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TessA
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28-09-2018, 11:25 AM
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Re: Fast fiction

Great thread, bedtime reading for me from now on!
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28-09-2018, 12:31 PM
12

Re: Fast fiction

Not on topic but I thought I’d just slip another oldie in while I get my head round the topic.

A familiar smell.

Opening the door to his little room in the basement Bob felt his nose wrinkle up and somewhere in the back of his mind an alarm bell rang.
Standing by the open door he sniffed the air, but nothing seemed out of place and he could detect nothing other than the normal familiar smell of old paint and cleaning fluids that were stacked on the shelves, so brushing his first thoughts aside he made a mental note to get an air vent fitted as soon as possible.
Bob Hardwick was the caretaker come jack of all trades at the local junior school, a job he had acquired some years back after the pit he had worked in for most of his life had shut down.
Collecting the gear he needed to get some work done he closed the door, and as he did the rush of air passing over his face again made his nose wrinkle and a strange ripple of fear stirred up a distant memory that for some reason he just couldn’t put a finger on.
Locking the school gates that evening Bob made his way to the home of an old friend who used to work at the same school before retirement, and who had agreed to stand in for a day while Bob was off having his regular tests for a lung complaint he had contracted working down the pit.
Lying on the hospital bed recovering after some invasive treatment, Bob looked around at the range of equipment that had been used on him that morning, much of which except for the oxygen cylinders was completely alien to him when he suddenly sat bolt upright.
The distant memory that he simply hadn’t been able to recall when he was at the school the previous day had erupted into sharp focus in his mind.
Some of the tunnels of the long since closed pit he had worked in he now remembered went under the junior school, and grabbing his phone he immediately got in contact with his old friend who was standing in for him and urged him to get all the pupils out as soon as possible and contact the emergency services.
Thinking back over the events of that day Bob felt sure his illness had maybe saved many young lives.
If he had not needed to go for treatment, and if he had not spotted the gas bottles, he would quite possibly have not realised the smells that he had become so accustomed to in that small room were in fact masking the build up of Methane gas from the disused tunnels below, something he had encountered many years back and nearly died from.
According to tests carried out it was stated that the gas had reached saturation levels in the basement and could have exploded at any time.
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28-09-2018, 10:24 PM
13

Re: Fast fiction

(Sorry this is longer than suggested. It was inspired by something that was archived in the museum where I worked part time but which I have fictionally enlarged upon )

It was pitch black and the wind was howling a gale as the old hull of HMS Corrugated inverted and sank within minutes of the alien strike. The beam had simply ripped out the side of the ship and there was no time for the conventional cry of “Abandon Ship”. I was lucky in that I was on deck at the time and the crew were unlucky in that they were all below decks in the storm. They stood no chance of survival and mostly went down while still inside the ship. More luck came my way as a Carley Float had broken away from it’s mount and washed overboard and I had hung on to the lanyards around the float and eventually dragged myself aboard. Luckily we were in the tropics so cold wasn’t a problem and the rain had been so torrential that the bottom of the float was awash with fresh water. I had been carrying a maintenance back pack when it had happened, but I had no food and I knew that the speed that the ship had sunk would make any SOS call unlikely. I lay in the bottom of the float and slept fitfully . I have always been lucky in that I could sleep almost anywhere in any conditions but that night was a challenge!
I was alone and I wasn’t even sure where I was- whether we were in a shipping lane or not, whether an SOS had been sent , if anybody at all knew of the ship’s fate.

The morning dawned a little quieter. Still a heavy sea but without the horrendous winds of last night. As the day dawned I looked all around the horizon for any sign of a ship or land, but it was well into the afternoon that I saw for the first time a grey smudge in the distance on the edge of the sea. I was, by now very hungry as there was not so much as a ship’s biscuit in my back pack, which was unusual as I am a greedy pig and usually manage to stuff some sort of candy bar or chocolate in to take with me for my rounds. I pondered trying to fish but I had nowhere to cook it and although I suppose in extremis I could eat raw fish, it did not yet appeal to me. Fortunately towards evening I could see that I was approaching an island that I had first seen as a smudge on the horizon, but now appeared to be where the now gentle wind was blowing me. There were paddles lashed to the inside of the float and I tried to encourage my float towards the island when I thought it would help. I endured another hungry night but by morning I could almost reach out to the island. I paddled furiously as it seemed my float might pass by the island and eventually I was on a beach thousands of miles from my home or friends.

On the beach I dragged my float up in case I needed it again. I didn’t want it floating away. I sat down for a while- pleased to have at last, firm ground beneath me. I could see palm trees, hopefully coconut , so driven by hunger I walked towards them and lo! Coconuts they were! I hit the trunk with a heavy piece of driftwood and one nut fell. A rock was all I needed to crack it open and I ate all the milk and pulp at one sitting, (although I lost quite a lot of the milk). There were crabs and shellfish on the rocky shoreline and in my pack was an igniter for my small butane solder gun, and a small tin containing assorted electrical fittings. I put the contents onto a flat topped rock, in case I needed anything later, put some salt water into it with the crabs and mussels. I used the igniter to start a small fire of dead wood I found on the beach. My meal was very healthy, even if short on greens and carbohydrates- masses of protein and lots of taste. I also found a custard apple tree with fruit on and a kind of citrus that I wasn’t familiar with, but was willing to try.
As night approached I used some plantain leaves to make a bed but I wasn’t too worried about the rain that might fall as it was so warm but one thing I had found in my shirt top pocket was my MP3 player- the battery was gone but with my maintenance kit from the back pack I found some copper wire and some zinc cable clips. Using the citrus fruit I inserted a copper wire at one end of the fruit and the zinc at the other and connected it with some wire to the contacts of the MP3 player. At least I had something to listen to as I passed the night away. Middle Eastern music has always left me spellbound and fortunately I had copied some to my player, which I had only recently discovered sung by Loreena McKennitt , a Canadian but surrounded by some very traditional musical instruments. Takes me straight back to Turkey, which I loved.
It’s been a hard day! Although the island isn’t tall, it only has a couple of low hills, the vegetation is very dense and it’s hard work doing what we would call, back home, ‘Bush Bashing’. I walked around the coastline of the island the day after I arrived but the interior may yet supply me with a fresh water source of some sort. There doesn’t seem to be any indigenous animals, just some brightly coloured birds and a lot of seagulls. Haven’t seen any nasty insects so that’s good, although I could probably eat them if there were. Quite nutritious insects are- you just need such a lot of them! From the top of the highest point I can just see what seems to be another island which at first I thought was a cloud on the horizon. That makes it probably about 30 miles away, a little too far to paddle unless things really get tough .

Today was exciting! I had fought my way through some very thick lianas still looking for a source of water as my solar powered fresh water machine was not producing enough to keep me fully supplied in this heat. Back from the beach I could see a depression in the island and I hoped that there might be some sort of catchment below my vision. When I reached the bottom of the depression the ground was damp so I dug a hole with my hands hoping water was just below the surface. I had barely reached 3 inches before I struck wood of some sort. It seemed flat and hard as I dug around it. Eventually I was able to clear the surface and I saw what appeared to be carved writing in the surface. Soon I could read it! My heart was in my mouth as it became clear what I had discovered. It was a wooden memorial!
Who was Morgan Bourke? Who carved the memorial to him? Is there further evidence of a previous castaway? Going by the date there would be no survivors less than 150 years old but there might be some sort shelter or maybe a written diary or some such. Anything which might help my survival would be welcome.

In the bush I saw some kind of wooden construction and the remnants of a path leading to it. But only when I reached it did I find the body, or rather the remnants of it, of Morgan Bourke’s fellow castaway! Ragged clothes covered a skeleton and round the body a leather pouch, cracked and weathered by over a hundred years of neglect. I carefully opened the pouch and inside a rusty knife, some twine , a pencil and a very delicate diary with some pages stuck together , some completely gone . Only the last page was readable and then with great difficulty. There was no mention of the writers name but he mourned the passing of Morgan, his friend of many years, and of the hardships they had faced before the tree had fallen and killed him, and the loneliness he was left with. How he yearned for a friend , another human, a glass of ale and a loaf of bread and the companionship of others . The page was dated the 19th Of June 1879, two years he had been alone, with little water . The last page had been dated 28th June, in very shaky handwriting but nothing further had been written. I squatted on my heels for quite some time, thinking of Morgan Bourke and his un-named friend. It seemed a fitting , if limited purpose but I owed them that.

Today I saw a plane, high up in the sky - not worth lighting my signal fire. I’ve had it sitting there for 8 years and no cause to light it. I renew the plantain leaves as the dry up as I would need smoke for anybody to see it. I never realised how far off the sea lanes we were when the Corrugated sank. I had hoped that some kind of SOS was sent but it seems not. By now it’s probably been thought of by the rest of the world as one of those “Bermuda Triangle” events with all sorts of suggestions and theories, none of which really fit the bill. I’ve buried the remains of Morgan’s friend (I almost feel as if I know them both) but I don’t suppose anybody will bury me when it happens, as happen it will . I’ve been experiencing strange dizzy spells where I find it hard to stand up as my balance is haywire. I’ve been lucky I suppose in that this island has fed me and watered me for such a long time. I’ve experienced a few storms but my little bivouac has stood up well as it seems it had for Morgan’s friend. I wish I had known his name . Oh! Oh! I’m feeling wobbly………………………………................................ ..............
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28-09-2018, 10:34 PM
14

Re: Fast fiction

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eccles
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29-09-2018, 07:15 AM
15

Re: Fast fiction

OK, as we all seem to be doing our own thing ........ here's another one

EVERYBODY OUT - Part 1
“Bastard. Bloody snidey bastard.” Adrian Forrester ground out the words bitterly as he pounded down the steps of McArthur Brothers and onto the wet pavement. One of his loafers smacked into a grey puddle of oily water, sending dark spots up his trouser leg; Adrian bent with a snarl of impotent rage to examine the damage and in the process dropped his briefcase into the same puddle.

“Who the hell do these jumped up little oiks think they are?” he enquired of nobody in particular, as he sipped moodily on a warm pint in the nearest pub. “Looking down their bloody noses at me, just because I’m a rep. I know more about engineering than the whole lot of them – five years at college, certificates to prove it, I can fix anything, me. I’ve got a gift, I have. Mum was right, I’m wasted doing this job. Repping! Trying to talk nobodies in posh suits up in their tower blocks into spending money they’re too damn mean to part with. Bastards.”

Adrian Forrester had much to be bitter about. He was pushing 50, grossly overweight, unmarried (although he tried kidding himself this was through choice) and had the sort of unfortunate personality that seemed to repel; this was undoubtedly a disadvantage in his line of work, although like many others with character defects he had a finely honed sense of his own importance and capability and very little self-awareness. Since leaving college with a so-so knowledge of all things mechanical and an unjustified optimism that employers would be fighting each other to procure his skills, he had gradually come to the conclusion that being sacked from job after job was proof – if any was needed – that the world was “out to get him” and that all the ex-bosses he’d locked horns with were, frankly, jealous.

He lumbered away from the pub, wiping his lips of beer and attempting to avoid any further puddles as he made his way back to his small flat. He stopped off at a news stand to buy the evening paper; tonight was job night, although in his present mood he doubted he would find much other than burger flipping. He ran his eyes over the columns of small print, his lips curling in supercilious amusement as he read aloud the weasel words. “Computer literate enthusiastic go-getter needed NOW!” “Ha bloody ha” he sneered. “A shop assistant with pimples and the IQ of a newt is what they mean.” “Are you a yes man? Then we don’t want you, we want a can-do man!” “God help us” Adrian intoned. “A can-do man? To do what, sell cans?” He slurped his instant coffee, lit a cigarette and leaned his plump elbows either side of the adverts, allowing the ash and the coffee drips to combine into a murky slurry at the top of the page. It’s so damn unfair, he thought as his bloodshot eyes trawled the columns. Here I am, all this potential, young, smart, more savvy than any of these yuppy kids who land prestigious careers in daddy’s business, and here I …..

A small ad at the bottom of one column caught his eye and he squinted short-sightedly at the words, leaning over and causing a worm of warm ash to plop into his flashy tie. “A chance of a lifetime for one lucky man! Are you good with your hands? Intelligent but under-appreciated? Fed up with dealing with idiots? Call this number and change your life.”

Adrian Forrester, frustrated and bitter, fat and middle aged, didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the phone and with podgy fingers dialled the number. “Probably already gone” he told himself, as he listened to the ring tone.“Can I help you?” a smoothly hypnotic female voice enquired gently.

“Er, yes you can, I hope” replied Adrian, his palms suddenly damp.
“It’s your ad. I want to pop along if that’s allright. Just let the dog see the rabbit, don’t you know. Show you what you could be missing.” That didn’t sound quite right to his ears, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Of course sir,” the velvety voice responded, and proceeded to give Adrian explicit directions and an appointment time for the following morning. The office block was tucked away in a narrow road that Adrian had never noticed before, which was odd as he’d lived in the area all his life. He’d made a special effort to look good for the interview – mock silk tie, not too garish and unstained, his grey suit from which he’d sponged most of the previous day’s mud, shiny shoes, dark socks and a generous splash of cologne. “If that bird’s as good as she sounds” he smirked, “she’s going to get a treat when I lean in to shake her hand.” The thought brought a faint colour up to his fat cheeks and a grin to his mouth. He paused outside the doors, took out a tiny phial of breath freshener and squirted a jet down his throat. He marched confidently over to a reception desk which was disconcertingly deserted. No bell to attract attention either, he noted. No visible CCTV to monitor who came and went, which was very lax of them. He could fix them up in no time, might earn him a few brownie points …
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29-09-2018, 07:15 AM
16

Re: Fast fiction

PART 2

Adrian ambled over to a leather chair against the wall and leaned back, crossing his legs. He re-crossed them, then placed both feet firmly on the floor. It was difficult to appear relaxed when you were sitting on your own and not sure who might suddenly pop out of one of the doors, but he attempted a semi-recumbent pose. He was dying for a fag and hoped that whoever turned up was a smoker. It really was too bad though, he thought irritably. It was bang on the right time, he’d made the effort and …. “Good morning sir.” The voice breathed softly just behind his right elbow and Adrian nearly shot out of his chair. He had heard nothing, no footsteps, no door opening. The woman standing patiently a few feet away was the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on, and that included any of the celebs he lusted after on TV. She was tall, willowy and pale, and the overhead lights brought her red-gold hair to life with tiny sparks as if her head was on fire. She wore a tailored suit of palest cream, very simple and yet, and yet … Adrian felt dizzy and slightly sick, as if wakening from a fever and finding the room off-skew without quite understanding why. The woman’s eyes met his. Those eyes! Palest blue, almost colourless as if the incessant rain outside had washed any colour right out of them leaving just the faintest residue. Stone washed demin, thought Adrian wildly. No, blind man’s eyes. Was she blind?

The woman held out a narrow, white hand with colourless nails and delicate veining. She held his gaze without expression, but her lips curled up slightly as if aware of the impression she was giving and it pleased her. “Are you good with your hands, Adrian?” she asked softly.

Adrian. How the hell does she know my name? Did I mention it on the phone? Of course, I must have done. How else would she know? Wild meandering thoughts chased each other across Adrian’s mind, chaotic, panicked. “Pull yourself together, man” he reprimanded himself. “It’s a job interview, for God’s sake.”
Adrian took a breath, sucked in his ample stomach and smiled ingratiatingly.
“Well yes, I am. Extremely good. I can fix most things actually. Machinery, electronic equipment, computers. Something of an expert, me.”

“Oh, wonderful. I’m so pleased. I think you may do very well.” The woman introduced herself. “I’m Angela, by the way. I can see how enthusiastic you are, Adrian. Tell me, have you had much luck in life?”

Such an odd thing to ask, he thought. She sounded like a bloody fortune teller. A hot fortune teller, it’s true, but even so; what sort of question was that? The funny thing was, he found himself suddenly telling her everything, all the slights he’d suffered as a rep, the misery and humiliation of unsuccessful jobs due to the incompetence of the idiots who paid his salary, the barely hidden sniggering asides from kids half his age at coffee machines. All of it. Every damn let down, every lonely night nursing a pint at a table on his own at the pub, the comfort eating, the smoking. He felt oddly cleansed, as if he’d offloaded to a priest in the confessional. Angela patted his hand, and he could swear her denim eyes were moist with empathy.

“Now, Adrian” she said, standing up. “We do of course need you to complete a practical test before we can take you on. I hope that’s acceptable to you, but you do understand?”

“Of course, of course” Adrian nodded keenly. He’d expected some sort of test, hell, he’d had enough practice. She was probably going to show him a broken computer or maybe ask him to wire up some lighting system or something. A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Er, Angela? I don’t think your ad actually mentioned what you do, did it? Some kind of surveillance is it? Fitting electrical equipment perhaps?”

Angela paused, considering. “All will be explained shortly, Adrian. First, I need you to go up to the top floor, where someone will meet you.” She indicated a smooth black set of double doors set into a far wall. “The lifts. Just press the top button.”

He glanced round to thank her – and she had gone. As if she had never been there at all, no sound of her footsteps, no sign of any nearby door. Adrian stood in the centre of the large reception area, totally alone and staring all around him. There it was again, that off-kilter sensation, that faintly nauseous feeling as if the world had slipped off its orbit for an instant. Then it passed, and he was just Adrian again, standing like a fool on his own and approaching the lifts. There was only one button to summon the lift, and the instant he pressed it, the doors slid noiselessly open to reveal a mirrored cubicle. Expecting to see the usual row of buttons for the various floors, he was startled to see one large smooth disc with “top floor” engraved on its surface.

“Ah, must be the executive lift” he surmised, grinning cockily. “This will be my own way up to my very own office at the top; give it a year and I’ll be using this one and to hell with the plebs fighting to use the other one.” He stuck his fat finger into the disc and depressed it firmly.

At first Adrian thought there must be a fault. The lift appeared to be stationary, and he searched in vain for a Help button. No, it was moving, he realised. Christ, it was slow! How the hell did Mr Big get to work? He would be quicker taking the stairs, or perhaps he left the house an hour earlier. This was ridiculous! He could tell the lift was ascending, although at such a gentle rate it was unbelievable. Well, this would be the first thing he’d mention once he did get up there; things would have to change once he was on the executive staff….

A movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. All the walls were seamless mirrored glass, as was the ceiling. Each view reflected Adrian’s crumpled suit, gelled hair and darting eyes, like one of those fairground hall of mirrors, he thought. Quite creepy really. Except surely the ceiling and walls hadn’t been quite so close? The lift crept on, smoothly, silently, towards the top floor. Adrian Forrester stood enclosed within his mirrored box, sweating through his shirt and running his hands down the walls, looking for – what? He sank to his knees, placed a pen an a short distance from the angle of the wall and floor and watched incredulously as the wall inched its way towards the pen until it lay right up against it. The pen then began its creeping journey towards him. Frantically peering up at the ceiling, he was sure it was at least six inches closer to the top of his head now. Was he going mad? And why didn’t the bloody lift move faster?

“Help!” he yelled into the vacuum. “Help needed in here! Anyone hear me?”

“Hello Adrian” came the soothing velvety voice of Angela.

“Who – where are you? What the hell’s going on here? “ Adrian felt himself falling through the fabric of sanity. He wanted his flat, his pub, his mother.

“This is your practical test, Adrian” Angela explained in a patient tone, as if to a backward child. “Remember? To see if you’re as good with your hands as you said you were. You need to stop the walls and ceiling shrinking before you reach the top floor. It’s not far to go now. I’ve slowed the lift down to make it easier for you, but you don’t have long, Adrian. See you on the top floor – maybe.”

Adrian screamed. He was by now on his knees as there was insufficient head room for him to stand, and the side walls were sliding ever closer. He squatted with his arms out at his sides to hold back the movement, but nothing helped. He began to blubber, and begged the disembodied voice to let him out. A warm wetness squirted down the leg of his trousers and puddled on the shiny floor. The lift crept ever upwards.

Angela’s kindly voice echoed around the tiny space of the lift, although Adrian by now hardly registered the fact. He lay flat on his face, his wobbly stomach spread out on either side of him, legs bent, arms squashed to his sides. Fat drops of greasy tears slid down his cheeks and the remnants of a long-forgotten garbled prayer tried to escape his mouth.

“This is what we do, Adrian. We’re Corporeal Recycling of Useless Deposits – CRUD for short. Oh look, here we are – the top floor. Everybody out".
Tezza
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29-09-2018, 09:45 AM
17

Re: Fast fiction

Thank you for your input one and all but I have decided (on my part at least) to no longer be a part of this thread. I had hoped it would go the way I intended and not become a free for all. Should anyone else wish to keep a story thread alive can I suggest they start another thread. Sorry but that’s the way it is. Thanks again for your efforts. 👋
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29-09-2018, 11:28 AM
18

Re: Fast fiction

Tezza .. why abandon it? It's a good idea ... and so is a collection of short series from our resident story tellers.

Why not have two threads then?
One for a freehand and one for a weekly subject?
Both would be nice.
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29-09-2018, 12:07 PM
19

Re: Fast fiction

Originally Posted by Morticia ->
Tezza .. why abandon it? It's a good idea ... and so is a collection of short series from our resident story tellers.

Why not have two threads then?
One for a freehand and one for a weekly subject?
Both would be nice.
I totally agree with Morti.
I have only just started to read them.
Tezza
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29-09-2018, 03:11 PM
20

Re: Fast fiction

Originally Posted by Morticia ->
Tezza .. why abandon it? It's a good idea ... and so is a collection of short series from our resident story tellers.

Why not have two threads then?
One for a freehand and one for a weekly subject?
Both would be nice.
As you will see Morticia I have suggested that, but I’m not sure there will be sufficient interest in both mediums. The F/F thread is perhaps to disciplined. I suspect now I have set the ball rolling someone will start a short stories only thread.
 
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