Shorts
Author: Matt Shaw
Date: 2013-04-08 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: A collection of short stories, filled with dark humour, from the devious mind of Matt Shaw - author of "The Cabin", "SMILE" and "Happy Ever After".This collection features:The ReviewThe Food Critic - Part OneThe Mystery ShopperThe Food Critic - Part TwoI Lay StillInsomnia Please be aware that whilst 'Insomnia' and 'I Lay Still' are brand new stories - 'The Review', 'The Food Critic' (Parts one and two) and 'The Mystery Shopper' are from the now deleted title "Reviews, Critics and Mystery Shoppers"

© Matt Shaw

The right of Matt Shaw to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any format without written consent from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

The characters, and story, in this book are purely fictitious. Any likeness to person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

With thanks to Mark Kelly for his cover design.

Scribblings

From A Dark Place

A Collection of Twisted Tales from the mind of Matt Shaw

THE VIEW

AT 10,000 FEET, EVERYTHING SEEMED so peaceful and beautiful. Charles felt as though he was with God. The only noise was the wind rushing by him at approximately 120mph, messing up his freshly washed hair. It was an amazing feeling, and it was the most alive Charles had felt for as long as he could remember.

Looking down, he could see nothing apart from great, big, white, fluffy clouds that reminded him of giant pillows. They looked so comfy that he wanted nothing more than to bounce on them. He wanted to simply bounce from cloud to cloud – across the whole world. When he got to them, however, he simply passed through them as if they weren’t there – he couldn’t even feel them against his hands, which were held out by his sides. To his sense of touch, the clouds just didn’t exist.

When his colleagues at work suggested a day of sky- diving, Charles wasn’t that keen on the idea – but now he was up in the sky, falling towards the Earth, he couldn’t help but smile and cheer.

Passing through the clouds revealed the world that was waiting for him below. There was nothing but fields as far as the eye could see – even from this immense height. He was still so far up that he couldn’t make out the livestock that were on some of the fields, he couldn’t see the traffic on the country roads and he couldn’t even make out the spectators that were directly below him; waiting for their turn to jump. He was alone and he loved every minute of it.

His instructors said, after the jump, that he would have loved it even more had he waited for them to secure his parachute.

BERNIE

GILES LEANT DOWN to Bernie’s level and gave him an extra helping of food, being careful so that the others didn’t notice. After all, food wasn’t cheap, and he certainly didn’t have enough extra helpings to go around. Bernie was an exception, though. Giles liked Bernie. He liked everything about him: From his general behaviour, to the way that he simply looked nicer than the others. “It’s a really special occasion soon,” whispered Giles, “and I want you to be there with my wife and me, Bernie.” Giles looked up. The others hadn’t heard what he had said to Bernie. “You can join us for dinner.”

Bernie had never been invited to dinner before. He had never really had a friend to actually invite him to dinner. Although Giles had always tried to hide his feelings for Bernie, the others had always sensed that he was the favourite, and this made it very hard for Bernie to befriend any of them. Although Bernie often wished he had more friends, it still made him feel good inside knowing that he was the favourite.

Giles finished pouring the food in front of Bernie and then stood up tall, watching over the others, before returning to his wife who was watching from the running car. Bernie watched as Giles left and then turned to the others who were simply staring at him.

“Did you hear that?” he said. “He’s invited me to dinner! I got an extra portion today and an invite to dinner!”

“Good for you,” came a voice from the back of the crowd. “You don’t have to rub it in.”

“I’m not rubbing it in,” said Bernie. “I’m just trying to make conversation.”

“By bragging about having dinner with him.”

Bernie knew that, on this occasion, he was bragging. There were so many times when he had tried to have a nice conversation with the others and they had simply turned their backs to him that he simply thought, why shouldn’t I brag, why shouldn’t I rub it in their faces that he thinks I’m nicer than any of them!

“You never know, he may even move me into the house with him!” Bernie continued. “It’d be nice to get out of here, you lot are so stuck up yourselves!” His thoughts began to get the better of him as he imagined living in comfort from that moment on. Feeding out of the shiniest bowl, sleeping in the comfiest bed and enjoying well- deserved cuddles with Giles’ wife – living it up like the top dog that he believed he was.

“Why don’t the two of you just get a room...” came another voice from the crowd.

“Yes, well, perhaps we will,” replied Bernie, not really understanding the vibe of the comment that had been directed at him. “A nice, big room, with a nice, big bed and a nice, big food bowl.”

“Oh, shut up, Bernie,” another voice piped up. “We don’t want to hear it.”

“Gosh,” he said, “I wonder what we’ll be having. I imagine it will be something really fancy and expensive. Not like the usual rubbish he feeds us.”

“If its rubbish” squeaked another, “why do you always brag when you get more than us?”

“I don’t.” Bernie lied.

“Yes, you do. You always make a point of telling us that you get more.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Just pipe down!” another voice from the back shouted as the others got more annoyed with Bernie. It’s funny how people can get angry with you as soon as they believe they are missing out on something special. At times like this it’s always best to quieten down a little so as not to hurt their feelings. Bernie, however, didn’t care about their feelings. He was just content with being the luckiest turkey on the whole farm.

“This is going to be the best Christmas ever.”

MENU

HIS HEART WAS POUNDING fast and hard as though it were about to burst right out of his toned chest. There was no logical reason for such a reaction to the situation that he found himself in. He, John Edwards, had left her. He had found someone else, and in his eyes, someone nicer. Someone who didn’t have the same jealous streak that Clare often showed when the two of them were dating. As he sat there, waiting for Clare to return from the bathroom of her cosy little flat, he couldn’t understand why this feeling of nervousness had taken a grip of his body. It was just a meal. It was just a meal between friends. It was just a meal between friends who happened to date each other not so long ago. It was no big deal and certainly nothing to get in a state about.

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” said Clare from the hallway. “I wanted to slip into something more comfortable.” She came back into the room wearing a long, silky black dress that accentuated her hourglass figure, something that was hidden by the jeans and pink jumper she was previously wearing when she greeted John at the door.

“I feel a little under-dressed,” was all John could say. Had he been single and it was their first date, then he would have said that she looked gorgeous as she floated back into the dining room. As friends, it didn’t seem right to mention her obvious beauty, though. He thought that it would give Clare false hope that he still had feelings for her that ran deeper than friendship. He knew that she liked him still, just as much as she knew he was seeing someone else.

“I’m just going to dish up dinner,” said Clare ignoring his previous comment. “If you would care for another drink...?”

“Yes, please. Can I give you a hand with anything?” asked John.

“You? In the kitchen?” she laughed. “No thanks, I think I’ll manage. I remember what your cooking skills were like!”

“I’ll have you know, since living by myself, I have become quite the master of the microwave meal.”

Clare laughed as she left the room. Not a genuine laugh, but more of a polite laugh, as she knew that he wasn’t joking. John was never any good in the kitchen. He was the sort of man that would simply drive to the nearest take-away for his dinner if there were no one around to cook for him.

Clare called from the kitchen, “So, how have you been?”

“I’ve been good thanks,” replied John. “And yourself?”

Once again, Clare ignored John’s question and went directly into her next question, “Are you still with Rachael?”

John had no idea how Clare knew Rachael’s name. Although Clare knew that he was seeing someone else, he didn’t know that she knew her name. He tried not to speak about Rachael to Clare or any of their mutual friends in case it got back to Clare. Although their relationship had run its natural course and ended, he didn’t believe it fair to discuss new relationships with ex- partners for fear of upsetting them. And, to be frank, it was none of their business anyway.

Clare returned to the dining room, balancing the food and drinks expertly on a tray. She placed one plate in front of her place sitting and one plate in front of John’s.

“Steak and chips,” said John, as he picked up his knife and fork and hoped to change the subject away from Rachael. “My favourite.” He smiled at Clare as she took her seat opposite him before lighting a candle that formed an elaborate centrepiece on the table. It’s just a meal between friends, he thought.

“I saw the two of you at the gym last month,” continued Clare. “She looked pretty.”

“She is pretty,” replied John, almost cutting Clare off in mid-sentence. “I didn’t know you went to the gym.”

“I just wanted to get a nicer figure. I thought, with a nicer figure you may start liking me again.”

John wasn’t the sort of person to leave someone just because their figure wasn’t quite what he was looking for. He wasn’t as shallow as that, although he knew that some men were. He liked people who made him smile and were fun to be with and, to begin with at least, Clare was that sort of person. It wasn’t until they had moved in together that she began to try and control whom he spoke to and when he spoke to them. He certainly wasn’t allowed any female friends, as Clare believed they all secretly wanted to take him away from her.

“What did I do that was so wrong?” asked Clare, unaware of John’s annoyance on the subject. “Why did you leave me?”

He wanted to say something that would make her feel better about why they broke up but there’s never an easy way to let someone down without hurting their feelings, especially if they still harboured strong feelings for you. He wanted to say something like, “it’s not you, it’s me”, but it was such a terrible cliché that he knew it would be highly inappropriate and only offend her more so. “Have you been seeing anyone?” he asked, hoping that by moving the subject forward it may get him out of having to answer why he did actually leave in the first place.

“You mean other than my plastic friends?” John laughed. “No, I haven’t seen anyone else,” continued Clare, as she pushed the steak from one side of the plate to the other instead of actually eating anything. “I was hoping that we might be able to get back together some day. I thought that, once you had played the field a bit, you would believe that what we had was special and come back to me.”

John finished his mouthful, “I’m not playing the field. Clare, I’m with Rachael and we’re happy. We are moving in together for Christ’s sake! She called me Sunday and said she had to go away for a couple of days, but when she gets back, we plan to move in together. We’ve been talking about it for a while now.” He knew he had made a mistake there and then. Clare’s face went red with a mixture of emotion ranging from being angry to being hurt. “I’m sorry, I meant to tell you sooner but there never seemed to be a right time.” He forked some more food into his mouth, hoping that it would shut him up and stop him from saying anything else that he’d regret.

“What about us?” Clare asked, laying her knife and fork down by the side of her plate.

“What about us?” she continued.

“We’re friends; I thought that was what you wanted.”

“I’d rather have you in my life as a friend then not have you in my life at all.”

John shovelled more food into his mouth. He thought, the faster I eat this, the faster I can get out of here and go home. He knew that accepting the invitation from Clare was going to be a mistake. Part of him wanted to be proven wrong though. Clare and John were good friends before they started dating and he had hoped it would have returned to that strong friendship that they had shared.

“I’m sorry,” said Clare. “I just don’t think Rachael is good enough for you.”

The more Clare continued to go on the more John found it harder to hide his anger towards her, “You don’t even know her, you have no right saying whether she is good enough for me or not!”

Clare went on to explain, “When I had a coffee with her on Sunday, she seemed to be rude. It was like she felt that she was better then me. I knew within five minutes that I didn’t like her.” John was startled by this revelation. He was surprised to learn that Clare even knew Rachael’s name and he was even more surprised to hear that the two of them had coffee together. Clare continued, “I don’t like her, John, and that’s why I’ve only been eating the vegetables.”

CLAUSTROPHOBIC

FROM AN EARLY AGE, Tim had always been claustrophobic. He didn’t understand why, and if you asked him, he couldn’t tell you of anything bad that had happened to him whilst he was in a confined space. It was a silly little phobia, but it was a phobia nevertheless.

The claustrophobia materialised, from what he can remember, when he was five years old and was in a department store’s lift – heading for the top floor. There was nothing horrible about the lift, there were no nasty people in there and there were no disgusting smells that some lifts certainly do have. The lift was just a bog- standard lift, with carpeted floors, mirrored walls and a high-up ceiling. The other passengers were simply shoppers who had come to the store to either purchase something or browse the goods on sale. Tim remembered being in that lift, holding his mother’s hand, and simply freaking out. He stamped his tiny, little feet and he cried his eyes out until the doors opened again, letting him run from the elevator. Since that day – things hadn’t improved.

Tim worked in the middle of London near to a tube station, but he couldn’t get on the underground due to his fear. His office was on the eighth floor of a high-rise building on a posh street, and every day, he couldn’t use the lift to get to his floor. As a result, Tim was forced to leave his ground-floor home earlier than need be to get through the ridiculous London traffic and get up all 324 steps (he had counted them). He had also found it hard to deal with nightclubs, cinemas and posh restaurants because he found that each place boxed you in tightly with other people.

On several occasions Tim had gone for specialist help to try and rid him of his phobia, or at least understand it, but he found that nothing helped him. He always came away with the same fears of confined enclosures – no matter how much money he had spent on the appointment or treatment that was given.

There was certainly no denying it – Tim suffered from claustrophobia badly, and it was on this Wednesday morning that he really regretted not being able to beat his fear – for he woke, from an extremely deep sleep, in a small box – deep within the walls of a hospital’s morgue.

TO CATCH A TRAIN

PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE, a virtue that Stephen Carter didn’t have. Something else Stephen Carter didn’t have a lot of was time. It was already eight-thirty in the morning; his train would be leaving the station at approximately eight-fifty eight, and thanks to his nagging wife, he still had to take his children to school at the other side of the city. “I’ll never make it in rush hour traffic,” he had said, but his wife simply turned away from him whilst listing all the chores she had to run through in the day. To make matters worse, he was in such a rush to get home the previous night that he didn’t bother to fill his Golf GTI with the petrol it desperately needed. Stephen and his wife both knew that he would never make it to the station in time. He had made it perfectly clear how important it was to get on that train, in order to get to his meeting, but his wife knew the truth. There was no meeting.

Stephen stood at the bottom of the stairs, calling up to his family, “You do know they’ve got those temporary traffic lights at the bottom of the main road, don’t you? I’ll never make it.”

“Then go the other way.” His wife was upstairs, dressing the youngest child ready for school.

‘Temporary’ traffic lights. Now, there’s a joke, he thought. There was nothing temporary about the lights on that road. The name “temporary lights” was nothing short of ironic, as they had been temporarily sitting there, slowing the traffic, for over a year. The other route to the train station was just as bad, thanks to the level crossing.

Stephen knew that if he timed it incorrectly, he would be sitting there for at least ten minutes.

“I have to go now!”

“Wait a minute, they aren’t ready yet.”

“Then you’ll have to take them, I’m going.”

With that he turned away from the stairs and out of the front door. It was a typical reaction from Stephen. Everything had to be his way, and if it wasn’t, then it simply didn’t get done. His wife smiled to herself. She didn’t mind taking the children to school. She did it every other day, she just wanted to hold Stephen up a little bit – hoping that he’d miss the train and stay at home with her instead of that tart.

Every month, at least once, Stephen would always tell his long-suffering wife that he had an important meeting to go to that involved staying away for the night. To begin with, there was no reason to doubt him, as being an area manager; he often had to travel around. It was only when he came home with lipstick on one of his shirt’s collars that his wife found out the truth. He was having an affair. She didn’t know whom it was with and she didn’t care – she just wanted to try and stop it - to begin with at least. These days she just enjoyed winding him up. It was fun for her to see just how far she could push him before his temper got the better of him and he did something stupid. The last time, he got so angry that he lashed out against a brick wall, bruised his hand, and for the next fortnight whilst it healed, his wife enjoyed watching as it hurt every time he tried to use it.

Stephen’s car roared to life and he sped off down the road with a little screech from the balding tyres. Wheel spinning didn’t increase his speed; he only ever did it to show to anyone that may have been watching just how annoyed he was and how they had better stay out his way. It was nothing short of pathetic – not that he believed it to be pathetic. He believed it to be a manly display of aggression. His wife, still in the home, heard the commotion and sniggered to herself like a little child – he was never going to make it to the train station in time for his train to infidelity.

The left-hand road took Stephen the quicker route that was heavily slowed up by the temporary traffic lights. The right-hand road took him through the quieter back roads and over the level crossing. If it were a good day, then the level crossing would be clear for him to zoom across. If it were a bad day, then it would be down, blocking his path, for the trains to pass through – always three trains at a time. If it were a really, really bad day, then the level crossing barriers would go down just as he got there causing him to be held up for the maximum amount of time. Stephen sat at the junction for less then a split second before deciding that taking the country roads would be worth the risk. At least there was hardly any traffic at that time. With his indicator flashing, signalling a right turn, Stephen turned the wheel and continued his journey knowing, deep down, that it was a wasted trip – especially with the fuel light still on.

The first road was relatively clear, with only a few other cars heading in the opposite direction. The second road on the next left was also clear, and for a brief moment at least, Stephen began to think that he might actually make the train after all. As soon as he let that snippet of hope enter his thoughts he began thinking about being in her arms again, going out for a nice meal in one of the best restaurants that he knew and then going back to the same hotel room to share a night of passion – something that he hadn’t been sharing with his wife for a very, very long time. If only she would leave her husband, he thought, he would, in turn, leave his wife and they could be together all the time. Would that ruin things? No, of course not. Nothing could ruin his time with her. He had never felt like this with his wife, not even on their wedding day. Stephen hated mornings and yet, with this other woman, he could not only bear them – he enjoyed them.

He was busy smiling to himself, lost in thought, when his car spluttered to a halt, unable to continue its fruitless journey due to the empty fuel tanks running dry. As soon as Stephen realised what had happened, he buried his head in his hands.

If only the train would run a little late, he thought, there would be a very good chance that he would still make it. At the very least, with the train running just a little later then scheduled, he optimistically believed he may have managed to move his car off the tracks before the level crossing’s barriers blocked him in.

THE LIFE STORY OF SOMEONE WHO COULD HAVE BEEN CALLED DONALD

OFFICIALLY HE DIDN’T HAVE A NAME due to reasons that will become apparent to you, but we shall know him as “Donald”; for no reason other than I happen to like that name.

Donald was born at approximately 8:45pm in St. Anne’s Hospital in Winchester, a pretty, little town in the southern region of England. It was around 8:57pm that, with the umbilical cord still wrapped around his scrawny neck; Donald was pronounced dead to what would have been his unemployed father and obese mother.

One week later, after what they believed to be a suitable grieving period, Donald’s “nearly parents” purchased a small dog. They did not call him Donald.

R.I.P Donald

THE DEAD OF NIGHT

JACOB HAD BEEN IN BED now for two hours and forty-three minutes. Of that time, he had slept for approximately forty-one minutes, and even then, not all in one go, for no sooner had he drifted off, there was always something else to wake him from the hazy beginnings of his young dreams. Twelve-year-old Jacob was starting an extremely frustrating night.

Jacob couldn’t tell you what the noises were that kept disturbing him, as there was only one that was the same – and this he presumed was a badger rooting through the black bin bags his mother had made him put out only a couple of hours earlier. The other noises were varied and unlike anything he had heard before.

To a young lad like Jacob, with his over-active imagination running wild, he could envision the noises to be coming from some sort of hideous beast-like monster. Tentacles for arms, and teeth sharp as razors. For a young lad like Jacob, he knew this was impossible. There were no such things as monsters. He closed his eyes, determined to get some sleep if it was the last thing that he did.

Time asleep - two hours, forty-three minutes and seventeen seconds. There was another noise. A gentle howling noise as though wind were passing over the chimneypot that sat upon the rooftop; a noise that he heard on most winter nights and a noise that always sent shivers down to the base of his spine. The noise made him more nervous tonight, for it was the middle of summer and he knew, from the lack of breeze coming in from his open bedroom window, that the wind outside wasn’t strong enough to cause this sound tonight. He shivered and slunk deeper down into his comfortable bed pulling his light blanket closer around his sweaty body as though it was a shield that could protect him from the world outside.

Jacob wished that he could hear the crickets singing outside like he could on other nights. He found their constant song to be relaxing, similar to his pet cat’s purring – although he hadn’t seen his cat since the previous night. With the sound of the purrs or the crickets, Jacob often fell asleep faster. It was these abrupt, different noises that kept sounding out from the darkness that he didn’t like because they always seemed to happen just as he was completely relaxed and drifting off. Tonight, there were no crickets. He felt his eyelids grow heavy and close once more...

Time asleep – two hours, fifty-eight minutes and a handful of insignificant seconds. What was that? An owl? Just what Jacob wanted to hear! He had heard an owl the previous night, too, and on the previous night, he had put the cat out in the hope that it would frighten the owl away.

Jacob didn’t dislike owls to begin with, but a school trip a few years previous to this night made him weary of them: During the school trip, his teacher had been telling a ghost story to the class before their bedtime, and as part of the story, the teacher explained that if you heard an owl two nights in a row – someone you loved was about to die! There were other bad omens mentioned in the teacher’s story, too, but this was the only one that stuck in Jacob’s mind, as he lived in the country where he often heard owls.

He listened out again, waiting for the owl’s next piece of conversation. Nothing. The rustling from the bins had continued and must have frightened it away. Good, thought Jacob as he tossed and turned in his bed wondering what noise was going to shatter the silence next. But there were no other noises, just the sounds of empty cans and bottles clanking together as the badger continued to investigate the bin. That damned badger.

Jacob couldn’t help but wonder what it was actually looking for amongst all that rubbish. He tried to block the noise out by putting the pillow over his head, and although it did slightly dampen the noise, he could still hear it.

“That’s it!” Jacob said aloud as he jumped from his bed and sprung to the window – opening it up wide so he could poke his head through and yell at the world outside. But the words didn’t come. Instead, he just stood there and stared, mouth open wide. It wasn’t a badger that was rooting through the bins. Jacob didn’t know what it was but there, standing on the floor below his bedroom window, was a beast-like creature. Tentacles for arms, and teeth sharp as razors.

The creature looked up from the bin and saw Jacob staring. It stood up to its full height that brought him face to face with Jacob as he stood there, trembling. When the creature stood, it exhaled deeply – a noise that sounded like wind blowing over the top of a chimneypot. Jacob wanted to run but he couldn’t. He was rooted to the spot with fear, a damp patch forming in the crotch of his pyjamas. The creature turned its head towards the fields, which stretched out in front of Jacob’s home, and opened its mouth – screaming out a noise like an owl hooting.

Something replied to it. Jacob squinted into the distance and could clearly see the outline of another one of these creatures that was heading in his direction.

Time asleep – one and a half hours, more or less on the dot. Jacob’s mother woke abruptly from her sleep as she heard the final, ear-piercing scream of her beloved son.

GROWING PAINS

ONCE UPON A TIME is a clichéd beginning to any story and, as a storyteller myself; I have to say that I find stories that begin in such a manner to show a frustrating lack of imagination. This true story, though, is an exception to that, for it really did happen “once upon a time”. So, we shall begin...

Once upon a time there lived a young boy called Tommy. He was christened “Thomas”, but for some reason, his parents and school friends never actually called him this; instead referring to him as the aforementioned “Tommy”. At the age of eleven years old, Tommy stood at an extremely short 4 feet 2 inches; a height that often put him in the firing line for heartless bullies in his class that saw him as an easy target.

“Ignore them,” his mother had said, “for one day you will shoot up like a beanstalk and find yourself taller than them – just as long as you eat your vegetables.”

His mother’s words were of little comfort for he had been this height now since he was nine years old and showed no signs of getting any taller, no matter how many vegetables he forced down himself. Tommy believed his mother was simply lying to him so that he would eat the food group that he liked the least.

“Sprouts will help your height sprout,” she had explained on one particular day when he kicked up a fuss, “and runner beans will help your height run upwards.”

“Why should I eat the carrots?” he argued.

“Carrots won’t help with your height but they will help with your eyesight. When you lay awake at night, you’ll be able to look down to your toes and see them, slowly, growing further away from you.” This was a thought that both fascinated and horrified Tommy, and after eating a ridiculous amount of carrots one evening, he had laid awake staring intently at his toes that failed to move an inch.

Every day of his short life (pun not intended, but kept in for descriptive purposes), Tommy began his day by running to the bathroom where, upon the wall, his mother had drawn a height chart for him to check himself against. The height chart dated back to when he could first stand still long enough for his mother to mark it off accurately and, as he grew older, he knew how to stand there and mark it off himself so as not to bother her – for whenever he complained to her, when he saw he hadn’t grown anymore, she would always give him an extra helping of vegetables. Why is it, he thought, that sweets couldn’t be the food group that help you grow? If that were the case, he would have been twenty feet tall by now for he would always snack on sweet things between his plates of vegetables. If he were twenty feet tall, then he would have trodden on all of his tormentors. He would have also struggled to find clothes that would fit him properly – but that was something that he didn’t think about.

Another day and, according to the chart, it was another day of non-growing. He was too impatient to wait until the end of the day to measure himself up against the wall and yet, every time he began his day like this, he wished that he hadn’t bothered, as it did nothing more than to upset him and start his day off on the wrong foot. He started his days off upset, and continued on a negative footing when he reached the school and faced his tormentors. His evenings were filled with more of the same as he checked the chart again – with no joy – and laid awake in his child-sized bed, weeping quietly.

The night that followed, however, was an entirely different affair. He woke up with a painful twinge in his foot that sent a painful stabbing sensation straight up through his body to the very top of his head – not that the sensation had too far to travel on account of his shortness.

Whatever it was, it hurt, and now he was wide awake. Could this be it? He thought that maybe he had eaten enough vegetables now and he was about to grow. He was right, for he was about to grow. And grow. And grow. With each growth spurt, there was another painful sensation across all of his joints. He could feel every part of his body growing – even his fingers! But it was more than that. It was a very strange sensation. The painful stabs seemed to be coming from the tips of different points of his body: His fingertips, the tips of his toes, the top of his head, elbow joints, knee caps and even the back of his feet! What little Tommy didn’t know was that it was about to get a whole lot worse...

The pain that Tommy felt was because he was growing, but he wasn’t growing as you and I grow. The skeleton was growing but his skin wasn’t and, after more bursts of pain his skeleton split his skin wide open and continued to grow on past it, leaving the shrivelled flesh hanging off. Tommy screamed out in pain, but his mother was a deep sleeper and heard nothing. I am sure you can imagine her shock in the morning when a walking, talking twenty-foot tall skeleton crawled into the kitchen for his breakfast.

Tommy had his wish: With the help of vegetables, he had grown. With the help of vegetables his bullies had found something else to mock him for.

THE DONOR

THE HOSPITAL’S CAFETERIA FOOD wasn’t hot to begin with, so it didn’t matter that neither Mark nor Jess were eating it. The battered fish and oven- fried chips were supposed to be hot, but they had got to the cafeteria just before they were to close, so the only items on the menu for them were what were left from the days servings. The chefs had already gone home, so there was no chance of anything being freshly prepared for them. It didn’t matter that the food was inedible, though, as truth be told, neither Mark nor Jess were actually hungry – they were simply going through the motions when they ordered the food. They had more important things on their minds then what they were going to be filling their stomachs with.

“You know I’d rather be buried then cremated, right?” said Mark, as he broke the awkward silence between the two of them. “I know it shouldn’t matter, but cremation just seems so final to me.”

It was the second time Mark had been diagnosed with cancer. The first time was a year ago, and after a course of chemotherapy, he had beaten it – or so he thought, for this time it had come back with a vengeance. The doctors had offered to give him chemotherapy again, but were a lot less optimistic this time round and Mark just didn’t feel strong enough to put himself, and Jess, through that again. He figured that God obviously had plans for him that didn’t feature living. 6 months was all he was given, and he had decided that he needed to fill these 6 months with a lifetime full of memories for Jess to remember him by.

“What if they can bring you back at some time?” he continued. “It would be harder to bring me back to life if I was a pile of ash.”

“Do we have to talk about this?” whimpered Jess, as she wiped away a tear from her pale, blue eye. She was only young. She couldn’t believe that they were going through this whilst they were still supposed to be enjoying the first few years of a new marriage. From a young age she had it planned that year one of marriage was meant to be the Honeymoon Period where they were staying in most nights enjoying sex with each other – exploring each other’s bodies. The second year of marriage was supposed to have elements of the first year and also include house hunting, a house that should have two bedrooms – one of which they would have been converting into a nursery so they’d be ready for the third year of marriage where they begin trying to start a family. But it had all been taken away from her and all she could see was a future of being a widow.

“We have to talk about it at some stage, Jess.”

Mark was right and Jess knew it, but she had only just learned that she would be losing her husband to a disease she thought was out of their life. It seemed too soon to be worrying about the details of what he wanted after he had passed. She wasn’t ready. She stood up.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“I’ll be back in a minute.” She walked towards the toilet with no intention of using the facilities. She just needed to be alone. Even if it was only for minute – she needed some time where she could compose herself and continue with the conversation that Mark obviously wanted to have. He was right to have the conversation now. Get it out of the way so they can have one upsetting day together and concentrate on making the last days all about happiness. End on a positive note. When you are in that position, though, it’s always easier said than done. You never want to have that negative conversation. You just want the positive.

Much to Jess’ relief, the bathroom was empty. She didn’t have to lock herself away in one of the small cubicles. Instead, she looked at herself in the mirror. She looked a state: Her hair was a mess from where she had come straight to the hospital after learning Mark had been taken there, and she always looked older than she was if she didn’t wear make-up. Another tear dropped into the heavily stained sink. She didn’t want to go back out. Back out into the harsh reality that was waiting for her. The bathroom was a strange place to find some sort of sanctuary, but it was exactly that. She didn’t have a choice, though, and she knew that Mark would be coming in after her if she didn’t go back to him soon. From the day she met him he had always been impatient.

She remembered how he stood in a queue in their local shopping market, waiting his turn to pay for his groceries, when he suddenly pushed everything back into his trolley and pushed it to another checkout lane where Jess was working. Jess was serving a little old lady who only had a few items where as the lady in the other lane had a trolley-full.

“Can I pay some off with my card and some with my cash please?” the old lady had said. Jess had started to process the second transaction when the old lady had suddenly remembered that she had some vouchers to use too, meaning that everything had to be voided so they could be processed. The lady from the other lane was quicker in the long run.

Jess laughed to herself. It was the first time she had laughed that day – although it felt like it was the first time she had laughed for a long time. The first time she saw Mark was a happy memory. She knew that she had to leave her sanctuary and get back to her waiting husband.

Drying her eyes using the top of her sleeve, she turned away from the bathroom mirror and went back into the cafeteria.

Mark wasn’t there.

He hadn’t been there for six months. She wishes he were still there. Six months ago when they were having this conversation and Jess had gone to the bathroom – Mark had changed the conversation when she returned to him. He had seen that Jess was upset and couldn’t continue, so he had decided to try and turn the day around – to try and turn it into a positive memory for her.

Now the doctors were asking her awkward questions about the arrangements; she wished she had continued the conversation.

She sat back at the table she had shared with Mark six months earlier and tried to get back into the conversation they were having again – to try and finish it by playing both parts of the conversation.

“What about becoming a donor?” she asked.

“I believe you come to life in one piece and you should leave in one piece. It’s not our place to play God.”

She believed in donating organs, but she knew Mark didn’t. But he never actually came out and said it. Would things have been different if he had been asked?

Jess could hear footsteps approaching her from the other end of the long corridor. Doctor Goldberg. He was coming to find out whether he could cut open her husband. She still didn’t know. She wanted to say “yes”, but couldn’t help but feel Mark was looking over them, screaming for her to tell the doctor where to go. But would he? Was he really selfish enough to deny someone the gift of life once he had passed? The doctors couldn’t take the organs that cancer had poisoned, but they could still utilise some of the others, including his heart, which the doctors had already lined up to use with another patient.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jenkins, but we are going to need an answer.” It was too late; she had run out of time. The doctor was pushing her for an answer.

“I don’t know what to do. He never said.” “Without a donor card, we’ll need your permission.” “Maybe he didn’t have a donor card because he didn’t get around to it?” said Jess, as though she were trying to find an excuse to say yes to the doctors. She started to cry again.

“I’m sorry, but we are going to have to operate now.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you; we just have some forms for you to sign if you would like to follow me.” There was no turning back now. Although part of Jess felt guilty, there was another part of her that felt good. Knowing that someone else had a chance of living gave her a little peace of mind.

That same night, Mark’s heart was taken from his body and placed into the body of another person – another young man who had been knocking on death’s door whilst waiting for his transplant. The cancerous organs were also taken out and sold to the shop around the corner, which proceeded to sell them to drunken students who craved the shop’s latest donor kebabs. The same takeaway that Jess, and her friends, also enjoyed to frequent.

COINS

BAD THINGS ALWAYS HAPPEN to other people and, when they do, you normally offer advice and a shoulder to cry on, whilst thinking that you would have handled it differently. But when bad things do happen to you, the shock normally impacts your judgement and makes you forget what you are doing – it knocks you for six. Death is a perfect example of this: Before the Reaper takes your friends or loved ones, you believe that you can deal with it when the time comes but, when it does happen, you simply break down and turn into a bumbling mess – more so if it’s a spouse. The truth of the matter is that there is no correct procedure for how you should deal with these terrible times. Every person is different and handles it their way – that’s what makes us human.

When death, or a heart attack to be more precise, took James’ wife, he was hit hard by the sudden loss and the empty void that it left behind in his young life. He hadn’t counted on losing Jenny – certainly not to something such as a heart attack at her young age of twenty-four. They hadn’t long been married, and now he found himself alone again. The selfish, bigger picture in his brain told him that he didn’t want to grow old alone, so he needed to get out there and find another wife, and the smaller picture in his brain just couldn’t think of a life without his Jenny.

It had been two months since his wife’s passing, and James still pined for her as he sat in his messy home – not bothering to do the housework or even pack up her belongings. Pictures of the two of them together dotted the walls of his flat, neatly framed, and old photographs littered the floor – some even torn up in a fit as he struggled to control his emotions. How dare she leave me! He thought, as though she even had a choice as to whether she lived or died. The wash bin, at the foot of his unmade bed, still contained her underwear that he refused to wash as it was still laced with her sweet scent. He already struggled to remember her soothing tones; he didn’t want to lose all of his senses of her. Old friends of theirs often stopped by James’ flat to try and entice him to come out with them, or even get back to full-time work, but their kind words of encouragement fell on deaf ears. Without Jenny by his side, James simply didn’t exist – at least he wished that he didn’t exist.

He couldn’t remember how he came across it, but there, on his heavily stained coffee table in the front room, was a small advert that looked as though it had been torn from a magazine or newspaper. Did I do that? he thought; he didn’t remember tearing it from anything and yet he must have done because it certainly couldn’t just materialise from nowhere. Perhaps one of his friends had left it there when they last came to visit, but would they really leave it there without informing him of it? Had they informed him of it and he simply chose not to listen? He often saw his friends speaking to him, but heard none of the words that came from their mouths. Even when they were words of frustration and anger geared towards him for his stubbornness to help himself out of this depression that he found himself in, he heard nothing.

He looked down at the advert. It was a tatty advert offering companionship at the simple dialling of a premium rate telephone number that was written across the bottom of the slip in a posh, italic font. Great, he thought, an escort agency. Perhaps he had cut it out in his hour of need and simply forgotten about it but, even so, he felt that it would have been a betrayal to the memory of Jenny and so he screwed it up into a tight, little ball and threw it towards the lounge wall.

“But,” he said aloud, “Perhaps she would have wanted me to have some sort of companionship?” He thought that Jenny’s memory would have been less insulted if he went out and paid for companionship, as opposed to actually going out and falling in love with another woman. He crossed the room and picked the piece of paper up again before unscrewing it carefully so that he could make out the number. Besides, he thought, it’s probably just a dating agency that you pay an extortionate amount of money to join and get no results from. He had never used any agency of any sort but he knew that they existed. Either way, he continued, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to phone the number advertised – if it were a dirty line or had a long intro, he could always hang up.

“Hello, Loved Ones Reunited, how can I help you?” came the woman’s voice at the other end of the line.

“Yes, hello, I found your number and was looking for companionship.”

“Certainly, sir. Did you need more information on the services that we offer, or did you wish to place an order?”

“An order?” Already he didn’t understand. “I’d like a little more information, please.”

“We offer clients, such as yourself, the chance to say goodbye to loved ones, or the chance, at least, to have a familiar shoulder to cry on as you deal with grief.”

What sort of agency was this?

“So how do I go about placing an order, please?”

“You make an appointment, sir.”

“An appointment? I have to come to you? Can’t this be done over the phone?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid not. There is a large amount of forms to fill out.”

“Don’t you just want my likes and dislikes in women?”

“No, sir, it’s a little more in-depth than that. We need to know everything about the deceased.”

“The deceased?”

“Sorry, sir,” said the voice on the other end of the phone “What I meant to say was that we need to know as much information as possible about your ex-partner, so as to be able to build a convincing replica.”

The conversation that James was having was straightforward enough, yet nothing was making any sense to him. The strangeness of the conversation was emphasised by the fact that the female voice that was engaging him had the same tone of voice as an automated machine.

“When did you want to come down to the office, sir?” came the voice. He should have hung up but he was curious as to how it would pan out if he continued.

“I’m pretty much free most days at the moment,” he said “When do you have free time?”

“Now, sir.”

It was a quarter after eleven at night. What sort of office was open at this time of night?

“We can send a car for you now, if you require it, sir.”

He began to think that the whole advert was nothing more than an elaborate prank – one of the pathetic wind- up calls that you found in the back of some of the cheaper magazines. Perhaps one of his friends was listening in secretly, laughing at his expense. But then again, he thought, perhaps it is for real.

“Sure, now would be great.”

“The car will be with you in fifteen minutes, sir, and please don’t forget to bring the most recent photograph of the deceased with you.”

With that, the line went dead. He knew it was a joke now; they didn’t even take his address from him – they had nowhere to send the car. He laughed to himself; all that trouble and yet the call ended so disappointingly. He thought that they could, at least, finish it off by taking his address from him and then having the line go dead. That way he could have been sitting there for ages, waiting for a car to arrive. Now though, he knew it was a joke. If it weren’t so late at night – he certainly wouldn’t have sat around waiting for it. With the time ticking on slowly, as it did every day, he also decided that he certainly wouldn’t be staying awake for a car that would never come. He wasn’t born yesterday. There was no car coming, he kept telling himself. There was no reason to stay up. He may as well just retire to his bed – not that he slept much anymore even though his body craved a good night’s rest.

Like the other rooms of the house, his bedroom was in a state: Clothes thrown all over the floor, drawers half- open with various items of clothing hanging from them, pictures hanging from the wall at a strange angle, and as previously mentioned before, the wash bin at the foot of the bed that was still filled, and overflowing, with his wife’s clothes.

James came in, as he did every other night since the death of his beloved Jenny, and simply slumped, face first, onto his unmade bed. He didn’t bother getting changed, he didn’t bother washing, brushing his teeth or anything that you or I may do as part of a routine before bed – he simply crashed. He remained in the same position, with his face buried into the smelly duvet sheets, before finally running out of air and rolling over, inhaling deeply. His eyes, wide open, staring at the same spot on the ceiling that held his attention on so many nights previous to this one.

He missed her. He had tried to get her out of his head. He had even tried to find reasons to hate her in order to make it easier to forget her, but he couldn’t. He just carried on loving her.

James hadn’t been laying on the bed for more than five minutes before the room was illuminated from a pair of bright lights coming up the driveway outside of his house. He rolled onto his side and looked out of the window from where the light was shining, “What the hell?” Sitting up in his bed and looking out of the window, he saw it pull up: A large, silver Mercedes.

“It’s just a coincidence,” he said, as he stood up and walked over to the window, “it’s just someone who’s taken a wrong turn. They’ll be using my drive to turn around in.” Yes, that was it. A coincidence.

The pair of lights flicked on their high beams, dazzling James in the process, before turning back down to the normal beams, signalling to anyone in the house that they had arrived. James didn’t move. He had no reason to move. The car wasn’t for him. It was just someone who had made a mistake. Any minute now, he was sure; they would be turning around and driving from his life just as abruptly as they had come into it. Again the high beams flashed on, and this time they were accompanied by a little “toot” of the car’s deep horn. James realised the car wasn’t turning around and it wasn’t leaving. It was waiting. Waiting for him? Well, there was one way to find out for sure, he thought, as he stepped into a pair of slippers with a little cartoon logo of some moose character, and began walking to the front door.

When James opened the door, he expected someone to get out of the Mercedes and come on over to greet him, but no one came. Instead, the rear door swung open, inviting him to climb inside. The horn gave a quick, short “toot” again. James stood motionless for a couple of seconds. Other than the phone call stating they were sending a car over, he wasn’t expecting anyone and it couldn’t be anything to do with the call because he never gave them his address. A coincidence. A bloody good one, he thought.

Toot.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s see what this is all about.” He reached back into the house, not turning away from the car, and took a set of keys that were hanging by the front door before pocketing them and closing the door. It has to be a coincidence. He walked towards the car, his feet crunching on the driveway’s stones. I’ll just see what they want and tell them where to go. He looked into the car expecting to see someone waiting for him but there was no one there. “Hello?” he said – he looked to the driver but was separated by a tinted piece of glass. “Hello?” he continued.

No one replied, so he crawled in and knocked on the window but it didn’t move down. Instead, the car door behind him closed and the lock went down. “Okay,” he said, “this isn’t funny anymore. Just let me out of the car now.” No one replied. “I’m not joking, this really isn’t funny.”

The Mercedes began reversing back down the drive with James frantically trying to open the car door, but it didn’t budge. He started hitting at the glass and promptly stopped when he realised that his hand was going to be the first thing to break. Well, this is great, he thought. Just marvellous! He sat back, defeated, and began looking around him trying to find a solution to the mess that he had found himself in. There, on the seat next to him, was the same advert that he had found on the coffee table earlier in the evening. Perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence. He sat back; he made the appointment, he thought, so he may as well just go for the ride and see where he ended up.

“Did you remember a recent photograph?” came a voice from over the car’s intercom system.

“Who are you?” asked James, who wasn’t quite as worried about the photograph now that things had begun to get a little strange for him. “Why won’t you show yourself to me?”

“All in good time, sir.” It was the same voice as the one that had spoken to him only a little earlier on the telephone. “Did you remember the photograph, sir? It’s very important that we get a recent photograph so that we can capture the likeness.”

“What likeness? I don’t understand what you are trying to do.”

“A simple procedure, sir – we make a replica of your partner. Using the latest technology, we are able to re- create her.”

“Re-create her? I thought this was an escort agency, you know, or a dating agency, so that you can put me in touch with people who are like her.”

“No, sir. We are offering the best thing for people such as yourself.”

“Myself?”

“People who believe they didn’t get the chance to live a full life with their partners. We will re-create your wife as how you best remember her, using a silicone skin that feels lifelike to the touch and a sophisticated android on the inside.”

“An android? You are joking, right? Do they even exist? Can you do that?”

“Of course, sir.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will, sir. Relax. We’ll be there soon.”

“Where?” he asked, getting more impatient with the whole operation.

“The factory, sir.”

James sat back in his leather seat. An android factory; were these people even serious? They must be serious – they sent a car. How did they even know where he lived? As his mind started racing, trying to figure out what was going on, James became more and more nervous with the situation and his setting. “You know, perhaps this has been a mistake, why don’t you just take me home?”

“You need us, sir. We’ll help you move on with your life.”

“Perhaps I’m not ready to move on with my life.”

“Then why did you get into the car, sir?” She was right, if he hadn’t wanted to move on with his life then he wouldn’t have climbed into the car. Deep down his subconscious was screaming out to move on with Life. I’ll just see what they are offering; I don’t have to go ahead with anything. They can always take me home again and leave me be.

After what seemed to be an age of driving through roads that James didn’t recognise, the car finally pulled up to a large, golden gate that opened slowly to allow the car access.

A large driveway stretched for half a mile, leading up to the biggest mansion that James had ever seen – not that, in his position and low-paying job, he had actually seen a lot of mansions.

“I thought you said we were going to a factory?”

In front of the building was a pretty, marble fountain spewing water into a picturesque pond where tiny, silver fish swam. When James climbed from the car as he was instructed, he saw that the fish were, in fact, metal in appearance. He turned to the driver’s door, waiting for his chaperone to escort him to the building, but no one came, and opening the door revealed no one sitting there.

“What the hell? How’s that possible?”

The mansion’s front door opened and the female voice came from within the hallway, “This way please, sir.”

James didn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere until I see you.”

“It’s cold outside, sir, please come in.”

She, whoever she was, was right – it was cold outside, and a minute hadn’t even passed before James decided that it would be best to make his big stand inside the house, as it was probably a lot warmer.

The house was not what James had expected. It wasn’t, as it first appeared, a large mansion. It was only a single room with a single table sitting perfectly in the middle. Seated behind the table was a pretty, middle-aged woman wearing a dark, navy-blue suit with a pink tie.

“Please have a seat, sir.”

James cautiously approached the table before sitting opposite the stranger. “Who are you?”

“Did you remember the picture, sir? It’s an important aspect.”

James pulled his wallet from his trouser pocket and extracted a small passport photo from within. He put it on the table. “When am I going to get my questions answered?”

“I thought I explained everything clearly, sir.”

“How did your advert find it’s way onto my coffee table?”

“We put it there, sir.” “Okay – so how did you put it there?” “In front of you, sir, is a form. Please fill it out as accurately as possible. The more accurate you make it, the more realistic the replica.”

“Look, I want some answers...”

“Why are you so keen to delay this, sir. Wouldn’t you like your wife back?”

James couldn’t help but raise his voice; all he could think was that he was, somehow, being made a fool of. “How are you going to bring my wife back? She’s dead!”

“A replica, sir. To help you move on.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“You don’t need to believe us, sir. You just need to fill the form in and leave it with us. You’ll believe when you see.”

“Fine.” If anything, James began filling the form out just so he could get out of there and go home. He didn’t know if anything would come from it as a result and, in truth, he didn’t care. By now, he wanted nothing more than to return to his home and hide away again – everything was getting too strange for him.

The forms were basic enough in the details they required: The name of the person the replica was going to be based on; a large space to list as many positive memories as you possibly could and even a space to write details that upset you about your ex.

Positive memories, he thought. There was that time at the beach where they walked, hand in hand, with the waves lapping at their feet. They were on a weeklong holiday to Crete – the same destination where James had proposed, another positive memory.

When James was alone, he could think of nothing but nice memories, but when he was forced to write them down, he found that he was struggling to recall them. Did he even want to share them with a stranger? He looked at the woman, who was looking back with a blank expression on her face.

“Have you finished, sir?” she asked, using the same tone of voice that she had been using all night. James hadn’t finished, but he simply couldn’t think of anything else to put down – well, nothing else that he wanted to share with her.

“Yes.”

“If you would just like to put the forms into the slot on the table, sir.” On the table, next to an empty red-letter tray, was a thin slot.

“Before I do, what happens now?” asked James.

“You go home, sir.”

“What about this replica you are talking about?”

“All in good time, sir.”

All in good time. What was that supposed to mean? So far, nothing was making sense. All instincts told James to tear the forms up in front of the woman and just storm out, but he needed to see what it was all about, and as far as he could see, the only way of discovering this was to follow it through to its conclusion. Putting a single fold in the form, James posted it through the narrow slot.

“Thank you, sir.”

Blackness.

James struggled to open his eyes, his eyelids heavy with sleepy-dust. He was in his bed, wearing the same clothes that he had worn yesterday. He smiled to himself – it appeared the previous night had been nothing more than his tired mind playing cruel tricks on him. It was so vivid, though, he thought. Was it really a dream?

“Okay, perhaps I should make that doctor’s appointment now.”

When he found it so hard to deal with the loss of Jenny, and even to sleep, the doctor had offered him some medication to help him cope, but James had turned it down. With his mind playing tricks on him, perhaps now was the time to take the doctor up on his offer. James knew he couldn’t carry on in this way.

“Are you ill?” said a voice from under the covers.

It’s not possible, he thought. It can’t be! James jumped from the bed and pulled the covers back to reveal Jenny lying there, next to where he was.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, with his heart pounding so hard he felt as though it were going to explode through his chest.

“Well, I was trying to get some sleep. What time did you come to bed last night? I tried waiting up for you...”

“You can’t be real. You died!”

“It’s too early in the morning for this, James. What are you talking about?” James found it hard to believe that his wife was right there with him. “Did you have a bad dream?” continued Jenny.

James sat on the bed and broke down. He didn’t know what was real anymore – his brain was hurting and he felt so tired. “I thought you were dead.” Jenny sat up and cuddled him from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder and squeezing hard with her arms.

“You’ve just had a bad dream. I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.”

She spoke like Jenny, using the same dulcet tones, and when James turned to cuddle into her face to face, he could even smell a coconut fragrance in her hair – something he could always smell when Jenny had recently washed her hair.

“I’m so confused.”

“You look pale. Why don’t you wait here whilst I go and phone the doctor for you?” Without waiting for James to answer, Jenny jumped from the bed and disappeared from the room. Had everything James been through recently all occurred in one night’s vivid dream? Jenny stuck her head around the corner, the phone squashed between her ear and her shoulder as she carried post in one hand and a drink of water in the other. “Here,” she said, as she handed him the water, “postman’s been, too.” She gave him the small pile of letters and walked from the room again.

Sipping the cold tap water, James glanced down to the post and stopped dead in his tracks as he noticed the first envelope’s return-to-sender contact details. It was from Loved Ones Reunited.

He dropped the glass onto the floor, where upon it spilled it’s contents, and grabbed at the brown envelope before frantically tearing it open to reveal a letter:

Dear Sir,

Thank you for your recent order with Loved Ones Reunited. We hope that you are happy with your product.

When you have finished with the product, please contact us at the number on the base of it’s spine and a car will be sent to collect it for recycling.

Please find, enclosed with this letter, your instruction manual. If you have any queries, please do not hesitate to get in touch.

Kind Regards,

Loved Ones Reunited, Inc.

As promised by the letter, enclosed in the envelope was a small instruction manual that dictated to James how he should cope with his replica wife. The manual stated that for each day you kept the replica, you needed to place a coin into the slot in the back of the neck. Once you were finished with the product, you had to simply stop putting coins in and the replica would “die”. An important notice read that you had to be sure when you were finished with the replica, as once it turned off, it couldn’t be turned back on again. Apparently, the telltale sign of when the coin was going to run out was a quick flashing red light, deep within the eyes. More details mentioned that the replica was designed like this because some people were trying to keep it going for as long as they lived – replicas were never meant to replace your deceased loved ones, it was simply to give you time to say goodbye. Once you had finished with the replica, the company picked it up so that it could be recycled and another widow could benefit from the android – it was just the silicone skin and general look of the model that was changed each time.

Jenny walked back into the room, “I’ve got you an appointment for 12 o’clock tomorrow.” She sat back down onto the bed next to James who was still clutching the instruction manual with his trembling hands.

“Turn around, I think you have something in your hair,” he lied. “Turn around...” Jenny turned around and James moved her hair to one side. True enough, on her neck, there was a single coin slot.

“Did you get it?” Jenny asked, unaware of his true intentions.

“No. It must have been a shadow,” James lied again.

James’ head was completely spinning; he couldn’t make heads or tails out of what was happening. On the one hand, he was worried about what exactly was sitting on the bed next to him, but on the other hand, he was thrilled to have, what appeared to be, Jenny back with him – so much that he no longer cared about how the company got to him in the first place, or who they even were.

“What did you want to do today?” Jenny asked.

James didn’t know. Yesterday he was completely alone, wallowing in his own grief, and today he had his partner back by his side. He knew that he was supposed to use the replica to say goodbye and help him move on but, she was so lifelike, he wanted to pretend that she was real. James wanted to carry on living his life with her. What if he kept on putting the coin in – on a daily basis – could he afford to do it? He wanted to, but what would he tell his friends and family? They had all gone to Jenny’s funeral, and would be shocked to see her walk into the room with him. Perhaps he could say it was a mistake, he thought. That wouldn’t work. It was a silly thought. The whole situation was silly. He just couldn’t help but get carried away – Jenny was back!

“Come on,” she continued. “I don’t have all day.” He looked her in the eyes, and she was right: She didn’t have all day, for her eyes were flashing a red colour just as the instructions promised. He reached for the coin, smiling to himself as he wondered what his friends and family would make of his “new Jenny”, especially if her eyes were to be flashing in front of them as they were... he stopped dead. The instructions told James to put the coin in the back of the neck, but they didn’t specify what coin.

“What coin?” he said aloud, as he reached for the manual that he had dropped on the bed when Jenny had walked back into the room.

“What are you talking about?” asked Jenny as she slowly began to lean forward, her speech slurring slightly. Flipping through the instruction manual, James didn’t know what he was talking about. He had no idea what coin he was talking about. There was nothing on the first page or the second. He flipped right to the back and found the section that he needed, a section dedicated to the coin.

The booklet stated that he needed to purchase the coin on a daily basis, a special fifty-pound coin that he could only get from the company that sent the replica to him in the first place – the first was apparently included in the pack that he had received from the postman today. He threw the booklet to one side and reached for the envelope that was on the floor – sure enough, at the bottom of the large, A4 envelope was a small, silver coin. With his heart racing, he gave a sigh of relief as he reached for the coin and turned to Jenny, the love-of-his-life Jenny – with her eyes so dull in colour...

SNUGGLES

EVERY WEEKDAY MORNING, the digital alarm clock on the bedside cabinet would always play it’s tune at the same time – exactly ten minutes before Joan had to get up to go through her morning routines: Climb from her cosy bed, turn the heating up, go to the toilet, make a packed lunch for her husband and feed the assorted animals (including cats, fish and even a hamster that she had purchased for her granddaughter only to discover her granddaughter was actually scared of them). And then, when all of that was completed to her usual, high standards, she’d climb back into her warm bed and enjoy an extra ten minutes of snuggles with her snoozing husband before it was his turn to get up and prepare himself for work.

Upon returning to bed, she always made a little more noise than was entirely necessary in order to disturb her husband so that he would be aware of her presence and cuddle into her back, stretching his tired arm over her cold body to help warm her up quicker. The routine hadn’t changed for the last twenty-three years of their marriage, and until he finally gave up working and joined her in retirement, she couldn’t foresee it changing any time soon.

Her husband, Bill, could retire whenever he wanted to now. He just chose to continue working because he preferred it to having to be with his partner every day from the moment they woke up until the moment they went to bed at around ten in the evening – just in time to watch the news together with a hot cup of tea by their sides. It wasn’t that he didn’t love Joan, for he loved her very much. He just thought that, sometimes, she could be a bit much. Joan just imagined that he enjoyed working.

Joan had never liked working. As a young child she always believed that it was the man’s job to go out and earn the money and it was the woman’s job to stay at home and make things nice and pretty. The man works, the woman nests, she thought. Unfortunately for her, she had fallen in love with a man who couldn’t quite provide the sort of life that she believed they deserved so she had forced herself to go out to work as well and for fifteen years, she had worked in the same women’s clothes store. Along with her wedding day, the day she finally got to stop working was the happiest of her life. Instead of getting up at 7:00am every morning in order to get up and out of the house to catch the number forty-eight bus into the town centre, she now got up around nine and filled her days with various hobbies, including flower arranging, oil painting and visiting garden centres with friends who were in the same position as herself. Even if she didn’t have anything planned, she would often pop up the road to her friend’s house for a cup of coffee and good, old gossip just to pass the time. She didn’t like to waste her days sitting in and doing nothing – she always liked to be on the go. “You never know when your last day breathing will be”, she often said to her friends who enjoyed doing nothing, “so why bother wasting what little time we do have left?” Some of her friends just thought that it was their time so why shouldn’t they waste it? They didn’t have to waste every day, but some days were acceptable to waste.

Bill had always been lucky enough to work in the area for which he had trained as a young man; he enjoyed carpentry, so to him, work was his hobby. He always believed that his weekly pay packets, even though they were small, were simply a bonus.

That morning, his watch alarm went off as it did every other weekday morning, and as he did every other day, he moved in closer to his wife and snuggled in behind her to help warm her up. His watch alarm was a high-pitched beeping noise that always roused him from his sleep and yet never managed to disturb his wife. It had failed to wake her even when he put it right next to her ear as a test a few years back. Nothing. Not even a murmur from her. Joan’s digital alarm, in contrast, was a low buzzing hum that never managed to wake him up, and yet always made her wake with a start.

The previous night, Joan had gone to bed before Bill – not because she was tired, but more so because she was annoyed that he had refused to take a day off work to join her on a lunch date, with a large group of their friends. Every third Tuesday of every month, this large group of friends would always get together. There was never any reason to this other than the fact that they just fancied it. The proprietor just thought they were using his establishment to celebrate the fact that they had managed to survive another month – even though, every so often, he noticed that the group had gotten a little smaller. Bill never went to these functions, and every time he refused to go, Joan always got upset with him. She had always said, “We do so little together, why can’t you just do this much for me?”

His reply was always, “I’m too young to hang around with those old fuddy-duddies.” When Joan first met Bill, she thought he was so mature for his age and yet, as the years progressed, she thought he was getting more immature.

That morning, turning his watch alarm off, Bill cuddled in closer to Joan. He had long since learnt that, if he didn’t show her extra affection in the morning after a little argument, she would wake up in the same frame of mind as she went to bed on and his day would be full of unnecessary nagging. Bill didn’t really enjoy snuggling with Joan first thing in the morning as she was always so cold from where she had gone downstairs to prepare his sandwich. He couldn’t complain, though, as she was only cold because she was doing him a favour. She didn’t have to get up.

“I hope you remembered to turn the heating up this morning,” he said as he closed in against her. “It feels as though it’s really cold this morning.” He could always feel what the day was going to be like before climbing from bed by clinging tightly to her skin. In the summer, she was always slightly warmer than she was in the winter, and it was presently the middle of winter; it had certainly been a bitter one this year. Indeed, outside was a thick layer of crisp, white snow that looked so beautiful in the early morning sunlight. Ten more minutes, he thought to himself, then I must get up or I shall be late. He had an extra busy day today showing some new kids how to make different sorts of furniture. Bill didn’t especially enjoy showing others how to do his work – he was always suspicious that, at his age, he was training up his replacement.

The ten minutes passed in the blink of an eye and he soon found himself climbing from his bed, trying hard not to wake his wife. Whenever she managed to fall asleep again, he tried hard not to wake her as he knew that she normally stayed awake once she had woken.

After a quick wash he quickly threw on his work clothes. He always wore tatty clothes to work, normally a brown, knitted jumper and dark blue trousers. Joan had always tried to make him look smarter, but he just threw her opinions back in her face, informing her that he wasn’t going there to set a fashion statement – he was going there to work. It never took him long to get ready, and after about fifteen minutes he was ready to leave. He returned to the bedroom where upon he kissed his sleeping wife gently on the cheek and headed downstairs – his sandwich box waiting on the side. With a final look around the front room to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, he gave his watch a last glance before leaving via the front door – perfectly on time for his colleague to pick him up from the corner of the street within the next five minutes or so, depending on traffic, and in the next nine hours or so, after Bill had returned from work, the coroner would be picking up Joan from her cosy, cold bed.

KARLA

My dearest, sweetest Karla,

First of all, let me apologise for writing such a letter. You deserve more; a face-to-face chat at the very least, but I just can’t go through that, as you know, I love you so much. Even writing this letter is tearing me apart.

At the start of our precious relationship, I thought I could take people looking at us as though we were strange. When people said it wouldn’t work out between us – I simply turned a blind eye to their remarks, putting it all down to jealousy on their part. However, as time goes on, I realise that these sorts of downers and petit comments will never stop following us, no matter where we go. Negative voices continually haunt my thoughts every time I think of us, and I’m finding it harder and harder to ignore them. I know I’m a chicken for not following my heart and running away, but with everyone’s comments, I fear we just aren’t meant to be together.

I have loved you ever since we met in the park on that beautiful, summer’s day and will carry on loving you, but I just can’t live like this anymore. I truly am sorry, you deserve so much better than this. Better than me. I’m sorry.

Yours sincerely,

PS – I hope the people at the kennel treat you nicely.

Billy-Bob

OFFICER PETTY

THERE WAS NO DOUBTING IT – this was a strange position that Officer Petty found himself in; seated opposite his Inspector who was yelling at him for something that he simply didn’t understand. The handcuffs binding Officer Petty’s hands together and bruising his wrists just added more to his confusion. He hadn’t done anything wrong, had he?

Craig John Petty had joined the police force nearly a year ago and was happy working in the RPU (Road Policing Unit); he enjoyed the thrill of the chase and knowing that he was doing his bit in keeping “bad guys” off the streets. His parents were proud of him. And his friends, although they mocked him for being a “pig”, respected his career choice. One thing was for sure: If his friends and family could see him now, they certainly wouldn’t be proud of him.

Just under a year ago, when he was receiving his training, he had some quiet time and found a little known law in one of the many books that littered the station. It read that if he were to go out in his car and run an animal over, it was illegal for him to stop and take the corpse home to eat it; however, if there was a car following behind and they wanted to stop and pick the animal up, then it was completely legal. It was with this knowledge that he decided on a money-saving scheme for him and his wife.

Whenever he worked nights, he would always follow the drunk drivers around hoping for them to knock something, or someone, over. In their horror, as soon as Officer Petty flashed the pursuit car’s lights, they would speed off into the night – giving him time to stop and pick up that evening’s meal.

Back to present day and Craig was still sitting in his Inspector’s office. When Craig had invited his Inspector and his partner over to his home for dinner the previous night, he had no idea it would land him in this much hot water..

DEAR, OLD GRAMPY

PERHAPS, BEING 9 YEARS OLD, JENNIFER was too young to understand that her parents were deceased. After hearing the news that she wasn’t going to see her mummy and daddy anymore, Jennifer didn’t break down into floods of tears as her dear, old Grampy had expected. In fact, if anything, he thought he saw a little smile on her face when he explained that she was going to be living with him now.

It was certainly no bad thing that Jennifer would be living with Grampy for he was always nothing but nice to her. When she was ill her mother would often give her a ghastly, black coloured medicine that looked like thick tar. Her Grampy, on the other hand, would always sneak her a little candy – often instructing her to, “Hide it from your mummy. You don’t want me to get shouted at, do you?” The sweets weren’t the only secret Jennifer had to keep from her parents – she was made to stay around Grampy’s house for a couple of nights whilst her parents went away for a little “time-out”. Jennifer had woken in the morning complaining of a stomachache. Grampy knew that she didn’t have any pains. Although he was elderly, he knew all the signs of a child that didn’t want to go to school for whatever reason. Instead, he took her to the cinema to see a film about a talking dog. He had hated every minute of that film, but got his enjoyment from seeing Jennifer smile and laugh. To Jennifer, Grampy was the best grandparent she could ever hope for.

It had been decided that, for a while, Grampy would move into Jennifer’s home that she once shared with her parents. It was thought that it would have been easier for Jennifer to adjust to things if she were in a familiar environment, surrounded with the little toys that she cherished so much. Grampy’s intentions were to move her into his large home, which he lived in by himself since the passing of his wife, when she got used to living with him. He had planned to go back to his home whilst she was at school, so he could change the spare room into what she could think of as her own: A new bed with a pink duvet set, pink pillowcases, a fluffy pink cushion sitting directly in the middle of the bed. Grampy was far too old to work now, but when he had been working, he used to be a carpenter so he was able to build her a nice, new cupboard set with extra shelving space – the whole thing painted pink with little, silver stars dotted around it. The extra shelf space, he thought, would be filled with new toys that he was going to let her choose, each day, on the way home from school. Despite losing his only daughter and son-in-law in a very sudden accident, he believed that he had everything planned out and could cope well with what was expected from him now.

“I have a stomachache,” Jennifer whimpered on the first morning together since she had learnt that she would be living with her granddad.

“Where does it hurt?” asked Grampy.

“All over.”

“All over?”

“Yes.”

Grampy smiled, “I have just the thing for you.” He walked out of her bedroom, and after a few moments of leaving Jennifer alone, returned carrying with him and bottle of the same, horrible concoction that her mother had made her drink when she was ill before. “Let’s get some of this down you then, shall we?”

He poured some of the goo into the cap and passed it to Jennifer. “If it’s still hurting after school, I’ll make you a doctor’s appointment but it’s probably everything you’ve been through catching up with your tummy.”

Jennifer looked at the cap-full of syrup and took it from her granddad. She had wanted another trip out, not this. At the very least, she was hoping for some more of the candy that he used to give her when she felt poorly before. She looked up at his old, kind face and he gently smiled down at her. “I don’t like this.”

“My dear,” he explained, “we aren’t supposed to like medicine, but it is good for you. If you shut your eyes really tight and hold your nose, you’ll hardly taste it. You can even pretend it’s something else entirely. A nice piece of candyfloss, perhaps?”

“Can’t I just have some candy?”

“If you drink that down, I’ll have some candy waiting for you after you’ve eaten your dinner tonight.”

Things were different. On learning the news that Jennifer would be living with Grampy, she thought it would be like when he visited her but it wasn’t, and part of her couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. Perhaps it’s just whilst he gets used to things, she thought to herself as she tipped the medicine to the back of her throat and gulped it down with a little shudder running down her spine.

“Now get ready for school and I’ll go and get your breakfast ready.”

Jennifer felt confused - it was as though her deceased mother had taken over her granddad’s gentle soul, but nevertheless, she did as instructed and put the school uniform on that she detested so much. I hope it’s not always like this.

By the time she went downstairs, Grampy had prepared her breakfast – a dippy egg with some soldiers. “I normally have cereal.” She complained. “If you let me know what you like, I’ll try and get it for you later this afternoon.”

“Shreddies with the frosting on top,” she said, playing with her food, “I don’t like my eggs like this.”

“I can put some marmalade on the bread, if you want to leave the egg.”

“No thank you. It’s okay.” She thought Grampy knew everything that she liked. She had just presumed that he knew everything about her but, on the first morning, she realised that he didn’t really know her very well.

“When you’ve finished, I will take you to school. I thought you may like to go to a toyshop when I pick you up this afternoon and choose something new.”

That’s better, she thought. Maybe this morning was just a false start. She smiled as she replied, “I’d like that.” He smiled back at her; he used to find it easy to make her smile, but only hours into their new living arrangements, he found himself struggling already. “I’m not really that hungry.” She pushed the plate to one side.

“I’ll get you your cereal today. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” He took the plate to the sink where he already had the hot water ready to wash up. “Shall we make a move then? Sooner you’re there, the sooner you’re home!”

Jennifer jumped down from the table and plodded through to the hallway where her bag and shoes were waiting, whilst Grampy quickly washed the crumbs from the plate. Ideally he wanted to keep Jennifer off school for a while whilst things settled in her home life, but the social worker had said that, if she seemed okay, she really should try and stay in a routine. Grampy had gone along with it because, he figured, they dealt with things like this every day where as he was completely new to it – and he had always wanted the best for his granddaughter.

“I’m ready.” Jennifer had come back into the kitchen.

Grampy turned to her, “I’ll get my coat then.”

The drive to school was uncomfortable for Grampy. Not because of his car, as he always found his Ford Escort to be comfortable as well as reliable. It was a deep blue colour with a dark, grey interior. The colourful scenery of the outdoor world was going past them at a snail’s pace as they sat in silence with the school-run traffic dictating what speed they did. Grampy looked at Jennifer, who was looking out of the window watching the world pass her by.

“Things will get better.”

“I know.”

He didn’t know what else to say. He knew she liked cartoons and she enjoyed drawing, but apart from that, he realised that he actually knew very little about her and it worried him. He desperately wanted her to love him and live a happy life, but doubts were beginning to set into his mind that he wouldn’t be able to provide her the sort of life that she craved and needed. After all, he wasn’t as young as he used to be, but he was the only relative and he had no choice but to take her on – not that he minded – he just didn’t want to let her down. The social worker had already told him that it would have been better if she were taken into care, but he didn’t want that. He couldn’t see her growing up in a foster home or going away with a new mum and dad. He knew that fostering some children was necessary, but he couldn’t help but have double standards when it concerned his granddaughter. How could he allow complete strangers to choose his own granddaughter as though she were a little pet? He imagined them walking around the room, looking into these cages where the kids were sat surrounded by straw: “I’m not sure about that one, darling; it has a funny little nose.” He knew it was a preposterous thought but he just couldn’t help himself. It was silly. He was silly. He quietly laughed to himself.

“What’s funny?” asked Jennifer as she turned to look at him.

“Nothing.” How could he tell her what a silly idea he had? Where he knew it to be a stupid, little thought - she was so young that she probably would have taken it as Gospel.

His finger flicked the indicator switch up and the car turned right towards the school car park. He wanted to turn around again and take her home, wrap her up in a blanket and protect her from the harsh reality that she lived in. “You must try and keep her in a routine that she is used to.” The social worker’s words kept going over and over in his head. He stopped the car.

“Did you want me to walk you in?” Jennifer laughed, “I’m too old for that, silly.”

“Of course you are.” He smiled. Jennifer reached over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be here at 3:30, okay?”

“Okay. And then you’ll take me to the toy shop?”

“I promise.” He returned the kiss on the cheek to her and she climbed from the car, closing the door behind her. Grampy smiled to himself. What a brave, little girl, he thought. He watched as she ran up to the big, brown doors of the old, school building. It was funny watching her; a small little girl, struggle with such a heavy door. Surely it would have been better to give an elementary school some smaller doors so as not to strain the children’s little arms.

Well, now what, he thought. How could he go to his own home and get things ready there whilst he seemed so ill-prepared in Jennifer’s own home. The social worker said that if he needed anything, he was to call and they’d be there to answer any questions. But what sort of questions result in the social worker realising that they had made a mistake leaving this elderly man in charge of a young girl who had her whole life ahead of her? There was no question about it – he felt trapped. He just sat there, with his thoughts running round and round in his head. Should he do some shopping for the food that Jennifer liked? What did she like? She liked Shreddies with the frosting on top. But what else did she like? What about making the pink cabinet and shelving for her new bedroom? Did she even like pink? What was wrong with him? Why was he panicking so much? He had raised his own daughter successfully. It wasn’t his fault that she had died – it wasn’t his fault they had that terrible accident. He was so confused.

“Now this is just silly behaviour,” he said to himself. “You’ve raised your own daughter so just cast your mind back to that and draw upon your experience.” But it was harder now. When he was raising his daughter there weren’t as many options for the children in those days. Now you aren’t supposed to give them this, you aren’t supposed to give them that and if you gave them this then it’s definitely bad. When he was raising his own daughter he also had his wife doing most of the work, too, but she wasn’t around to help him anymore either. It was only last year that he lost her to a heart attack. He had felt so alone since then and he had felt as though his life was going nowhere. He was asked to look after Jennifer in the will of his daughter, and he gladly accepted because it gave him something to live for. “Sod it, I’ll just go and visit the social worker.” He turned the key in the car’s ignition and the engine roared to life before he drove from the car park.

“Please come in, Mr. Jones.” The social worker was a funny little man. Although Grampy himself was no oil painting, he always had a little laugh to himself when he saw him. He was a fat man – a big round stomach with his trousers pulled high up his waist – and he was always wearing the same coloured red tie that clashed so terribly with his green, checked shirt. “Do take a seat.” His beady, brown eyes staring intently at Grampy, giving a different signal to the smile that was on his face. “What can I do for you?”

“I don’t really know why I’m here, to be honest. It seems silly.”

“We’re here to help no matter how silly you think you may be being.”

“I thought I knew Jennifer, but I’m finding it hard. I’m struggling with the little things – like what she likes to eat, her favourite programs, hobbies that she may like doing... I just feel as though I don’t know her.”

“It’s going to take you both time to get used to things, Mr. Jones, but we are always here to help you out.” Grampy couldn’t help but feel that the social worker was on a loop – he was always saying that he was here to help’ and yet he actually did very little helping. “Have you tried talking to Jennifer? How does she feel?”

“I don’t know how to bring it up.”

“Just sit her down and explain how you are feeling, say that you need her help for you to get to know her better. Say that you want to share things with her and let her tell you what she wants instead of trying to second guess her.” Grampy knew all this. He knew it all from when he raised his little girl. It should have been second nature to him but he just felt out of touch. Perhaps it was the grief that he was still feeling inside for his dead daughter. With looking after Jennifer and getting everything ready for the funerals, he didn’t feel as though he had been given a proper time to grieve. “If you want,” continued the social worker, “I can come over and see you together. Perhaps we could bat a few ideas around as to how the two of you can bond?”

“I just found it easier when I was just her granddad. Now I know I have to be responsible for her; I have to do things differently from how I used to do them with her. I know that must be confusing for her.”

“The whole situation could be confusing for Jennifer at the moment, Mr. Jones,” interrupted the social worker “But given time, you will both get used to it. If you really are unhappy about the arrangement, though, we can take her into care for you. You’ll still be able to see her.”

“But I don’t want her to go into care.” Why did he even bother coming to see the social worker? He knew that it would just come back to them wanting to put her into care.

“Just talk to her this afternoon and I’ll come on by the house tomorrow and see how you both are. I was supposed to be coming over on Friday, but it’s not a problem to bring it forward a little.” Grampy stood up and extended his hand, shaking the social worker’s own sweaty hand.

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Jones. And remember, if you need to speak to me urgently, you can always call me.”

It had felt like a wasted trip. Grampy was already planning to talk to Jennifer that evening, after dinner. He didn’t need some man, in a dodgy shirt and tie combination, telling him what to do. Grampy left feeling stupid for even bothering to go.

That afternoon Grampy went directly to the large supermarket near to Jennifer’s school and promptly walked down every aisle filling up the trolley that he pushed with every bit of food that you could imagine, or indeed, wish for. There was all sorts of fish, different styled chips, lots and lots of chocolate treats, biscuits, pizzas, all flavours of fizzy pop and juices, vegetables, fruits, meats, and tinned foods. There was even a solitary can of cat food that he purchased simply because he thought Jennifer may have liked the picture of the kitten on the can’s label. Obviously he wasn’t going to feed it to her. Unless she likes cat food, he thought to himself as he bagged it up. Preposterous! Walking back to the neatly parked car, he began to feel better about what he had to do and set about loading the car whilst whistling a tune that he had heard earlier that day.

Before he had to look after Jennifer, Grampy found that most days seemed to drag when he had nothing to do. Since living by himself, he found himself eating more and more microwave meals because he couldn’t be bothered to cook for one, and he had lost all interest in his hobbies. Every Sunday, for instance, he used to enjoy a round or two of golf as his wife prepared a nice roast meal to be ready for his return. Today was different, though. Today, the time was flying by, and it was soon time for the school’s bell to ring the end of day for the impatient classmates sitting in their lessons. Grampy was already parked in the same spot that he had dropped Jennifer off earlier. Suddenly, the doors to the school swung open with so much force, that he swore they were going to fly off the hinges, and the school children came charging out to their waiting parents. It certainly wasn’t long before Jennifer was running out of the doors either, and she bounced her way up to the car, excited at the thought of visiting her favourite toy store.

“Did you have a good day?” asked Grampy as Jennifer jumped into the front seat of his Escort, flinging her satchel onto the backseat. “I suppose you have some homework to do?”

“My teacher said that I didn’t have to have any tonight,” replied Jennifer before continuing without a moments pause. “Are we going to the toy shop now?”

Grampy hadn’t forgotten - he simply didn’t plan his afternoon well. He couldn’t very well go for a browse around the stores with Jennifer whilst all their frozen food was busy melting in the boot of his car. “I’m sorry, but I have to get the frozen food home. I got you your Shreddies. We can go tomorrow.”

“But you promised to take me today.” At least when Jennifer’s mum had promised to do things with her, she never went back on it. What was happening to her Grampy? “That’s not fair!”

“I’m sorry. I thought we could go home and you could help me unpack the shopping and then we could make dinner together. What ever you want to eat. And then, after dinner, we could have a little talk.”

“But I wanted to go to the toy shop!”

Because of the way he had previously spoilt Jennifer, Grampy had never seen her sulk, but as he joined the queue to leave the car park, she began to sulk. Like most children Jennifer couldn’t sulk quietly. She made funny little popping noises from between her lips as she blew small bubbles whilst frowning away all the time. Her bright blue eyes turned a darker shade as she stared out of the window. “We can go tomorrow after school, I promise.” Jennifer didn’t want to go after school the next day. She wanted to go now.

Grampy unpacked the groceries alone; Jennifer had gone upstairs to play in her room after making a point to him that she was going to play with her old toys and stomping her feet all the way up the hard, wooden stairs where her mother and father had taken a nasty fall during, what was thought to have been, quite an intense row. Grampy wanted to tell the little child to stop being a silly girl, but it felt too soon to try and discipline her. He had never had to discipline her before, and he remembered the social worker telling him to try and keep things to a routine that his granddaughter knew and understood. He figured that at this early stage, it would only confuse her if he started to bark at her like he wanted to. One thing was for sure though: He certainly wouldn’t let it continue like this if it didn’t improve after what he believed to be a suitable “settling” time.

Grampy also made dinner by himself, too - a nice helping of lasagne with extra cheese on top. By six o’clock the two of them were sitting in the dining room, eating their dinner.

“Do you like it?”

“It tastes funny.”

“Well perhaps if you had helped me cook it you could have put in the bits that you wanted?” He didn’t mean to sound cruel or sharp with her but he felt that was the way it came across.

“Why don’t you like me anymore?” asked Jennifer. She almost made Grampy choke on his food. He had never stopped loving her – let alone liking her.

“I do like you,” he said before correcting himself. “I love you lots.”

“But you used to give me candy and take me places.”

“I’ll still give you candy. I bought you lots of candy from the shops today, but you also have to have healthy food too, like what your mummy used to make for you. And just you try and stop me from taking you places!” She just sat there in silence. It was a silence that he desperately wanted to break, but he didn’t know how. “You can tell me all the places that you want to go, and I will take you there. We’ll have nice day trips out. I know you may find it hard living with me, but you’ll get used to it.”

Jennifer sat there in silence just forking her food around the plate. She couldn’t understand why it had to be different from how Grampy used to be with her. She couldn’t understand why things had changed. It also worried her that he was so easy to change his mind about taking her places after he had so keenly promised. After what seemed an age to Grampy, she broke her silence, “What will happen to me if something happens to you?”

“Nothing will happen to me, I’m strong as an ox!” Although he wasn’t a weak man, he was an elderly man and it was plain for all to see that he certainly wasn’t as strong as an ox.

“But what if something did happen?”

“Then you’d get to live with a new mummy and daddy,” he begrudgingly explained. “But nothing will happen to me.”

“Will they be nice?”

“Of course they will be! They’ll be the nicest people you can imagine, and they’ll take you to lots of fun places and show you great things.”

The following morning, as Jennifer sat with her granddad’s crumpled body, his foot still wrapped around the roller-skate that had sent him tumbling down the stairs, Jennifer said to herself, “I wonder what fun things my new mummy and daddy have planned!”

LOVE MUM & DAD –x-

Veronica,

If you are reading this then you obviously decided to come home. We’re so glad; we’ve missed you terribly. Why you chose to run away at this time of the year is besides your father and I. We thought you would have been smart enough to choose the summer months to demonstrate your independence.

We are sorry that you decided to run away in the first place. Especially over such a silly, little thing! Your father and I told you that we couldn’t get you a pony because we simply couldn’t afford it. It’s not as though we have said no too many other things that you have wanted. Perhaps it was silly of us to believe you were old enough to understand about money, but we are sure you will understand soon enough. Still, that’s all in the past now and we have forgiven you for trying to hurt us and are glad you are okay.

Anyway, the reason for this letter is to let you know that, in the past two weeks, your father and I have realised just how much money you have been costing us in your eleven years. Without you around, we have managed to go from day to day with money leftover and it’s been, well, very nice. As a result, we have decided to sell up and emigrate to a warmer climate – without you. If you call your Aunty Rose, she will arrange a place for you to stay if you’d like, or you can get in touch with social services that will give you another mummy and daddy to live with. I’d leave the phone numbers, but I don’t have the time to dig them out as our plane leaves in an hour and forty-five minutes.

Thanks awfully for being a lovely little girl, most of the time.

Fondest Regards,

Mummy & Daddy XXX

PS – The cat is living with Frankie, the next-door neighbour.

THE BUTTON

CLICK.

NOTHING.

How embarrassing.

CLICK.

Again, nothing happened. Why was this happening to him? He pressed the little red button for a third time, and for a third time, there was nothing. He felt his face start to turn a deep, red colour. He had all these eyes watching him, waiting for a result that he failed to deliver. Perhaps he shouldn’t have made such a song and dance about when he was going to press the button. Perhaps, with less people noticing his error, he would have felt a little less stupid. Maybe, maybe not.

CLICK.

Four times with no result; he didn’t understand why. He had followed the plans that were sent to him to the letter. He even purchased the recommended batteries that were mentioned in the intricate pages of the letter

Was the fifth time to be a charm?

CLICK.

Apparently not.

On the sixth attempt at pushing the same button, he noticed the people were looking like they wanted to leave. He couldn’t let them. He didn’t want them to leave. If they left then they would have missed his big break. He had decided that this moment was going to be his defining moment. From this moment on, people would know his name and he would be greatly rewarded for his obvious skills.

CLICK.

His “obvious skills” being nothing to do with D.I.Y kits or those little model aeroplanes that kids tend to get from grandparents when they are young.

His defining moment was rapidly becoming a time in his life where he wished for nothing more than the ground to open up and swallow him whole. At least none of my friends are in the audience to see this, he thought.

He closed his eyes and thought back to when he built the kit up from bits that came with the instructions. If he could cast his mind back to when he was originally building it perhaps he’d remember something that he had missed from when he was putting everything together. He couldn’t leave without showing people what he had originally set out to do – he knew that, within a day, word would get out to the people he was so desperately trying so hard to impress, and he would become a laughing stock. He couldn’t let that happen. He had failed at everything he tried to do before this and there was no way he was going to let himself fail this time around. He believed it was his turn for a bit of good luck. It was his turn to succeed. Growing up over the years, he watched everyone else overtake him with regards to their own goals and progress and it was now his time to prove to himself that he could get at least one thing right.

“The green wire...” he murmured under his breath. He looked down. In his haste to get to centre stage he realised he must have got hooked somewhere along the line and ripped one of the cables from his contraption and there it was, bold as daylight, swinging from the bottom of the button. Damn it, it’s so obvious, he thought.

He was back on track. Nothing could stop him now. Within the blink of an eye, he had grabbed the loose end of the green wire and wrapped it around the connector tightly.

This time, he thought. The people around him grew more wide-eyed. Were they finally about to see what he had up his sleeve the whole time?

CLICK.

The following day the headline in the morning papers read, “TEENAGE SUICIDE BOMBER KILLS 100.”

YUMMY IN MY TUMMY

THERE WAS CERTAINLY NO DENYING that the members of Ben’s rat infestation were clever little critters. For the three months in which Ben had been trying to stop them from breeding under his garden shed, he had tried everything to rid himself of them.

At first he didn’t mind them being in his garden, occasionally helping themselves to the food that he put on the bird tables, but as they bred more and more, he found that he soon had a serious infestation problem that needed to be stopped, for health reasons if nothing else.

The first step he took was to board up a gap that was between the shed and the floor. With no gap, he thought, there’s no way in or out of their home. Using their sharp, rodent teeth, they made a new way in and continued to plague his garden.

The second step he took was to stop feeding the birds. Birds, he thought, could always fly off somewhere else to find their food, as many of his neighbours also had bird-feeding stations in their gardens. Perhaps, he thought, the rats will relocate to their garden instead. But they didn’t. They continued to live under his shed and at night, they ventured out and climbed through the cat-flap in his back door – the sole purpose to get to his kitchen and raid his cupboards.

The final step was more drastic and something that Ben had hoped to avoid for it meant ending their furry, little lives with poison. He was a lover of all animals and he hated to think of them rolling around in pain as the poison attacked their bowels after it had been digested.

There wasn’t any other choice. He had given them plenty of chances to move on.

There was certainly no denying that the members of Ben’s rat infestation were clever little critters. For, after discovering poison pellets outside their home, they snuck it back into the kitchen where Ben kept his food.

As Ben rolled around in agony – clutching pathetically at his stomach, the rats moved in and made themselves at home in front of their new television set.

MY WILL

When I do finally expire,

Please, set me on fire.

My ashes put into a pepper pot,

Found in a back street café shop.

It puts me in a good mood

To think I’m sprinkled on someone’s food!

A DARK PLACE

JOHNNY LIVED IN A DARK PLACE.

He found himself in this state from time to time. A state he disliked, but couldn’t always avoid no matter how much he fought it.

Please don’t get me wrong; the dark place in which he found himself had nothing to do with his temperament or general state of well-being, for he was a very happy-go- lucky kind of twenty-six year old. Instead, it had everything to do with the ever-rising cost of his electric bill – something that he often struggled to keep up with, resulting in him getting cut off.

Again.

COURIER

WEARING A BLUE POLO SHIRT, the companies green logo etched into the cotton across my left breast, I had been a courier for three months and a handful of days.

Being a twenty-three year old female – I couldn’t tell you why I chose this job. As a job I didn’t dislike it, but at the same time, I didn’t exactly like it – if that makes any sense to you. I certainly never planned the job to be a long-term career but one thing was for sure; it paid the bills.

My parcels varied in shape and size, with some of them being far to heavy for me to lift alone, and on these occasions, I had to seek help from the recipient of the package. Most didn’t mind, but from time to time, there were some that complained – although I knew they would still help me. After all, they wanted their goods!

My job introduces me to all types of people; men and women from all walks of life, varying ends of the pay scale and all with their own unique perspective of social etiquette. Although there are lots of nice customers whom I take items to on a regular basis, I do have my favourite: Doctor Jack Hankins.

With a name like Doctor Jack Hankins, you may make the same mistake that I made and picture him to be a young, good-looking man. Rather pathetically I went one step further and envisioned him to be like Indiana Jones when I first read his name on my work sheet. A handsome, rugged character with a cheeky smile and naughty twinkle in his eyes, and perhaps, a deep gravely voice to match.

Imagine my surprise when a man greeted me at the door in his seventies wearing a suit made from tweed. A suit that, believe it or not, actually looked younger than him despite it being well worn.

The first time Jack greeted me at the door, I couldn’t help but notice his dentures first of all. They were brilliant white and looked as though they were too big for his face. His face itself was made up of leathery skin and balding hair. I’ll give him this though – he certainly had the brightest blue eyes I had ever seen. A hint, perhaps, that he may have cut a dashing figure in his younger day.

Despite his odd look, he was always well spoken and polite to me. On hot days, he’d often invite me in for cool, sparkling lemonade, and on colder days he’d offer a mug of hot chocolate and selection of tasty biscuits.

To begin with, he always told me about his beautiful wife who’d been in a terrible accident, and after time, he’d always enquire as to how I was doing and the type of day I was having. I liked him a lot, and yet I couldn’t help but feel a little bit sorry for him, as he seemed so lonely since the passing of his wife. Indeed, it was half out of friendship and half out of pity that, on one occasion, I agreed to join him for dinner.

Dinner was to be served at 8 o’clock sharp: A roast with turkey and all the usual trimmings – a far cry from my usual microwave meal that I frequently cook for myself in my small flat when I am too tired (and lazy) to bother cooking a proper meal. The dry turkey was to be complimented by a chilled, fine, white wine. A wine that, judging by the full fruity flavour, was more than my mediocre wages could stretch to.

I remember the wine. I remember nothing else.

Being a young, twenty-three year old female – I could not tell you how my brain ended up in this jar reminiscing about my short life. I certainly couldn’t tell you how my body was being used as a vessel for the doctor’s wife, her brain fitting so snugly in my newly sealed skull.

I certainly couldn’t tell you what my taste buds thought of the turkey as the doctor and “I” enjoyed “our” meal...

THE DAY I WAS BORN

On the day I was born, I was dropped on my head,

A pretty bad start, I should’ve been dead!

But, to the afterlife, I didn’t go –

It just made me a little bit slow.

As a result I wasn’t good at primary school,

It’s fair to say I was normally class fool.

“Oh, Matthew why are you so thick?”

Asked me a teacher – a bit of a prick.

And secondary school didn’t get better,

If anything, I became a little wetter.

I only really had one true mate

Whom everyone else seemed to hate,

Which made them also dislike me;

They constantly bullied – wouldn’t let us be.

Always, always taking the piss,

Calling us gay, and how we liked to kiss!

I never said anything when I went home

Just went to my room – all alone.

FRANKIE

Frankie wished his funeral were belated,

For, in it, he was actually cremated!

At the time he was alive,

Just in a deep sleep – he hadn’t died!

ROCKET

He put his finger in the socket,

Shot up skywards like a rocket!

Many people never found out why,

But they did look up and wave bye-bye!

TOMMY

Tommy had an attractive wife

Who, in the kitchen, ran with a knife

And tripped up in her pantyhose,

Fell the floor and cut off her nose!

Now Tommy’s got an ugly wife,

Too bad he’s got her for life!

Enjoying the encore? Still more to come!

MOTHER

Jimmy and his brother

Buried their mother.

They didn’t once dream

You’d hear her scream,

But they need not despair,

For she’d soon run out of air!

BEARDIE

Sam looked extremely weird.

But why wouldn’t she, a lady with a beard?

SONG-BIRD

There was girl called Veronica

Who accidentally sat on a harmonica!

Now whenever she let out a pong,

It came out with a song

SUNNY DAY

The sun was shining brightly, really high

In the perfect clear, blue sky

Stretching over land so vast.

Down below bunnies were eating grass

In a small privately owned farm

Where they’d come to no harm.

Everything was fine, even for the mice,

Who were with the cats – all playing nice!

With the sun so hot and bright,

Everything seemed just so right,

Until the A-Bomb dropped from the sky

And caused everything to suddenly die.

UNDER THE BED

He knew what was under his bed:

A horrible monster, ready to munch his head!

As soon as the lights go dim,

He knew it’d be out to eat him.

The lights went out – he hid under the cover,

Hoping it would make him harder to discover!

True to form, the monster came out

And began to have a snoop about.

But the monster didn’t go for the boy;

Instead, it sat and played with a toy.

Perhaps the little boy wasn’t right,

The monster didn’t want to give him a fright?

Slowly the boy climbed from his bed,

Grabbed his baseball bat – made the monster dead

With a mighty great whack,

Before climbing on back Into his comfy bed,

Resting his tired head.

BOUNCE-BOUNCE!

He opened the window

And looked down below,

Shut his eyes and took a jump

Before landing with a bump.

Neighbours were disappointed he didn’t “splat”,

As they thought, because he was fat.

In his gut there was hardly a ripple,

But as for his spine – well, now he’s a cripple.

NICE TO EAT YOU

Ronny the cannibal had no mates

Because of his weird eating traits.

When he invited them to dinner,

They’d find themselves coated in vinegar,

Shoved on a large, round plate

Before being devoured – meeting their fate.

Sometimes he’d eat them with chips;

Other times, with pineapple frits!

One thing he didn’t eat was their head,

For that would be placed in his bed

Ready to cuddle when he went to sleep

Once he was full from all he had to eat.

SOLDIER OF FORTUNE?

They said he was “barmy”

When he joined the army.

They thought he was too dim,

Refused to stand with him.

God knows they were right:

He was killed in his first fight.

But how’d he become so dead?

Silly bugger – shot himself in the head!

A CHALLENGE

My wife challenged me to write a happy poem But damn it, I can’t!

THE DEATH OF FLIPPY

The blue whale Let out a wail

As the spear hit his hide

And came through his side.

The hunters didn’t care

That Flippy was in despair;

It didn’t matter how he’d feel,

Long as they had their meal.

They sat and watched as Flippy died

Imagining how he’d taste deep-fat-fried.

STACEY THE HEARTBREAKER

AT SIXTY-SIX YEARS AND A HANDFUL OF DAYS OLD, Harold had his heart broken by many women on different occasions, but none more literally than the day he met Stacey.

Harold was out for the count on the operating table, when Stacey tripped over her shoelace and dropped the new heart for which he had been waiting these last eight months. By the time the nurse had run across the room to where the heart had rolled, and picked it up, the doctors all agreed that it was definitely broken.

Harold never knew how much Stacey broke his heart.

MY DAD’S ARMS

NO MATTER WHAT WAS WRONG IN MY DAY, or how cold I felt, I could always find warmth in my father’s arms. All warm, safe and sound in his strong, loving embrace. Normally. Tonight was different.

Before I left the house for an evening out with my college friends, all celebrating the end of our exams, my father called out to me to put an extra layer on, as the temperature was dropping outside. Being pumped up on adrenalin, thinking about the night ahead, I ignored his advice and continued out of the front door in just my white polo shirt and light blue jeans.

The evening’s plan of attack was simple: Start at one pub in the middle of town and drink our way from pub to pub until we came to the last pub on the outskirts of the city where our other friend, Barry, worked. It was to be one shot and one pint in each bar until we met up with Barry who would give us a lift to our different homes.

The evening kicked off like any other night out on the town, before slowly getting crazier as the drinks got flowing. Some of our group were trying to pull the ladies with cheesy chat-up lines, others were dancing as though dancing a merry jig on the end of the hang man’s rope. One of our group was already being sick in the darkened alleyway and the rest of the group, myself included, were simply getting rowdier towards the locals.

I didn’t notice straight away when my dad got to Barry’s bar. I had no idea he even knew of the establishment, as he wasn’t much of a drinker. All I can presume is that one of my friends must have called him.

It was a strange sensation, being in his arms, outside the pub, and not feeling any warmth. Warmth, as previously stated, I was used to feeling in his embrace. The warmth should have been there, as looking at his face, it was definitely in his teary eyes as they stared deep into mine.

As the pool of blood flowed from underneath me and further down the path towards the knife with the dirtied blade, I laid there thinking, I hope he warms me up soon.

WALKING STICK

THE BROWN, WOODEN WALKING STICK leant against the coffee table in the lounge, where it had been placed upon receipt of it, as an unwanted eightieth birthday gift. The label was still tied around the posh leather-bound handle that begged to be caressed by the new, frail owner – offering extra support in return.

The stubborn birthday boy lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the driveway having only recently waved off his family who bought him the walking stick, believing he wasn’t able to walk unaided anymore.

Silly, stubborn, old fool.

HINDSIGHT

HINDSIGHT WAS A WONDERFUL THING. Johnny thought this as his head rolled alongside the rusting railway. “In hindsight,” he thought aloud, “perhaps sticking my head from a moving train wasn’t the smartest of choices.”

DEREK

“RUBBISH, INNIT?” WHISPERED A STRANGE LITTLE voice from behind where Tim was sitting on the cold winter’s day.

Tim was in deep thought and wasn’t expecting anyone to speak to him – so when the voice shattered his reflective thoughts, he couldn’t help but jump.

“Sorry, mate, I didn’t mean to make you jump,” continued the voice from behind, “no – that wasn’t my intention at all.”

Tim turned around to face the stranger. Deep down he didn’t want to as he had come to the park, on this miserable day, to be alone. He wanted to seek solitude having come straight from his recently-ex-fiancé.

“I’m sorry,” said Tim, “are you talking to me?”

“Of course I am,” said the stranger, “I don’t see anyone else silly enough to be out here in this weather.”

“Well did you actually want anything?”

“No. Not really. I just thought I’d pop over and say ‘ello. I saw you sitting here, all alone, and I’m all alone... just thought, you know, we could be alone together. Although technically speaking, we wouldn’t actually be alone then. Still, here I am...”

“Yes, so I can see.”

“I’m Derek, pleased to meet you.”

“Tim, and likewise,” said (rather obviously) Tim.

“Yes, it sure is rubbish innit.”

“What is?”

“The weather – it’s raining cats and dogs,” he thinks for a split second before continuing, “not literally. Truth be told I don’t actually think that is a very good saying...makes no sense. It’s not like cats and dogs are actually falling from the sky, is it?” he laughs to himself.

“Well... quite,” agreed a rather confused Tim.

“To be honest, mate, I don’t actually mind it out here today. Water off a duck’s back but you look as though you hate it.”

“I can’t say I’d really noticed the weather.”

“Not noticed it? Not noticed it? How can you not notice this?” Derek dipped his foot into the puddle splashing a little more water towards the already soaked Tim. “It’s chucking it down!” he exclaimed as an annoyed Tim shifted uneasily on the park bench.

“Look,” said Tim, “if you must know – my fiancé has recently dumped me. She was the love of my life and now she wants nothing to do with me. So, I’m sitting here, in the rain, feeling sorry for myself.”

“Oh, I see. Sorry, mate,” said Derek, “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Well as nice as it was for you to come and greet me – you are intruding so could you please leave me alone?”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to it,” said Derek.

And, with that, Derek turned away and left Tim to his thoughts. His thoughts that varied from being upset about his fiancé to utter disbelief that he had just met a talking duck called Derek.

THE APPOINTMENT

HIS HEART WAS POUNDING harder than he had felt it pound before as he held out a tentative hand, ready to rat-a-tat-tat on the hotel door. As his knuckles connected with the dark wood, close to the peep-hole, he thought a little prayer to himself, ‘Dear Lord, please let me have the right room number.’

John knew he had the correct room; the text that invited him up a few minutes earlier made sure of that. Even so – he couldn’t help but worry about the wrong person opening the door. He hadn’t seen the lady’s face. Her website showed most of her body but kept her face hidden from the dangers of friends and family members stumbling onto her well-advertised website. The last thing she needed was for her elderly father to stumble across her site and see what she actually did to earn her living.

As John listened for the door to open, he couldn’t help but smile to himself – surely it would have been safer for her to show her face on the website and risk her father’s wrath compared to the embarrassment of her non- the-wise father actually booking her for an appointment. After all – these websites weren’t the easiest to stumble across unless you were specifically looking for ‘the ultimate girlfriend experience’.

“Two seconds,” called a female voice from behind the door. John’s heart beat faster. This is it. He had been thinking about his appointment all day. The truth be told he had been looking forward to the appointment all month – when he originally booked it on a cold Sunday evening when he was feeling particularly lonely.

The website had offered everything he was looking for – a sexy brunette lady with a figure to die for, the ultimate girlfriend experience that involves passionate sex, cuddles and conversation - the ‘ultimate’ coming into play in that the nagging and moaning that most girlfriends do is something that’s kept out of the appointment.

John heard the handle twist and watched, as if in slow motion, the door opened. He had the right room.

Charlotte stood there. Her body as gorgeous as the pictures showed on her site, a warm, cheeky grin welcoming John into the room, her outfit was a tight satin Basque – enhancing her already-ample cleavage to the max. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Hi, come on in,” purred Charlotte as she opened the door wider to encourage the nervous punter to step in.

‘This is it,’ thought John as he stepped over the threshold, allowing Charlotte to close the door behind him. He turned around to take another look at his companion for the evening and was met with a warm, passionate kiss on the lips before she seductively pulled away – leaving him wanting more.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asked as she held up a bottle of champagne that she took from the bedside cabinet.

“Just a small one, please, I’m driving,” said John as he licked the strawberry flavoured lipstick from his lips.

Charlotte didn’t hesitate to pour a glass of champagne for John. Before he had come into the room she had already poured herself one – she always enjoyed a glass to herself whilst she got ready for her appointment. She poured herself another one.

“If you’d like to lie down on the bed, we’ll get the payment sorted,” she whispered softly into his ear; her dulcet tones driving him wild.

“Sure,” he replied shakily before lying on the large bed.

Charlotte sat next to him and pulled a large hacksaw from underneath the bed, “Any preference she asked?”

“The right side, please, I’m a lefty,” replied John as he closed his eyes.

“Not a problem,” said Charlotte before hastily cutting his right leg and right arm off and tossing them onto the pile she had already accumulated through out the day.

John didn’t scream. He didn’t need to. Charlotte’s soft, delicate touch meant that he felt no pain. When he booked the appointment he knew it was going to cost him an arm and a leg. It didn’t matter to him though. He knew she was going to be worth it..

THE PROJECT

‘BOREDOM’ WAS THE ONLY TRUE MOTIVE for the beginnings of the project. There was nothing else to it. Having said that - it did take ‘boredom’ a good number of years before it inspired the project. A good number of years wasted by mindless hanging around doing sod all can get too much, even for the laziest of individuals.

The project. His project.

The beauty of the project being his own was that he was his own boss. He answered to no one. If things didn’t work out – not a problem, there was no one to see and no one to criticise. Just as well really, considering he wasn’t the most skilled and would, in all probability, cock it up to some degree. Not a problem.

On the first day he simply sat around talking to himself about his ‘great and ambitious’ project. He didn’t share the ideas with anyone else. It wasn’t their business. He dreamt up grand ideas (impractical ideas). He dreamt up weird creatures that he’d bring to life (not that he knew how). He dreamt up a little pen where they could all live in perfect harmony. He even wasted time giving his little creatures names.

He wasted so much time dreaming up the ideas that, by the time his ideas had dried up, there was no time to do anything about the ones he had already thought of.

“Oh well,” he said to no one, “there’s always tomorrow.”

Indeed there would have been a ‘tomorrow’ if he hadn’t slept in, as he did most other days. By the time he rose, on the second day, it was already mid-afternoon. He knew from the moment he opened his eyes that he wouldn’t have time to do any work towards his project today.

“No point starting now,” he said to himself as he sipped from his belated morning coffee, “I won’t get anything even close to being done before it’s time to stop.”

There was no one to argue with him. It was, after all, his project. Technically he could start whenever he damn well pleased and, it so happened, he ‘damn well pleased’ to start on the following day.

“A good start,” he kidded himself on the following day as he sat admiring his handiwork.

His ‘handiwork’ happened to be a small, round piece of clay. The clay had started off being a square, with sudden drops on the edges and, to begin with, he liked it in this form. It was only when he realised people would moan about the boring square shape that he decided to get creative and roll it into a ball.

Admittedly he wanted a triangle shape but he struggled with getting the sides equal and, true to his nature, promptly gave up.

The rest of the day was, in his eyes, a well deserved break from all the hard work that he was unused to and the fourth day was another wasted day spent kicking his new ball against a wall – something he had never done before and yet enjoyed immensely.

On the next day, when he was bored with his ball games, he set about painting his sloppy creation. He had always been told that balls were supposed to be black and white so he thought he’d keep with tradition and do the same with his ball. He would have succeeded too had it not been for his severe colour blindness and, what started out as a supposedly black and white ball – ended up being a funky shade of green and blue. Still, it was his project and he didn’t care.

He simply said, “Who’s to say that all balls have to be the same colour anyway?” when he realised his mistake.

Things took a turn for the worse on the sixth day when, without warning, he violently sneezed over his project coating it in great, globules of snot.

There wasn’t a single inch that hadn’t been coated in a fine mixture of slime and dribble. When he saw what he had done he dropped the ball instantly. It was covered in his germs. He didn’t tell anyone but he suffered from OCD, something that he took medication for, and he couldn’t bring himself to wipe the ball clean.

The thought of his own germs attacking his immune system terrified him, “No, no no,” he screamed, “sod that!”

By the seventh day, the ball was kicked to the corner of the room to gather dust and he soon lost all interest with it as it sat there – coated in his bacteria.

It was from these bacteria that, millions of years later when he was long since dead, the first human evolved – Adam, closely followed by Eve.

TOMORROW

TOMORROW IS GOING TO BE A GOOD DAY. The day will start off like any other miserable day but my fortunes will change when I set foot into the office block where I work selling insurance. The first person to speak to me, tomorrow, will be my boss.

“John! Good to see you! Can you step into my office, please?” he’ll say.

At first my heart will pound harder and faster than usual. Tomorrow is the first time that I will discover my boss even remembers my name since employing me in the first place. When he calls for me, I wouldn’t be sure as to whether this would be a good sign, or a negative one.

In my first chat with my boss since taking the job, I’ll realise that he doesn’t beat around the bush and he’ll offer me my supervisor’s job. My supervisor has apparently already handed his notice in. Tomorrow will be the first I hear of this.

The new role will come with a large increase in wage and more responsibility, obviously I’d accept and my boss and I would shake hands to seal the deal whilst the new contract gets written up.

With a fresh air of confidence and a positive outlook on my day, tomorrow lunch time I’d also win one pound on a scratch card – the same style game card I buy every other day despite my loyalty to the card never being rewarded with a substantial win. That one-pound would then be placed on a lottery lucky dip for tomorrow evening – an evening where I will find myself a new millionaire having come up trumps with the numbers. My newfound wealth will definitely help my partner and I deal with our current financial difficulties.

Yes, there is no doubting tomorrow will be a truly exceptional day and, as I look down at myself, swinging from the rafters with the noose tight around my neck, I can’t help feeling – giving up today was a silly thing to do.

CHANGING

IT’S A NORMAL PART OF THE AGING PROCESS. That’s what the doctor said, as though his comments were going to make her feel any better about going through the menopause. It may well have been a ‘normal part of the aging process’ but it made Carolyn feel old.

She sat on the bus, having left the doctor’s surgery, clutching the leaflet tightly in her hand. With the recent hot flashes she had been suffering, and boy had she been suffering, she had hoped that her doctor would give her some pills to combat them and she’d be on her way - not a bloody leaflet; a leaflet that explained to her that this is one of many possible symptoms that she may have to experience.

If you've had one of these hot flashes, there's no mistaking it: the sudden, intense, hot feeling on your face and upper body. This could be preceded or accompanied by a rapid heartbeat and sweating, nausea, dizziness, anxiety, headache, weakness, or a feeling of suffocation. The doctor had even told her that some women experience an "aura," an uneasy feeling just before the hot flash, which lets them know what's coming. The flash is followed by a flush, leaving you reddened and perspiring. The doctor also said that a chill can lead off an episode or be the finale.

Carolyn flicked through the leaflet, the great leaflet, and read up on the ways she could combat the hot flashes. The whole thing was a joke. It told her to dress in layers or keep some ice water close to hand so that she could sip it – to cool down her insides. ‘How very practical,’ she thought. She always carries a little bottle of ice water around in her small handbag. Another way of combating it – take a cool shower. She worked in a small office; the last time she checked there wasn’t a shower in the close vicinity. It was just another stupid suggestion.

Her doctor had told her that, if she didn’t have any luck with the suggestions in the leaflet, he could always put her on some medication. Why he couldn’t just do that anyway was beyond her.

If the hot flashes weren’t enough to deal with, Carolyn read that she could also have to deal with depression, fatigue, memory problems and weight gain. ‘Not to worry though – it’s all perfectly natural.’ The doctor’s words echoed through her mind. Great.

The worst part was that there was no time limit on these symptoms. There was no set period of how long she would have to suffer as her body went through the change. It could last a short time or it could happen over the space of a few years.

Carolyn fretted about how she could tell her far- from-understanding husband about her current state though. He was already fed up with having to sleep with the windows wide open, even though it was a bitter winter outside, and he was fed up with having her toss and turn all night kicking the covers off of them both. She was having hot flashes and he was suffering hypothermia – not that he voiced his complaints for very long; not with the mood swings that she was prone to.

Carolyn didn’t need to worry though, for on the following morning her husband awoke in their bed, with a slight chill, to find that the change was already complete; Carolyn had changed into a beautiful butterfly.

THE LARDY-LARDY GIRL

THERE IS A SAYING THAT GOES “inside every fat girl there is a thin girl screaming to get out”. In the case of Hermione Goodman it was a very apt saying for, in a fit of jealous rage at the sight of a perfect size-eight girl, Hermione couldn’t help but to gobble her up.

The other inmates, at the prison where Hermione ended up, can still hear the size-eight girl’s screaming voice from within Hermione’s wobbling, great, gelatinous gut.

“Help me!” screams the digested girl.

“Help me!” screams the digested girl’s echo.

TIME

JOAN HAD NO IDEA WHAT THE TIME WAS. The clock, which sat on her living room mantle-piece ever since she moved into her little cottage, had stopped working half an hour ago. At least, she thinks it was half an hour ago. She couldn’t be sure. The clock, on the living room mantle-piece, had stopped working. Between you and me – it had actually been stopped for just over two hours now, but don’t tell her that because she would only fret at how late her guest was.

Joan wasn’t sure of the exact time her guest was going to show up but she did know that he was already late. Don’t ask how she knew this. She just knew and lateness was a trait in people that Joan hated most of all. Whenever she was due to go and see people, or do something, she always made sure that she left enough time to get to her destination. Whenever she was due to go out she made sure that the things she would need were ready the day before. She made sure she treble-checked the times of her local bus, for she didn’t drive, and she made sure she even listened to the local radio stations, on her little wireless, on the morning of her trip out. By doing the latter she could even be aware of any potential problems with traffic – and take the necessary action.

Joan looked at the broken clock again and made a ‘tut’ noise. The clock was still broken. Her guest was still late. She looked around the small living-room and picked up her knitting that rested on the floor by her feet. She thought, if she started this, her guest was bound to show up. If he still didn’t show up, she thought, at least she may have time to finish the jumper that she was knitting for her pet dog – a project that she started several years ago when her pet dog was still alive. Rather annoyingly, not long after she had started, Fido had caught a little chill and ended up being put down. Nevertheless – she had always been determined to, one day, finish her little project. Her late husband (another late person!) always joked that she could dig up the dog, put the jumper on him, and then rebury him whenever she did get around to finishing it.

Sure enough, just as she started with the click- clacking of the needles, there was a gentle knock, knock, knocking on the front door. Joan made a little ‘tut’ noise and dropped her knitting back to the floor, before standing up and toddling off to answer the front door.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” she shouted as she opened the door to her visitor.

“I’m terribly sorry, Joan,” said her guest as he stepped over the threshold.

Closing the door behind him, Joan said, “Well I made you a sandwich but it’s probably ruined now – you go through to the lounge and I guess I’ll have to make you another.” She beckoned him through to the lounge.

“Thank you, I wouldn’t mind a cucumber sandwich if you’re making it fresh. And a nice cup of tea, if it’s not too much bother. I can’t remember the last time I stopped for a break.”

She beckoned him to sit on the sofa, “I’ll see what I can do.” With that Joan left her guest to his own devises and went through to the kitchen to make him his sandwich.

Her guest couldn’t tell you how long it took Joan to make the fresh pot of tea and a generous round of sandwiches because the clock, on the living room mantle- piece, was broken. I can tell you though. It took her just under five minutes – not a bad time considering she even got her best china out in a vain attempt to impress her guest.

“So what took you so long then?” said Joan as she sat opposite her new friend, “I’ve just been sitting here, waiting for you.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” said the visitor as he took a bite of the cucumber sandwich, “There was a big accident on the dual carriageway. There were bodies everywhere!”

“I didn’t hear anything on the wireless,” said Joan as she noisily sipped at her tea – the noisy sipping an attempt to show her frustration at his time keeping.

Her visitor didn’t say anything. There was no point. He knew that Joan was the sort of woman who, even if she had heard something on the wireless, would always say the opposite just to be awkward. He could tell that she was your stereotypical, bitter old woman; who smelt slightly of fishcakes. He had seen many women who were like Joan.

He smiled politely, “Lovely cucumber sandwiches.”

“Well, do hurry up and finish them, we are quite late enough already. I have people waiting for me, you know. They’ll be wondering where I am.”

“There’s time,” he replied softly with another munch of his tea. “This really is lovely, thank you.”

Joan couldn’t tell you how long it took her guest to finish the sandwich because the clock, on the living room mantle-piece, was broken. I can tell you though. It took him just under six minutes and thirty-three seconds - not a bad time considering the small mouthfuls he was taking; almost as if to say he was in charge.

“Lovely,” he said as he rested the empty plate on the coffee table that sat in the centre of the room. “Are you ready to leave then?”

“I was ready quite some time ago, thank you very much!” moaned Joan, although she couldn’t tell you how long ago she was ready because the clock... you get the picture.

Joan and her visitor stood up and walked into the hallway where Joan took hold of her coat, which she had prepared earlier.

“Is it cold out there?” she asked.

“No, it’s quite the opposite. Nice and hot,” he said, “I’m not sure you’ll need that.”

Joan reluctantly put her coat down again and opened the door. Her guest stepped out first and then, with a final look around, Joan stepped out into the brilliant-white light – the door slammed shut behind her.

No sooner had Joan left her humble little cottage, the clock, on the living room mantle-piece, tick-tocked back into life. Joan’s body, which sat on the sofa with her knitting in her lap, did not.

THE BEAST VS THE WIFE

Deep from beyond the thick fog,

Way up over the watery bog,

Came a truly horrific sound –

Like the howl of a monster hound!

It echoed throughout the land

And up to the pub, “The Outlaw’s Band”

Where all the locals all hid with fear,

Some of them pissed-up on cheap beer.

The barman said, “Did anyone else hear a female yelp?

One of us should see if we can help!”

A reply came, “Fuck that for a laugh,

None of us here are that daft!

We’re not going to risk our life

For some farmer’s unfortunate wife!”

“I recognised that cry,” said another voice,

“It sounded like none other than my wife, Joyce!

I really do hope so – I’m so fed up of her,

It’ll be great if she’s been eaten by a predator!

She’s really made my life so sour,

Now she is eaten?? This really is happy hour!”

THE TOOTH FAIRY

The tooth fairy liked to collect loose teeth.

She’d lift the pillow and have a look beneath.

When she found times pretty dire,

She was even known to take them with pliers.

A LONELY LIFE

I’m scared to die alone In my quiet suburban home,

My rotting corpse smell

Alerting the neighbours I’m unwell.

THE PIGEON

The bird flew up high into the clear-blue sky

Then plummeted to the floor – how’d he die?

DADDY DEAREST

It was a dark evening and I was fucking about,

I saw my dad, crept up behind and let out a shout!

I was only playing, didn’t mean any harm

But next thing I know – he’s grabbing his arm.

He let out a shriek and dropped to the floor,

Within a second, he was knocking at Death’s Door.

The paramedic came and said I no longer had a dad,

I have to say, I’ve never seen my mum so mad.

She spent the rest of the day giving me flack,

All because I gave daddy, dearest, a heart attack.

TEETH

I’m still awake

With raging toothache,

Think all my teeth have started to rot.

I’ll probably end up losing the lot.

I’ll have to have all my food through a straw,

Nothing solid for me anymore!

PILLS

The best thing for suicide

Would have to be a tab of cyanide

But the closest poison I have is some bleach

And even that’s kept from my reach.

What I could get though was a headache pill,

I grabbed a handful, necked it, and did feel pretty ill.

But, alas, it wasn’t the case

That I would wake in a better place.

When I came to, I was still in master’s flat.

Little old me – the world’s unluckiest cat.

BABY JOY?

People said that maybe,

Just maybe,

Tracy was pregnant with a baby.

But sadly it was just a rumour,

The big, round bump was actually a tumour.

THE HERMIT

I wish I could purchase a permit

That would allow me to be a hermit

And live far away from all the strife

Of every day, busybody life.

All these people getting in my face

And trying to put me in my place

And try, try, try as I might

I just don’t see what gives them the right.

If I could I’d move to a shed in Kuwait

But it could be tricky – for I’m only eight.

ED

I once had a hamster called Ed

Who, tragically, is pretty much dead!

But do not shed a tear

And do not fear

For his little life didn’t end up going to waste

As I squished him up - used him as a sandwich paste!

GERBILS

I couldn’t believe when my gerbil died

I just sat there and simply cried!

I never saw him on my seat

Now when I look down, all I see is his feet.

On a positive note – with him wedged up my arse

At least I don’t have to bury him under the grass!

LITTLE BOY BEN

Little Boy Ben got up out of bed

Scratched his really sleep head

And went off for a little tinkle,

Looking out at the stars that twinkle.

When who did he suddenly see?

None other than little ol’ me

Sitting up his neighbours tree

With a telescope stuck to my face

Making it easier to scope out his place.

As he quickly finished having his piss

I threw him a wave and a cheeky kiss!

From that moment on – every night

Since I gave him his nasty fright,

Whenever he needed to go for a wee

He couldn’t help but think of me!

His mother was known to be said,

“I don’t know what’s going on in his head

For he never used to wet the bed.”

NIGHTY-NIGHT

I lay here unable to sleep a wink

My brain won’t shut off; just continues to think

It should be easy to turn off after my hard day –

But then it’s not too comfortable on the motorway!

It’d probably be easier to sleep in a bed

Instead of using a kerb, as a pillow, for my head

And as a lorry rushes right on past me

I wonder, ‘what sort of day will tomorrow be?’

The Body

I closed the front door shutting myself in my small house. Just me and him now. No more interruptions. No more people coming by. Just the two of us. My final opportunity to talk to him. My final chance to say what’s on my mind. I took a deep breath and walked through to the sitting room where my father was waiting. Where my father was resting.

The furniture had been pushed to one side. I’d done that the previous day to make room for when the coffin was brought in to rest.  It’s in the middle of his room. His box. What’s to be his final resting place. I sat down on one of the dining room chairs - which I’d brought through from the other room - and just sat there. Silence. I can’t remember the last time we’ve had silence between the two of us. Usually one of us is shouting at the other. Normally, truth be told, it’s him shouting at me. If not shouting then putting me down anyways. Condescending remarks about something or other; usually to do with my job or what I’m wearing.

“Still working at such and such?” he’d ask. I’d say yes and he’d immediately follow it up with, “When are you going to get yourself a real job?” and then he’d make a point of telling me how well my brother was doing. He’s proud of my brother. The one of us who actually did well at school and went to university. My brother the doctor. Dad couldn’t understand how I couldn’t do it if my brother had managed it. If it’s possible for one of his sons to go all the way through the educational system then why wouldn’t it be possible for his other son to do the same? He didn’t understand how my mind isn’t as good with academic type stuff as my brothers was. Funny really. You’d think he would understand. I mean it wasn’t as though he made it through college. Hell - from what mother told me - he barely scraped through and finished at school. More time in the detention classroom as opposed to anywhere else in the building. Of course he’d forgotten about his own school days whenever we discussed mine. And if I did bring his days up he’d have a go at me for changing the subject or he’d think I was trying to blame him for my shortcomings, “Oh so it’s my fault then, is it? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

Well now it has come to this. No more judging me. No more condescending remarks. No more words which would tear me down destroying my dreams bit by bit - piece by piece. It’s peaceful. It’s just as I expected it to be from the days where I’d dreamt of him as dead. The days, more so when I was younger, where I wished it upon him.

It feels strange sitting here looking at his final resting place. I feel as though I am supposed to say something but, really, there’s nothing to say. Sitting here, I had prepared for everything but that. I paused a moment to reflect - do I even need to say anything? Is it not just perfectly acceptable to sit here in silence? Is that not the done thing? If I don’t say anything is there a chance I’d regret it by tomorrow morning when it’s time to take the coffin away again? My one and only chance to talk to him, for a final time, gone forever?

I squirmed in my chair. I guess the whole point of having him here like this was to be able to say goodbye to him. Supposed to get everything off my chest whilst I have a chance to do go.

“I was never good enough for you, was I?” I said - breaking the peaceful silence which filled the house. “You know, despite what you believe, I never actually meant to disappoint you. It’s not something I planned to do when I woke up each morning - back when I used to live under the same roof as you. It’s not as though my alarm went off and I jumped from the bed and asked the world what I could possibly do to annoy you that day. I know that’s how you felt sometimes. You felt as though I was living my life this way just to annoy you. I’d hear you and mum talking; she’d be there defending my choices and saying why I’m the way I am and you’d be there - not listening to her - just running me down.” I paused a moment as I remembered when I did try talking to dad about something I believed to be positive. It was a job promotion that I’d got. I went from a general assistant to a team leader. It wasn’t much of a promotion but it was better than nothing and it meant I was bringing in a little extra cash. I think it was an extra hundred pounds a month - if memory serves correctly. I was so happy.

“Hardly worth bothering with!” dad snorted when I told him. Mum was happy but dad just thought it was pointless. A waste of time and effort. Energy which would have been better spent looking for a real job instead continuing where I was; a little fast food chain on the outskirts of town. I don’t know - I think it embarrassed him. Me working there. I think he was worried one of his well-to-do friends would come in, perhaps with their children, and see me working the tills or flipping burgers. But I was happy there. It paid the bills and gave me the time needed to work on following my dreams as an artist thanks to the various hours they gave. Perks of shift work as opposed to be a normal nine to five.

“Most fathers would be happy to see their son pursuing their dreams,” I said to the box, “but not you, you resented the fact I was doing it. Why? What difference did it make to you? My bills were paid, I had little to no debt, I was working hard. I could have been out most nights with my friends drinking but I didn’t. And even that was wrong! You’d have a go at me for staying in to paint despite offers to go out and mix with people.” The more I thought about it the more I realised that everything I did was wrong according to dad. Okay maybe ‘wrong’ was the incorrect word but - nothing was ever good enough. Even the times when I thought I was doing something which pleased him - that ended up being wrong too.

Like Mother’s Day.

“You walked into the kitchen. I wasn’t living there at this point. I had my own place. I’d gone over to their house on Mother’s Day to cook mum a meal. You remember this? Money was tight for both my brother and I and I thought it’d be nice to cook her a nice roast meal with all the trimmings. It’s not as though I can’t cook after all and at least it meant mum got to put her feet up and take it easy for the day. I’d do the cooking and my brother would do the cleaning of the plates and sides. Seemed pretty fair to us. I got mum a card and my brother had gone one better (as per usual) and purchased her a card along with a huge bunch of flowers. So anyway - you walked into the kitchen. You just stopped there in the middle of the room and looked around at the mess - not forgetting I was in the middle of cooking at this point!”

“She isn’t even worth a trip to a restaurant?” dad had asked.

“And you walked out. All through the meal you moaned about the food. Meat was too tough, vegetables were overdone, pudding was cold...But - of course - brother did a simply wonderful job of cleaning.” I wiped a tear from my eye as the memories - and hurt I felt - started to hit home. I promised myself I wouldn’t cry damn it. To be honest - I wasn’t sure if’d even be able to cry. Whether it would be possible to spill a tear over this asshole.

“Next year,” he’d said, “forward planning is required I think. You know when Mother’s Day is so you have plenty of time to save to take your mother out.”

“I’ll never forget your face when I did show up the following year with money in my back pocket. Just as instructed I took mum out. We went to one of the finest restaurants I could find and afford...And you stayed at home where I left you. Well sorry dad but - you know - it was Mother’s Day and not Father’s Day.” I laughed at the fond memory. “I remember thinking I’d won that round between us. I remember feeling on top of the world as I’d managed to get one up on you.” I fell silent for a moment or two letting the silence fill the void between us. I felt my eyes well up once more. “I am sorry though, dad. Despite what you may think, despite what you may believe, I never meant to disappoint you. I never meant to let you down all the time. Wish I knew why you found it so easy to be disappointed by me. All being said and done - I did love you. I guess that’s why I wanted one more night. One more night to sit and talk to you.”

A knock at the door distracted me from my heartfelt confession.

“Well,” I finished, “it’s too late now.”

Another knock on the door interrupted me again. Impatient asshole. I stood up and walked from the lounge, into the hallway where I took a hold of a shovel. I opened the door and smiled.

“What’s so important?” dad asked. He was standing there, in his business suit where he’d come straight from work, with an annoyed look upon his face. To be honest - I’m surprised he even came round. I thought he’d refuse and I’d actually have to go to him to do this.

“This is!” I said with a grin on my face.

Before dad had a chance to say anything, or even react, I smacked him full on in the face with the shovel. He dropped to the floor like a sack of spuds. I’m not sure whether he’s unconscious or whether the first blow was enough to kill him but it’s not important. If he does wake up - it’ll be inside his coffin, deep down in the hole I’d previously dug in my garden.

“Night-night, dad.”

The End

UNTIL THE END OF TIME

“I WILL LOVE YOU UNTIL THE END OF TIME!” he had once shouted from the rooftops. A grand gesture, she had always thought, but he didn’t need to shout it for, at the time, she was stood right next to him. She could understand the requirement of shouting had she been on street level and he had been on the roof but.... well, shouting when he was next to her just seemed a little pointless. Some could say, and some did say, that it could have been a little aggressive. But she didn’t see any aggressiveness in his behaviour - she knew he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Unless it was one of those really annoying flies that repeatedly buzz your head or keep coming back to your food, after you’ve swished them away for the umpteenth time - but they deserve to be swatted, she thought.

The whole grand gesture on the rooftops, however, just made his sudden disappearance all the more confusing. How could someone be shouting from the rooftops, about his undying love, one minute and - vanished the next.

Lauren wouldn’t let herself get upset, though. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. If he didn’t want to be with her, she thought, fine. She certainly wasn’t going to be the sort of girl that needed to beg a man to go out with her.

At twenty-three years old, she knew time was on her side and she’d find someone else. She’d find someone better. Someone that respected her. Someone, at the very least, who would do the honourable thing and break up with her properly if they did suddenly decide they no longer wanted to see her.

She believed, and as a narrator I’m inclined to agree, she deserved that much as least.

Her mind spiraled between wondering where he disappeared to and what was wrong with her - after all, there must be something wrong with her to cause someone to suddenly disappear from her life without so much of a text!

Mind you, she thought, a text probably would have made the situation worse - texting someone, she continued to think, that you no longer wish to go out with them is probably one of the most cowardly relationship acts you can do in this modern age we live in.

But at least she would have known!

It was the not knowing that was making the whole ugly mess harder to get her head around. Last week he was all for buying her a ring and making it official but, two weeks into a relationship, she said to him it was probably a bit to soon for that and maybe they should just take things slower - continue enjoying themselves and see where they ended up. She worried that, with an engagement so soon, it could change things and she didn’t want that. She liked things just the way they were.

Maybe that was it.

Maybe he took what she had said completely wrong - maybe he thought she was turning him down and that’s why he left. Should she have just said ‘yes’ to the ring. After all, she could have worn the ring and told her family and friends it was a friendship ring - let him tell his family and friends whatever he wanted. Would it really have changed anything between them? Had she made the biggest mistake of her relatively short life?

She sat back on her bed, in her cosy little bedroom which had been her safe haven since he had disappeared, and looked down to her hand - trying to picture what sort of ring he would have chosen.

Of course, she had tried calling him. She’d left numerous voice mail messages - ranging from the curious ‘where are you’ to the more aggressive-in-tone messages once she had realised she had been abandoned. Ten calls in total. That’s not over the top. Ten calls over a couple of days doesn’t scream ‘desperation’. And neither did the forty-three text messages she had sent - again, ranging in their general mood - or the five texts she had saved to drafts, they didn’t scream ‘desperation’ either.

Perhaps one more call?

One more call for old time’s sake? After all, she had enjoyed where the relationship was heading. Even if he didn’t love her as much as he shouted, from the rooftop if you remember, maybe he could explain why the sudden change of heart.

Yes, one more call.

Eleven calls, over the space of a couple of days, doesn’t make her desperate either.

She reached to the bedside cabinet where he mobile phone sat and picked it up, before selecting ‘John’ from her contacts.

‘It’s ringing,’ she thought, ‘no turning back now.’

* * * * *

John’s phone flashed up another missed call.

Eleven in a couple of days.

“Someone’s popular,” said the mortician as he leaned over John’s body with a sharp blade. “Now, lets get you open and see what went wrong.”

It was the ‘not knowing’ that drove him wild.

~ FIN

THE LITTLE GIRL

They took a while to get there but, finally, my eyes are open.

They’re taking even longer to focus.

Nothing new.

Everything about me takes longer to work after a heavy night and, last night, was most definitely a heavy night. Probably one of the heaviest nights I’ve had for a long time.

In fact...

This isn’t my bed.

“What the fu-” I muttered, as I cast my gaze around the room.

Not a hospital room.

Pink walls, a flowery duvet covering the double bed that I occupy with my sweaty body, another symptom of the heavy drinking that must have occurred, a pile of assorted teddy bears strewn across the otherwise tidy floor.

Definitely not a hospital room.

“Hello?” I feebly call out. Although I’m curious to see what I went home with, I’m not in a hurry to engage in a conversation with someone who I just don’t remember; waking up with strangers and having a conversation with them whilst trying desperately hard to piece together the previous night is never anything less than awkward.

Thankfully, my feeble call isn’t heard and no one comes. I’ll try again in a minute - just give my brain a little bit more time to adjust to the harshness of the morning.

Is it even morning? No clock on the wall. It could be any time. I doubt it’s later than the morning.

Maybe late morning?

Bacon and eggs would help me think clearer. Every sufferer of a hang-over should be prescribed bacon and eggs.

And French Toast.

Maybe a sausage?

As my mind focuses more on the food, than where I am, my stomach growls loudly as though it were telling me that I’m not going to get any food until I meet my host.

God, I hope she’s pretty.

“Hello?” I say. I wouldn’t have said it was a shout but it was definitely louder than my earlier feeble attempt.

Footsteps.

I can hear footsteps from beyond the closed bedroom door.

“Hello?” I repeat. “That was some night!”

Slowly the bedroom door opens. I can’t see who is stood in the doorway, the door blocks me. I’d get up to greet them but my brain still feels fuzzy and I think I’d rather see them from the safety of the duvet - something to hide behind if they’re anything less than what I’m worth.

“Is your head hurting as much as mine?” I ask.

“Why’s your head hurting?” came a little voice.

A.

Very.

Little.

Voice.

“I can’t see you,” I said.

Slowly, as though unsure of whether they should come and see me, a young girl stepped into the room, from behind the door that blocked her from my sight.

Awkward.

Definitely awkward.

“Why’s your head hurting?” she repeated.

A teddy bear hung from her hand, by it’s foot where she held it - a teddy bear similar to the ones already on the bedroom floor.

“Hi,” I said, taken aback that, whoever I came home with, would allow their daughter into the room.

Another quick look around the room.

The pink room.

Was this the little girl’s room?

“Hi,” I repeated, as I pulled the duvet up to hide any hint of nudity from the innocent girl’s sight.

“Hello,” she said; a voice so pure and innocent. She shouldn’t be seeing me.

“Is your mummy around?” I asked.

The little girl shook her head, “She had to go out.”

I felt naked under the duvet but, another glance around the room, I couldn’t see my clothes anywhere, “Do you know where?”

The little girl shrugged.

What did I come home with? Did this person really put me in her child’s bedroom? More to the point - did she really leave me, a relative stranger, in the house with her daughter?

Well done, me, you’ve really excelled yourself this time.

“Mummy said you should drink,” the little girl dropped the teddy bear on the floor, with the other bears, and walked from the room before coming back clutching a glass of water in her dainty hands. She crossed the room towards me, a look of sheer determination as she tried desperately hard not to spill any of the water. When she was close enough, I took hold of the glass as she carefully handed it over.

“Thank you. So where’s your mummy?”

“She had to go out. She’ll be back soon.”

I still couldn’t believe it, “Where’d she have to go? Did she leave me a message?”

“She said you can’t leave.”

I could leave if I wanted to. Part of me, though, was curious to see what I had gone home with? Certainly not a very good mother, that’s for sure.

“You should get some rest,” said the little girl - a look of genuine concern on her face. She didn’t wait for my reaction (which, by the by, was one of confusion to such a statement), she simply about turned and walked from the room, closing the door behind her.

I couldn’t be sure but I thought I heard a key turn in the bedroom door’s lock.

Couldn’t be sure, though.

Alone at last, I took the opportunity to climb from the bed - whoa - unstable on my feet. Definitely too much alcohol last night.

Where are my clothes?

Normally, after a heavy night, especially one where I get lucky, I just get into where ever I end up and throw them on the floor - not last night, though.

Nothing on the floor.

I couldn’t very well leave the bedroom, not naked. Not with a little girl outside.

I looked toward the window, will the world outside give me any clues as to where I am? Slowly I stumble towards the closed curtains and throw them back to let in the brilliant sunshin- there’s no window? What the hell? The curtains simply hanging in front of the painted wall.

Well, this is just fucking brilliant.

I trip my way back to the bed and pull the duvet off before wrapping myself in it - hiding my awkward nudity. Turning my attention to the door, I try the handle.

Locked.

Damn it.

“Little girl?” I call out, in the hope that she comes back and opens the door.

I listen out for her. I can’t hear anything. More importantly, I can’t hear her coming back. Perhaps she didn’t hear me. I call again, “Hey!” A rattle the door by the handle - maybe she’ll hear the door if she can’t hear my voice. Maybe.

Again, I stop and listen.

Nothing.

“HEY!” I shout as I rattle the door again. “HEEEEEEEEEY!”

I don’t care how little she is, enough is enough. As soon as the door opens, I’ll throw her out of the way and get the fuck out of here. I’m not sure what sort of weird set up they have going on here but - I’ve had enough.

In fact, when I get out of here - I’m never drinking again.

Well maybe not ‘never’.

“You should be in bed resting,” came a little voice from the other side.

She’s back!

“Can you open the door?” I ask in the most reasonable sounding voice I can muster up.

“I can’t. You need to be in bed resting.”

“I spilt my drink, though. I’m thirsty.”

Silence.

“How about I climb back into bed and you fetch me another glass of water?”

Silence.

“Hello?” I ask. Is she still there?

“Okay but get back into bed. You’re not supposed to be out of it.”

“Okay, thank you.”

I hear her footsteps walk down the hallway. Little shit. At first I was shocked that someone would leave me alone with their child - even though they didn’t know me. And now I’m just irritated by the audacity of this little girl to lock me in her room!

Ssh. Footsteps. She’s coming back.

“Are you in bed?”

I don’t answer her.

“Mister?”

Wait for it.... wait for it....

I hear the key enter the door’s lock. That’s my cue! As soon as I hear the lock ‘click’ back, I pull the door open - causing the startled little girl to jump back and drop the glass of water she had fetched.

“Thank you,” I said as I picked her up and dropped her back into the bedroom - closing the door behind her. “See how you like it!” I locked the door and turned around to survey the hallway - a very long hallway.

What?

The floor is concrete - painted a faint blue colour with pieces of paint having been chipped away. The walls - white - also with the paint chipped away in places. A decaying building. Who did I go home with?

Keeping the duvet close I start to make my way down the hallway; doors lining the walls the whole way down. My brain is still struggling from the previous night’s activities and this whole set-up isn’t helping me remember things.

Where the hell am I?

I reach the first door and curiousity is screaming at me - telling me to have a peak inside - after all, it might give some idea as to where I am.

I take a quick look around to make sure I’m still alone and then turn the handle. Locked. The second door I come across, in the hallway, is also locked.

A few more handles twisted; more locked doors.

Only one door left now.

Is there any point in even trying it? I do anyway.

CLICK

Open.

Slowly, I take a peep inside.

* * * * *

My head is pounding; like I’ve been hit my a train.

Where am I?

In a bed.

How’d I get here?

“Evening, sleepy-head!” she said.

I opened my eyes. A woman was stood above me, looking down at me - a smile on her face.

“And what were you doing out of bed?”

“W-Where...” my speech feels stuttered. It’s hard to talk. I feel groggy.

“Ssh! Probably best you don’t try and speak. The important thing is - you’re back in bed where you belong! We don’t need you talking now and making your belly wibble wobble all over the place... not whilst we’re operating!”

I try and lift my head to see what she’s talking about but it’s hard to move. It feels heavier than usual.

“Is this the kidney, mummy?”

The Little Girl’s voice. Came from further down the bed. I struggle again to lift my head and manage to raise it enough to see where the little girl is. She’s sat on my legs - why can’t I feel her? - a bloody scalpel in her hand. She’s pointing to something....

“Is it?” she asks again.

The woman, by my side peers down to what the little girl’s spare hand is pointing to, “I seriously doubt it, sweetie-pie, you haven’t cut in the right place for starters... No, see, that’s the appendix.”

I try and moan - what are they doing? Where am I? What’s happening....?

The woman continues, “You need to cut into the side, just below the ribs.....” the woman stops and turns back to me, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to greet you when you woke up earlier but I had to finish off with another patient - heart donor. Very nice chap, met him in the same club we met.... anyway, that’s by the by, you may want to go back to sleep for this...”

She pulls something out of her pocket - what is it?

A syringe.

She looks down at me and smiles, “Don’t worry, I’m sure you remember, this doesn’t hurt one bit.” She stops and looks back to the little girl, “Bless, she’s only seven years old but she insisted on doing this herself. It’s just a shame her knowledge of the human body isn’t up to par. Still, can’t fault her keen-ness to learn!” She jabs downwards but I don’t feel a thing.

Everything just feels..... numb......

The woman gives me a wink, “We thank you for this and, if you survive, I’m sure little Chloe here will thank you too.”

She kisses me on the cheek but, again, I feel nothing - just a single tear roll from my tired eye.

Very tired eyes.

Eyelids heavy...

~ FIN

“I Lay Still”

“How’s it going champ?” my friend asked as he looked down to where I was laying on my back.

That’s a rhetorical question - yeah?

“I saw the mess you made of the car! Jesus!” he continued, ignoring me. I guess it was a rhetorical question. After all, I’m the one stuck here much to my annoyance - and own stupidity. My friend continued, “They say were you over the limit. Wish I’d had known at the time, I’d have driven you where you needed to go. Unless you were going out just for the sake of having an accident?”

Not really! It was just that - an accident! You think I want to be lying here on my back with you all crowding around me?

“Should have known something like this was going to happen. It was just a matter of time. You’ve not been yourself since Catherine...”

The whore.

“...since Catherine left,” my friend finished. “I haven’t seen her - probably feels guilty. Too guilty to come. You seen her?”

I didn’t say anything.

My friend shrugged and muttered something about seeing me soon before he moved from my limited line of sight. Kind of glad he’s gone, to be honest, he seemed pretty judgmental - as though this was my fault. Well, technically, I guess it was. Even so. I’m the one who had the accident. I’m the one who’s, no doubt, in trouble with the police. I don’t need my supposed friends judging me too. Be nice if they could just be here to support me.

It’s been a week now since the accident. They were right; I was over the limit. At least three times over, I reckon. Probably doesn’t help that I’m so skinny. Skinnier now, mind you. A week since the accident and I’ve been on my back since. Occasionally people have moved me into a different position but I always end up on my back again. I guess they think it’s comfier for me - perhaps better for me in the long run? I don’t know. It’s just my back is starting to hurt a little bit. Not a lot. Just enough for it to be annoying. Still, I can’t complain seeing as it was my fault.

Just wish I could get up and move around a little but - in my current state - it’s frowned upon. Pretty much impossible too. Stupid. I was so stupid. One less drink and I might be walking today instead of being stuck here.

Such an idiot.

Has it really been a week? Doesn’t time fly. A week and my relatives, and friends for that matter, are only just coming to visit me. Nice to know they care - eventually. Be nicer if they could have staggered the visits out a little though. I’ve only seen a couple of them and I’m already pretty tired.

Wonder if there’s something I can take to waken me up a little. Should have asked one of them to sneak me in an energy drink - or something.

Oh, hi mum.

My mum leaned down so I could see her.

“Hi,” her voice is quiet. One word and I can already detect it sounds as though she’s trying not to cry. Probably ashamed of me. Her drink-driving son. Such a disappointment. Only passed my test two years ago, when I turned eighteen, and already I’ve crashed my car. She should be thankful it wasn’t her car. It’s not as though she’s never let me drive it before now. “Your sister’s wedding was lovely. We wished you could have seen it but, as instructed, we took lots of pictures and I believe your Uncle Frank filmed it. So, you know, perhaps...” she stopped talking. “We still think it could have been nice if we’d cancelled it - just for a little while...”

No way! The amount of time and effort she put into it! Not a chance. I don’t need to ruin that too.

My sister has been organising the wedding for over a year. At least, that’s how long she has been chatting about it to me. For all I know - she could have been planning it for a lot longer. Regardless, I didn’t need her to postpone it for me. That wouldn’t have been fair. Besides which, the family probably would have hated me that little bit more for delaying something so special. As mum said - there’s pictures at least.

Mum held up a small wallet of pictures, “Here’s the photos,” she said. She put them down on my chest.

Thanks! I’m sure I’ll get someone to hold them up for me later.

“Your father is here,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind but he insisted.”

What? I do mind actually.

“Just...Give him a chance,” mum said. She kissed her fingertip and pressed it against my forehead as though she didn’t want to be seen actually kissing me. Am I that shameful to her now? Jesus - it was a fucking accident. These things happen from time to time and, yes, sometimes they happen in your own family. It’s not as though we can’t learn from them! Mum moved from my line of vision. I feel too ashamed to cry but I wish she’d come back. Just for a little longer.

I’ve missed her.

Even if her breath did smell of the garlic she obviously ate last night.

My mum’s friendly face was replaced with my father’s stern expression; an expression I was used to for it was the one he often used when addressing me - at least, it was when we last properly spoke during the last time I disappointed him. I can’t remember what that occasion was. Hard to keep track. Surprising really - considering there have been so many.

The disappointing son.

Quite funny really; I disappointed them as soon as I was born into the world. They had wanted a girl. Ah well, they had me. I’m sure I wasn’t always a disappointment. Well - even if I was - tough really. Mum’s gone through the change now so the only way they’ll have a girl is if they adopt.

“I’m sorry, son,” said dad. His stern expression melted away. Well this is new.

What? Can you repeat that? You know - loud enough so the other relatives can hear you.

In my twenty short years, on this planet, I think that was the first time dad had actually apologised to me. It’s actually made me feel a little weird inside.

“I’m sorry for everything,” he continued.

I still think it’s typical of him to come in now, though, when I can’t swing for him. Apologies be damned, I’ve wanted to take a swing for him since our last fall out - whatever it was about. I just remember he pissed me off. Hmmm - I wonder if there’s a button I can press to get someone to come in and take a swing at him on my behalf? Doubtful.

Dad’s looking at me as though he’s waiting for some kind of answer. I’ve not giving him one yet. He can stew a little while longer. I’m sure we’ll make it up in time but all the time he is feeling guilty and I’m lying here. Well - be rude not to milk this a little while longer. At least it puts off the lecture I’m due for breaking my car and drink driving.

Dad turned around as though someone else had caught his attention. Man I wish I could see the rest of the room and not just stare up to the ceiling - not knowing what’s going on is really starting to stress me out. Dad nodded.

What is it?

He moved from my line of sight without so much of a goodbye. Charming. He’s sorry but not sorry enough to say goodbye when he leaves me again. Typical dad. Tomorrow he’ll probably come in here shouting the odds at me again. Yes, that’s it. The sorry dad is just a show for the sake of the others in the room. No doubt he’ll have his say tomorrow. I know his tricks. He can’t fool me despite what he thinks.

Seconds pass and suddenly Catherine leaned into my line of sight. Her eyes are red raw. Either she’s been swimming underwater or she’s been crying. A lot. Probably swimming. The whore. It’s my fault I’m in here. It was me who was driving the car. But - it’s her fault I was drinking.

“What did you do?” she started to cry.

Weird. I wasn’t expecting that. We haven’t spoken since the row. The row where she finally confessed, after months of me accusing her and demanding the truth, she’d been sleeping with my so-called friend. Now she’s here, looking at me with real tears streaming from her eyes. Definitely weird.

You made me to it. You drove me to it.

Okay - I drove me to it but I knew what I meant and I’m sure she did too.

“That night - the argument...I was lying,” she said, “I just said it to upset you...”

What are you talking about?

“I didn’t sleep with him. I hadn’t been sleeping with anyone. Only you. I was just so mad at you for always accusing me. I just wanted to shut you up. I’m didn’t think this would happen...”

What the hell are you talking about? Seriously? You fucking lied about it? That’s kind of sick!

“I didn’t think this would happen,” she said again. She broke down into full on floods of tears.

This is awkward. It’s not exactly like I can give her a cuddle in my present state. Before the accident, sure, but...Not now. My responses are somewhat limited.

There, there.

Yeah - that didn’t help. She moved from my line of vision.

“Okay, if that’s everyone,” a voice said that I didn’t recognise.

I wonder who that was.

What the hell is this? My vision turned to blackness as though someone covered my face.

Seriously - not funny, people.

Whatever it is - it’s quite heavy as it’s muffled the voices. Sounds like people are crying...No...Wait...It sounds like...Ah sweet...Guns N Roses...My favourite. “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” - a true classic.

Ooh. Moving.

Seriously what the hell is going on here?

I stopped moving with a sudden jolt. Yeah because that will make my neck a million times better, won’t it? Idiots...Whoa...Someone turned the temperature up in here or is it just me? Some kind of fever???

Hot hot!

SHIT IT’S HOT!!!!

The End

THE     REVIEW

The study. Quite a large room with bookcases down one wall - containing such titles as “A Christmas Carol”, “Great Expectations” and, naturally, all of his own work too - a desk against the far wall with a small, black typewriter upon it - a blank piece of paper already fed into the machine. Most authors didn’t like leaving a blank piece of paper ready for them to write upon. Most authors preferred to only feed the paper into whatever they were writing on, once they had something ready to be written. They feared the blank piece of paper, thinking of it as a sign of the dreaded writer’s block. Alan wasn’t like most authors, though. He liked the blank piece of paper - simply choosing to look upon it as a story which isn’t yet written as opposed to a sign he has nothing to write.

Bookcases on one side of the room, the desk and typewriter against the far wall, and a row of cabinets against the other length of the room. Cabinets filled with important documents - such as bank details, paperwork showing direct debits from the  utility bills which came from said banks each month, and his notes. Files and files of cheap document wallets crammed with notes - different ideas for books, some written and some waiting to be written. All of which were under lock and key - closely guarded secrets until Alan was ready to show them to the world.

The entrance to the room was against the final wall of the study - adjacent to the wall with the desk. Next to the door, a small fridge hummed quietly and, next to that, various posters pinned to the wall - each of which advertising his own work. The best kind of writing room is the one with the least distractions. And it’s not as though people usually got to see this room... Usually.

Today was different though.

The study door swung open and Alan, a tall scruffy man in his late thirties, pushed in a wheelchair - seating another man, younger and tidier in appearance than Alan, despite looking like he hadn’t slept much recently. And he probably hasn’t slept for a while - a closer inspection of the chair, he sits upon, would reveal a belt around his waist hooked over the back of the chair to stop it from leaning too far forward, and straps holding his wrists and ankles into place. None of which looked particularly comfortable.

“And this will be your new room for as long as you need it,” said Alan, as he pushed the wheelchair-bound man up to the computer desk. “I’ve even prepared the typewriter for you.”

“Look, I’m sorry, can we just forget the whole thing.... please,” said the man, shifting uneasily in the chair. “It was a mistake.”

“You’ll be fine. Where’s the confidence you were once so full of, I ask you?”

“Come on... a joke is a joke, please.... let’s just forget this whole unpleasant business. You take me home and we’ll say no more about it.”

“I’ll take you home when you’re done. I’ve already told you that.... Now, before I leave you to it - can I get you anything? Cup of tea? Cup of coffee?”

“Look, really, let’s just talk about this....”

“We’ve already spoken about this,” said Alan, “now is the time for writing.”

“I’m not a writer!”

“I know you’re not, dear boy, but that doesn’t detract away from what you wrote in that review you left me... You said you could do better.... so, here I am, giving you the chance to prove yourself. Do you know how many people would kill to be in your position?”

“Look, this isn’t funny.”

“A one-star review isn’t funny. Do you know how damaging that can be to an author such as myself? I mean, they’re fine if they have the proper constructive criticism but... what you wrote was pretty lacking in actual points other readers would find helpful when they’re choosing whether to buy the book or not. Anyway, what’s done is done. There’s little point crying about it now,” Alan said. “So - cup of tea or coffee?”

“You’ve made your point - you’ve scared me.... you’ve shown me the error of my ways... come on now, enough is enough...” pleaded the young man.

“No. You said you can do better. I want to see you do better... It so happens I have another book ready for release. I really should release it now, what with the number of fans who are waiting for it, but I shall hold fire - for now. I want you to write your book first. Then, when you’ve written your masterpiece, we’ll release at the same time. That way, I don’t have an unfair head-start.”

“This is stupid - I’m not a writer!”

“And yet you still said you can do better... Cup of tea of cup of coffee?”

“Coffee.... I’ll have a coffee then,” blurted the young man. “Are you aware of how much trouble you’ll be in if I say anything to anyone about this? Why not just take me home now and we’ll forget the whole thing... I won’t say anything.... If you really want me to have a go at writing something - I’ll do it, but from the comfort of my own....”

“You’ll do it here,” said Alan. “That way, I’m on hand should you get stuck with anything. I want to give you a fair chance, after all...”

“This is stupid..... seriously....”

“Yes, so you keep telling me.”

“Well what should I write about?” asked the man.

“Whatever you want - this is your work. Your book. It can be whatever you want... but, a little hint, I’ve often found horror works well. Other people swear by romance but I’ve never tried that genre. After all, what do I know about romance?”

“I don’t know where to start...”

“Once upon a time is a tried and tested method...”

“I’m not a writer!” the young man said once more.

“Well, you wrote your review very well. Very few grammatical errors within that piece... you’ll be fine, I’m sure,” said Alan - a smirk on his face. He bet the man wished he never wrote a review now. He bet he wished he just bought the book and then kept his narrow-minded opinion to himself. Too late now.

Alan loved getting reviews, normally. It didn’t matter whether they were good book reviews or even less favorable ones. He was just happy for any kind of feedback - he’d even go so far as to leave ‘thank you’ messages on Amazon, where the majority of the reviews were left; brief little messages thanking the people for their time, writing the feedback, and how he was glad they liked it or how he’d take their slightly more negative points onboard for his next title. But when ‘wordwarrior99’ left his one-star review - Alan saw nothing but red.

The review offered Alan nothing to work with. The words just described how Alan had the writing talent of a root vegetable and the book was the trashiest thing the reader had read since he flicked through his sister’s weekly magazine. The review also went onto say how ‘wordwarrior99’ would be able to write a book ten times better than this festering turd of a book with both of his hands bound to a chair - leaving only his nose to type with.

Yes - Alan saw red. And, after he took the necessary time to calm his anger, he also saw a challenge.

“Can you at least untie my hands?”

“The review clearly said you’d be able to write a better book with your nose so that is what you must do,” said Alan - his tone full of sincerity. There was no way he was going to untie this man’s hands.

“You know I won’t be able to do it! You’re just being silly!”

Alan was unsure whether it took a brave man to call someone silly, whilst being tied down, or a stupid one.

“I’m being silly?” said Alan. “And what were you being when you wrote your critical analysis of my book?”

The man didn’t say anything. He knew - only too well - that he was being stupid when he wrote it.

“I’m sorry,” said the man. “I’ll get it removed.”

“No, you won’t... you’ll write your book. And then, we’ll release head to head... and then you’ll prove to me you’re the better writer....”

“But you won’t even give me my hands!”

“Because you don’t need them to write something better! You’re the one who said as much! Now, I’ll leave you to think of what you’re going to write about whilst I fetch your drink.”

Alan stood up and left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Come on! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I was just having a laugh!” the man cried out after him. But Alan didn’t hear him. Didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. “Jesus wept!”

He sat back, in the wheelchair, and started to fight against the restraints that bound him to it but to no avail. Not even the slightest of movements in them. It didn’t take him long to realise he was going nowhere and more struggling would simply be a waste of time and effort.

“Mr Daleton!” he called out. “Mr Daleton... I’d like to go home now, please... I’m sorry.”

He waited for a response but no response came.

“Okay, he wants a book... he wants a book and then he’ll take me home. That’s what he said... okay... well... I guess I’ll need to put my name to it, at least...” and, just like a hen pecking at it’s food, he pecked the first few letters of his ‘soon-to-be’ masterpiece.

MATT SHAW

“Okay, good start... I’m happy with that... Now.... now... my story... what to write... what to write.... what to write.... come on.... can’t be that hard....”

The door swung open and Alan walked back in - clutching the freshly made drink, “Well, finished yet?”

Matt turned his head to see Alan, “Look, I made a mistake - I’m sorry. Like I said, if you can just take me home... all will be forgotten...”

“So that’s your name is it?” said Alan, glancing at the paper, as he placed the coffee on the desk. “That’s not a writer’s name... should have stuck to wordwarrior99. Would have sold more copies.”

“Look, I said I’m sorry... I said it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. What more do you want from me?”

“I want you to write a book better than mine! You said you could do it! And now I want to see you live up to your bold claim!”

“I can’t do it! I’ve already admitted as much to you.”

“Of course you can! If a talentless no-hoper, like me, can release books... so can you!”

Alan perched on the edge of the table.

“Now,” he continued, “what’s your story about?”

There was silence. Matt didn’t have any answers for him. Not because he was being difficult. He just didn’t have a clue as to what his story was going to be. Up until last week he was working in his father’s stationery company, barely paying the bills but working nevertheless. He didn’t plan on writing a book - despite what he said in the review. He had never given the act of writing a book a proper thought. It’s one thing to say he could write a book better than something a well-established author, like Alan, had already released but it’s quite another thing to actually put pen to paper and spill out a bestseller.

Even harder when you’re doing it with your nose.

“Well, come on... don’t be shy - what’s your story about?”

“I don’t know,” said Matt. “I don’t know what to write. I’ve already admitted I made a mistake. I can’t do this. I can’t. How many more times do I have to say it?”

“You’re being modest. It’s easy... remember.... Just write what you know. That’s the key point to remember. Write what you know and then, when you’re done - I’ll release it for you... at the same time as releasing my own novel...”

“I know about working in a stationery company...” said Matt. It’s all he knew - other than working in a handful of other jobs, up until when he got bored of them anyway, he hadn’t really done anything else with his life. Knocking on thirty and he’d managed to waste it - too slow in making those all important decisions most make when they’re in college.

“Probably not the most exciting of stories,” laughed Alan. “Anyway, perhaps we should take the time to discuss the terms...”

“Terms?”

“Well this is a bet, isn’t it? How you can write a book better than mine with just your nose... if memory serves correctly - a book that’s ten times better....”

“I’ve already said....”

“So - what should the terms be?”

“You let me go?”

“Dear boy, I said I’d take you home just as soon as you’ve written your book. Just think of this as a little holiday. A writing holiday. I wish, when I was starting up, I wish I was given this opportunity.”

“You’re insane,” said Matt.

“I’m the one who thinks he can write a bestseller with just his nose,” spat Alan. “And yet, you’re going to need this for your drink....” he pulled a straw from his pocket and plopped it into the mug of coffee. “Now - the terms - I presume, working in a stationery company, you don’t earn a lot of money?”

Matt shook his head, “Is that what you want? Money?”

“My dear boy, if I wanted money I’d have been better off borrowing someone else....”

“Borrowing someone.... is that what you call kidnap these days?”

“You are neither a kid nor were you napping... The terms shall be there...”

“Please, just let me go,” Matt pleaded once more. A plea which, once again, fell upon deaf ears.

“I was looking through this free newspaper yesterday - I often look through magazines and papers to find the foundations of new stories... a trick a few authors do, I believe, though none will admit to it... when I stumbled across a review for a new restaurant which has opened...”

“What?”

“Here’s the terms: We go to the restaurant - together - and whoever has sold the least amount of books, after a week of general release, has to pick up the bill...”

“You want to take me to a restaurant?”

“No, I want to take you to a restaurant... I want you to pay...”

Matt didn’t say anything. He just stared at Alan.

“If you sell more copies - I’ll pay... but we share the cost of the taxi to the place for I believe it’s on the edge of town.”

There was a slight pause before Matt just said, “You’re not going to kill me?”

“Kill you? Why would I kill you?”

“I wrote a bad review.”

“That we agree on; it was a bad review... but why would I kill you just because of a bad review? Admittedly, I wasn’t happy with it and... well.... I’ve said some less than complimentary stuff about you but... I want to see what you’re made of. I want you to write a book with your nose.”

“A punishment then. You want me to look stupid.”

“You could say that.”

“But a meal out at the end of it? I like women.... just so you know....”

“What has that got.... Oh God, you think.... No, no, no... I’ve been writing for years now - choosing to chase this dream and career instead of focusing upon a relationship or even any friends.... I just think a meal would be nice - for both of us. For me, I get to get out of the house. For you, a celebratory bite to eat in a restaurant which has only the finest of feedback....”

“So... you’re not going to kill me?”

Alan laughed again, “Kill you - honestly - you do have a fine imagination... I’m not going to kill you. I promise. After all - I’m not a Monster.” He laughed again. “Active imagination - I look forward to your work... anyway, I best leave you to it or you’ll never get started... let alone finished! I’ll give you a few hours and then grab you a microwave meal, if you want...”

Alan stood up and left the room, closing the door behind and leaving Matt to write his masterpiece.

“Well this is great... writing lessons from a lonely nutter.... brilliant.” He leant forward and sucked on the straw, sticking from the coffee mug, “I don’t even like coffee,” he moaned. He sat back up in the wheelchair, “Okay, write what I know... what I know.... what do I know?!”

He sat back and thought for a minute - which felt like a life-time to him - when he suddenly smiled, as though a lightbulb went off within his head.

“That’ll work... I’ve got a story for him...”

* * * * *

It took Matt a couple of days to really settle into what was happening - into what was expected of him - but, as soon as he did, nothing could stop him and his head bobbing motion, upon the keyboard, soon become a blur.

And despite being lonely - Alan spent most of the time walking around his house, occasionally scribbling down various notes on scraps of paper, waiting for Matt to finish pecking his new book out. So many notes on so many scraps of paper - it wasn’t long before most surfaces of the house were covered with some form of note; waiting to be turned into another of Alan’s novels or dropped into one of his filing cabinets.

Periodically, he’d poke his head into the study and ask, “How’s it going?” but Matt rarely answered - just continued to bob his head up and down upon the keys of the old typewriter only stopping when he needed Alan to come and change the paper over to a fresh sheet.

“Can I have a read?” Alan would ask with each fresh page but the answer was always the same.

“No. It’s not ready yet.”

Alan would always respect Matt’s privacy - no matter how much he wanted to see the words which were flying from the imagination of such a poor reviewer - and would simply shrug and turn the page over, placing the sheet on top of the other completed pages.

“How much more do you have to do?” Alan would sometimes ask - only to be shushed into silence by Matt. “Okay... well, I can’t wait to read it!” Alan would say before leaving the room once more.

As the days turned into nights and the nights into days - Alan got more and more concerned by what was being written. Was this unknown really writing a book with just his nose and his imagination? Was such a thing possible and, more importantly, would it be better than his own work? His own work which was typed with two hands - referencing other books and stories to help bulk out the novel.

“Not possible,” Alan would frequently mutter, as he shuffled around his home.

“I think I’m going to be finished today,” said Matt over breakfast, the next time he and Alan sat together. Breakfast, dinner, tea, the odd visit to the toilet or daily trip to the hallway - to phone home to let his parents know he was well and wouldn’t be home that evening - were the only times Matt was permitted  to leave the study and confines of the wheelchair. “Might even skip tea, tonight, just to give myself more time to write,” he said.

Alan knew that only too well - skipping meals to make up for time wasted earlier on when still fleshing out the story. Sometimes it was better just to get your head down and get cracking with it. A break could, sometimes, be worse than just working through... a break - quickest way to ruin your flow, as a writer. Being a seasoned author Alan often found that, when he was on a roll - he’d simply write and write and write. Nothing could stop him. Even if he was starving hungry or dying of thirst - he wouldn’t let anything ruin his flow.

“Can I at least know the story now?” asked Alan.

Matt shook his head, as he took a bite of his toast.

“But I can read it when it’s done?” Alan continued.

Again, Matt shook his head, “No.”

“Well, when can I read it?”

“You have to buy it, like everyone else...” said Matt.

“Buy it? Isn’t that a little unfair?” asked Alan. “You’ve used my supplies, you’ve been eating my food.... you’ve been staying in my house.... surely I should be permitted to read your book?”

Matt shook his head again, “I’ve only been using your things because you dragged me here - after you had tracked me down. Had it not been for that - I’d have not used anything of yours.”

“Had it not been for me, you wouldn’t have even written a book though. Come on...”

Again, Matt shook his head. “No, you have to buy it like everyone else.”

“Fine,” said Alan. “Well you have until morning,” he continued, “and then I’ll take it to get it scanned into the computer - ready for publishing.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to write directly onto a computer?” asked Matt.

“I don’t like them,” said Alan. “Computer’s lack the charm and character of a typewriter.”

There was nothing Matt could say to that. He knew what he thought to be easier, to type on - especially using a nose - but, at the end of the day, Alan was entitled to his opinion.

“Tomorrow morning,” finished Alan, “I’ll take the book to get it scanned and also phone the restaurant, to book our table for next Saturday. Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll drop you home.”

“Thank you,” said Matt.

“But tell me... “

“Yes?”

“If it were just the two of us, with no one else to get in the way.... no one else to mess things up... do you think.... no - it doesn’t matter.”

“No, go on...”

“No, really, it doesn’t matter.”

Alan stood up and started clearing the plates from the dining-room table. Matt didn’t push the point. Although he felt fairly sure, when the book was finished, he was going to be allowed to go home and that, over the last few days, he’d found himself to feel more at ease around Alan... it was still a weird situation to be in. For all he knew - anything could have rocked the boat.

“You give me a shout when you’re ready to eat,” said Alan. “I’ll give you more space than usual - give you a chance to really get cracking with the writing...”

“Thank you. Although, would be quicker... you know... if I could use my hands...”

“After all the hard work you’ve done? You’d resent it,” said Alan as he took the first stack of plates out to the kitchen.

“No, really, I wouldn’t!” mumbled Matt.

Knowing what was coming - he stood up and took the chance for a final stretch of his back and legs. Soon as the table’s cleared, he knew he’d end up in the wheelchair again, ready for the rest of the day’s writing time - hands and feet bound to the chair once more. A nice back crack later - a good result - he sat in the chair, waiting for Alan to put the restraints back on.

There was no denying Matt was excited about his story - his first ever book... he just wasn’t looking forward to hearing Alan’s verdict. He couldn’t be mad - he was the one who said ‘write what you know’.

“Of course,” Alan said when he came back into the room, “you know you aren’t finished writing once the book is finished?”

“What do you mean?”

Alan noticed Matt had already taken his seat back upon the wheelchair and crossed the room to start attaching the cuffs again.

“You need to write some blurb for the book,” Alan continued. “A little sales pitch to try and grab the attention of people who are looking at Amazon. So many people are writing their own books now that they’re able to self-publish.... you need to stand out from the crowd...”

“I thought you were going to do all of the publishing...”

“I will but I’m not putting any words to it - that’s all down to you. You tell me, when the time comes, and I’ll fill in the boxes with the words you want. I’m not having my words on your work.... otherwise, I may as well have written the whole book myself!”

Matt frowned, “The deal was to write a book...”

“Okay, that’s fine. Don’t worry about writing a blurb too. You might get lucky and sell some without having anything to tell the readers what it is....” Alan taunted.

“The deal was for the book, I’ve written the book... nearly, anyway!”

“Really, it’s fine. You don’t need to write it. I’m already looking forward to my free meal,” said Alan.

Matt didn’t say anything. He knew he’d end up writing the blurb. They both knew it would be written. After all, Alan was right - potential readers would need something to tell them whether the book was going to be their cup of tea or not. And, there was little point in writing a book and not seeing it right through to the end.

Alan laughed, “I’ll even give you your hands back....”

Matt looked up, “To finish the book?”

“No, to write the blurb. You write the book with your nose, just like the review said...” he said. With a slight smile, he tightened the last restraint around Matt’s wrist. “Ready?”

* * * * *

“I’m not entirely sure how I should feel,” said Matt as he sat in the passenger seat of Alan’s car. The same car he was dragged into just over a week ago. It was only natural for him to feel confused, with regards to his emotions, on the one hand this man - sitting next to him in the car - took him from his own home. And yet, on the other hand, he had done him no other wrongs. If anything he forced Matt to write a book; something he was particularly proud of and, when the book was written, this same man had the computer scanned into a computer for a digital copy to be uploaded to the self-publishing site of their choice. He pushed him to write the book, he showed him how to self-publish it. More importantly, he had done as he promised and brought him home once the book was published too. “Not even sure what I should say,” said Matt.

“How’s about - see you next Saturday at eight o’clock,” said Alan.

Alan held his hand out, to shake Matt’s own hand.

“Or should I shake your nose?” Alan laughed.

Matt still wasn’t sure how to tell if Alan was joking or not, so quickly offered up his hand. He still wasn’t sure whether to ‘thank’ him for his hospitality, though. As soon as Alan eased his grip, of Matt’s hand, Matt pulled away and opened the car door.

“Well,” said Matt, “I guess I’ll see you next Saturday...”

“I look forward to it!” Alan smiled.

Matt smiled, more out of politeness, and climbed from the car - slamming it closed behind him. No sooner had the sound of the door slamming ceased echoing around the car, Alan’s smile faded. Alone again. It was true - he was furious with the one-star review and he did enjoy taunting Matt but, at the end of the day, being a lonely writer, he also enjoyed having the company in his house. Company that had now disappeared back to their own life.

Alan was grateful that the week went by so fast and he soon found himself back outside of Matt’s home - Matt already waiting by the front door.

“Have you looked at the results yet?” Matt called out to Alan as he approached the car.

Alan shook his head and called out of the open car window, “No - I was waiting for you - fair is fair. We’ll look together when we get to the restaurant.”

“Okay,” said Matt, climbing into the car.

He shut the door and, together, they pulled out of the driveway.

“It’s nice to see you,” said Alan. “Have to say - your story surprised me...”

“You read it?”

“I bought it, I was allowed to read it.”

Matt smiled.

“And it surprised you...”

“A story about a lonely man kidnapping a woman - forcing her to live with him in the hope she falls in love... Clever idea. And I enjoyed the two person perspective. Made it very tense. But, seriously, how was that idea in your head?!”

Matt smiled. He liked the fact the lonely man, who once kidnapped him, couldn’t see where he got the idea from. Part of Matt was actually worried Alan would recognise himself in the main character ‘Peter’ and that he’d be angry with him.

“Not sure about the title though.”

“Happy Ever After?”

“I can just see some people downloading it, thinking it’s part of the romance genre.”

“You think? I wrote the blurb...”

“I know... but, you can bet there’s someone out there who will download it, not knowing what the story is.... probably give you a one-star review and say how they can’t wait to delete it from their kindle.”

Matt laughed, “We’ll see.... sales figures will tell us everything,” he said. “So - where’s the restaurant?”

“Outskirts of town. Family run affair, by the sounds of it. It’s been getting great reviews...”

“You said...”

“I’ve been looking forward to it.”

The roads were quiet so it didn’t take Alan long to navigate the car through the deserted streets.  Twenty minutes at the most before they were in the car park outside of the restaurant - a small, quaint establishment.

Alan turned the car’s engine off and they both sat in silence, a minute, looking at the building which had garnered all the positive reviews.

“Well, I have to say old boy, I was expecting something a little grander - from the reviews that I’ve read...” said Alan. “Maybe the inside looks nicer,” he continued.

“Sure it’ll be okay...”

They both climbed from the car and approached the front door. Alan stepped forward, a few paces quicker, to open the door for Matt.

“Thank you,” said Matt, as he stepped in, past Alan.

Immediately they were greeted with an elderly lady - who just appeared from no where, a vacant look upon her face. They waited for her to speak but she didn’t say anything. Just stood there, waiting for them to tell her their intentions.

“Erm, table for two please,” said Alan.

The elderly lady grabbed two menus from the literature holder, next to the entrance, and walked away - leaving them to use their initiative to follow.

“Not the first class service I was expecting either,” whispered Alan to Matt.

“Maybe they’re having an off day,” Matt whispered back.

“Maybe.”

The elderly woman stopped by a table, with two seats tucked underneath, in the corner of the room. She put the menus on the table and walked away - no hint of when a waitress would just be with them.

“Or maybe she’s the slowest of the family and they thought that was the only job she could do?” said Alan.

Matt laughed, “Imagine if she were working in the kitchen!”

“Probably end up with a gherkin sandwich!” laughed Alan.

They both sat down, still laughing.

“Should we order first or see who is paying first?” asked Alan.

“I think we need to see who’s paying first,” said Matt.

“If you’re sure - but don’t worry - I wasn’t planning on ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.”

“You’re very sure of yourself,” said Matt.

“Experienced author... you’re an unknown.”

“We’ll see,” said Matt.

“Yes, we will - and there’s no time like the present...” Alan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his smart-phone. “Do you think there’s any point in asking for the WiFi code here?”

Matt shook his head.

“Not a problem, it’ll just take a little longer to load up...”

Matt watched as Alan pressed a few keys on his mobile phone’s keypad before sitting back to wait for the screen to load.

“You should just feel proud of yourself for managing to write a book... at first, I just wanted to teach you a lesson... for your review but... you know something, I’ve actually grown to like you. You know that, right?”

Matt nodded.

“And to think - you wrote it with your nose... that’s just... weird!” he laughed.

“Has it loaded yet?”

Alan looked down to the screen and his face suddenly dropped.

“Something wrong?” asked Matt.

“No sales.”

“I thought you bought my book?” said Matt.

“No, I have no sales... my new title hasn’t shifted any copies... do you know how unheard of that is for me?” said Alan - the shock clearly over his face.”

“So.... my book?”

Alan fell silent and looked up at Matt.

“Well?” asked Matt.

“One.”

Matt laughed, “Oh, that’s right... you bought a copy of my book, didn’t you? I really must thank you for that...”

Matt was still laughing as the waitress approached them, “Are you ready to order?” she asked.

“Give me the biggest steak you’ve got!” said Matt - a little wink to the dumbfounded Alan.

“Can you give us just a couple more minutes, please?” said Alan as he tucked his phone back into his coat pocket. “You didn’t even buy a copy of my book?!”

“Why would I? I didn’t enjoy the other one I read so I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed your new work either...”

“I just thought, seeing as I bought yours - you might have bought mine too... a bit of mutual support....”

The waitress sensed she wasn’t going to get an answer anytime soon, walked over to the next table and asked the same question to a large fellow at the next table, “Are you ready to order?”

“You bet! I’ve been seeing all these reviews of yours and I just had to come and see for myself what the fuss was about!” said the large man, just before he tucked his napkin into the top of his shirt - ready to catch any crumbs from his mouth.

~ fin

THE     FOOD    CRITIC

“You bet! I’ve been seeing all these reviews of yours and I just had to come and see for myself what the fuss was about!” said the large man, just before he tucked his napkin into the top of his shirt - ready to catch any crumbs from his mouth.

His name was Jamie Mitchell, once upon a time an extremely proud and efficient chef who, one day, woke up only to discover the heat in the kitchen was too much for him to cope with. He had piled on the weight and the restaurant he worked with had been getting busier and busier - both because of the reputation of the food he cooked and the excellent business plans of the restaurant manager. As the evenings got longer and the orders increased, Jamie found himself close to breaking point every day - struggling with his excess weight he wobbled around the kitchen, sweating like a pig, trying to get the dishes out on time. In the end, he realised he simply couldn’t do it anymore. He needed to get out before he damaged his reputation.

As it panned out - his choice to leave the chef business was the best decision he had ever made as he landed, comfortably, on his feet working as a food critic. Whereas before he got to cook for people. Now he had people to cook for him. And he loved every minute of it - a statement proven by his ever-increasing stomach.

“I hope the kitchen’s ready for me!” he bellowed from the corner table, where the waitress had earlier seated him. They always put the larger people in the corner of the rooms. Partly because it gave the patrons more space and they didn’t have the embarrassment of people trying to squeeze past them throughout their meal and also because the owner of the restaurant had once been bold enough to state that, ‘Fat people put other diners off their meal.’

The waitress stood, poised with her pen in hand, ready to take his order.

“Have to say,” said Jamie, “I’m very much looking forward to this.... I think... yes... let’s start with some of your homemade pate. Can’t beat a good pate... and some chicken wings with the hot sauce.... they sound good and, erm, a prawn cocktail....”

The waitress frantically scribbled his order down with a puzzled look upon her face. It was the first time she had one patron ordering three courses just from the starter menu. “Thank you, and can I get you anything to drink?”

“Water will be fine! Now.... for the main.....”

The waitress stopped. She thought the previous meals were everything he wanted. It was obvious he was a larger man but, could he really polish off three starters and a main meal too? Was he about to order three main meals to go with his three starters. A little bit of her felt nauseous thinking about it.

“I’ve heard the stew is out of this world, I best try some of that...”

The waitress scribbled it down with the rest of his order and hesitated for a moment.

“I think that will do,” said Jamie - handing the menu back to the waitress. “I’ll see the dessert menu afterwards, please.”

“Of course,” she took the menu and disappeared through a door, towards the kitchen area of the restaurant, leaving Jamie to his own company.

“Well,” he said, “so far so.... okay..... hardly what I was expecting from the reviews.... Oh well, you don’t judge a book by the cover....” He glanced around the restaurant and noticed how empty it was, “Hmmmm, not too busy either - certainly needn’t have booked, as recommended by the food critic.”

Jamie was on his corner table, a male couple sat on a table close to his - some sort of argument happening over who should pay the bill - a man who was busy beavering away on his laptop, writing some sort of essay, on a table closer to the middle of the restaurant and what appeared to be a disgruntled family of four leaving.

“Certainly needn’t have booked,” said Jamie.

It wasn’t long before the waitress came back from the kitchen area with a jug of water. A few careful steps, so as not to spill any, back to Jamie’s desk - she put the jug in the centre without saying anything.

“Thank you,” said Jamie.

Due to the lack of options, he poured himself a glass of water from the jug and sat back to carry on surveying the options. There was no denying he enjoyed his new found career, as a food critic - he liked going to different places, trying the different foods and then writing a report for the national paper he worked for but... he couldn’t help but feel the job would have been better had he some company during the meals too.

More often than not, whilst eating the food, he’d just sit there and read the wine menu over and over again. He always found it better than looking as though he had no friends - a pathetic man forced to eat out by himself because he has no friends to join him. Reading the wine list saved from taking notice of the judgmental looks he’d often get. Not that he’d be getting such looks in this establishment - both tables busy getting on with their own evening and ignoring anything and everything around them. Not that he minded - suited him better - their lack of interest meant he didn’t have to read any menus and, instead, he could look around.

Not that there was much to look around at. All of the reviews made Jamie believe the restaurant was going to be one of the finest buildings he had ever seen. His imagination had got the better of him, on the way to the building, and he couldn’t help but think of marble floor, fish-tanks around the restaurant with various exotic species of fish swimming around... he dreamed of comfortable chairs and large tables with the finest of silverware.... even dreamed of real flowers as centre-pieces to the tables - fresh smelling and colourful. He knew, as soon as he pulled up, he had let his imagination get the better of him. Straight away he had built the restaurant up to such a level - it would be near on impossible for it to live up to his expectations.

“Warm water,” he said as he took his first sip. “Not a good start.” He pushed the glass to jug to the edge of the table - hoping it would prompt the waitress to ask him whether everything was okay with it.

So - to go with the wooden floorboards and tatty wallpaper around the restaurant, the plastic tables and uncomfortable plastic chairs (like the ones you’d have to sit on in your school days) he was also going to be forced to endure warm water.

“Not a good start at all,” he repeated.

It wasn’t even as though the restaurant was a reasonably-priced place to eat either.  For a starter, the average meal price was seven pounds... two pounds dearer than at other food establishments. The main meal prices varied from fifteen pounds up to thirty-one pounds and fifty pence, the latter price being for the biggest piece of steak they catered for. Again, these prices were approximately five pounds dearer than at other restaurants with a reputation just as good as this one.

Jamie noticed the man with the laptop was packing up his computer - shoving it back into the case which, previously, had rested on the floor next to the man’s table - half pushed underneath so as to stop people from tripping upon it. The man looked up and noticed Jamie staring at him.

“I hope you’re not hungry,” said the man.

“Very much so,” Jamie replied out of courtesy.

“I had to wait over an hour for my starter. Same sort of timeframe before they brought me my main meal too. Another half an hour before the bill arrived.”

“Was pudding at least quick to come? Maybe I should have skipped straight through to dessert,” Jamie laughed.

“I didn’t bother with dessert. I’ve been here quite long enough and the meals I’ve eaten were hardly worth the wait as they were...”

“May I ask what you had?”

“Avocado for starter and veal for my main. No veal I’ve ever tasted... Poor food, yes, but worse service... I tell you, it’s a good job I’m not working tonight,” the man ranted.

“Oh? Are you a food critic too?” Jamie asked.

The man shook his head and stood up, putting his laptop bag over his shoulders, “No, I’m a mystery shopper.... I hope one day they do assign this place to me.... Would very much enjoy that report....”

Jamie laughed, “I’m starting to wonder what sort of review I’m going to have to write up!”

“A truthful one, please - only ate here because I’ve seen so many people raving about how good it is. Made me think it was worth the trip...”

“Not local?”

“No,” said the man as he crossed over to Jamie’s table to save from continuing to shout across the ‘packed’ restaurant. “Only in town because of an assignment I’m going back to tomorrow. Had I known my meal was going to be so poor, though, I would have eaten in the fast food restaurant next to the shop I was testing.”

“And what shop is that?” asked Jamie. He’d never met a mystery shopper before. He’d only heard of their existence.

“New clothes shop in town - nothing exciting and certainly nothing to write home about... anyway, was nice talking to you but I must make a move back to the bed and breakfast... I think I managed to choose the only place in town with a curfew.” He extended his hand and they shook.

“Good luck with your report,” said Jamie.

“And good luck with your meal!” said the man as he turned away and walked towards the exit.

Jamie pondered - first impressions aren’t that good but surely it can’t be that bad... surely the food has to be okay. More than okay, in fact. The food had to be the most amazing food ever to be eaten by mankind.... so amazing that people would be quick to forget the diabolical way the restaurant was managed.

Jamie’s stomach rumbled.

He hoped it wouldn’t be that long a wait.

TO BE CONTINUED...

THE

MYSTERY     SHOPPER

It had been a long day for Tom. Normally he didn’t accept assignments this far away from his home but his bosses seemed pretty keen for him to take it. He just presumed there had been no-one else available for the task and the people who had requested it were desperate. Not desperate enough, though, to pay more than the standard fee which was twenty-five pounds upon completion of a satisfactory report being handed in within forty-eight hours.

Tom thought accepting the assignment would help win some brownie points, with his bosses, and he figured he could always make it a weekend break. Drive down the eighty-miles, on the saturday morning, do the report at midday, spend the rest of the day looking around town and do a little sight-seeing.... enjoy a nice meal in the evening.... have a nice night’s sleep and then a little more sight-seeing on the Sunday before driving home in the latter part of the day. All in all, he thought he could make it a nice weekend; one to help forget some of the stress he has at home at the moment - troubles with his girlfriend and mounting debts.

The assignment was his twentieth job with his current company and he still loved the job. Every time a job came up, they text him - asking him to get in touch on the number provided to discuss the latest job they had for him. He’d have to call the given number and provide his own security number - to prove it was him. His number being 003, he always felt as though he was a secret agent confirming his identity. A brother-in-arms of James Bond, he liked to imagine. License to kill.... with his written reports detailing how his store visits went. This particular store visit being to a shop he hadn’t even heard of - he just presumed it was a local company - as opposed to a nationwide chain which he was used to dealing with. He didn’t care. Could be a one shop deal for all he cared. As long as he got paid, he was happy.

There was another reason he loved the job too. A reason he didn’t shout about. Not because he was ashamed but because he’d be fired if his bosses found out.

Blackmail.

Earlier that day, Tom visited the store like he was supposed to. The rest of the assignment meant he had to have a look around. If someone didn’t approach him within a couple of minutes, he had to ask for assistance by one of the staff-members. With their help, he had to choose, and buy, himself a new outfit so he could see the whole process a normal customer would have to go through if they were shopping in the store. The whole point of Tom’s report was to give the management an idea of what’s working in their store and what isn’t - a test, if you like.

Well it was clear to Tom, from the moment he walked in, there wasn’t much working in the store at all. There was a distinct lack of shop personality, not to mention ‘customers’ and the store smelt as though it had recently been flooded.... and not aired properly. The actual store layout was messy with no real plan - it was as though the clothes were just thrown on whatever rack was closest to them when they were unpacked from their delivery boxes. Tee shirts were mixed in with jeans and jumpers, underwear was next to the shoes and the suits were next to the outdoor clothes. The staff, on the other hand, were simply missing.

Tom had just stood there, for a moment, waiting to see if anyone would appear but no one did. Not for the first twenty minutes, anyway. When they did arrive, two youngsters wearing tee shirts and ripped jeans, they hardly made Tom want to spend any of his money. For the duration of his visit they  ignoring him and stood by the cash desk, chewing gum.

After waiting another ten minutes to see if anyone would come and see him, Tom chose a tee shirt and pair of jeans and took them to the till - to see how the youngsters would handle him, as a customer, at the till point they were both reluctant to leave.

“Yeah?” one of the youths had asked.

“Yeah?” Tom had repeated.

“Sorry....” the youth had come back with.

Tom thought, for a split second, there could be some light at the end of the tunnel... and then the youth spoke again.

“What do you want?” the youth barked.

The barking of the youth had caught Tom off guard. It wasn’t the usual level of service he was used to and he didn’t have any witty comeback prepared. He simply placed the goods he had chosen upon the counter.

“I’d like to buy these...” he had said.

The second of the youths had snatched the good from the counter and scanned them through the till - throwing them into the bag as soon as the machine had ‘beeped’ that the barcode was noted.

It was then that Tom realised he had, in front of him, another opportunity to increase his usual pay.

“Twenty-four quid,” the first youth had barked.

Tom paid the money with a smile on his face. The company, who employed him, always paid him back for what he spent. They also paid him for his report - good or bad - and now.... these two youths had given him the chance for a substantial pay rise.

That evening, in a restaurant recommended to him by half of the town, Tom typed out a rough report on his laptop. A damning document running down the staff, layout and store in general. A report which would get the staff crucified and, most likely, sacked. Tom really went to town on the piece - he filled it with the most poisonous statements he’d ever written in a report before. Not that he hoped to be handing it into his managers. He hoped the shop staff would buy the report from him - a chance they’d give him when he went back the following day.

* * * * *

“What?” the youth said to Tom as Tom entered the building and approached the counter. The very same youth who had so carelessly packed the bags the previous day.

Tom smiled, “I came in yesterday and bought these from you...”

The second youth looked at the bag in Tom’s hand, “No refunds.”

“Oh, no, I don’t want a refund... well, I do... but not from you....” said Tom.

“What?”

“I just thought I’d come back to tell you I’m a mystery shopper. You know what that is?” asked Tom with a cocky tone of voice.

Both the youths nodded but they still didn’t seem to care.

“I was asked to mystery shop you guys and.... well... worst service I’ve ever received, I think... in fact, no, I’m sure. Worst service... The report makes for some uncomfortable reading.”

Tom emptied the contents of the bag back onto the counter - it contained no clothes. It contained two documents - one for each of the youths.

“What’s this?” asked the first youth.

“Well that’s the report I wrote last night. The one I email over to my managers tomorrow... who then go on to pass it to your managers.... I just thought you might want to see it before I sent it....” said Tom.

The youths looked at each other and frowned.

“I think,” Tom continued, “your bosses are going to be really, really upset with you guys... read it. See for yourself!”

Only one of the youths picked the report up and started to flick through it. The other youth simply said, “Why are you telling us this?”

“I thought I’d give you the chance to change the report.... you know.... before I submit it....”

“Change it?”

“For one hundred pounds..... each..... I’ll write a different report.... you keep your jobs.... your bosses are happy with you.... who knows.... maybe you even get yourself a pay rise too, with the fine work you’re doing here...”

“You’ll write a good report?”

“No,” said Tom.

“No?”

“No. I’ll write the best report.... you will shine... your bosses will even show other people the report too.... so they can see how great you are.... so they know the level they have to reach. I promise, the people who receive the report - they will never have seen anything such as this.”

“Anything?”

“Anything!” Tom confirmed. “So what do you say? Do you want to shine or do you want me to go and hand this report in? If anything, it’s easier for me to hand this one in so I don’t mind... was just looking out for you guys. I mean, not exactly easy to get a job at the moment. Pretty hard. Could be on benefits for ages, whilst you look for another job... that is, if you’re entitled to them.... Anyway, up to you... want some time to mull it over?”

“A hundred pounds?” asked the bag-packing youth.

“Each. A bargain, I’d say. You’ll shine...”

The bag-packer looked to the other youth, who was more used to working the till than being confronted in such a manner, and shrugged his shoulders, “What do you think?”

The till-worker turned to Tom, “Can you make me shine ever so slightly more than my colleague?”

“For a hundred pounds,” grinned Tom.

The two colleagues looked to one another and shrugged again, “Okay.... but we don’t have any money on us today. Can you pop back tomorrow?”

“Certainly - one more day won’t hurt,” said Tom. “And you can even keep those as memory joggers,” he finished - referring to the two negative reports. “Any time in particular tomorrow?”

The bag-packer smiled, “Any time...”

“And you’ll have the money?” Tom confirmed.

They both nodded.

“Well then... until tomorrow,” he smiled and, with that, turned to walk from the store.

“See you,” the two workers said in unison.

Tom was surprised at how easy it was to get them to buy the ‘good report’ from him. Normally the people, on the receiving end of his offer, kicked off at him - having a pop because he was trying to blackmail them. Not that they had a leg to stand on. After all, if they didn’t pay him the money... chances are they’d lose their job. At the very least they’d be in for a strict telling off by their bosses and maybe even a pay and hour cut. Nine times out of ten, they’d go for Tom’s offer. One exception saw a shop-assistant turn his offer down before they kicked him from the shop. That shop-assistant then went to the back storeroom and hung themselves. But that’s another story - and not one that Tom often thinks about. He preferred spending his time thinking about what to spend the extra money on.

Today was no exception.

No sooner had he left the store did his mind wonder as to what he could spend the extra cash on. The perks of it being ‘blackmail’ money meant he didn’t have to declare it to the tax-man. It was his. All his. He could spend it on whatever he wanted too and, with this extra bit of money, he planned on buying the finest ring from a nearby jewelry shop - a way of winning his girlfriend back. She was getting fed up with his lack of commitment and now, with this extra cash, he could afford to change that... sort of. He didn’t plan on marrying her just yet. Potentially, he’d never be ready. But, she didn’t need to know that and if an engagement ring kept her quiet for a few more years - Tom thought it would be worth it.

Tom found his first jewelry store within a few hundred yards, a nice looking store with a posh window display filled with different pieces all ranging in prices, some more affordable than others. It had the added bonus of being part of a franchise Tom hadn’t mystery-shopped before too!

“Good afternoon,” said the shop assistant as soon as Tom walked through the shop’s entrance.

“And a good afternoon to you too,” said Tom.

“Was there anything in particular you were looking for today?”

Normally Tom would say ‘not really’ to such a closed question which would then buy him the peace and quiet he preferred to have whilst shopping. Not today, though, today... he was looking for something in particular and he was more than happy to take any advice offered.

“An engagement ring!” he said.

“Then you have come to the right place! We have a truly excellent range of engagement rings.... now, do you know the style you were looking for?”

“Style? I guess... classic? You know - one with a diamond in the middle....”

“A wise choice, sir. What woman doesn’t like a diamond? Have you given any consideration to the cut, colour, clarity and carat of the diamond?” asked the assistant.

Tom fell silent for a moment of two. In his mind, he just envisioned popping to the jewelry store, looking at a couple of rings and then choosing one he thought she may like. He never once thought there’d be so many questions, “Could I just take a look at some rings and take it from there?”

The shop assistant nodded and walked over to a display, close to the till-point. No doubt where all the expensive pieces were kept - where they could easily be watched incase of potential sales and, of course, thievery. Tom duly followed and peered into the desk-top cabinet. So many different rings - all different shapes and sizes... and the styles. So many different styles. So many different ways he could get this drastically wrong.

Slight panic.

But then, he thought, would he really get it wrong? Surely, in buying a ring, he is showing he wanted commitment too. Surely she’d just be grateful and say ‘yes’ no matter what he bought... blinded by the proposal instead of being blinded by the extra large diamond.

Blinded by the proposal, thought Tom. He liked that idea. He liked how it sounded. He liked... he liked more than anything... it meant he could get a cheaper ring than he first imagined.

“I like that one,” he said as he pointed to a small ring, in the left hand corner of a cabinet, next to the main cabinet the shop attendant was trying to show him.

“The diamonds are in this cabinet, sir.”

“Yeah but I like that one,” Tom pointed again.

The shop assistant peered over to the ring which Tom was pointing at.

“That one,” Tom kept pointing. “That looks like a diamond...”

“Cubic Zirconia, sir.”

“.... which looks like a diamond... how much is that one?”

“That’s sixty-pounds,” said the assistant.

“And is there anything you can do....... wait.... what about that one?” Tom pointed to another ring, further towards the back of the same display. “I like that one... how much is that one?”

“Cubic Zirconia again, sir, with an adjustable silver band... that is fifty pounds...”

It didn’t take Tom long to do the math in his head - fifty pounds on the ring and one hundred and fifty pounds for him to treat himself to something nice too, “I’ll take it!”

“Would you care to see any other rings?” asked the shop assistant. The shop assistant couldn’t believe the turnaround in Tom’s character. When he first came into the store he seemed to be a man who knew what he wanted - a classic diamond engagement ring - but then, as soon as he saw the cheaper rings, his mind was swayed.

“That’s the one,” said Tom, “I can feel it.”

“Very good, sir...”

The assistant walked around to the other side of the cabinet and reached in - pulling the ring from cabinet, he handed it over to Tom who refused to take it, “No, that’s cool, I don’t need to see it... if you could just box it up...”

The shop assistant gave a puzzled look, initially, but then nodded. After all, wasn’t his place to argue with a customer. The rest of the transaction went as smoothly as you’d expect from a first-class jewelry store. The assistant boxed the ring up before offering insurance to protect against damage and even recommended a cleaning spray to Tom, who refused both.

Tom thanked the shop assistant for their help and paid with his credit card. He knew the card was close to the limit but was comfortable they’d let him squeeze one more transaction through on it - and they did, not that it really mattered. If the card was declined, he was fully prepared to ask the assistant to put the ring to one side so he could buy it the following day - after the two workers, from the other store, paid him the blackmail money they owed. Not that Tom really wanted to come back to the jewelry store tomorrow. He just wanted to collect his cash and get home - back to his own comfortable bed.

With the transaction completed the assistant thanked Tom for his custom and saw him off the premises, with a friendly smile and wave, and Tom walked away with a beaming smile on his face, happy with his choice of engagement ring - happier still that it left him with one hundred and fifty pounds to spend on himself.

A reward for a job well done, he thought.

It was turning out to be a really worthwhile trip.

* * * * *

The following day Tom woke up with a pang of excitement - no doubt, at the thought of collecting his ill-gotten cash from the two shop workers in the clothes shop. He leapt from his bed with a spring in his step and threw his clothes on - not even bothering to have a wash first. He danced his way down the stairs to the front counter and paid the old man, at the desk, the outstanding bill. A quick thank you for the pleasant stay and he was soon on his way back to the clothes shop to get his money. Get his money, get home and then copy and paste an old report - filled with nothing but praise for the workers - changing only the names and nature of the business. The ‘good report’ was always a two second job, now he had the main template to copy - much easier than writing a fresh report each time!

He thought, as he got closer to the shop, that he might even be home in time to propose to the girlfriend too - get that out of the way today as well - freeing him up for the rest of the week so he could really enjoy himself and plan how he’d waste his ‘winnings’.

Just as he had done, on the previous visits, Tom parked in the cheaper car park down the road. It wasn’t too far to walk and the saving was quite substantial compared to the car park at the back of the actual shop he was visiting. How they could be so close to each other and so varied in prices was beyond Tom but he didn’t bother voicing his opinion - simply no point.

When Tom approached the shop he realised something had changed. Something was different.... the window display! He knew the window display was sparse when he first visited but, this time, it was empty!

“Must be doing a promotion change,” he thought as he pushed the door and stepped inside to.... “Empty.”

The clothes were all gone. The shoes. The underwear.... everything... Even the counter!

“Hello?” Tom called out. “Anyone here?”

The door, at the back of the store, opened and a woman came out - dressed in a smart business-suit, clutching a file under her arm.

“You must be Tom....”

Tom looked puzzled, he had no idea who this woman was and no idea how she knew his name.

“Tom Peterson?” she went on.

“That’s right,” Tom confirmed. “And who are you?”

“My name is Fay Rose,” she said extending her hand towards Tom.

He shook hands with her, “Where is everyone? What’s going on?”

“We were doing a report,” said Fay.

“A report?”

She nodded. “On you.”

“Me?”

“Your firm asked us to do a mystery shop on you,” she said, “and I have to say - it’s not the best...”

“What happened to this shop?”

“We set it up... to test you in....”

“It’s fake?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m still going to get paid for the report though, right?”

“No.”

“I’m not getting paid?”

She shook her head before continuing, “I have to say, Tom, it’s not the best of reports....”

“It’s not?”

Fay shook her head again and passed the file to Tom who had a quick flick through it - instantly noticing the numerous mentions to the scheme he had running and several references to how unprofessional he was throughout the whole store visit.

“I have to say,” Fay continued, “I’ve never seen anyone run a scheme like this before... it’s a very good idea...”

“Thank you,” said Tom - unsure of where Fay was taking this.

“You often get away with it?” asked Fay.

“There’s been a few times,” said Tom. There was no point in lying now. Not now he had been found out. Either way, he figured he was on the verge of being sacked from his job.

“Definitely a good idea....” said Fay.

She stood up and walked over to the front of the store. She pulled a key from her blouse pocket and locked the door before turning back to Tom - who was still flicking through the sorry-looking report.

“So good, in fact, that - if you want.... for two hundred pounds I can write a report which will make you shine....”

~ fin

THE

FOOD     CRITIC

-

PART TWO

“I’ll tell you how my meal was,” Jamie said to the waitress, whilst she picked the plates of half-eaten starters, “not that you asked....”

He paused - half expecting the waitress to apologise for not asking how everything was. He needn’t have paused. She didn’t ask and, going by her facial expressions, she really didn’t care. Obviously there to earn money and nothing else - certainly no interest in keeping the customer happy and certainly not thinking about the bigger picture which was ‘repeat custom’.

“The pate can only be described as sludge, the prawn cocktails tasted as though they’ve come straight from the local supermarket’s freezer section, and not given time to thaw out properly and the chicken wings.... does your chef know the importance of cooking chicken properly? Something tells me he doesn’t - otherwise it wouldn’t have been pink throughout. As you can see, I left most of them.”

“I thought it was because you were full,” said the waitress.

“I beg your pardon?”

She wasn’t stupid enough to repeat her statement. She simply turned and walked away.

Jamie called out after her, “The time it took you to bring the first courses out.... how anything could still be frozen or undercooked... that, I have to say, is an achievement and something your chef could be proud about!”

The kitchen door closed behind the waitress.

“Unbelievable,” said Jamie as he shook his head and used the corner of the napkin, around his neck, to mop the sides of his mouth clean. He noticed Matt and Alan, still on the table next to his, were looking at him because of his outburst. He smiled at them, “Apologies.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Alan.

“The place is a joke,” Jamie continued, “I’ll give them a month... tops.... then word will get around about what they’re really like... they’ll soon be forced to close down.”

Alan smiled politely and turned back to Matt, not wishing to engage in further conversation with the fat, sweaty man sitting on his lonesome in the corner of the deserted restaurant.

“Absolute joke,” said Jamie - more or less to himself. Un-phased no one was paying him any attention he continued, “God only knows what the stew is going to be like... no doubt full of over-cooked vegetables with potatoes cooked to mash and meat which is tough as old boots! Absolute joke! I’m telling you - one month.... one month and they’ll be gone like so many other restaurants. And as for the reviews... ridiculous... it’s all so obviously, really, they must have paid for them! This industry is full of corruption!” Without thinking, he took another swig from the warm water before instantly spitting it back into the glass, “And I forgot the damned water... they probably poured that straight from a goldfish bowl of all places! Disgusting. You know you’re in for a rough night when a restaurant can’t even get a jug of water right. A joke, I tell you!”

The door to the kitchen swung open and the waitress reappeared balancing one of the biggest bowls of stew Jamie had ever seen. She wasted no time in crossing the restaurant floor over to Jamie’s table, “Your stew,” she said as she placed the bowl in front of Jamie. She hesitated for a moment, half expecting some sort of smart-ass comment from Jamie.

He said nothing. He simply stared at the bowl of stew in front of him - both amazed it arrived so quickly - given the complaint of the other diner he had met - and, more impressively, how good it looked... especially given the quality of the starters he was forced to endure. The waitress about turned and walked away - towards the table of Matt and Alan which was waiting to be cleared from their dirty dishes.

“Well,” said Jamie, “this was unexpected!”

He picked up his spoon and started swirling it around in the stew - with each twist of the handle - more ingredients came to the surface. There was meat, big juicy-looking chunks of it, carrots and potatoes both diced into good sized pieces, chopped onions - even a stalk of celery which had been cut up and the smell... it all smelt so good... perfect, almost. But, was this going to be a cruel trick to his senses - the look of it a million times better than the actual taste... Jamie filled his spoon with a healthy amount of the stew - as many of the different ingredients as he possibly could - and tipped it into his mouth.

And...

.... and he chewed...

.... and chewed some more... slowly at first but getting faster, and faster... another spoonful emptied into his mouth before he had finished the first... and more chewing. The best stew he had ever tasted. The meat so good but perfectly complimented with the vegetables and the broth in which they had all been cooked in. Jamie was consumed with greed and the want for more - even though the speedy eating was sure to give him the worst indigestion he’d ever felt before, something he often suffered from when he rushed his food. He just didn’t care. Nor did he care that the occupants on the other table had stopped their conversation and were both watching him speed his way through this exquisite bowl of stew. Definitely the best he had ever tasted.

With the speed he was shifting the stew to his fat mouth, it was only ever going to be a matter of minutes before he had completely finished it off but - he still wasn’t done. The bowl empty of everything, other than the juices, still wasn’t finished in his greedy eyes and he picked it up and poured the last of the juices into his mouth - as though he were drinking from an overly large mug. When the bowl was completely empty, he placed it back on the table and let slip with a little hiccup-stroke-burp and finally noticed the other patrons were looking at him.

“Bloody lovely,” he said - making no excuses for his lack of manners. He looked back down to the bowl, to escape the gaze of Matt and Alan, and couldn’t help but wish it was full once more so he could enjoy it all over again. “Bloody lovely indeed,” he said.

It took a full half an hour for the waitress to come back to clear away the empty bowl - a full twenty-fives minutes longer than what it took for Jamie to finish his main meal, “You enjoyed it then?” she said.

“You bet! I’m a food critic and, I have to tell you, that’s one of the best stews I’ve ever eaten... amazing. The meat was perfect - it melted in the mouth... never tasted anything like it and the balance of meat and vegetables.... again.... perfect. The taste just explodes in your mouth!”

“A food critic?” said the waitress.

“For the local gazette, yes... and I’ll be telling everyone how amazing your stew is!”

The waitress smiled, “Well, thank you - I’m sure mother and father will be delighted when I tell them....”

“It’s just a shame the restaurant is lacking in so many other places...”

The waitress’ face dropped and the smile faded, “Lacking?”

“But the stew... with some hard work, you could really make this place amazing... people would come for miles to try the stew... miles... I think you’d need some other signature dishes on the menu too, though. Give the people some sort of choice as to what they could eat. It would be good to be known for a few excellent dishes...”

“Would you like to chat with my dad? Maybe you could tell him where he has made mistakes - give him a chance to put things right before you write anything up...”

Jamie sat back for a second and mulled over what the waitress said, it was the first time he had been asked for his input in such a manner. Eventually he said, “Yes.... I’d like that... would be nice to help - after all, I used to work in a kitchen... I saw what made our restaurant a success... I could share some of what I know... yes. Why not....”

The waitress smiled, “Well, follow me then!”

The waitress walked towards the doors, at the back of the restaurant, and Jamie duly followed. The doors opened up to the kitchen - just as Jamie had expected them too. A large room, full of the latest equipment, Jamie could see that cleanliness was of no issue - the place was sparkling!

“Dad!” the waitress called out.

“What is it?” a stern voice called out from one of the back storerooms.

“I’ve brought a man to come and see you.... he says he is a food critic...”

“A food critic?!” an elderly man, in chef’s clothes, came from the back storeroom. “Then why didn’t you say so...” He crossed the room and extended his hand towards Jamie, “Nice to meet you... so, who do you write for?”

“The local gazette,” said Jamie as they shook. “I used to work in a kitchen, like you, but left to become a food critic...”

The man looked him up and down and laughed, “You must enjoy your job! So what brings you back here?” he asked.

“I suggested it,” said the waitress.

“You did?”

“Yes, he said the stew was out of this world and people would love it but... other parts of the restaurant were lacking...” said the waitress. Jamie shifted uneasily - unsure of how the man would react.

“Lacking?”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“Well,” Jamie stepped up, “the service isn’t that great - the old lady who showed me to the table was rude....”

“My wife.... her mother....”

“Erm... she just sat me down and thrust a menu at me, didn’t say anything... and the restaurant itself... it seems to be lacking a personality...”

“Seems okay to me... what about the kitchen?” asked the man.

“The kitchen?” Jamie glanced around, “The kitchen seems okay... I can’t really say...”

“Well, have a look around and let me know what you think. You’re obviously an expert,” said the man.

Jamie nodded and started to look around, “It all seems clean... and the equipment - all good. Top of the range,” he said. “Certainly didn’t spare any expense.”

“None whatsoever. We’re in this for the long haul.”

Jamie smiled out of politeness. He knew they weren’t there for the long haul. A good stew isn’t enough to keep the restaurant from drowning in bad reviews and lack of custom.

“Storerooms big enough?” He pointed to the storerooms close to the back of the kitchen. Jamie duly walked to the back and peered inside.

“They all seem of nice size - well stocked too... look, the kitchen is lovely but it’s the quality of the restaurant as a whole. You know, you need to make outside look stunning - give the customers a visual experience to feast upon too, as well as an oral one. New staff-members to really bring the place to life. Music to play so the place doesn’t seem as dead during quieter periods.... and the food.... the stew was good but the starters were less than desirable. Is it just you working back here?”

The man nodded, “At the moment, we’re pretty quiet so... I can cope. You say the starters weren’t any good?”

Jamie shook his head.

“Maybe the cold room isn’t working properly?” The man pointed in the direction of the cold room, just off the far wall of the kitchen close to the main hobs. “You used to work in a kitchen - could you have a look?”

“Er, I guess so,” said Jamie.

“Great!”

The man led the way to the cold room and pulled the heavy door open. Straight away they could all feel the cold air escape into the general warmth of the kitchen. There was no way the cold room was broken - more likely it was the restaurant owner looking for a feeble excuse as to why his food wasn’t very good.

“What do you think?” the waitress asked Jamie.

“Feels fine,” he replied. “Good size too...”

“You know, it’s one of the biggest cold rooms in any restaurant of this area...” said the man.

“Really?”

“Stretches right around the back - loads of room in there... Here, I’ll show you... after you...”

Jamie stepped into the room half expecting the man to follow him in but he didn’t. He simply slammed the door shut on Jamie - locking him into the cold darkness of the freezer.

Jamie shouted from within but his voice was barely audible, “Hey, what’s going on?!”

The man ignored Jamie and turned to the waitress, “Well, looks like we’ve got more stews to serve up... you see the size of him? He’ll keep us in meat for months!”

“That’s what I thought when I saw him sitting there... and then, as soon as he said he was a food critic....” the waitress agreed.

“Oh, that reminds me - tell your brother he has another restaurant review to write up!”

~ fin

INSOMNIA

I'm looking out of the bedroom window, waiting for the sun to come up to signal the start of yet another day. Can hardly say I am chuffed to be here. I should be asleep like most other people. Damned insomnia; made worse by the singing birds nesting in the tall trees behind my house. They say the early bird gets the worm but that is bullshit. The reality is the early bird sits in a tree singing as noisily as they possibly can; like a drunk after a heavy night on the lash.

The sounds of nature can be nice, relaxing even, but not at four thirty in the morning. At four thirty they're just irritating. Even more so when you find yourself in a bad mood. You're unhappy and miserable so the rest of the world should be too. Fuck them.

I wonder what they're even singing about anyway. What is so great, in their feathery little world, that they feel the need to sing about it...every morning? Surely no one can be that happy? Must be on crack.

A door slammed shut, to my left, and my neighbour's dog ran into the garden where he immediately took a shit. Nice. Guess he couldn't hold it in any longer and woke the neighbour up to let him out. Least I know someone else is awake. Should start an early morning breakfast club or something. Doubt they'd agree to come round though as I don't even know their name. Never thought to ask. Our kind don't generally mix. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I'm better than him it is just...well...I'm better than him.

The dog turned around, gave his early morning dump a little sniff and ran towards the other side of the garden. Does it really smell that bad, I wonder, or is he just being weird. Probably a little bit of both. There is a pup who was dropped on his head at birth. Going by the looks of him - probably on purpose too. Must be one ashamed mother out there some place.

A stirring from the bed behind me. I twisted my neck to have a look. Could it be she is waking up too? I waited a moment to see. Nope. She's just rolling over. Lucky bitch always sleeps through to her alarm clock. I honestly don't know how she does it. I've asked her on many occasions, over breakfast, but she never answers. She just sits there obsessing over her own calorie intake; a couple of eggs on toast one day, some porridge the next...she's not even fat...I mean, don't get me wrong...she's not the thinnest either. Still love her though. Sometimes. When the mood suits.

I'll be nice this morning though. I feel I should be as I was purposefully trying to wind her up last night just for shits and giggles. I was like a naughty school child. Have to be sometimes, it's good to just let loose from the stresses of the day and if that means behaving like a fool then so be it.

I turned my attention back to the garden as another door closing stole my attention. It's the neighbour on the other side of my terraced house. Regular as clockwork, for the last week, he has been doing this; going into the garden to dig. Soon as the sun is up, he stops and disappears back into the house. I presume he has to get ready for work or something. Just don't understand why he feels the need to dig at night. It's not as though daytime temperatures soar high making outside work an impossibility. We live in England after all; home of the cucumber sandwich, cup of tea and miserable weather. God, it's no wonder I'm depressed.

As I watched my neighbour merrily dig his hole, I couldn't help but wonder what he was trying to create in his garden. Would I wake up one day and discover a nice pond feature or the foundations laid for some hideous, sun-blocking structure? I'm hopeful for the pond. I like fish. I could watch them for hours; the way they glide through water is relaxing. I was so busy thinking about fish, I hadn't realised the neighbour was staring directly at me with a blank expression on his face. Okay, that's seriously creepy.

I mouthed "hello" at him but he didn't respond. I feel like I should look away but I want to see what he is going to do, if anything. Such a little freak. Would like to see him start something. I reckon I could take him. Lanky streak of piss. Just realised, neither one of us has blinked yet.

"Fuck you," I mouthed. The temptation was to scream it but I didn't want to wake sleeping beauty, behind me. Less chance of her making me some breakfast if I disturb her and put her in a foul mood and I seriously can't be bothered to fend for myself. Not with the lack of sleep I got last night anyway.

My neighbour turned to the digging task at hand, with his back to me. Yeah, you want to look away, you little punk. For a horrible moment there I thought I was going to have to go downstairs to 'have a word'.

What makes his digging even stranger, at least the not knowing why he is doing it, is that everyone used to know all of his business, along with the business of Becki. See - these houses have thin walls and when the two of them really went for each other, which was most days...well....everyone in the small street knew about it. You could hear every word clear as day. Sometimes we'd even turn the television off just so we could hear it better. Certainly more interesting than some of the junk on there these days.

I don't think either of them realised how loud they were being either as neither would mention it if you were to see them in the street. They'd simply smile and carry on their business without a care in the world. But then, maybe they did know and just didn't care...or they thought the walls were thicker and thus kept their arguments private? God only knows not that it really matters anymore. They haven't argued for about a week now. Less entertaining for us but at least it is quieter now. Must have finally settled their differences. Either that or she has moved out...

Suddenly a cold hand went around my neck making me flinch. I twisted my head and relaxed when I saw it belonged to Karen.

"Morning," she said with a tired voice - clearly not quite awake yet. She started to tickle under my chin causing me to helplessly purr. I love it when she does this. She knows how to hit the spot, "I suppose you want some breakfast?" she asked as she ran her hand down my back.

"Meow," I purred.

~ FIN

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Table of Contents

- THE VIEW
- BERNIE
- MENU
- CLAUSTROPHOBIC
- TO CATCH A TRAIN

- THE LIFE STORY OF SOMEONE WHO COULD HAVE BEEN CALLED DONALD

- THE DEAD OF NIGHT
- GROWING PAINS
- THE DONOR
- COINS
- SNUGGLES
- KARLA
- OFFICER PETTY
- DEAR, OLD GRAMPY
- LOVE MUM & DAD –x-
- THE BUTTON
- YUMMY IN MY TUMMY
- MY WILL
- COURIER
- THE DAY I WAS BORN
- MOTHER
- UNDER THE BED
- SOLDIER OF FORTUNE?
- MY DAD’S ARMS
- WALKING STICK
- HINDSIGHT
- DEREK
- THE APPOINTMENT
- THE PROJECT
- TOMORROW
- CHANGING
- THE LARDY-LARDY GIRL
- TIME
- THE BEAST VS THE WIFE
- TEETH
- NIGHTY-NIGHT
- The Body
- UNTIL THE END OF TIME
- THE LITTLE GIRL
- “I Lay Still”
- THE REVIEW
- THE FOOD CRITIC
- THEMYSTERY SHOPPER
- THE FOOD CRITIC-PART TWO
- INSOMNIA
- Want to watch Matt Shaw’s short film MENU?