Category: Fiction

Boarding

I’m delighted to feature at McStorytellers once more courtesy of Brendan Gisby. ‘Boarding’ is described as ‘a large dawd of dry Scots humour’. Just remember to keep your car doors locked…

https://www.mcstorytellers.com/boarding.html

 

If you like short stories, Scots, Scotland, or any combination of these, Mctorytellers is definitely worth a follow. Brendan has a long history of supporting authors with a link to Scotland and really knows his stuff.

 

As always, I’d be delighted to hear your feedback and thoughts!

 

Fat

Helen smiled as the evening pedestrian traffic negotiated its way past her on Great Western Road, Glasgow. The kids on the bus had not been the first, and nor would they be the last, that laughed at her weight. Admittedly she did not do herself any favours; the supersize soda clenched in her pudgy fist and the entire double seat that she was spread over meant that it was a rare night that she did not elicit at least a few sniggers.

It had not been the titters that irritated her; more the inference that she didn’t know who they were aimed at. Being morbidly obese did not make her an idiot, and neither did it make her deaf. Tonight it had been two tattooed teenage lads hiding their laughter behind hoods and scarves; the cuffs of their tracksuit tops dirty and the miasma of their cheap aftershave overwhelming. As usual her friend Douglas, a fellow nurse at Gartnavel General Hospital had been unable to resist the provocation.

Continue reading “Fat” →

Straight Down the Line

Morning folks,

little piece of flash fiction this morning. Hope you enjoy and as always, comments welcome!

***

Trevor sat on the metallic chair, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. There were lights in the room, but none shining into his face. Not yet, anyway. Instead, up-lit lamps clung to the walls of the office, spilling soft yellow light onto the ceiling and down onto the table in front of him. There was no sound other than the low thrum of the aircon system, and Trevor had to raise his head intermittently to check that the two guards were still in the room with him. They were.

Hanging his head once more, Trevor heard it – the sound that all three men had been anticipating. Both guards straightened their backs against the wall and stared impassively past him, their lips as thin and straight as the creases in their trousers. Trevor rubbed his sweaty palms together as he counted the steps echoing in the warehouse. The factory was huge and the array of equipment that stood hulking in the airy darkness distorted the sounds.

The footsteps halted, and after two sharp raps on the door Mr. Mitchell, the duty manager, entered the room. Trevor raised his head again to see that, although immaculately turned out, he had the heavy-eyed, jowly look of a man recently roused from sleep. After conferring briefly with one of the guards, the man took out a tablet and dragged a metal chair to the table. He sat down on it heavily before tapping away at the screen in front of him. It was some time before he spoke.

‘Trevor Gillian?’ Mr. Mitchell asked, not looking at the man opposite him.

‘Yes, sir.’ Trevor stared at his hands.

‘Chip board fastener on production line E?’

Trevor nodded. This answer seemed to satisfy the man for a while; there was more tapping and swiping on the small screen.

‘Been with the company for eight years?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Second highest level of security clearance?’

‘Yes.’

‘Happy at your work?’

The man’s eyes flicked up from his tablet for the first time.

‘I…yes, sir.’

‘Can you tell me why I’m sitting across a desk from you in a deserted smartphone factory at three in the morning?’

Trevor said nothing for a moment before gesturing towards a sprawling pile of glass, plastic, and gleaming copper wiring that was heaped on the desk in front of them.

‘That’s right,’ said Mr. Mitchell, leaning back in his chair so that the metal shrieked. ‘We’ve had thefts before, and we’ve certainly had leaks of proprietary technology, but nothing as brazen as this. Nothing as downright…stupid.’

Trevor shrugged.

‘Well,’ said the man, getting up from his seat and buttoning his suit. ‘I’m afraid only one course of action remains, Mr. Gillian. We always prosecute, and we always seek damages – it’s the only way we can ensure we remain at the leading edge of smartphone technology. Once they have been searched, you’ll have your belongings sent to you at your home address, or your custodial one.’

He motioned to the guards, both of whom placed a hand underneath Trevor’s arms, raising him to his feet. Putting his tablet back into his briefcase, Mr. Mitchell paused.

‘Just out of interest,’ he said, his brow furrowed. ‘What on earth possessed you to dismantle the phones before you left the warehouse?’

Trevor considered the value of what he was about to say before shrugging once more and muttering out of the corner of his mouth.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the man. ‘I didn’t catch that.’

Trevor rolled his eyes.

‘I said I wasn’t trying to steal chipboards.’

‘Well then,’ asked the man, smirking. ‘What were you doing with a rucksack full of proprietary tech at three in the morning?’

With two men restraining him, Trevor was no longer able to avoid eye contact by staring at the floor. Instead, he chose a spot over his questioner’s left shoulder.

‘I was looking for a diamond ring.’

The aircon was the only sound in the room once more. One of the guards shifted his feet.

‘My girlfriend, Lyndsey, she works down the line at quality checking,’ continued Trevor, resigned to telling his story now. ‘The idea was…the idea was that I would put an engagement ring in the phone casing, and that she would get an abnormal weight alert and check inside.’

There were still only blank faces.

“A proposal,’ he spluttered. ‘It was supposed to be a proposal!’

Trevor shook his head, as though he himself was having trouble giving the story credence.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the manager, massaging his temples. ‘I still don’t understand what the pile of electronic detritus in front of us has to do with your proposal, which by itself constitutes a breach of contract and which will…’

‘She went for a bathroom break!’ said Trevor, pulling his arms free and grabbing tufts of his own hair. ‘Of all the times to go, she went then. Whoever was covering for her mustn’t have been paying attention, and the phone was passed as fit for sale.’

The manager looked down at the huge pile of components.

‘You mean…’

‘That somewhere,’ Trevor wiped his moist eyes with his sleeve. ‘Somewhere amongst this pile is a ring which cost me six months’ salary.’

Trevor saw the manager’s eyes flick to both security guards. Mr. Mitchell put down his briefcase before retaking his own seat.

‘I’m telling the truth,’ said Trevor sullenly.

‘I believe you,’ Mr. Mitchell replied before taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. He motioned for the guards to do the same. ‘Now, what colour stone was it?’

 

 

 

 

Cracked

It’s kind of beautiful, really. Like dew strung on a spider’s web or sugar frosting on a birthday cake. Silver tributaries reach out in front of me, each spreading and dividing into the tiniest trickles, glinting as the morning sun catches them obliquely. And then there’s the chiming. Dozens of bells tinkle, off-key but in perfect unison. Beautiful.

At least, it’s beautiful until the rest of my senses catch up. There is glass in my mouth – a gritty nugget sitting right in the middle of my tongue. Ptuh. The cloying smell of milk reaches my nostrils. God knows how many bottles are broken in the back of the float; empty ones trundle past the cab as though determined to continue their journey. Most perverse of all though is the shopping trolley wheel poking through my windscreen, spinning and wobbling drunkenly. The rest of the trolley lies atop the buckled glass like a junkie on a burst couch.

I duck under the window and look up. There they are, the little bastards. One, two, three of them, peering down from the disused railway bridge, their elfin faces caught halfway between horror and delight. How on earth did they manage to get the trolley up there in the first place? Never mind, because I’m stepping out of the van and into the delta of full fat, semi-skimmed, and skimmed milk coursing around the wheels of the float.

This is what they want, of course – a chase. This is what they had in mind when they pushed it off the bridge – another adrenaline rush, another story to tell each other whilst drinking Mad Dog in the park. The sensible thing would be to walk away; to drive on with what’s left of my morning round and my dignity. They aren’t the only ones needing satisfaction now, though. There’s a blood debt to be paid. A milk debt. The faces disappear from the bridge as I start to run towards them.

***As always folks, delighted to hear your thoughts/comments on my writing. Hope you enjoyed!***

The Decent Thing

Good morning readers,

my latest short story has been picked up by the fine folks at Penny Shorts – quite the honour! Unlike most short story websites, Penny Shorts pay authors for their work whilst keeping content free for readers – a trait worth encouraging, don’t you agree?

Read it here

https://www.pennyshorts.com/stories/sci-fi/the-decent-thing/

and please let me know what you think of it.

Also of note is the fact that Penny Shorts are offering £50 for the best review of a short story submitted by the end of May. Find out more at https://www.pennyshorts.com/news/

Tide

via Daily Prompt: Tide

Evening folks,

a bit of flash fiction on the theme of ‘Tide’…

 

It creeps away from you, the tide. You can watch it for hours, a serene lead grey, but turn for a minute to look at the darkling room behind you and it has cringed away, eager to avoid watching eyes.

Bore tides, neap tides, rip tides, brown tides, semidiurnal tides. I can watch them all from my boathouse, glass of red in my hand and the gas heater humming away at my side. The cold is starting to edge in from across the bay.

It was a spring tide that brought about my undoing. Out beyond the pier the tide went, out beyond the rockpools, out past the moored sailboats. It had been a dog walker who found her; it’s always the dog walkers, isn’t it? There had been phone calls, more dog walkers, fishermen, and finally the police with their bright jackets and crime scene tape. There had also been the first knock on the door. No, I didn’t know who it might be. No, I hadn’t seen anything suspicious.

They’ll be back of course, once the DNA tests results are in, once the facial reconstruction posters are pinned upon lampposts in the village. For now, though, it is just police tape guttering in the sea breeze and men in white masks digging before the tide turns again. I sit back in the rattan chair before pouring myself another glass.

 

***As always, delighted to hear any feedback! The featured image is a beautiful boathouse on Loch Tay, Scotland***

Hungering for Success

I imagine Michael Phelps looks pretty strange to kids; a pair of ordinary legs are overshadowed by that looming torso. Slabs of granite muscle are decorated with thudding veins, all tucked into an impossibly small waist. Likewise Chris Hoy, whose skinny torso contrasts with thighs that could suffocate a fully grown highland cow. And look at Frankie Dettori. At five-foot-four inches and eight stone, if he were anywhere other than on the back of a horse he would be at best a curiosity, at worst a laughing stock.

All of them are scarred by their sport, marked by perseverance, pockmarked by passion. I’m no different, so when the kids snigger and point at me from across the street, I shrug it off. How could they know? How could they appreciate the sacrifices I’ve had to make? I’ve broken barriers. I’ve trodden ground previously untouched by boot or trainer. When fellow competitors whisper tales of derring-do, of impossible feats, it’s me they whisper about. Why would I look like others, when I am so much more?

Leaving the titters and the mutters behind me, I ease myself off the bus. The plaza is already crowded, and I’m asked to autograph a couple of programmes. As I get closer to the main tent, I’d like to say that the spectators part in awe as I approach. They part, sure enough, but it’s out of necessity – no-one wants to get it the way of my stomach. Here though, there is context. Here my stomach is my pride, my living, even. Here fans blow out their cheeks in admiration instead of laughing into their hands.

I enter the tent into a low thrum of anticipation. My fellow contestants are already seated, their piggy eyes on me. I’m the daddy, the don, the pacesetter. There’s no time for hubris, though. It’s focus that’s got me where I am and focus that will land me the title again. Like any athlete, I know my numbers. Eight hours of fasting before the competition, one litre of water in the morning to swell my stomach, seven pies in seven minutes, each five inches wide and one-and-a-half inches deep.

I sit down, close my eyes and breathe in. The day my mouth doesn’t water at the smell of shortcrust pastry, pie-meat, and gravy is the day I know I no longer have it.

As always folks, I’d be delighted to hear your thoughts/comments!

Clean Lines

Matthew J. Richardson

Clean Lines

When people asked Clement what he did for a living he would say ‘I’m a painter.’ Artist sounded too grand, artiste more so. He was these as well, though.

Clement didn’t believe in labelling. Artists shouldn’t be boxed in; they shouldn’t be categorised. If he were put into corner, Clement would say that he ascribed to the Ligne Claire style. Clear, strong lines directed the viewer’s attention exactly where he wanted it to be.

Not that any serious art critic would insist upon labelling Clement. That sort of nonsense was reserved for the uninitiated, the dour. People like his parents. Lots of money to be made in medicine, they’d remark casually back when Clement had been doodling in his notebook during maths lessons. Have you thought about learning a trade, they’d ask delicately when his grades failed to improve.

This was where Clement belonged. Here, there were always people queuing to see his work. On a busy morning, two thousand people an hour would be ushered past his paintings, each admiring his simple colours, his bold shapes. A shout brought him to. Swigging the last of his coffee, Clement acknowledged his gaffer with a wave. The roar of morning traffic was dulled to a low hum as he slipped his ear muffs back on. Back in the cab, a look out of the window told Clement that he was still in line. Down went the paint lever. Down went the handbrake. To his right, traffic weaved around the bollards, but behind him, straight down the middle, straight as an arrow, ran white rectangles. Like a piece of art.

As always, all comments welcome. See my published work HERE