This week, in the traditions of such high-concept stories as Cowboys & Aliens, Pride & Predjudice With Zombies and Pirates VS Lib Dems, I have done Monkeys Vs Pigeons. It is slightly shorter than some of the Friday stories because, let’s be honest, there isn’t that much mileage in the joke.

And yes, this is some light relief after last week’s thoughtful look at mortality. You can read the archives here, and I might consider something more serious next week.

Monkeys Vs Pigeons

By Nick Bryan

In the last twenty-seven minutes, Ted had seen dark things. His friend Ed had been walking along, pecking seeds and knocking his own head into walls, before being snatched up by a huge, gangly orange arm.

Then Ned, more confrontational in his style, had charged beak-first at a rustling sound in a bush, only for it to burst out, covered in black fur, and crush him underfoot.

So Ted was alone, bewildered and lost in the forest. It was difficult being a pigeon under this stress. They weren’t built for being hunted by unseen enemies, for one key reason: if the enemy remained unseen for longer than ten minutes, Ted was likely to forget the whole thing and start slowly ambling along, gazing at the floor.

He wasn’t sure how he’d been separated from his friends, because once again, he’d simply been distracted for a few minutes and the rest of them had gone. It had just been him, Ned and Ed, until the other two had been picked off by monkeys.

Suddenly, Ted realised he could fly and slowly buzzed up into a tree. It was a jungle out there, and a strangely literal one at that. Hadn’t they been in Regent’s Park a moment ago? Where the biggest threats available were being kicked by a child or unthinkingly walking into a lawnmower.

And now they were in some humid hell. Ted fluttered to a higher perch, and was rewarded by a hurled grapefruit splatting against the bark next to him. Before he had time to stick his beak into the pulped remains, another one hit even closer and he tried to fly for safety.

And as he reached a higher level, trying not to look down, a tiny monkey with an enormous tail jumped onto the same branch. They eyed each other nervously, Ted trying to stop his eyes twitching, until the tail flicked out at him. Ted, surprised, jumped backwards, but unfortunately there was little space to manoeuvre on that tiny branch.

So he fell downwards, only just managing a few wing-flaps to slow his descent. On the ground, two enormous monkeys awaited, waiting to pulp him like they had his friends. Ted had no idea what he’d done to earn this rage, he’d never even seen a monkey before, and was pretty sure they didn’t have to compete for the breadcrumbs from the tourists.

Sulky hairy bastards. A huge orang-utan arm slapped him aside and Ted flapped his wings pointlessly as he went into a tree. He was dazed and wandering in a circle, which made him feel like everything was finally back to normal, when the huge black gorilla tried to seize him in a fist.

Hopping from one spindly leg to another, he sidestepped that, only to meet yet another backhanded slap from that gangly arm. Did the orange monkey not have another move? Apparently not, as another slap followed seconds later. Avoiding it by a feather, Ted suddenly had an idea hit him full on in the face. Which, at least, was better than another monkey-hand.

Quickly, before he could forget his own plan, he tugged his dented wings into motion and hovered in the air directly in front of the gorilla’s face. And it was a little slow to react as ever, because the orang-utan let off yet another slap first. Employing reflexes he barely knew he had, Ted hurled himself to one side, letting the flailing orang-utan blow crack into the hard cheeks of the gorilla.

And then, of course, monkey infighting erupted. Ted, lost in the jungle, fled for his life, hoping to god that he had just wandered into the wrong part of a zoo.

Copyright me 2011, please don’t steal, I know it’s tempting to rush off and make a movie, but email and ask first, yeah?

Morning. This week’s story was written after I drank some port and developed a strange fever. That’s my excuse, anyway. Also, I’m trying to challenge myself, so the style is perhaps a little different from usual. Yes, that is another excuse.

As ever, feel free to read the backlog.

Thank You For Watching

By Nick Bryan

Ralph, as ever, had a quiet day. Get up, go downstairs (that took ages now), go to the toilet (so did that) and turn on the television (still pleasantly quick).

Then, for half an hour, he channel-surfed, before even changing out of his slightly rank pyjamas. To be honest, he was stalling, because that would also take a bloody while. But it wasn’t just that, he refused to be one of those old people who just stuck whatever on the TV as background noise.

His high standards for distraction had caused problems back in the dark days of only five terrestrial channels, but nowadays, with his digital box installed, he could be a damn sight fussier. He’d buy some ludicrous cable package if he could afford it, simply for additional choice. Sometimes he churned through all the free options, and still had to turn it off on principle.

But for some reason, Julia refused to accept that the full Sky Entertainment package was part of her duty to give her old Dad a comfortable retirement. He hadn’t directly asked, but surely there had been enough hints?

That failure tasted especially bitter right now, because once again there was nothing bloody on.

So he glared at Julia’s family portrait above the fireplace. The kids had the full Sky Family package at their place, even though she claimed they never watched it, being too busy running around, attending after-school clubs and the like. He hoped she was lying to impress him, otherwise that was a tragic waste of transmitted content.

By the time Julia arrived at four o’clock for a visit, there was still nothing on. Ralph had gotten up, made some food, changed out of the nasty pyjamas and organised a few photographs, but his grudge hadn’t faded.

‘So, did you see that new medical show on Sky One?’

‘Hm?’ Absent-mindedly, Julia plonked down a bottle of something on his coffee table. ‘No, must have missed it. This is from Liam, by the way.’

That was the husband, rather than one of the kids, so the red colour meant wine rather than Ribena. He had to make this deduction himself, since it wasn’t labelled. Did they get this stuff from the back of a lorry?

‘Oh, me neither.’ Ralph nodded, ‘I don’t get that channel.’

‘Right.’ She sighed, and he thought he saw exasperation, but it was brief. Come on, he sighed. Just cave in like a good girl and buy the damn subscription. Surely he hadn’t raised her to be this inconsiderate?

Still, plenty of time. He grabbed one of his larger wine glasses and filled it from his new bottle. This was a long game.

Child Number One, or “John” if you prefer, was glued to the television, which at least stopped him breaking anything. And one of the poxy terrestrial channels too; more proof they did not need that expensive Sky package at all.

Sighing, he took a quick gulp. ‘Want some, Julia?’

‘I’m driving, thanks,’ she muttered, not sounding thankful. Had she always been so borinf? Or was it the husband’s fault? ‘Are you sure you should be drinking that so early in the day? I mean, it’s not…’

‘Ah, quiet,’ Ralph tutted her down, ‘I know what I’m doing.’

And he did. He drank, he laughed, he complained that the kid wasn’t called Ralph Jr. Of course, to tell the truth, he understood the reasoning. After all, Ralph was the name of the stupid kid on The Simpsons. He enjoyed that show, but it rendered his name unusable to future generations.

After a while, the child got bored of television and went outside to play. Ralph downed his third glass of red stuff and began to flick channels again. Time had passed quicker than he thought, it was almost primetime. There was a strange burning in his stomach, spreading upwards into some kind of fever, and that liquid was richer than he expected.

Julia hadn’t spoken for a while, presumably supervising whilst her son ate insects in the garden. At least that would stop them nibbling his plants. With a satisfied smile and another glass in his hand, he sank back into his chair. Maybe there was nothing on any channel because he’d seen everything already? That was a nice way to think of it.

His fingers were getting stubby, usually one indication that he might have over-done the drinking. After more scrabbling with the remote, he finally dropped it. But it seemed like the channels were still flickering, though. It seemed hot in here, didn’t it? And loud.

Stupid pop video layered over unfunny sitcom, the wisecracks melted into each other like ironic ice cream and Ralph couldn’t entirely tell if that car was on TV or outside. Some moron had let a bunch of “experts” loose to redecorate, and he didn’t need to look at the results to know it looked shit compared to his own house. Was that his heartbeat, or was the music still on?

Doctors screamed at patients, lawyers screamed at each other, an unusually impassioned voice screamed ‘Dad? Dad?’ with the rhythm of the EastEnders cliffhanger beat, and finally the austere newsreader tapped his papers on the desk and said ‘Goodnight, thanks for watching’.

If I ever collect these into any kind of compilation edition, this one will go at the end. Copyright me, don’t steal, email me to discuss authorised stealing, et cetera.

Happy Friday, everyone. Well, moderate Friday anyway. Today’s story is set in a pub, and considering how much time I spend in them, I’m surprised it’s taken us this long to get back here. Enjoy!

And as ever, if you liked this story, more are available.

A Drinking Problem

By Nick Bryan

‘So, you as bored during that meeting as me?’

Harry smirked and leaned against the bar. ‘How did you know?’

‘Well, you gotta be concentrating on a doodle that fiddly. It was like a fucking mosaic or something.’ Jim, pleased to see his companion relaxing, leaned forward to suggest conspiracy. ‘Mine was just a huge robot. But man, it was massive. More laser guns than all the X-Men combined.’

‘Never pegged you for a nerd, Jim.’

‘Oh, yeah, I love that shit. X-Men, Spider-Man, those other ones.’

‘Really.’

With so monosyllabic a comment, Jim worried he was losing his audience. Time to share something, he thought; create an intimate atmosphere through disclosure of secrets. Well, as intimate as he was going to bloody get in this awful pub. The place was rammed, mostly with people from the surrounding offices.

A tableload of their particular colleagues squatted in the corner, being drunk and sweary, but Jim wasn’t willing to risk that. Harry had a history of growing restless and legging it when put into loud group situations, and Jim was already worried he would leave too soon based on the tiny size of his drink.

So, it was time to force a private discussion. God knows how he’d make this sound natural.

‘So, Harry, how’s the wife? Thought I heard a tense bit of phone banter the other day.’

‘Ah, yeah, sorry about that, I thought I’d kept my voice down.’ Thank fuck, Jim thought; he’d been completely lying and hoping. ‘Yeah, she was having a bit of a time last week, she does that sometimes. Work and stuff, she says. Think she’s alright now.’

‘I hear you, man,’ Jim nodded, taking a swig with empathy, ‘Used to have all kindsa arguments with my ex, and it was always someone else’s fault. Except that time I dropped a brick on her foot; that one was on me.’

‘Right,’ Harry seemed doubtful that Jim truly grasped the problem, ‘haven’t you been single for a couple of years now?’

‘Well, a few dates, but no “relationship”, nah. Certainly nowhere near taking the marital plunge like your good self.’

‘It’s nice,’ he nodded and smiled, which surely counted as engagement, ‘it’s so good being able to rely on something, you know? I used to get so worried about everything disappearing, and now I don’t have to as much.

‘Hm.’ Thoughtful pause, carefully observed. ‘Still, I hear you shouldn’t take ‘em for granted. Saw that on a daytime chat show.’

‘I think I saw the same episode, actually.’

And Jim laughed for longer than sounded natural, to let himself mentally regroup. ‘Well, does dropping shit on their feet count as taking them for granted?’

‘Depends. Was it because you didn’t notice she was there?’

Harry fixed him with a glare, which Jim evaded. ‘Maybe. She was being quiet.’

‘Maybe you should work on that, then.’

‘What, really get to fucking grips with the issue in the relationship?’ He laughed outloud. ‘Is it a bigger problem than her dumping me years ago?’

‘Good point,’ Harry nodded, having a short chuckle at his own stupidity. ‘Maybe this one drink has gotten to me more than I thought. Might make a move.’

‘Shit, really? What’s the time?’ Jim hadn’t meant to give Harry an excuse to leave. But it had been a fair while now, he supposed, reaching into his pocket to check his phone. And, in fact, it turned out Harry was fine to leave.

‘Okay mate, I’m gonna go see if these guys want to amuse me for a bit,’ he jerked his thumb at the crowing mass in the corner, ‘but cheers for coming out, yeah? About time you braved the pub.’

‘No problem, was fun.’ Harry smiled with genuine glee, and shook his hand surprisingly firmly. ‘See you tomorrow?’

‘Assuming I’m not dying in bed, yup.’ Jim raised one hand in a cursory wave. ‘Take it easy.’

And Harry was out the door, after a few awkward shoves past other patrons, muttering apologies. It swung shut behind him and Jim read the text message again, and again. Dawdling at the bar, he stared at his phone vacantly. He was starting to look simple, he thought.

Finally, as he moved to swing a foot around and make for the corner, his friend Andy broke from the group and leapt into his orbit first. ‘Jim, how’d it go?’

With that kind of urgency, clearly Andy had been watching for Harry’s departure. ‘Ah, it went as well as it could.’ Jim shook his mobile vaguely, still clutched in his hand. ‘Just got a text saying she’s finished packing her shit and it’s safe to let him go.’

‘Brutal.’ Andy nodded sadly, and couldn’t stop himself from adding: ‘You sure you’re not sleeping with her?’

‘Mate, I told you, no married women. More trouble than it’s worth, even if you could take the husband in a fight. Wouldn’t mind a crack once she’s single, but no. Strictly business.’

Andy smirked. ‘You do know that kinda makes it weirder?’

‘Hey, she gave me three hundred to distract him for an hour while she moves out.’ Jim shrugged. ‘Covered four drinks with change.’

‘And you don’t feel at all guilty?’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ Jim sighed and finished his pint. ‘But think of the awkward conversation he’d have had. Y’could say I’ve done them both a favour.’

‘You actually believe that horseshit, Jim?’

‘Not one bit.’ He gestured towards the bar. ‘Get the drinks in, will you?’

Sorry if that was a bit of a downer, a friend of mine challenged me to write a sad story. Not sure if I succeeded or not. Also, copyright me, please don’t steal, email me if you must steal, etc.

New Friday story, and I’m afraid it’s a bit shorter than usual. My usual thousand words is on the longer end for “flash fiction” anyway, this one just didn’t need to be that length.

And today I’m going to talk about the perils of excessive social networking website use; not autobiographical, I hasten to add. (My jokes are way better than his.) More stories available here.

COL

By Nick Bryan

Three Days Ago

I finally added that girl on Facebook, I thought this might be how we finally bonded. Unfortunately, seventy-six minutes after she accepted my request (yes, I counted), her uncle died. I know he died, because she posted this:

“Uncle John passed away this morning. Can’t believe he’s gone. :’(“

So presumably she’s quite sad. I mean, I’m not certain. I know she used a crying face made of punctuation, but ever since “LOL” lost all meaning, it’s hard to tell whether feelings typed online are mirrored in the real world. I mean, are those real tears or are they “LOL” tears? Is she crying out loud?

It seemed rude to ask.

Two Days Ago

I woke up from a nap at 4PM, wondering whether I should have left a sympathetic message out of respect to the dead uncle. I mean, I barely know her, we’ve exchanged thirty-eight words at parties (yes, I counted), but still, it’s a nice thing to do isn’t it?

When I checked my computer, there were six responses to that status, many had the same surname, and one was from her. I didn’t recognise a single person there. Most of her friends had stayed out of it, so I’d probably gone the right way.

Or perhaps they’d all expressed their sympathy by private message or text. I do not have her phone number. Later, I typed “Sorry for your loss.” into the comments box and stared at it for a while.

And then it was bedtime.

One Day Ago

So, she posted something new today. It was surprisingly upbeat.

”Great day at work – boss was out so built fort out of stationary. Then it fell on Johnny’s head!”

So maybe she isn’t that upset anymore? How long does it take one to get over the death of an uncle? I mean, it’s only an uncle, after all. When my uncle died, I barely even registered it. Didn’t even warrant a Facebook posting.

So I decided, since she was being jovial, I could probably be funny in return. I settled on this:

“Did you only hold it up with sellotape? I really recommend staples.”

I waited for a while afterwards, but there was no reply from anyone else, which was a bit of a downer. No-one even ‘liked’ the comment.

Today

I noticed today, for the first time, she appeared to be on the Facebook Chat instant messaging thing. After seventeen minutes or so (yes, I counted), it seemed reasonable to assume she was on for a sustained session, rather than merely glancing at messages.

After a stiff drink, I said hello. It was a little awkward, but we did manage to exchange more than thirty-eight words, thus doubling our total. And then, in a bid to try and move the conversation onto a higher plane, I decided to try this message:

“Maybe if your uncle had used staples rather than sellotape to hold up his stationary fort, he’d still be with us today.”

There was a pause of six minutes, then she said:

“LOL”

Nothing else followed, I’m unsure what to think now. Maybe the uncle isn’t really dead.

Thank you for reading. Please ask before stealing. And remember kids, don’t spend too much time on Facebook.

After a slightly longer gap than intended, as I attempted to get back into the swing of writing new material for my long-in-progress novel, here is another Friday short-flash story type thing.

This week, with rare topicality, I am hovering around the notion of the Rapture, the religious event scheduled for last weekend. Apparently the righteous were meant to disappear to heaven, leaving the rest of us to wallow in our morally bankrupt filth; I have tweaked the concept a little. I don’t think this qualifies as satire, but I’ve been wrong before.

As ever, more stories are available.

The Idiot Proof
By Nick Bryan

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Rapture has taken place.’

‘Unfortunately, uh, there seems to have been a slight mistransubstantiation.’

‘I mean, “mistranslation”. Apologies. A mistranslation. The “Rapture” is not a religious event, it just happens to be in their texts. Like, y’know, the Bible and those other ones. It turns out, people were judged not on their spiritual worth, but their intelligence and practical usefulness.’

‘If you can still hear this radio thingy, then it appears you are officially an idiot. God has spoken. We are not sure what will happen to the world now, but there are reports of plummeting hygiene standards in restaurants, plummeting survival rates in hospitals and plummeting helicopters flown by co-pilots who cheated on their exams.’

‘Without intelligence, how will we cope? Of course, since no-one understands how to use a condom anymore, the next generation will be here shortly, but will humanity survive long enough? The answer will be difficult, almost as difficult as the rhyming dictionary I used to write this broadcast, and…’

At long last, Bob Slarne turned off his radio. They had been repeating the same report for the last week anyway, except during DJ segments. It turns out, even in a stupid-powered society, you could find someone to dribble between songs.

But if the news reporting became sloppy and not authoritative, the masses complain, even though they couldn’t do better themselves without spending hours upon hours on research. So the news reports became less and less frequent.

Many, unmotivated or simply uninterested, had stopped turning up for work. But Bob, a government minister with a sense of duty, continued to slave. All his Cabinet colleagues were newcomers or idiots.

Unluckily for him, Bob was the latter. He’d excellent advisors, surfed through democracy on sheer charisma; the man could give a speech, even answer questions efficiently, but when it came to preparing material or governing, he had people for that.

Make no mistake, Bob had been insulted when the Rapture left him behind. He’d known he wouldn’t be winning Mastermind, but hadn’t realised he was a certified moron. Still, couldn’t argue with the Almighty.

And worse still, since he possessed experience and token leadership skills, others kept looking to him for guidance. In fact, he had no sooner leaned back in his stately leather chair when the phone rang.

Bob knew it would be a request for help, because it always was. He just didn’t anticipate the scale.

‘You’re through to the Minister, how can I…’

‘Minister! Bob! It’s Zack!’

‘Sorry, who?’

‘The Minister for Defence!’

Bob was in his late forties. But somehow the Minister for Defence was a twenty-six year old called Zack. Even in a society devoid of intelligence, Bob couldn’t understand how this had happened. Still, even if the irritating spike-haired kid had all the gravitas of a Vodafone salesman, the news he carried did a lot of the work for him.

Bob’s rosy complexion whitened and he leapt up, not even grabbing his trusty suit jacket before fleeing the room. He bolted past his startled personal secretary, who was too useless to use Excel or access her email, and rushed down the corridors until he encountered Zack, who was sweating so profusely that his hair was beginning to droop.

‘What the hell?’ Bob gasped out, between heart palpitations. ‘How did this happen?’

‘The… um, the… foreign people called.’

‘Which “foreign people”?’

‘I… I think all of them?’ Fucking hell, Bob thought, how was he in the same IQ league as this man? ‘They called saying they’d had enough of boring diplomacy and were going to launch the nukes at us.’

‘Which nukes?’

‘I… I think all of them?’ Jesus christ.

‘Okay, fine, what can we do?’

‘Could we maybe… launch our nukes at them?’

‘I’m not sure that will defuse the tension, Zack!’

‘Well, you come up with something better then!’

‘Off the top of my head, I believe it would be more prudent to…’

And on that, it ground to a halt. The kid had uncovered his weakness. Bob could talk a good game, but now was the time to back up big words with big ideas, and he just didn’t have any.

‘Could we…’ Bob summoned up his entire reserve of acquired knowledge. ‘Duck and cover? Is that how they did it in the old days?’

‘Oh, don’t be so stupid,’ Zack sneered at the old man, ‘I’m not hiding under a table and fucking waiting to be atomised!’

‘Could we… ask the public? Maybe one of them has an idea?’

‘We’ll all be dead in minutes! We hardly have time to set up a PO Box!’

‘What about Twitter? Isn’t that how the young people communicate nowadays?’

‘No, don’t be so…’ Zack paused. ‘Actually, that’s quite a good idea.’

But before Zack could put it into practise, there was a tap on his shoulder and a whispered voice. ‘Uh, Mister Minister? I got this note, I’m not sure what it…’

Well versed in the uselessness of secretaries by now, Bob reached past his ministerial colleague and snatched it. As he began to read, a grin formed. ‘Apparently a series of nuclear weapons have exploded in their silos during an attempted launch towards the UK by…. France?’

He looked up at Zack. ‘So it was France?’

‘Oh. Maybe.’

‘Wow. The stupid people are too thick to launch a nuclear missile.’ Bob grinned.

Zack smiled too, although it was more of a smirk when he did it. He looked like he’d just sold a 48 month contract on T-Mobile, complete with the insurance. And Bob felt saddened, not just because of that (although Zack was a prick), but because he himself was still here.

Because that Twitter idea had been a good one, even if he did say so himself. Part of him had hoped that would finally tip him over the intelligence boundary and allow him to be Rapturised up with all his former colleagues. But nothing came. Either he still wasn’t good enough, or there was no chance of redemption for idiots who bettered themselves.

As ever, above story copyright me, please don’t steal it, email me first if you do and sorry if it’s somehow offensive. It’s not meant to be, I come from a place of affection, but I know religion is a tricky area to wade into.