Flash Fiction Friday - Mind Your Head

It's been months since I wrote anything, but I was determined to get back on the horse, so to speak. So here, for this week's Flash Fiction Friday, is a story that includes the words Frenetic, Hobbit and Cummerbund.

Mind Your Head

He didn’t care if Bilbo Baggins from The Hobbit had worn one, he wasn’t going to wear the pissing thing. Adds a bit of class, she’d said, makes you look like somebody. Well she could fuck off, he was somebody and if he didn’t want a cravat, he wasn’t going to wear it. And, why the fuck would a fictional character wearing one be an incentive for him to wear the poncing thing?

“You nearly ready, dear?” she called up the stairs.

“Yes.”

“No need to snap.”

“I wasn’t snapping.” He paused, looked in the mirror. He was snapping, his face was red. Red mist rising, that’s what he called it. Back again from the depths of nowhere, ready to take him to that place. So dark that place; hellish, frenetic, scary. Scary was the worst part: the ideas it gave him, the things it wanted him to do.

“Your cummerbund’s down here if you’re looking for it.”

He looked at the mirror, saw his burning eyes. Ten deep breaths, that’s what he needed. Calm the heart, lower the blood pressure. Calmness breaking, he shook his head. Surely everyone felt like this at times? The great unspoken state. He knew there was red mist in everyone. Most just hid it better than himself. Everyone had the potential though. Everyone.

Downstairs, cummerbund and cravat didn’t feel too bad. He looked stupid though. Like some nonce or theatre goer, but it was just for one day. Helen looked great. Blue dress, just above the knee, showing off those great knee caps. The large hat obscured her carefully prepared hair. Smiling at him, she lay her head on her right shoulder.

“Doesn’t look so bad. You never know, you might actually enjoy today.”

He turned away. Ten more breaths as he picked up his keys and suit jacket. She really didn’t help sometimes. Maybe she was in on it. They all were. Everyone was in on it. It was wind up Derek week and she was the fucking cheerleader.

Ten more breaths as he walked to the kitchen. Glass of water, a look out at the garden. Neat rows of flowers and veg. Calming that’s what it was, all that effort to raise and grow flowers from tiny seeds. All that effort. Yet that voice, the one in his head. It told him to smash the trellis, rip the heads off the flowers, pour weedkiller on the tomato plants. He clenched his fists. Clenching was the only thing sometimes. The only thing that stopped him.

A few more deep breaths and he walked back to the living room. “We ready then?” he asked.

She said the service had gone well, but he wasn’t so sure. The groom messed up his lines and the page boy cried throughout. If that was well, what would a disaster be like? Onto the reception after ten thousand photos were taken. Sat at a table with her relatives. Polite conversation. Hands under the table, clenched. Small talk, he’d  never been any good at it. How’s work, golf, the garden, they’d always say. Always scout round the big questions. How’s your head? Where’s your mind at today? How many times in the last week have you thought of killing someone? Really, only two? Oh you are improving. Why I thought of killing three myself and I’m not messed up in any way.

“You okay?” she whispered.

He turned, looked at her. Her eyes read concern and hidden tears. She mouthed the words, we can go outside? Get some air?

He shook his head. This was her day. Her cousin’s day to be precise. It wasn’t about him. Two deep breaths as the waiter came over, started laying cutlery.

“You play golf, Derek?” asked someone. Her uncle Rob, that’s who he thought he was. Something big in insurance in the Home Counties.

He shook his head. “Never really tried.”

“We should have a round sometime. All of us. No better way to spend a Sunday morning.”

The pompous laugh at his own unfunny joke. It wasn’t even a joke just small talk. He looked down at the table. Waiter had just place two knives, two forks and a spoon. One was a steak knife. Very sharp. The voice in his head - How many can you take? There’s fifty people in this room? How many can you kill before someone stops you? Bet you can do them all? Go on....

How many could he kill? He clenched his fists and stood up. He hoped he’d make it outside without finding out.

National Flash Fiction Day

It's today, apparently. If I'd had more planning and not been at work so much, I might have tried my hand at a story especially for today.

But I haven't.

All I can do is cheat and point you, dear reader, in the direction of things I've previously written.

My own personal favourite of all the flash I've written is Route A66 up at Shotgun Honey. The reason it's my favourite? When I wrote the ending, actual shivers went down my spine. I spent the rest of the day unable to get the story out of my head.

Flash fiction's been a bit short on the ground for me this year. I used to churn out one or two a week, but the ideas aren't coming as easily as before. Must try harder. I'll have to revisit Flash Fiction Friday as they give you a theme which, if your brain isn't coming up with ideas, makes it that much easier.

The World of Pound

Following another damp bank holiday, ranting has become easier than normal. This week's topic, the great british institution that is the pound shop.

Like em or hate em, Pound shops have exploded in popularity and become as British as the Friday night kebab and Chicken Tikka Massala. We're rather blessed where we live as the ratio of pound shops to normal outlets seems to increase every week. Soon, every shop will be a pound shop. But what of the merchadise, I hear you cry. What of it...

About a year ago, Becky from Cornonation Street opened a new pound shop our way (if that hasn't got class written all over it, what has) You've got to understand, it was a pure fluke that we were in the vicinity that day, but it gave me the chance to sample their delights.

Canned food from obscurely named companies with dubious sell by dates, razors that take your skin off when you shave, perfume and deodorant guaranteed to cause rashes, socks that fit triangular shaped feet, packets of vegetable seeds that don't grow, toys that fall apart within seconds, oven dishes that don't like heat...

But it only cost a pound. You can hardly get annoyed that the garden gnome loses all it's colour after the first downpour or the 1kg of coffee you bought tastes bitterer than a vinegar sandwich. It's only a pound, you just can't get annoyed.

But that's what annoys me, all the pounds I've wasted in pound shops over the past year could probably have bought me the same amount of stuff that might have lasted, or at least tasted of what it was supposed to.

Probably the most concerning item I saw on a recent visit was pound shop condoms. Seriously, would you trust them? I wasn't that surprised to see they're also selling pregnancy tests.

This country, eh?

Shotgun Honey

I've got a piece of flash called Guilty Hands up at Shotgun Honey today. Any comments over there are gratefully received.

The other site

I've created another blog, called The Daily Cynic.

I know satirical / cynical newspapers are nothing new. I remember That Be Bristle from about ten years ago (unfortunately just this snippet on the wayback machine is all that remains), not to mention the truly exceptional Daily Mash. As regular readers to this blog will know, sometimes things annoy me enough to need a good rant about and I thought the rants needed a proper home.

Of course I'll still rant here from time to time, but as this was originally a writing blog based round my first book, it's probably for the best that it stays predominately writing.

Talking of writing, I'm 15,000 words into the Inspector Cliche novella and I've hit a bit of a wall. I've not run out of ideas, it's just finding the time to write.

I know this was supposed to be the year of the takeaway picture, but I can't find any more decent ones.

Caffeine Freebies

I'm not sure how long these will be free, but three great new releases by publisher Caffeine Nights are currently free for the kindle.


Frank's Wild Years by Nick Triplow

The Late Greats by Nick Quantrill

And

Abide With Me by Ian Ayris

Something Old

Got nothing to rant about this week so here's the first chapter of an unfinished book I started years ago: Sausage Roll Finger. It was the sequel to Spies, lies and pies (now renamed The Spy With Eczema.)

Funny looking back at old stuff, isn't it? I suppose your writing grows as you grow or whatever. This book, though, is probably my favourite of all the unfinished stuff clogging up the hard drive. However, I never saw the point of writing a sequel to a book that isn't up for sale. What's that you say? Self publish The Spy With Eczema? Maybe I will. Maybe, I will.


Sausage Roll Finger - Chapter 1


Jeffrey Humpdine was no average security guard. Sat on his fat arse eating a cheese sandwich in front of a CCTV monitor, you’d be forgiven for thinking he was. At four am in a factory on your own, life can be quiet. However, Jeffrey wasn’t the sort of man to catch a few hours sleep or read the paper; he was committed to his job and the people he served.

Years of watching the CCTV monitor had toned his vision. He no longer saw the pictures on the screen. Instead, he saw the irregularities. Someone in sector G had left his coat on a peg, the cleaner had forgotten to empty a bin in the canteen.
Jeffrey checked his watch then stood up.

“Time for the four o’clock walk then,” he said, in between mouthfuls of cheesy bread. Grabbing his high-vis jacket, he left the office, a ring of keys jangling at his belt as he took each stride.

Outside in the factory was row upon row of bright stainless-steel machinery all inter-connected by conveyor belts. Each of the machines deserted. Walking up to the first machine he paused, reading the label for the fiftieth time.

ACME Sausage Roll Piping Machine Model 18923B.

“So then, ACME piping machine, what time you reckon today?” Jeffrey asked it with a curiously Americanised accent.

Receiving no reply, he pulled his left sleeve back, pressed the side button three times on his digital watch to reveal the stopwatch, which for some reason was named a chronograph, and adopted a runners standing position.

“Five, four, three,” he counted, “two, one, go.” He pressed the start button on the watch and started slowly walking.

Making a car-like acceleration noise, Jeffrey held out his left hand, grabbing at an imaginary gear stick. When the revs reached a peak, he pulled his hand back quickly, the revs in his voice dropping noticeably.

“Brrrrrrrm,” he said, his pace increasing as second gear accelerated him down the corridor. Changing up again to third, a flawless change, his speed was akin to that of a fast trot. Ahead of him, the plastic double doors led through to the Rolling room.

The bottom of his coat flapped curiously against his keys as he took his hand off the gear stick to push the door open, barely slowing his pace on the way through.

Giving a final, “Brrrrrm,” he changed up to fourth. The engine was now noticeably quieter as he sprint-walked down the straight, known in the trade as Pastry Paddock. Repositioning himself to the left of the track, he began his deceleration ahead of the sharp right hand bend leading into the cutting room. Changing down to third, then second, he squealed round the bend, taking the racing line, his right hand oversteering, feet skidding, as he glided to the left after the bend. He, again, began accelerating through the gears and onwards toward the cutting room exit.

Maybe if Jeffrey hadn’t been playing silly twats motor racing he would have seen the small metal casing beneath the cutting machine. Maybe, if he’d slowed or changed down to second, he might have seen the wires hanging out of the casing. Maybe, if he’d been actually doing his job instead of fannying around, he would have noticed the digital read out on the front of the box, counting down the seconds with only five seconds left.

However, he missed the signs.

In the last four seconds of his life, Jeffrey accelerated back to third then slowed, changing down at a inch perfect spot for a tight right hand corner, before re-accelerating down the home straight.

There are probably worse ways to die.

~

It even had a cover done by Bradley Wind.