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: Tess

“I’m just saying, I think it’s an awesome name for a band.”

The three of them were all sprawled on the sofa, long legs stretched out in front of them, and gazing at the same spot on the ceiling. There was a fourth, but he hadn’t been engaging in conversation for some time: Woody was curled up in the armchair in the corner of the room, face turned away towards the wall.

“Yeah, I can see that,” one them replied. “Sort of, Bob Dylan meets Radiohead.”

“Lennon. You gotta have some Lennon,” mumbled another. It could have been the same one.

“I could play my guitar,” said the one in the middle. “You could sing – ” he feebly jabbed the one to the his right, “ – and you could play bass.” He nudged the one to his left.

They all nodded in unison, still staring at the spot on the ceiling that was exactly the same as the rest of the ceiling. Outside the window a siren moaned past, taking forever to disappear into the distance. The last track on the CD, a surprisingly good unlisted track in a raw state of completion that concluded an album of pretentious whining songs sung by a public schoolboy with a guitar, came to an end and the room slipped into silence.

“Lennon. Genius. You gotta have some Lennon.”

One by one, Chemocracy Coma fell asleep.

Woody continued to stare at the wall, unseeing eyes long since glazed over.

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.

By: Tess

“For fuck sake.”

Paul continued to polish the glass he was holding and didn’t reply. He was used to this. His customer was hunched over an empty pint glass, his whole right hand curling round it, cradling it protectively as a new parent would their child.

“I mean, seriously. What kind of jacked up bollocks of a phrase is that?”

Paul made a non-committal grunt. He placed the glass, sparkling, on the shelf and picked up another from the dishwasher.

“It sounds like something she got from Buddy. Buddha. Whatever. Fat prick.”

Paul could sense that something more was expected of him. Sure enough, a moment later:-

“I mean, what do you think? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The man raised his head and glared accusatively at him. Paul took in his face, screwed up with bitterness, eyes red and small with alcohol. His patron continued.

“Stupid bitch. You know what? She can just fuck off and search all she likes. I’ll cut her off. I’ll fight her for the kids too. Never wanted the buggers anyway, but it would kill her not to have them.”

The man sneered, cruel and vicious. He climbed off the bar stool, struggling to stand unaided.

Paul watched him. He was his last customer, here out in the middle of nowhere. There would be no-one else on the road for miles.

Paul picked up the man’s car keys and tossed them to him.

“Time to go, mate. Safe drive home.”

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.

By: Craig Forshaw
Title by John Grimbledeston

The sound was almost a description of his sporting philosophy. It was disgusting, messy, and unhygienic to some. But, to Unctuous Slaver, the sound was like the grunting, “urgh,” of a javelin thrower, the protestations of American tennis players, or the glorious disruption of a lady streaker. It was a pity there weren’t streakers here, but it takes a particular person to bare their flesh to the elements in front of a bunch of men hawking across the asphalt.

HOCK–FU! Distance spitting.

This was Unctuous Slaver’s tenth year, eighth as winner, at the Twelfth Great Boston Distance Spitting Tournament. The prize was the Goggins’ Golden Spittoon. It wasn’t really gold, but distance spitting wasn’t a sport, either. Not that it bothered Unctuous.

He popped a switch-blade comb, using it on his oily, black hair.

“Nice,” he nodded to himself, as a youngster held a mirror.

“Windy today, Mr. Slaver!” said a young man in a suit, carrying a clipboard with the competitors names on.

“Mr. Slaver,” he repeated, mocking him, disgusted. “Everyone wants a piece o’ the champ.”

He stretched his neck muscles.

Unctuous strode forward. The loudspeaker announced, “Here he is, folks, the Sultan of Spit!”

He was confident. Too confident.

There would be no great expectorations today.

HOCK!

He coughed up a loogie, held it in his mouth.

The wind picked up…

FU!

And the elements matched the letters, delivering the message to the champ, as the loogie swung backwards.

By: Craig Forshaw
Title by Graham McKnight

CA-SSSSSHHHHHH!

The chair flew out the comic shop window.

Brian stood panting, as Bill and Simon edged away from him.

Then Brian turned, fury in his bulging, red eyes. He began to growl through his bushy beard. He gritted his teeth. His eyes darted between them.

Bill. Then Simon. Then Bill.

Who’d move first?

“What’s going on?” asked a woman at the window.

“WHAT’S GOING ON?” he bellowed. “WITNESSES MUST DIE!”

He pounced on her, and sank his teeth into her neck. Blood gushed forth. He held a chunk of flesh in his jaws, before swallowing it. Others took one look at him, and began to scream and flee.

Simon was the first to run, but Brian’s gaze shot directly at him, and stopped him cold.

Blood dripping down his beard, he looking like a terrible cannibal wizard, in an itchy brown jumper and jeans.

He approached, and leaned close to Simon’s face, to whisper in his ear.

“Do… you… think… you… are… clever?” he asked. Simon felt foetid breath and spittle with every word.

Simon looked at Bill.

Bill’s eyes screamed, “For God’s sakes, just say no!”

“I think you need to calm down, Brian,” he said. “It was only a game.”

“I never lose!” he said, jabbing a finger in Simon’s face.

Then, he stamped his foot like a little girl, and stormed out through the window.

“We’re never playing a board game with him again,” said Bill.

By: Hugin

Marguerite looked down at the cake in front of her.  It was about six centimetres tall with a diameter of around twenty centimetres, cloaked in thick, rich butter-cream with a thin drizzle of syrupy jam across some of the top.  All of these things Marguerite loved, but here they were on a fruit and nut cake.  A number of previous experiences catapulted themselves to the front of Marguerite’s thoughts, reminding her of her nut allergy.

“Any for you, Margie?” her hostess asked, plunging a large knife into the rich flesh of the cake, causing the metal blade to thicken with butter-cream.  She knows, Marguerite thought angrily, she knows that I shouldn’t eat this.  “Any for you?”  The hostess repeated, sliding the hefty slice onto a delicate china plate.

Marguerite felt the eyes of the other three occupants settle upon her, silently disapproving of her reluctance to eat the delicious morsel that the hostess had lovingly prepared for the event.  Terrified of the turmoil she was about to cause; Marguerite put her hand out to receive the plate.  Taking a pastry fork, she scooped up her first mouthful and hoped for the best.

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: Craig Forshaw
Title by Graham McKnight

How do you become smarter?” repeated Uncle Bart, rocking backwards and forwards on the legs of his chair, and gazing absently upwards at the study roof. In one hand he swirled a glass of sherry. His jumper was moth-eaten, despite his wealth. His hair was grey, and wild. “How do you become smarter?” he repeated again.

Finally, he slowly lowered his chair back to the floor, smacked his lips together, and patted the seat next to him to motion for me to sit by him.

“Dear boy, the only way to get smarter is a healthy diet of pure smarts. That is the only way. You see, it is actually knowing things which gives a man an encyclopedia of resources to draw on from his own, as it is, grey matter.”

“But how do I do that?” I asked, then coughed. The air was musty in this cluttered old house. Books were piled up against the walls, making wallpaper an exotic sight.

“The body likes to absorb vitamins and minerals, dear boy, and water. But there is a way to get it to absorb the knowledge, too, but you have to trick it. When you get your vitamin supplements, you crush them into powder, and pour then into the blender, with water. Then, get a few pages a really clever book, and throw them in, too. Hit the switch, open wide, and swallow the whole concoction.”

I looked at Uncle Bart, incredulous. He was insane.