Fiction

Pssst - all you new-age vagrants out there.  

Ever fancied the comfort of a cosy lounge for free, right on the High Street? If you’re thinking “coffee shops”, then think again.  Unless you cherish hustling for a space amid used napkins and oozings of toffee-nut latte, to sit on plywood shaped like a rudimentary chair, whilst the din of industrial coffee grinders compete with the shrieks of spoiled toddlers … if you cherish that, then go right ahead.

For a more homely experience, rock up to your local Department Store.  These often have a furniture section, containing mock-ups of living rooms in various styles.  Simply turn up any time during opening hours, choose the sofa you like best, and make yourself at home.

Be sure to have everything you need before you arrive.  Newspaper, flask of coffee or soup, hot water bottle.  A pet (live or stuffed) makes a cute, cuddly addition (especially if still warm). Check your phone battery is fully charged - this could be a good time for that long phone call abroad.  If caught short on credit or battery juice, feel free to use the in-house telephone system which staff use to call one another.  Dial ‘9’ for an outside line, then reverse the charges.

Once you’ve settled into your comfy haven, cast your eyes around the shop floor.  Coolly wave strangers over to join you, particularly those you like the look of.  Put your feet up on a pouffe (if you’re so inclined).

If you like to unwind by watching television, then you’ll need to be more inventive.  Ask to try out a pair of binoculars, and ensure you have a clear line of sight to the audio-visual department.  Don’t like the programme that’s on?  You did remember to bring your “All in One” remote control, didn’t you?  Aim carefully, and zap away to your heart’s content (and turn up the volume so you can hear it).

Many of these “faux lounges” sport handy coffee tables to empty your pockets onto.  You don’t want loose change falling down the back of the sofa for another scamp to find, do you?  These low tables are also perfect for that stack of books and magazines you appropriated for the duration of your visit.

There’s no obvious, “acceptable” time limit to remain in your “virtual lounge”.  However, to make an untimely eviction less likely, consider wearing camouflage.  For those partial to trendy, black leather sofas, you’ll need to dress in similar fashion, like a “rock star”.  If camouflage is impractical, then try to sit very still like a mannequin.  This helps you to seem like “part of the furniture”.  

Be sure not to fall asleep though, or you may wake up in the store-room. Stay tuned for Part 2: The High Street Soup Kitchen, where we’ll wander over to the Kitchenware Department.

Like every other time, it started off weird.  He put the funny plastic gown over my head, stood back, and spoke to my reflection.  “So! What can I do for you today?”

This throws me every time.  I thought maybe I’d walked into doctor’s surgery by accident.  Then I saw the bottles of pastel-coloured male grooming products (which nobody buys), and knew I was in the right place. “Use your imagination!” I wanted to say.  “Look at how my hair looks now, subtract four weeks - now make it look like that!”

Men’s haircuts ought to be pretty simple.  Unless you’re a punk. No, I understood.  He was afraid that one day I might change my mind.  That I might say, “Actually, I’ve turned to organised crime.  Shave it all off, and give me a razor-scar while you’re at it.”

I asked for a trim.  The barber replied, ‘ahhhh, a trim!’  As if that changed everything.  God forbid, if we hadn’t got that straight, he might have gone into left field and given me a tidy-up instead.

I guess it’s all part of the patter.  Having something to say to each other during this weird ritual. My barber is pretty friendly.  He asks questions about my life.  But he’d stop cutting my hair while I was speaking.  I was there to get my hair cut, so I didn’t answer his questions very often.

Certainly, men’s haircuts should be pretty straightforward.  But there was the other side of the coin.  It could also be a ludicrously technical affair, with millimetre tolerances at stake.  When asking for a number three on the sides and back, I’d half-expect him to haul out a computer-guided industrial lathe.

Once the negotiations were over though, things didn’t get any easier. I was captive in the barber’s chair, with a mirror straight ahead.  I couldn’t move a muscle, for fear of losing an ear.  So where should I look? Straight ahead was out of the question: I’d be gazing weirdly into my own eyes. Behind me, was the guy who was waiting.  It’d be even more weird to look at him. Attempting to look nowhere in particular made me look all shifty. So, I began to check out the little table in front of me.  You know, the little table with all the barbery things.  Scissors, and razors bathing in antiseptic, like something a brain surgeon might have. How can there be so many kinds of scissors, I wondered.  There was a particularly funny-shaped pair, which looked like they could be used to make crinkle-cut crisps.

Suddenly, the barber yanked my head forward.  Now I was staring down at my crotch, while he attended to my neck stubble with a laser-guided guillotine. I suppose I shouldn’t complain.  Sometimes they give you a free tissue on your way out.  Like a souvenir.  You only get this in the classier joints, whose coffee tables boast newspapers only two days old.

The best bit for me was the double-mirror trick at the end.  The bit where the barber holds up a second mirror, so I could admire his landscaping efforts on the back of my head.  Anything involving two mirrors is worthy of respect in my book.

I took one more look at all those scissors and scalpels, and acted impressed.  As if this number-two-fade was superior to all other number-two-fades I’ve had. In truth, I couldn’t tell the difference.  But the risk of offending a man carrying a cut-throat razor was too great, in my mind.

A school-age genius disappeared after being overrun by a deadly stampede of scientists, which he apparently caused by being better at science than them.

To understand this tragic turn of events, we have to learn a bit about one of the seven wonders of the world.

In Giza, lies one of the most fascinating ancient Egyptian artifacts: the Great Pyramid.  Much of its interior has already been explored, but one of its deepest chambers - carrying secrets four-thousand years old - has been notoriously hard to breach.

Scientists hate secrets.  But no scientist has ever ventured into these deep chambers, mainly for fear of ancient, supernatural curses.

But in a classic case of serendipity, a clever solution to this stand-off was found when the results of a completely unrelated study were published.  Experiments with a very popular operating system led to the conclusion that software programs were immune to curses.  No matter what taunts and threats were conjured up by the user, the software still continued to do stupid things and get everything wrong, like a merry simpleton.

This finding led to the obvious choice of using a robot archaeologist powered by Microsoft Windows to explore the supernaturally-charged tomb.  A Windows Robot would be completely immune to the terrible curses of Tutankhamen.

So, the robot was gradually built and tested, then guided slowly and painstakingly into the inner chambers, taking photographs of what it saw.

Champagne corks were popping as terabytes of video and still photographs were beamed back to the Science Team.  However, what was to be the largest archive of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics ever found amounted to a huge translation effort.  The enigmatic, copper-tinged  icons mocked scientists for years, driving many of them to drink and vandalism.

So, the researchers “crowd-sourced” the problem, encouraging budding Egyptologists around the world to have a go at cracking the puzzle.  Ostensibly, this was an attempt at “Science 2.0”.  But we now know it was because the scientists didn’t have a freaking clue what the hieroglyphs meant.

Infuriatingly, the puzzle was finally cracked by a school-child: Cedric Dansack, a 13-year old science boffin and football-hater.  Cedric was no stranger to the world of facts and figures, having won his school Science Fair with his “Cyber-Cuisine” device of the future, and as recumbent “Bullie’s Favourite”.

However, as Cedric’s results worked their way through the peer review process, the scientific community was hit with a huge downer.  His results said that the hieroglyphics amounted to nothing more than inane graffiti, probably scrawled by a hard-core of disenchanted stone-masons.

Cedric ignited a particular fury among Egyptologists when he published a landmark paper which correctly revealed that a particularly complex series of hieroglyphs translated literally as “Bum”.

Another of the artifacts - a long tract of written prose - had taken even Cedric months to decrypt.  Scientists had hoped that an accurate translation would reveal something about the deeper resonances within ancient Egyptian life and folklore.  Perhaps the tract was a religious sacrament or political treaty.

Instead, it amounted to yet another smack in the face to eminent scientists.  Indeed, it was a detailed account of a “whacking”, where a gang of ancient Egyptian stone-masons chased one of their contemporaries in circles around the partially-built pyramid, in the first-recorded incident of a “happy slapping”.  The chase had concluded with the quarry being hit repeatedly over the head with a live chicken.

One of the most perplexing images had been painted on a door to a “secret chamber”.  This chamber was believed to have magical properties, because it was aligned exactly with Sirius, a star steeped in supernatural significance.  Intriguingly, the chamber was encased in lead, like a nuclear reactor of today.  Upon the door was daubed a stark icon, in red paint.  The image was believed to be the sigil of Biryani, the chief magician who was consulted during the building of the tomb.

But Cedric’s painstaking work revealed that the mark simply meant “Toilet”.  It was probably a facility reserved for use by the building workers.

As Cedric continued to reveal the embarrassing, mundane truth at a conference, eminent academics were furious.  An initial surge from the audience led to a stampede, aimed in the direction of one hapless, thirteen year-old boffin.

By the time police arrived, the only remains of Cedric that could be found was the left arm of his spectacles, which probably came away because it was attached in some makeshift manner.

It is not yet known which individual within the mob was responsible for the disappearance of Cedric.

But the truth shall soon be known, due to the use of psychological techniques: the conference attendees are locked in a room, and nobody is allowed to leave until the culprit owns up.

The title is identical to that of an article from the Weekly World News.  Their article must have stuck in my head, leading to me thinking later on that it was my own idea.  Damn.  The words below are my own though.

The blogosphere was ablaze with activity last night, as a Somerset teenager was caught hacking into Heaven.

The 14-year old Taunton computer student - who cannot be named for legal reasons - has been charged with unauthorised access to a computer system, and blasphemy. Message boards were overloaded with his boasts of achieving elevated privileges, which effectively granted him “God Mode”.  

Meanwhile on Twitter, thousands of re-tweets suggested that confidential information had been leaked.  This included usernames, passwords and possibly credit card details for some of the Twelve Apostles.

The leak raises serious questions about data security for those ascended into Utopia.  One privacy watchdog claimed that “for such a kingdom of perfection, the security was diabolical.”

In fairness, as soon as the intrusion was detected, The PrayerStation Network was immediately taken offline.  This meant that the prayers of Christians across the country were no longer being answered, or at least were disturbed by spontaneous images of cats doing funny things.

Speaking from Newton Abbey, Mother Meritorious complained that she had lost connection with the world around her: “It’s a denial of service attack.  When I kneel down and pray, I say the usual words but there’s no response.  It just hangs.”

A spokesman for Heaven denied rumours that the master root key was compromised.  “If that was the case,” he said from behind a partition, “the Ten Commandments would already have been rewritten with malware.  This would mean that good Christians would be plunged into the temptation of running their own apps.  If this happens you can rest assured we’ll come down on them like a ton of bricks.”

The Church is feeling the strain, as normal communication channels are severed.  The Archbishop of Dimblebury complained that the temporary closure of “Rapture” - the social network for Christians - means that “congregations are no longer connected.  Instead, they’re writing lewd messages to each other in the pews, on the back of hymn books.”

Some of these hymn books graphically illustrate the plight of honest parishioners.  One was penned with these mournful words: “I can’t believe this happened at Easter, when the Ascended are just trying to enjoy their chocolate eggs.  I prayed last night.  I was told they’re fitting a new firewall, but the Pearly Gates have to be patched first.  They’re not taking any new registrations at the moment.”

Pleading guilty, the accused maintained that his actions were not malicious.  “I just wanted to know if Flufty is OK up there,” were his touching words, concerning an alleged deceased pet velociraptor.  “The Mediums are rubbish around here.  If they can’t help me, I’ll establish communication with the dead the best way I know how - using my iPhone.”

The common mosquito has long been known as a pest.  It has brought discomfort and disdain anywhere in the world where it can stick its disgusting, barbed feet up, and then drain the blood from honest, hardworking animals.

But now - apparently unsatisfied with crop decimation and itchy sores - the mosquito has such a dangerous trick up its “sleeve”, that even politicians are looking up from their expense receipts.

Scientists recently unearthed a dangerous change in the mosquito genome, dubbed the Nile Mutation.  If left unchecked, it’s set to send the biosphere hurtling into oblivion like an errant, beer-soaked cue-ball.

Clues to the existence of the Nile Mutation were spotted back in August 2010, when traces of plutonium were found in the River Nile.  There were very few explanations.  Either somebody had let off an atom bomb and nobody had noticed.  Or, someone was running a secret nuclear plant on Egyptian soil, and was cheerfully throwing the waste down the drain.

Meanwhile, a separate group of scientists were studying Mosquito cadavers in the same area (the project had no particular goal; people just like to gloat over dead mosquitos).  

Something very odd showed up under their microscope.  A new organ had developed in the frontal thorax, closely related to the digestive system.  This new organ was unlike anything seen before in evolution. It was a tiny, perfectly-formed nuclear reactor.

The explanation wasn’t hard to find.  Due to the slow march of climate change, mosquitos in remote areas had been slowly starving to death.  When times are hard, you have to adapt.  Nobody could really blame mosquitos for finding an alternative (though sadly non-renewable) source of energy.  An onboard nuclear power plant was apparently essential for the species to survive.

The scientists didn’t dare publish their findings, because it all seemed too silly.  But the pressure built until the lid blew off, and finally, this morning, the world heard the news. One international leader quipped that “it’s bad enough Iran having nuclear ambitions.  But at least Iran doesn’t fly into your face, or lay eggs in your food.”

Fears of a terrorist ‘dirty bomb’ lessened in favour of the new threat.  The Terrorism Threat Level rocketed from Tangerine to Beetroot - described as “New-Underwear-Scary”.  Scaremongers predicted biblical swarms of miniature nuclear missiles, armed with proboscis warheads.

Even North Korea seemed to offer help, by cancelling an important cruise missile strike on the South.  Unfortunately this was not a conscientious gesture of peace.  Spy satellites revealed that all efforts were diverted to the Great Shining Mosquito of Pyongyang Project - an attempt to splice genes from the Nile Mosquito with those of synchronized swimmers, in time for the 2012 London Olympic Games.

Clearly it is time for all countries of the world to forget their differences and work together.  Option One (“Kill All Mosquitos”) has already been ruled out: they breed faster than you can clap them to death between your hands.  Option Two (“Leave Planet Earth”) is infeasible: it would feel too much like defeat and besides, space is kind of dull.  

This leaves only one solution: Negotiation. The crisis talks are underway, but the doors are closed.  Pundits chew over one solution - effective, yet morally treacherous: a heavily-guarded mosquito net to segregate the dangerous species from humanity.  

Whether the “Berlin Net” will see the light of day is unknown.  But an answer must be found fast, before a simple bite on the ankle becomes a fatal bullet in the head.

Submission for The Writer’s Cramp competition on writing.com. Featured in the editors picks of the May 11th 2011 writing.com newsletter :)

For the first time in - oh, about 25 years - the fortune-teller’s mind was a complete blank. 

The cards lay before her on the table, resplendent in their dazzling designs and colours, but completely devoid of meaning.  This was … deeply unsettling.

Megan reached one bejewelled hand towards the velvetine table, and her black fingernail marked one corner of the next unturned card.  With a flourish, the card was overturned and then slowly placed into its proper position among the others. “Six of Pentacles,” she said aloud. 

The image on the card was the one she had seen countless times since she had first dabbled in the paranormal at the age of fifteen, and which had somehow become her career.  Upon the card was a smiling gentleman in red robe and head-dress, handing gold coins to two beggars at his feet.  The image was deeply personal to her by now.  It had come to her in dreams on several occasions, and both times its particular significance had been obvious upon awakening.  It had never been just a picture on a card.

But now - she felt like a complete rookie, with only dry superficial facts from books to aid her in her deductions. “Six of Pentacles: a gift, a fleeting opportunity - “.  Megan trailed off, and slowly closed her eyes.

Where was her talent?  Where was the quirky skill which had been the shame of her adolescence, but had always kept her at least one step away from trouble?

There was of course one difference in this reading.  She opened her eyes and stared glassily into the space where the client would usually be sat. The chair on the other side of the table was empty, and for the first time ever.

She had always been superstitious about doing readings for herself.  There had been a forbidding warning about self-divination in one of the manuals of paganism she had read many years ago: some dire threat about horrors which would surely come in her dreams, and cast her into oblivion while her vacated body slept on.  Nothing to be trifled with. 

But that fear had come in her teenage years, and all these years later it seemed ridiculous that it had affected her so. Oh, the irony.  A psychic who can’t see into her own soul, despite the countless clients who had walked away happy.  The starch-shirted businessman who came to her without fail each quarter of the financial year, and whose famous name she had sworn to never speak for fear of his association with the paranormal.  The tall, grinning spanish guitarist who found inspiration for compositions in her readings. 

And now herself - one unhappy customer. Megan Wainright stretched both arms above her head and spoke in melodious tones: “I respect and accept all the information the universe is free to give me.  If the cards do not aid me, then I request that my unconscious mind give me the answer I seek in some other form.” And then she fixed the image of her predicament in her mind.  The house she wanted to buy, the one with the towering conifers and hedges cut into animal shapes.  The one with the original rustic wardrobes built into the walls.  The one which was more than a smidgen too pricey for her kind … but she just had to have.

The following morning at the breakfast table, Megan’s mobile phone suddenly rang and in her fright, she nearly drowned it in skimmed milk. It was Stacey, her red-haired pal from yoga.  The usual pleasantries were exchanged, and then the conversation got onto more serious subjects.  Megan recounted the previous day.  “Oh the reading!  That was weird, it was just a complete mental blank.  A bit like when you’re so tired, and … Well, anyway it was really simple in the end!  Such a silly oversight.”

The quick, metallic chatter of Stacey’s reply came over the earpiece.

“No, it wasn’t that!” replied Megan.  “People do self-readings all the time, it’s only me that was superstitious about it.  And I’m definitely sure I’m over that now.  No, it was a slightly more subtle insight.  I went and sat in the client’s seat on the other side of the table, and suddenly it all made sense!”

Again came the breathless electronic reply over the phone.

“No it was nothing to do with the room.  You know, when I do a reading for someone else - which is all the time - I’d always deal the cards so the other person could see them.  So I’d see them the wrong way up.  This time, for some reason I dealt them the right way up.  It just seemed weird to do it the normal way with no-one there to see them.  So when I sat on the other side of the table and saw the cards the usual way, suddenly everything fell into place …”

“Stacey - I’m only psychic when the cards are upside down!”

Submission for Daily Flash Fiction competition on writing.com The philosopher took another sip of warm brandy, then rested his bearded chin on linked hands. The light from Sol glinted in his eyes as it refracted through the skin of the Biodome many miles overhead. The icy plains in the distance looked as forbidding as ever, teeming with pests which fought humanity for survival on this wretched planet. So much was changing upon Uranus: the various civil rights groups had different words to say, but all preached from the same book.

Submission for Daily Flash Fiction competition on writing.com

Jack Frost opened one eye, surveyed the inverted scene above him, and snarled. 

The wrecked toboggan lay upon him like a heavyweight wrestler; below him was frozen ground.  He was trapped and could not move. His breath was the only sound in the snowy copse. 

Moments earlier, there had been guttural shrieks and lashings of branches as the demon crashed headlong into a tree.

Somehow, he was able to contort one arm to scratch an itch upon a bony growth that passed for his collarbone.  As Jack Frost’s face knotted into a caricature of concentration, there was a sound.  A scurrying right beside one of the demon’s livid ears, inches from the ground. 

Suddenly a furry creature moved into the demon’s eyesight.  The sight of the warm, vital body before his eyes was maddening.  But the beady-eyed rodent stood still.

“Free my brothers and sisters from this chill, and you will live,” it squeaked.

“Hah!  Go back to your burrow, four-legs!  Or I’ll seal you in ice forever!”

But the tiny creature did not move, except to look to one side.  “But I couldn’t chew through what’s keeping you stuck if you did that,” it proclaimed with a nonchalant twitch of its nose.  “These little teeth will save you, but only if we have a deal.”

Jack Frost’s face twisted into a new grimace.  “Then what?” he growled.  “You live happily ever after like lazy pigs in the sunshine, and I melt.  It’s not FAIR!” 

As the demon’s voice rose in volume like an old engine, the itch came again.  No, more than an itch now - tiny claws working their way up his neck.  And now teeth upon his flesh. The screams of terror and hatred poured from the ruined toboggan as the sun began to rise.

I stood unbelievably still in the empty kitchen as the fire alarm fretted at me. I might have felt more urgency had it been the continuous “ding-a-ling” cacophany of steel, but in this case there was only a recorded female voice calmly informing me that a fire had been reported. With an uncertainty that had to be shared, I strode into the main body of the office, feeling a hint of animal instinct press me to movement.

It began in a moment.

To the minds of those who knew it, it had already lived and died before its presence was registered - it became an instant memory.  But the sound had a life to live, and it had only just got started.

It was born as a blossom of air.  The gaseous embryo shuddered and oscillated as if extending petals into its new world.  Its direction of propagation was encoded into its genes indelibly; save freak gusts of wind or impassable physical structures it would continue its journey as long as it lived.

It was not a soul-less thing.  Its character and temperament were expressed by its timbre, magnitude, frequency, modulation; if you could see, each vibration contained a fingerprint of further oscillations, and another microcosm within each of those.  If any one of those folds or pinnacles was disturbed it would be entirely different.

It had been born well.  The turbulence of its initial hatching settled in a few moments of its life, and it cruised through the air unspoiled and yet folornly unheard.

What it was, was a message.  The information it carried was destined to be heard, but long travels and troubles would need to be surpassed before it could come to rest.

The years as it knew them passed with a dizzying series of events, each one modifying those which would follow.  On one occasion a corner of its being was cleaved off by a stone balcony on a brick building.  The dismembered limb it now dragged behind only lended its message greater weight, like a world-weary wisdom.

Much later in its fleeting life it suffered greatly when its extremeties were dashed hard on the ground beneath it, and also against the walls to its sides.  This had been a terrible time, and even the main body of the thing compressed tightly in morbid sympathy for what had happened.  That compression was not merely a flinch or shudder however, for the compression continued wholesomely when its battered parts rebounded and returned swiftly back towards the torso of the thing, yet again changed for good.

These glancing episodes continued throughout its life, and they did get easier over time.  It started to understand how it in fact needed them, so its message would be believed.

After a while, the approach of its destination could be felt.  As it grew nearer, the thing felt its age ever more and the compression which had begun in the trauma of its younger life began again, this time from head-on irrevocably.  It approached its target with no means to retreat.  It did not resist this new crisis because its most frontal extremeties were already drumming their message into its quarry. 

Soon the waves and loops of its body would follow, and its journey would be complete.

Already - beneath awareness - its quarry was aware of a change in perception.  The outer-reaches of the sound had primed a neural tuning dial and whatever came to follow would be keenly observed. 

The main field of awareness was not yet able to receive this new information but that did not matter.  The most timeless and naturalistic structures would not fail in their receipt of the message at a subliminal level.

Twilight had arrived in the world of the thing.  Its central torso no longer existed as it had.  It coarsed effortlessly into the end which it was given at birth in a sonic splash. 

As its energy was given away and transferred, the soul it had represented was cast out and revealed.

The recipient of the sound was changed forever.  The unnumerable vibrations altered the beholder’s own structures, complexities upon complexities which would exist eternally.