By: James

“Harper, you bastard!” That bastard Harper’s been at it again. Give me strength. Listen to him, scurrying about like some sort of teenager whose furious masturbation session has been abruptly cut short by a grandparental intrusion. To be honest, that’s not too far from the truth. Swap the ages round and it fits well enough I suppose.

The door to his ‘study’ opens.

“Alright?” he asks. I glare. Christ, he stinks. He knows what he’s doing alright.

“What’s up with you anyway? Sand in the vagina again? Neeeeer.” He saunters into the kitchen. I’d love to go to town on that little pock-marked excuse for a face one of these days, perhaps with a claw hammer and a soldering iron… Sadly, this isn’t one of those days. I must endure.

As I’ve said before, he really is one of the best in the business; I just wish he wouldn’t make such an exhibition of himself. Fucker takes the discretion right out of indiscretion, if you get my meaning.

“Have you finished yet? Lomez wants proof before he makes the transfer, and if our guest is all trussed up like a fucking Christmas dinner, then he’s gonna want answers. Answers which, whilst I’m sure you’d be more than forthcoming with, none of us will want to hear.”

“Nearly. I’ve got some o’ them Fridge Raiders need using up. You can do what you want after that.”

I need to go to bed. This can’t be right.

By: James

Man, I hate that thing. It’s been up on that wall ever since I can remember. When I think back to the days we’d come round after school, and she’d sit us down on the couch while she’d fetch the teacakes, it makes me shudder.

Being in the presence of it meant only one thing. She was drinking again. She’d be on a three-day bender or something and Dad’d bring us round here. ‘Sleepover at Nanna’s!’ he’d enthuse. On a Tuesday? Yeah, good one, Dad. I think he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. Still, points for effort.

Look at it though, sat there all ceramic and judgemental. Its cold gaze takes in everything, follows you round the room like one of those freaky paintings. You can’t escape. Even if you did, you’d still have to come back.

So here we find ourselves, some 14 years later. Same couch, same living room, same… it. Same grandkids, same confusion.

I wonder who’s going to get it. I hope to Hell that we don’t cop for it. She knows I’d only break the thing.

The Spike and the Plug
By: James

You can’t quite believe the anger you’re currently feeling. You’re pretty certain that you’ve never been as angry about anything in your life. This really has to be the last straw, surely. I mean, why bother? Why bother trying to just get on with things? Life just shits on you any chance it gets. What conceivable reason do you even have for getting up in the morning? Seriously, just give it up, man. And what the hell is it with you anyway? You’re far too highly strung, and your anger barometer is clearly wired up the wrong way. You get mugged as a teenager and you’re mildly irked? Your girlfriend leaves you for her personal trainer and you’re “not that bothered”? At work, someone gets promoted over you, largely due to their husband-of-a-senior-member-of-staff status and you say nothing? Yet here you are, after walking barefoot through your darkened bedroom, foolishly stepping on an upturned plug, a plug that you left there, suddenly you think it’s okay to erupt into a frenzied bag of Mental. If it’s not “Son of a whore!” this, it’s “Fucking coconut shit-tits” that, and let’s not forget the classic “Jeeping shitwank fuckmethathurt!”. Seriously, stop your whining, you’re not that special. Remember whose fault this is.

Evidence of a Struggle on the Dancefloor
By: Tess

The band on the stage had been playing for thirty-three minutes already, and showed no sign of stopping for a break.

Is you is or is you ain’t my baby?

Her feet were sore, in her too tight new red shoes. She hoped her hair, perfectly curled earlier in the day, and her vivid crimson lipstick were intact with no sign of wear or tear. It wouldn’t do to look like a floozy.

The way you’re actin’ lately makes me doubt.

He was wearing his brogues, shiny as if brand new, but she knew they’d been worn so many times they fit his feet like a pair of driving gloves.

Yous is still my baby-baby.

He smiled at her as he twirled her round. She smiled back, ignoring the familiar cold sensation in her left foot which meant that the blister that had formed on her smallest toe had burst. She didn’t look down. She couldn’t look down. She just had to keep on dancing.

Seems my flame in your heart’s done gone out.

He smiled at her again, his eyes peculiar in the flickering light. They seemed sharper, more alert, and it suddenly seemed to her, on the dimly lit dancefloor, that there was something cruel about his expression.

She blinked her eyelashes, heavy with lacquer, and flicked her skirt as he spun her round once more. She smiled back at him.

A woman is a creature that has always been strange.

He didn’t recognise the stamp on the postcard.
By: James

“Who the hell are Diane and Mark?”

“What?”

“I said, who the hell are Diane and Mark?”

“Sorry, didn’t get that. Who’s dying what?”

“Fuck’s sake. Who the hell- you know, if you’d come to the top of the stairs you might actually be able to hear me down here. Who. The. Hell. AreDianeandMark?!”

“How the hell do I know?”

“Well I don’t know a Diane, or a Mark,”

“Well neither do I, what the fuck are you on about?”

“It’s this postcard. Looks like it’s from some couple in Morocco or summat. Sounds like they’re having an alright time,”

“What’s the weather like?”

“It just started raining,”

“Eh? In Morocco? How’d you get that from a postcard? What is it, an iPostcard or some shit?”

“Not fucking Morocco. I thought you meant now… Um, they don’t mention the weather, but apparently there’s loads of beggars and that,”

“Sounds a bit shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Anyway, come and look at this, I think the Pebble Crown works quite well with the bathroom suite, but it kind of clashes with the Shanghai Gist on the landing. What do you reckon?”

“Na, I’m off out,”

“What? I need your opinion on this!”

“Yep.”

Beleaguered Castle Blues
By: Tess

Everyone knew she was going to give in eventually. Why continue to struggle, to put up resistance?

She’d stood impenetrable, undiminished and unspoilt for decades, centuries even, but now she had met her match. And she knew it, though she refused to surrender.

It was, if nothing else, mildly frustrating, thought Ulric as he perched on his haunches in the rain, staring up at her. She towered over him, resolute against the darkening sky.

He grinned to himself as he sharpened his weapon, ignoring his sodden clothes.

It was only a matter of time.

By: James

At least he could take some comfort in the fact that there was nothing he could have said or done that would change matters. Votes were cast, the ballots were in and the verdict was there, clear as day. He simply had no choice, no say in this matter. For once, it truly was out of his hands.

That said, it still doesn’t make the decision-makers any less of a bunch of gutless twunts, and he’d like very much to tell these shitbirds to stuff it up their collective arses and to fuck off whilst doing so. He won’t, of course. But it was a nice idea, he thought to himself as he sat back, fired up Google, and perused the best course of treatment for stomach ulcers.

(Seventeen pence for) A fresh soul
By: James

“I don’t understand… I mean, look at it. Just look at the bloody thing! I don’t know how I’m expected to work like this, not under these conditions! What am I, fucking Helmut Newton?! No. No, I’m not, I’m… you know bloody well who I am, and I expect better support. Now you, you pull yourself together and next time dickhead, find me a better specimen!” I’m angry as hell, seething even, and Harper’s the only one around, so he’s copping for it. I’m in a foul mood and struggling to cope. I’m not sure what’s happening, but I’ve not been myself recently.

“I’ve not been myself recently… not been…very well,” I sip my caramel macchiato. It soothes.

“S’alright, I know you’re under a lot of pressure,” he says, adjusting his Santa hat.

I put the camera down. Calming myself, I rub the sleep from my eyes.

“Just put her on the sixty-two, should be here in a bit. Mick usually turns a blind eye to our capers.”

Harper sniggers to himself, the seedy bastard. He drags our subject into the bathroom.

“Fifteen minutes!” I shout. That should be ample time.

“I’ll only need five!” he retorts. I hate him, but he’s the best in his field. I’ll cope. I pick up my paper to check the share prices. Not bad. Up again. Not much, but it helps.

Harper’s yelps of delight resonate. I don’t want to know.

I want to die. A part of me does.

Yobo-Gouda, the gobshite monk
By: Tess

Slipping through the slimy dark, oppressive and sickening, he continued up the narrow alley ever flexing the twine held in his twisted hands.  The hood of his cowl, worn and defeated, fell back to reveal his deformed head; a vivacious masterpiece compared to the workings of the fractured brain inside.

His filthy fingernails, still clutching, still twisting, knocked against the crucifix that hung around his neck.  Muttering an incantation (perhaps even a prayer to an incensed God) this Burke, this Hare continued on his misguided path.

Like broken branches, destroyed by a hurricane, they fell
By: James

He didn’t want to go. He knew it was a bad idea from the moment he got up. He had a bad feeling about it. Actually, he had quite an annoying habit of constantly telling his colleagues he had a bad feeling about whatever it was that they were about to do.

“I got a bad feeling about this,” he’d say.

Having been on numerous jobs together and becoming familiar with one another’s habits, everyone knew that this ‘bad feeling’ was simply a mild case of what they call in the Corps a ‘gentleman’s infection’ (probably best if you didn’t ask).

Nevertheless, this particular job was one that —– was right in having a bad feeling about. It turned out that a rapacious family of xenomorphs had recently taken up residence in the basement of the facility and had incapacitated the inhabitants of the whole colony, turning them into surrogate parents in the process.

The powers that be weren’t too happy about this arrangement (or were they?), so it fell to —– and his brothers (and sisters) in arms to quell this infestation. Due to the machinations of a certain unscrupulous corporate prick a clerical oversight though, the team was killed on site. Well, I say team, but a civilian advisor, a flirty corporal, an affable artificial person and a little blond orphan did survive that fateful weekend on LV426.

The irony was, —– only had one week to go with the course of treatment for his infection. Shame, really.

The fluffy little bunny slippers…of doom!
By: Tess

They sat on the floor staring at her with their baleful eyes.  She shuddered and hugged her knees, pulling them protectively towards her chest.

So this is what she had become.

She had always prided herself on being the tough girl; someone who sneered at all things typically associated with women whose brains were addled by the prospect of romance or cute whimsies.

It had been creeping up on her slowly; she was unwittingly being dragged into a world where her long-standing morals didn’t fit in.  The relationship had developed so slowly she hadn’t noticed her independent lifestyle slipping through her fingers like syrup.

So he had bought her the slippers.  And the worst thing was she liked them.  She liked them without irony, without derision, without even a playful condescending comment.

No.  She would have to think about this.

Tallulah loved flowers; they always seemed so happy
By: James

Yet their relationship was a rocky one. She could never settle, could never commit. One week she’d bring home bright red Tulips, another week she’d return with some Hydrangeas. If she went through men at the same rate, she’d either be knocked up by now or have an STI or three. Anyway, whatever the species, they always seemed happy, and Tallulah like this.

The irony was, poor Tallulah would spend the majority of her days being generally unhappy. ‘How ironic,’ she’d think to herself, whenever the pungent aroma of that week’s Lilies would tickle her nostrils, reminding her of their presence, sat there quietly, minding their own business, watching Tallulah go about hers. She’s even been known to stop what it was she was doing to indignantly address the offending flora: “How ironic that there you sit, gleefully soaking up the sun and making everyone feel better, yet I’m just stuck here, tending to your every whim and getting progressively more miserable?”

What irked Tallulah even more was the wall of silence that so often met her complaints. The flowers never responded. They never spoke, never acknowledged her grief. They never even did her the courtesy of looking at her.

Sometimes Tallulah would tell the flowers her troubles. For instance, she once purchased a tin of Tesco value tuna (albeit inadvertently). Never having sampled such delights, she was most taken aback when confronted with the grey, soggy disappointment inside.

And did those Geraniums care?

What do you think?

Glass / Irreconciliate / Preamble
By: Tess

A single shard of glass, as multi-faceted as a diamond, shrieked in the dying sunlight; it’s voice reflecting the burnt sky.  At this, the end, it was hard to remember how it had all begun; it was impossible to recall the dazzling spectacle from which this wounded creature was derived.  Yet it was that statue that had acted as the visual preamble to the entire nightmare.

The sun sunk low amidst the distant hills, sprinkling darkness upon the valley.

Though the integration of the two departments had been a success, Bruce knew further changes were necessary
By: James

What he hadn’t realised was that when they told him that he’d be in charge of the whole thing, that was really office-speak for ‘the fall guy’ which, if Bruce’s memory served, was actually a pretty good show back in the eighties. Anyway, he needed to put the various merits of TV shows starring Lee Majors out of his head for the time being, for there were far more pressing matters at hand.

Sure, the merger was a success, technically. But what about finance? Could this new ‘super-department’ cope? Could the older members of the team accept the younger, more ‘qualified’ staff working alongside them? Heck, never mind ‘could they’, how about ‘would they’?  Bruce couldn’t be sure. But, to be fair, The Six Million Dollar Man was televisual drama of the highest calibre, of this he was positive.

“I wonder if it’s out on DVD yet,” Bruce thought to himself as he smiled disingenuously at that new bloke they’ve employed. You know the guy, sits in the office opposite. You might think they do the same job, but although there are a few similarities, Bruce assures us that their roles are very, very different.

This does not affect your statutory rights
By: Tess

‘Too damn right’ she thought, staring down at the offending object on the kitchen table.  She raised her wine glass with her good hand and sipped from it delicately, then tipped it back until only a smear of ruby stained the bottom of the glass.  Replacing the glass to the table, she refilled it from the bottle; again with her good hand.

A few drops escaped and slithered down the side of the glass to the table surface.

Scarlet and ruby mingled together.

Starting to shake slightly, she stood slowly and selected a bowl from the cupboard.  Placing it on the table beside the item which had caused all the trouble, she fetched the ice tray from the freezer shelf and awkwardly filled the empty vessel.  Then she drained her glass again.

Collecting her keys from their neat little rack, she lifted her severed finger from the table top and laid it amidst the twinkling ice.

Taking great care to ensure that all the lights and appliances were switched off, she left the apartment; still clutching her bowl.

After all, it would be a shame if there were to be an accident.

Semi-skimmed coconut-vanilla
By: James

Health-conscious are we,
somewhat jaded and slim, but
skimmed makes us leaner

I think this is a haiku, though I don’t personally care for such contrivances. However, given that this very project is a virtual exercise in self-indulgence, I’m willing to take a more relaxed approach. We’ll call it a compromise.

I’ll make another attempt:

Ooh, I worry, as
Coconut might well overwhelm
Poor vanilla so

Acceptable, this?
I fear that coconut and
Vanilla won’t go

Maybe a milkshake
Vanilla the main flavour
A coconut hint?

Aren’t haikus generally self contained entities and never combined into sequence? I’m not sure.

I fear that this has gone terribly wrong. I’ll go back to simple flowing prose next time.

Ada had a severe case of sciatica which, although painful, rather complimented her position as top Motability scooter saleswoman in her region
By: Tess

…but she still wasn’t happy.  Her success was tainted by the very thing that had plagued her for all this time; indeed it stemmed from it.

How could she delight in such a hollow victory?

She was sure fate was laughing at her and so, after much deliberation, she gave up her esteemed position, turned her back on her accomplishments and enrolled in a convent.