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Friday short story time: "Ruiners"

January 27, 2012 by Nick Bryan

Another Friday story this week. Last week’s effort, by the way, was read out to my creative writing MA class on Wednesday and went over pretty well, which was nice.

And today’s is possibly the closest I come to “proper” blogging at the moment, too. This is basically a heavily fictionalised version of something that happened to me on Monday, in that one of the things here really took place.

The rest of it didn’t, admittedly. It also has a back-and-forth-in-time structure, because I like those.

Ruiners

By Nick Bryan

THAT MORNING

Everyone likes to think there was no better feeling than a job well done, but it still feels even better when you both do a good job and get it acknowledged by your damn superiors.

So when Andrew had gotten an email from his boss saying “Good work, Andrew – you’ve really done a job here”, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t love it. After skipping around the office for a while, trying not to boast to his co-workers or knock anything off their desks, he’d settled back down and announced it to his few hundred followers on Twitter.

He’d made a cup of coffee and it had worked out beautifully. Aromatic, flavoursome, left his throat feeling like it had been gently stimulated with velvet. This could, he thought, be his best day in years, and he’d had some bad ones in the past.

In fact, he was so overjoyed, not to mentioned determined to put off returning to work for another twenty minutes, Andrew called his girlfriend Jenny, both to share the good news and say that, yes, they should have dinner with her parents this evening. Why not? Things were going so well.

Not to mention, he got on well with the not-yet-in-laws anyway. They even regularly commented on each other’s Facebook statuses – his friends thought it was sickening. So this was nothing to be scared of.

THAT EVENING

Among the orange mood lighting, at a table that appeared to have been stolen from a rustic farmhouse, an awkward silence had descended before the starter even arrived.

‘So, Andy,’ her father began, despite the fact even Jenny called him “Andrew”, ‘did you see the game last night? Pretty good, eh?’

‘Oh, yes, good. We played well.’ He trailed off.

Giving Andrew a look that suggested intense disappointment, not-Dad returned to his soup without further comment. Even Jenny, who didn’t like football and was always bored by the two of them discussing it, glared.

‘So, Victoria,’ trying to pull something back, he turned to her mother, ‘how’s the business? Sell many socks lately?’

It didn’t take him long to realise this had been an error. ‘Actually, Andrew,’ her voice was shooting up the octaves now, ‘you might remember that the business went under last month.’

‘Oh.’ He reached for the right response. ‘Sorry to hear that.’

And Jenny’s father’s face turned red. ‘You already knew that, Andy, what’s the matter with you?’

Jenny looked genuinely scared that her father was about to put his fist through Andrew’s jawbone. She stood up, rattling all the cutlery, and tugged on her boyfriend’s shoulder. ‘Andrew, do you want to come with me while we wait for the starters and look at the… wines?’

No-one bothered to point out that they had a wine list on the table, had all ordered drinks already and their starters were just coming over now.

Before he really knew what was happening, Andrew was on the other side of the room, failing to justify himself.

‘What on earth? What’s wrong? Did something happen this afternoon?’

THAT AFTERNOON

With amazing work success in the morning, and a nice dinner to look forward to that evening, Andrew was relaxing in the office. The second half of the day was slipping pleasantly away from him, on a tide of light work and occasional checking of Twitter.

He’d just made his fourth hot drink of the day, traditionally the last one, so the end was nigh. He zipped off another email, proofed his latest spreadsheet, and then took another quick social media break. “OH MY GOD,” said one internet acquaintance, “what the hell is this? Can’t believe some people.”

Andrew paused for a second before clicking on it. As Jenny kept telling him, he was a sensitive soul. Best not to look at anything too horrific, but no-one had said anything about this being really disturbing.

So he went for it, the web page opened, and the strangled gurgle that emerged from Andrew’s throat drew the attention of a few nearby colleagues. Some news story about a cat being killed and left on someone’s doorstep. He didn’t get the details, because he closed it as soon as he realised it came with a picture.

And then he just stared, before fleeing his office to pace the corridors. There was a pounding rising in his ears and a gurgling in his stomach. The day was ruined, wasn’t it?

And there we have it. It was the thing with the dead cat webpage, if you didn’t realise, and then I was slightly down for the rest of the day. Luckily, unlike poor Andrew, I had no important event that evening, but nonetheless, beware the internet. There’s some bad stuff out there, and not all of it is horse porn.

Sorry. There won’t be a moral at the end of every story now, I promise. Copyright me 2012, please don’t steal, email me if you want it for anything, have a lovely week, etc.

Filed Under: Short Fiction Tagged With: fiction, fridayflash, regular

Friday short story time: "Panel Beating"

January 20, 2012 by Nick Bryan

NaNo is over, my essay is submitted and so, this week at least, I managed to go to my writing group on Monday and bash out a new story for this website.

Hope you like it, it guest stars Angus Deayton which is… unusual for my material. Apologies if this makes it inaccessible for our American readers.

Panel Beating

By Nick Bryan

Joel Bradley got drunk at home, one weekend after listening to his family going ten rounds with each other about nothing. Nothing was their topic, and nothing was his degree of engagement. Nothing nothing nothing.

They said horrible things about each other whilst smiling, taking the laughter of the others as permission to get even worse. Because that meant they’d scored the most points. Wittiest put-down, best effort to stay on topic despite the efforts of others to derail them, best amusing commentary on the television. All with a smile.

Joel had been watching TV a lot that day, mostly because he wanted to not be listening to those people, and always seemed to end up back on a panel game. Four to six comedians, usually white male, behind a split desk, trying to be funniest on some vague topic, until the end, when they were awarded points based on an invisible scale.

It was after his third beer that he realised the air around him was one big panel game. And the fourth or fifth before he decided that he was the host.

After all, he was the aloof presence, trying not to get sucked into the insults. Because once the host gets involved in the abuse, the game is over – that was what happened to Angus Deayton on Have I Got News For You. His private life became the butt of all the jokes, and suddenly he wasn’t right for the job anymore.

So, for the benefit of this game, Joel was Old-School Angus. Pre-coke Angus. Aloof Angus, still at the height of his arch powers.
‘Hey, you guys got any more sausage?’

‘Don’t you have enough sausage to be getting on with, Mags?’

Joel shook his head and awarded them very few points. The sausage/penis comparison was old hat, after all. Then again, it did get a raucous laugh from the drunker members of the audience. Maybe he had misread the gig. He wanted this to be Have I Got News For You, but in reality it was Mock The Week.

And the TV said: ‘And here we can see that little Archie is one of the most intelligent robots ever created.’

And one of Joel’s cousins said: ‘Not to mention one of the most camp!’

The host wasn’t sure where to go with that. Was the robot mincing a little as it walked? Perhaps. But did that joke have slightly homophobic overtones?

Joel wasn’t sure. He gave them a few points to acknowledge the observation, but kept a few back. But was he splitting hairs too much to be an efficient host? Had Angus worried about this sort of thing?

Man. It looked way easier on TV. Then again, he’d heard those shows were heavily edited between recording and broadcast. Were there deleted sequences where the host ran off stage to consult broadcasting standards? Or was he just not decisive enough for the gig?

‘So I guess what I’m saying is that if Mags really loved the kids she keeps banging on about so damn much, she wouldn’t let herself get distracted by every passing…’

‘Okay, come on….’

‘Shut up, Anne. If Mags really meant it, she wouldn’t go chasing after every guy she meets with a working penis. And you know perfectly well that she asks about that when she meets them. “Hi there! How are you? Do you like to drink heavily in front of children? Is it at least eight inches long?” For god’s sake, it’s just…’

And, finally, Auntie Jill collapsed, overcome with emotion towards Mags, who had stepped out of the room to use the toilet. If he’d had a few more balls, Joel thought, he ought to have stepped in and busted her for repetition of the word “meets”. Or for content far too explicit for a primetime audience.

Or, if all else fails, because it really wasn’t that funny. At all.

So, did that work, or was I just steadily whipping a poor, defenseless metaphor to death over the course of 700 words? Opinions welcome in the comments below, or email me if your thoughts are shameful. Copyright Nick Bryan 2011, please do not steal, etc.

Filed Under: Short Fiction Tagged With: fiction, fridayflash, regular

The End Of The Year Is Nigh

December 31, 2011 by Nick Bryan

Believe it or not, when I posted my brief and innocuous Christmas message last week, I received a complaint from one reader that I hadn’t produced something more substantial. The fact I’d provided a 2000 word story about Christmas a few days previously didn’t seem to placate this guy.

So it’s really entirely his fault, the moaning bastard, that I’m about to inflict a full-length End Of Year blog post on you. I’m planning on listing my own 2011 highlights, then outlining the best cultural “stuff” I have enjoyed during the period. If that floats your boat, read on.

Me, My Writing And I

I generally don’t talk about my life much on this blog, because I already do that on Twitter, and at a length I’m amazed anyone can stand. But just for the record, here are the events that leap out at me from 2011.
  • First published fiction work! That was always going to top the list, really. If you want to buy said story, details are here. It’s 12,000 words long and I’m quite proud of it.
  • And in general, I entered the second year of my creative writing MA. Aside from the current life-ruining essay, I’ve enjoyed it. Some of the feedback has been intense, but in a good way. Mostly.
  • Left the British Isles for the first time in two years, for 48 glorious hours in Belgium. This has made me nostalgic for the days when I could afford real holidays.
  • Moved from Android phone to iPhone. Positive effects so far: Instagram and better games. Negative: having to use iTunes on a PC, which is an abomination.
  • Got new TV writing gig for Television @ The Digital Fix, as well as continuing reviews for Dork Adore. Made glorious podcast debut which, after about six attempts, I even managed to listen to.
  • Finally started noticing the recession, after living in a bubble of childlike simplicity for ages. Didn’t enjoy this one as much as most of the above.

Stuff I Liked

That last section went on a bit longer than intended, so this will be fairly brief.
  • TV: Not sure the world needs more long rambles from me about television. Some things were good, especially Stewart Lee’s Comedy Vehicle, The Hour, Exile and The Killing.
  • Film: A raft of superhero films, many I suspect I only liked due to reading the comics. X-Men: First Class is the only one that might’ve been objectively good. Outside that subgenre, Studio Ghibli’s Arrietty was lovely, and I completely failed to catch most proper films at the cinema. Oh, Real Steel. I saw that. Um.
  • Music: Annoyingly, many artists I like released records this year, but often weren’t as great as I hoped. Best album probably England, Keep My Bones by Frank Turner. Suck It And See by Arctic Monkeys also very cool in a pop-rock way, and they’re not even a band I normally listen to. Collapse Into Now by R.E.M. was a triumphant rattle through their style, especially poignant since they later split up. Great if you’re a fan, others may not care.
  •  Podcasts: An art-form I’ve only recently started paying attention to, but Please Don’t Hug Me is very funny, and if you like that, consider The Daniel Ruiz Tizon Podcast, a solo effort by one of the presenters. If you like comics, I recommend House To Astonish most highly. Commenters: feel free to mention any other podcasts you recommend, I could use more.
  • Theatre: I went to see the Matilda musical the other day. It was fantastic.
That’ll probably do. If you’d like a short story themed around New Year as well, read this one from last year and pretend it’s called “Operation 2012”.

So, that was 2011. I could make some kind of prediction or publicly declared resolution for 2012 now, but I’ve learnt to stop doing that. Happy New Year, regardless. Hope it’s excellent for all of us.

Filed Under: Film Reviews, LifeBlogging, Music Reviews, Writing About Writing Tagged With: 2011, end of year, lifeblogging, regular

Merry Christmas!

December 25, 2011 by Nick Bryan

I did consider doing a whole blog post, rambling for a few hundred words, but I’m not sure there’s audience or need for it on Christmas Day, really.

Stil, to anyone reading, hope you’re having a good time with whatever combination of turkey, presents and crackers you’ve ended up with. If you’ve had a crappy year, you’re not alone, but that’s the beauty of the bright colours and big garish ideas. Distraction, if only for a day.

If you do want season-themed internet content, I posted a festive short story a few days ago, so give that a look. Otherwise, have a great one, and I’ll be back here before you know it. That Doctor Who Christmas special won’t review itself, y’know.

Filed Under: LifeBlogging Tagged With: christmas, lifeblogging, regular

Festive Friday short story time: "Clear Present Danger"

December 23, 2011 by Nick Bryan

Hello!

I’ve been away from the Friday stories for a while, mostly due to MA deadlines, but I really wanted to do a Christmas Friday story. Especially since I wanted to do one last year, but was stopped by having to voyage pointlessly back to London to replace my smashed glasses. (Don’t ask.)

So, here it is! To make up for last year (and because I ran over quite badly), it’s longer than usual. Ta-da.

Clear Present Danger

By Nick Bryan

‘So what’s he protesting?’

‘Meaning what, Jobson?’

‘Well, Sarge, what the hell’s his point? Israel/Palestine? War in Afghanistan? Public sector cuts?’

‘Oh, right.’ Sergeant Conroy glanced at the message again, in case he’d missed some subtle meaning. ‘No, it says the over-commercialisation of Christmas.’

‘Jingle fucking bells.’

‘Very festive, Jobson. Now stop mithering and get a move on.’

Their car trickled slowly up Oxford Street, siren on loud, until Jobson and Conroy finally got out and walked. Despite their bulky police uniform and high-vis jackets, people seemed determined to keep pushing past them with full elbows.

That could’ve been because it was Christmas Eve, and last-minute panic shopping was rife, but they knew that was only half- true. It was also because a huge number of their colleagues had cordoned off a well-known department store after the terrorist threat had come through.

Conroy steered his way delicately around a group of old ladies, whilst Jobson smashed directly into a tourist, knocked her over, and only stopped to help when the higher-ranking policeman turned and gave him a look.

And, finally, they reached the police line around the store. The huge windows zoomed out of sight, climbing up the building in a range of stained colours and bright displays, making their recently refurbished police station look like a decaying shed. The Christmas display, towering out of sight, contained a hell of a lot more festive cheer than Conroy was likely to see in his house tomorrow. In short, this was how the other half lived.

Meanwhile, in the centre of the building, customers and staff were still spilling out, most of them screaming a little. Shopping bags were banging against each other and children looked scared. It was calmer than he’d imagined it, though. You always expected town centre at Christmas to be worse than it is, don’t you?

‘What’s happening?’ Conroy asked no-one in particular, and a nearby constable obliged.

‘We’ve nearly got everyone out; the bomb squad are trying to find the device.’

‘Are they looking…’

‘In the Christmas presents, just like the note said.’

‘So Santa’s Grotto, then.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Meanwhile, Jobson made his way to his friend Phil from Special Branch, who had set up an impromptu tent down the road. Everyone was giving the front of the shop a wide berth, except for the lucky policemen in charge of shepherding out the Christmas shoppers.

Phil was, as ever, wearing black suit, black tie, closely sheared haircut, the man clearly fancied himself the international super-spook, even though Jobson knew he rarely left London and spent half his time telephoning the same four informants to find out if the IRA were back yet.

No doubt due to the spy training he’d never had, Phil heard him coming. ‘Constable Jobson, how may I help you?’

‘What’s up with this shit, Phil? You got any gossip?’

‘Well, it’s too early to be certain, there are a lot of variables…’

‘Come on, Phil, don’t give me that wank, I have to go and “guard the perimeter” in a minute, and it’s freezing cold out here. I’m only wearing one pair of pants.’

‘Fine. I can report that the elves are crying.’

Jobson blinked. ‘Is that some kinda Christmas secret agent code?’

‘No, Jobson. The teenage girls who work as Santa’s elves are not holding up well under interrogation. One of them, asked if she’d seen anyone tampering with the presents next to the grotto, burst out in tears and begged us not to waterboard her.’

‘Are you gonna?’

‘Only if she acts suspiciously.’

Suddenly, another suited bozo with a chubbier face dragged Phil inside to talk to someone, leaving Jobson kicking his heels outside. Well, he thought, perhaps he ought to go and take his place on the line now, answering questions from tourists and telling shoppers that, yes, the bomb threat did mean they couldn’t pick up their caviar today.

Sergeant Conroy, unfortunately, had more responsibility than just standing around in a circle. Having gotten the lay of the land, he took up his leadership position, as close to the shop as he could, and barked queries into his radio.

‘Bomb squad? Any luck with those presents? Over.’

‘Sergeant, no, nothing, we’ve scanned them all, a couple we even shook to work out what was inside, nothing. Over.’

‘Have you searched the rest of the store? Over.’

‘We’re just starting now, sir. Over.’

‘Good. Keep me posted. Over and out.’

Conroy took his hand off the radio, and tapped his foot angrily. Was it a hoax? A childish attempt to cause maximum disruption? He sighed. The press would have their balls for this. “DUPED COPS CLOSE DOWN OXFORD STREET ON XMAS EVE – DEVASTATED SHOPPERS GO HOME TO WEEPING BABIES.” It didn’t bear thinking about.

And then his radio sparked up again. ‘Sergeant Conroy? It’s the Special Branch tent, could you come over? Um, over.’

Thank god, he thought. Maybe one of those bored teenagers had finally admitted to calling the hoax in, so he could punish someone and go home.

‘Be right there, over.’

Trying not to appear overly desperate, Conroy paced over to the tent and swept the entry panel aside. In the disappointingly pokey inner sanctum, several men in suits sat at trestle tables with clipboards, whilst a gaggle of teenagers in elf costumes were shaking and holding each other in a corner. Opposite them, on a plastic stool, was Santa, glaring defiantly from behind the beard. It felt like he’d stepped into a festive Guantanamo, drawn by some imagination-starved political cartoonist.

‘What’s happening here? Do you have news?’

One of the identical suits looked up from his paperwork. ‘It appears we have a confession, Sergeant.’

Conroy’s mood perked right up. ‘Really?’ He glared at the sobbing elves. ‘Which one was it?’

‘It… well.’ And instead he pointed at Santa. ‘It was him.’

‘Oh, seriously?’ Conroy loomed over Father Christmas, who stared him down. ‘So you called in a hoax? Why? Did you want a longer lunchbreak?’

‘No no, it’s not a hoax.’ Santa grinned through the cheap beard. ‘The bomb’s in there.’

And Conroy’s adrenaline jumped even higher. ‘Where is it?’

‘One of the presents, like I told you in my message.’

Conroy leaned in, so close to Santa that the beard tickled his chin. ‘Which. Fucking. One.’

Santa just grinned, and Conroy turned on the Special Branch clones. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Yeah,’ the lead one shook his head, weirdly calm, ‘that’s all we could get out of him.’

‘Can we,’ Conroy rolled his eyes, ‘… make him talk somehow?’

‘We’re Special Branch, not MI5. All the waterboarding gear is back in the office.’

At that, there was a strangled squeal from one of the elves.

Losing patience, Conroy dashed back into the street. All was deserted for a long way. Unless the explosion was nuclear, there shouldn’t be casualties. Finally, he looked at his watch, then back at the print-out of the note. Their two hours ended in ten minutes.

‘Bomb squad, come in, over,’ he sighed into his radio, ready to tell them to leg it and let events take their course. These people could afford to rebuild a couple of floors, but he couldn’t afford to sacrifice ten explosives experts.

‘Sergeant, we’ve scanned every present in here, no sign, anything else you want? Over.’

‘Yeah, if you can’t find it, better withdraw, I don’t want any…’ He stopped, his vacant stare at the building front coming into focus.

In fact, he paused for so long that the radio buzzed again before he could even say “over”. ‘Sergeant?’

Conroy was staring at the pile of presents in the window display. The only ones in the whole damn building that no-one had scanned for explosives. He looked at his watch again, before reaching back up to the radio resignedly. ‘Bomb squad, change of plan, go to the back of the store, exit via the staff door if you can find one, over.’

‘Aye-aye, sir. Over and out.’

And as Conroy waited nervously for the big festive bang, Jobson snuck behind him. He was wearing a riot mask he’d “borrowed” from a fellow officer, just to avoid being recognised. Another disciplinary for deserting his place on a perimeter would be bad news for his career, but he was just so bored.

‘Hey, Phil.’ Once he was finally inside the tent, Jobson swung the flap closed behind him and pulled the heavy plastic bucket off his head. ‘It’s me. Is it true?’

‘Is what true?’

‘That it was Santa! The bomber!’

‘Oh, indeed,’ Phil nodded, ‘that is the guy.’

In case Jobson had forgotten what Father Christmas looked like, Phil pointed across the tent at the man in the red fur-rimmed jacket and cushion belly. The beard had finally been taken off, and he was handcuffed to a tent pole, which combined into a nightmare vision. A shaven, imprisoned Santa Claus.

‘Oh, wow.’

Leaving Phil fiddling with papers at his desk, Jobson put on his best official police face, the one he used when knocking on doors or ordering donuts, and went over to the suspect.

‘Afternoon.’

Santa’s eyes, red-rimmed, turned on Jobson. Even without the beard, it was a chubby, friendly face. He didn’t look like a fundamentalist, or any other kind of mentalist.

‘Yes? What can I do for you, son?’

Jobson fought back the urge to sit on his knee. ‘I was just wondering, um, what was your point?’

‘My point?’

‘Yeah. Why did you plant the bomb? Was it really the over-commercialisation of the whatever?’

‘Oh, well,’ Santa nodded, a smile slowly emerging, ‘I was just a bit down, you know.’

‘So you decided to kill some kiddies?’

‘Oh, no,’ and he looked appalled at the suggestion, ‘I’d never want to hurt anyone. That’s why I sent a precise warning. I just wanted to give us all a Christmas happy ending.’

‘There are massage parlours in Soho who’ll do that without the jail time.’

‘But I warned you, and you got everyone out! And everything was so miserable and I wake up before going to work and read about everyone falling apart and…’ Santa was close to crying now, which made Jobson quite uncomfortable. ‘Everything’s just shit, officer. Maybe it’s the economy, maybe it’s the world we live in now, but it’s Christmas and I just don’t feel it. And I’m Father Fucking Christmas.’

That, Jobson thought, was not something he’d expected to hear Santa say.

‘So,’ he continued, ‘I planted the bomb and let everyone get clear. Some good news people can get behind, isn’t it? Police save department store customers from bomb.’

‘You realise we haven’t managed to defuse it?’

‘I don’t care about broken windows, Sergeant.’

‘Right. You’re utterly nuts, aren’t you?’

Before Santa could answer that one, there was an almighty bang outside. With one last glance back at chained up Saint Nick, Jobson turned and dashed from the tent into the street. As he arrived outside, he took a quick look around to make sure he wasn’t meant to be helping anyone, but it seemed fine.

The window display had burst outwards, and tiny shards of glass were floating through the air, drifting towards earth at varying speeds. There was a massive hole at the back of the display, through which something was clearly on fire. Good job the men with the hosepipes were already on standby.

As the roar of the explosion faded away, though, Jobson heard one of the teenage elves shout ‘Wow! Awesome!’, shortly before a kid in the audience started going ‘Mummy, mummy, is it snowing?’, whilst pointing at the cascading glass and window-display glitter. Jobson sighed and shook his head. He hoped Terrorist Santa hadn’t heard that, he’d just feel vindicated.

Seconds later, Conroy realised Jobson had deserted his post and gave him a festive disciplinary.

All copyright Nick Bryan 2011, the title pun totally didn’t come before the plot, please do not steal, email me if you like, and merry Christmas, everyone! Thanks for reading.

Filed Under: Short Fiction Tagged With: christmas, fiction, fridayflash, regular

Tuesday Serial Time: "Satellite Four"

November 29, 2011 by Nick Bryan

The final part of the “Satellite” serial, posted slightly later than normal in the day. Sorry about that, but I went to an all-night NaNoWriMo writing session on Saturday, it was a lot of fun, but my sleep patterns took a bit of a beating. Finally slept for 11 hours last night, which will hopefully get me back on track.

Anyway, you don’t care about this “Dear diary” stuff. This is the fourth part of a serial, so you may want to read Satellite One, Satellite Two and Satellite Three if you want to understand what in hell’s going on. Let’s see if I can wrap this up in a vaguely satisfactory way.

Satellite Four

By Nick Bryan

‘Will you two shut up?’

Jack Elson crashed his tea tray against the wall, because it had been the nearest thing to hand, then waited to see if he needed to do it again. Thankfully, the two shrieking morons next door got the message quickly for once.

So that left the giggling couple upstairs and that girl opposite them who spent half the night pacing. By Jack’s estimation, he had an hour or so before she returned and started her little circles, so decided to go to bed. If he was lucky, he might fall asleep before she got going.

He took a few quick jabs at his ceiling with the handle of the broom, on the offchance it would make the giggling subside. No effect, but at least the druggie kids had stopped seeing their own footprints and thinking it was a yeti, or whatever the hell. With a sigh of exhausted relief, Jack hauled himself out of his chair with his lower arms.

Yes, it was frustrating being old; achy joints, feeling the cold, not being able to walk at a decent speed despite his impatience, but at least his arms were in decent shape, due to all the crashing items against walls. A minute later, one of the lads next door flopped into their sofa a little too heavily, so he banged idly on the adjoining wall with his kettle.

That done, Jack lay back on his bed, and hoped once he’d been still for a while, the aching would subside and he’d drift off. Or it would be replaced by stiffness, and he’d need to change position and start the process again. One of the two.

At last, after three cycles, Jack nodded gently away. It was strangely peaceful, too. He had become so aware of any noise that he’d often be stirred by any stupid thing, but this time he rested.

Until much later, when something squelched. Not banged, thudded or crashed, but fell into audible gushing pieces, accompanied by a vague shout and then, at last, a gentle impact.

Jack lay on his bed for a while, listening for any further noise and holding a tennis ball ready to bounce off the ceiling. Finally, he started to see a tiny red spot, growing into a stain. Now, Jack had lived in this building for a while, he knew the construction was a disgrace. It was best not to ask about the horrendous upstairs toilet overflow of ’89.

But this was definitely the wrong shade for that, although it had begun to go a little brown in patches. With a growl, he threw the ball away and reached for something more serious: the shovel.

He exited his flat and quietly took to the stairs in darkness, not letting the spade touch anything. Instead, he heard more undesirable noises, not a crunching but a spattering this time, the smell of something rotten and internal spreading through the hallway.

Maybe it was a bit like that day in 1989 after all, Jack thought, tightening his grip. Finally, he rose onto the hallway, both flat doors were wide open. That, by itself, was odd, because they hated each other, you could smell it in the air. He’d seen and heard them brushing past each other in the corridor, barely exchanging so much as a “How are you?”.

Jack stood in the gap between the two doors, barely knowing where to look. On the one side, the couple from upstairs had been smashed in and ripped apart; on the other, the pacing girl was doubled over and vomiting, as a man in a white overall stalked into her flat. He started to wish he’d bothered to find out any of their names.

Truth be told, much as he liked to thwack his walls, much as he’d brought a damn shovel with him, Jack had never really been in a fight. He stared blankly as the man in white turned on rubber-padded feet to face him. He thought he recognised the messy hair of that idiot kid from opposite him sticking out around the tight hood, but wasn’t entirely surprised. Everyone knew drugs turned you into a lunatic, after all.

As the figure moved for him, Jack’s shovel hand twitched. Fingers open to drop the metal weight, he turned and ran with a speed he didn’t realise he had, pounding down the stairs to get back to the safety of his flat, because where else would he go?

Unfortunately, he still wasn’t that fast, in reality. He’d made it around halfway down, huge vertical window behind the entire thing, when the man, carrying his shovel, caught up with him. There was a dirty, textured smear of red over the sharp end which hadn’t been there when he’d dropped it, and Jack waited for it to dig into him too.

Until, suddenly, a burning ball of light started falling from the sky, slowly but very steadily. Jack saw it from the corner of his eye and was transfixed, and his attacker was the same. And, suddenly, he released Jack from his grip, shoving him heavily down the rest of stairs.

Something in his hip snapped as the old man hit the hall floor, followed by a heavy bang on his head, and he could hardly even lift his field of vision from the horizontal when a white, gooey overall landed on his body with a splat, its gore soaking into his shirt.

Followed, a moment later, by the shovel clanging down beside him. Jack couldn’t even move his arms, but he could see the guy, now totally clean, go back into his downstairs flat, padding in and shutting the door softly, much more politely than they usually bloody well bothered with.

A second later, to coincide with the sound of him flopping back onto the sofa, there was a bang, followed by a roar, as the fireball outside hit the floor. Still, Jack lay there immobilised. He never realised quite what was happening until half an hour later, when the messy kid’s not-quite-as-stupid flatmate dashed out and saw him, the old, lonely wall-punching neighbour, on the ground at the bottom of the stairs next to a bloody overall and shovel.

Upstairs were three bodies, one clearly killed by a couple of swift shovel wounds to the torso. As luck would have it, Jack never managed to speak again, but “Old Man Elson” became notorious in the tabloids, after years orbiting around the fringe of the world, quietly ignored. Half a dozen similar incidents in buildings throughout the area, so many that a superstitious scientist picked the fallen satellite apart, searching for an explanation. Unless that too was a diversion for something else.

So, that was that. I’m not sure if it worked or not, to be honest. I think it’s a lot better than the last time I did a serial on here. Anyway, feedback welcome, copyright me, please don’t steal, email me if you like, bye bye.

Filed Under: Short Fiction Tagged With: fiction, regular, satellite, tuesdayserial

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