and blast us with water, at 4.30 in the morning of all times – just because its cheaper. What about us and our sleep.

In the old days, when we were washed by hand, OK, it was a bit rough, being scrubbed with a brush or even a scouring pad if you were unlucky, but at least it was always at a decent hour. The only time I can remember having to wake up this time was when he came home late one night, coughing and slurring his speech and staggering around and deciding he wanted a cup of coffee, he needed it, that’s for sure and he needed me, his old faithful silver spoon, to stir it and make that sugar melt and I was happy to do it. It didn’t feel abusive like this does. It felt like stepping up to the plate, or the cup, obviously, but you know what, I felt proud. If you’re treated right you don’t mind a bit of hardship from time to time, makes you feel like you’re special and well thought of and indispensible and all that.

So now, here we all are, jammed in the rack with a load of cheap shiny angular cutlery, woken up early or actually, I wake up before the machine now, anticipation; getting old I guess. Problem is I don’t get to bed any earlier. He still has his late night cup of cocoa and I still have to stir it, always the hardest of jobs too, getting all the lumps out. I cant manage it so well now though, what with all these early mornings, don’t have the energy. I noticed he’s been complaining a bit to her, saying it’s all lumpy, did you heat the milk up, did you stir it first or enough? Won’t be long until he works it out; I’m knackered, not fit for this modern world. Get one of the youngsters in, they burn out quick, they’ll be out in the next refit but they’re cheap, so it doesn’t matter.

I don’t mind too much, I guess I’m banking on a display cabinet. In the old days I would have felt useless and bored and redundant, but now it feels like a nice way to have a rest and it also means that I won’t have to go in that bloody machine any more. I remember when they got it. He said to her, don’t put the old cutlery and china in there will you, oh no she says, but within a couple of days we were all chucked in with everything else.

My shine’s gone and so have at least 6 of the old plates, couldn’t stand it, shattered, all the heat, it gets so hot in here. I want to get up on that shelf over the fireplace with his coins. Feels proper somehow and I’m hopeful. He seems like the sort to keep an old favourite like me even when I’ve outlived my usefulness in this modern world.

%d bloggers like this: