I wrote a decent chunk of this while slightly drunk. Still, I think it has a certain trashy charm. It’s not quite as emotionally resonant as last week, that would probably require I write it over a longer period of time and whilst a bit more sober.

Have a nice day, read more stories here, please tip your waitress, etcetera.

Being Well Disposed

By Nick Bryan

Eight minutes beforehand, Katie received a text message from her friend Laura. She’d been relieved, as Laura had disappeared outside with a man twenty minutes before that, leaving her minding their possessions at the pub table and getting steadily more bored.

She’d killed this time finishing her drink, updating her Facebook and trying not to make eye contact with the strange men whose eyes were contacting with her. There was an unusually large quantity of cash in her bag, to cover the deposit for her new flat, so she was delighted of the excuse to leave.

The message asked her to come to the alley around the back of the pub, which left her wary, because she didn’t want to take part in a quite unhygienic threesome atop a crate of unwanted lettuce. Still, she really wanted to get out of there, and didn’t think Laura went that way, so decided to chance it.

Once she arrived, Katie found herself wishing she’d followed her lower instinct and run away. They were behind a gate at one side of the building, next to a kitchen exit that was conveniently wedged shut. Laura was against the wall, looking tearful and trying to push herself into the brickwork until she disappeared.

And on the floor, of course, was the guy she’d left with. Apparently they’d leaned unwisely against those stacked crates of produce, and one of them had fallen and crushed his skull. He had been fairly average-looking without that massive dent in his forehead, to be honest.

‘So,’ Katie finally said, ‘what was his name?’

Laura managed to sniffle out ‘Bob’, after quite a gap.

‘You have no idea, do you?’

‘Nope.’

And then, horrified by her own shallowness, the accidental murderer burst into a fresh bout of quiet crying. Katie, not really sure what else to do, took a longer glance at the body. No wedding ring, at least, and his flies were still done up.

But she was still sobbing, which wasn’t really productive. With a sigh, Katie tried to be an adult.

‘Look, this was an accident, right?’

Nod of sobbing head.

‘Right. So we call the police, they record it as “death by misdemeanour” or whatever, let’s all get on with it. What’s the problem?’

Obviously, Katie was hoping for Laura to guiltily admit that she was right, it had been foolish to get upset and everything would be okay. There was no sign of that. Instead, the crying continued. The man, who they may as well call Bob, was still dead on the floor.

‘Look, for fuck’s sake,’ she tried not to sound too annoyed, ‘can we get away from this body? He’s dead! You can’t cry him back to life!’

‘You’re horrible.’ Laura glared at her, before looking down at Bob and bursting anew.

Katie was being a little harsh, but come on. This was unsettling and, more to the point, the longer they hung around the corpse without telling anyone, the more suspicious it became. After all, that deposit cash was still on her, and they’d probably think she’d stolen it from the body.

‘Yes, yes, I know, but this just makes it look like we killed him. And you’ve already said you didn’t. Unless you were lying.’

For a moment, Katie was worried the crying would redouble, but instead Laura was finally calmed by the veiled accusation of murder. Katie made a note to use this trick in future arguments.

‘No,’ she began slowly, ‘I didn’t kill him. Otherwise I’d have taken his wallet.’

She gestured down at his crotch, and aside from whatever may have been lurking in his pants, there was definitely a wallet-shaped bulge in there, as well as a mobile phone.

‘Hmm.’ Katie stared. ‘We could probably work out who he is if we got the wallet.’

Laura was still sniffling a little, so with a sigh, Katie knelt down to do it herself. She had gotten as far as thrusting her hand inside his pocket, trying not to touch anything undesirable, when she noticed a small flurry of activity above her head.

She suddenly realised that Laura had reached over and given the stacked crates above her a good shove. Unfortunately, much like “Bob” before her, she didn’t notice in time. A couple of heavy wooden boxes falling from a decent height can do you a mischief, regardless of rotting vegetable content.

As a red mist floated over her vision, Katie made out Laura pulling the deposit money from her bag, before slipping out of the gate without a backward glance. And whoever found them would think she’d slipped out for a fumble with Bob and they’d both been killed in this hideous lettuce accident.

Damn, she thought. It had been a trap.Copyright me, albeit slightly inebriated me. Steal at your peril, you may have lettuce dropped on you. Email me by clicking here if you like.

I was going to do a Christmas-themed story last week, but circumstances got in the way (i.e. I broke my glasses and spent most of the day slogging from Essex to London and back to retrieve the spares). Shame, as I had a half-drafted story and everything.

But never mind, maybe next year. I have managed a longer-than-usual effort for today on a New Year theme, despite being slightly ill yesterday. But if it’s rubbish, that’s my excuse.

So, belated Merry Christmas to any and all who’ve stuck with me through these things, and a Happy New Year as well. Hopefully 2011 will be a good one, writing-wise. I have at least one confirmed good thing coming, at least.

Anyway. Let’s get on with it. As ever, more short-ish stories are available if the New Year depresses you.

Operation 2011: A Survival Exercise

By Nick Bryan

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It is early on New Year’s Eve, my name is Alf. Every year, my friend Simon and I have tried to attend the free fireworks in London at the turn of the year. We arrive in the evening and find ourselves crushed, abused and stuck behind tall drunks.

However, we are fireworks lovers and will not be refused. After drawing up complex diagrams, we have come to the north bank of the Thames at six in the morning with several books and thick layers of clothing.

Our plan is to claim a bench and sit here until the fireworks start, in seventeen hours time, and I will document this undertaking in journal form. So far, we have chosen a bench. It has a good view of the river, and there are no bridges in the way, making it the best of the available candidates.

So we have taken our position. It is getting light now.

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Some conflict over breakfast. Simon was not sure where to go, although I kept telling him it didn’t matter. Really, I was hoping he would make a decision. It was hard enough getting him to settle on a bench.

Anyway, we eventually agreed on McDonalds, as it was nearby and neither of us have had one of their Big Breakfasts for some time. And all my other suggestions were “too weird”. I hope he’s not going to be like this all day.

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It appears McDonalds coffee is even less pleasant than the instant in my thermos. Otherwise, breakfast was pleasant, even with the aftertaste of grease.

However, we did experience a few issues. It appears there are very few public bins in Central London, due to the risk of terrorists dropping parcel bombs. Since I didn’t want to sit on a pile of McDonalds packaging all day, I sent Simon to find an exposed disposal area, since one of us has to guard the bench.

And also a free toilet, since he needs to pee and refuses to pay. I think he’s hoping the “restaurant” will let him use the facilities.

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Thankfully we brought a lot of books with us, or we might have had to converse. Obviously, myself and Simon have been friends for years, but sitting on a bench for seventeen hours would strain things between even a long-standing married couple.

I suppose we should start thinking about lunch, but I’m fearful of another squabble, so am going without for now. If only I’d thought to bring sandwiches.

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Simon’s stomach rumblings became audible to pedestrians, who began to mutter about our being tramps. Yes, even though our wives had ironed all our layers of clothing for this adventure.

Still, it became clear that Simon was unlikely to suggest food of his own accord. One day, we shall beat decisiveness into him, but until then I’ll do it myself. Sandwiches seemed the most logical option, as there are outlets nearby, but the range caused problems.

I offered to let Simon stay on the bench and direct me by phone, but he still would not trust me to pick the correct option. So we are taking turns.

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Thanks to multiple visits to Subway, lunch took some time. Have at least got a hot sandwich, with meatballs and spicy sauce. This should come in handy, as my thermos has run out.

Simon took a while to return, as he was unable to decide on a Subway sandwich, or anything they had in Pret. He ran back and forth between the two for a while, before settling on Pret’s Soup Of The Day, which seems to contain mushrooms. And then we ate for a while, before Simon pleasantly agreed to do the rubbish run again. Feet starting to go numb, maybe I should’ve volunteered for the walk.

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It has been a quiet spell, but we are now experiencing difficulties. Firstly, it is now too dark for us to read easily. London street lighting is simply inadequate.

More importantly, others are starting to turn up for the fireworks. It seemed a slow trickle at first, but now the pavement is starting to look well dawdled. I imagine they wish they had turned up at six this morning, as all the benches are long gone.

Someone has sat in the remaining third of our bench. How awkward.

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I was concerned this might become awkward, but Simon and I are busying ourselves spotting embarrassing fashion trends. Someone appears to be carrying a skateboard; I don’t pretend to keep up, but I thought that was ten years ago.

Pleasantly, the skies remain clear. I had studied the forecasts extensively, as it would have been woeful to agree to this amazing exercise, then spend the whole day getting pissed on.

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Problems are springing up. A need is emerging among us both for both further refreshments and perhaps a trip to the toilet. However, the surrounding people are becoming denser still, and I don’t have much faith in only one of us being able to hold the bench.

Not sure what to do about this. Perhaps I could slip one of the teenagers a few pounds to stand guard while we go? With four hours to go until the display starts, I imagine the situation will get worse before it gets better.

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I was right, matters have gone downhill. Simon is now discussing whether we could hold our urine in my thermos. I am uncertain, slightly because we might be arrested, but mostly because I would never feel comfortable drinking from it again, even after repeat bleaching.

For the first time, I regret throwing away cheap McDonalds cups. They could have finally come into their own.

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A shade over two hours remain until the midnight moment. The crowd is bumper-to-bumper, police have already blocked off many routes to the riverbank, leaving most spectators to filter through one tiny entrance.

So, with this packing, Simon thinks there might be sufficient cover to get away with emptying our bladders into the thermos. I reply that I’m not sure its cutting edge insulation technology was designed to keep our piss at post-expulsion warmth.

I also worry he may next suggest we drink it as a solution to our hunger.

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I considered not recording this low point, but having committed to this journaling, it seemed rude not to. So: it saddens me to report that we have both gone to the toilet in my thermos flask. Must remember not to absent-mindedly sip.

Having taken so long to negotiate this toilet solution, we have agreed we shall have do without further food. And now we shall do our best to put this indignity behind us, as fireworks are a mere hundred minutes away!

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Disappointingly, Simon has fallen asleep. Passing crowd members are laughing. I nudged him awake a couple of times, but he grunted and ignored me. A little concerned that police will mistake him for a homeless man and move us both on, since the mutters of “tramps” have only become more frequent in the last few hours.

I suspect the slight smell of urine isn’t helping, even if no-one noticed at the time.

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The hour is coming. I finally woke Simon after ten minutes by punching him in the face. Desperate measures, perhaps, but it has been a long seventeen-ish hours of isolation, and I found this to be strangely lonely without a friend or a book.

In our modern society, I think we take our luxuries for granted, it’s easy to forget how difficult it can be when all is stripped away, and I think we’ve proven something here. Even if we are escorted out by security now, it was not all in vain.

(N.B. Obviously, I’d still rather we were not.)

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A mixture of hope and heartbreak in recent minutes. As the time of explosions drew near, we rose from our seats, because the standing spectators in front threatened to impede our view. And no sooner had we stepped forward from the bench, a gang of nearby drunks leapt onto it and started stamping and chanting.

For a moment, I felt sentimental; after all, that bench had sustained us for all that time. And then I swiftly forgot about it, because the fireworks were about to start, and it was going to be gorgeous and loud. Immediately, I knew the New Year would be amazing.

If nothing else, it started with myself and my best friend wetting ourselves on a public bench after eating a McDonald’s breakfast, so couldn’t get much worse. And I hope you appreciate this last journal entry, as writing it whilst standing up was a right pain in the arse.

This exercise in mild satire and silly whimsy brought to you by me, copyright also me, if you link all your friends to it or re-tweet or something I will be forever grateful. If you somehow steal it, I will be less so. Email me to ask what I mean by stealing. This story dedicated to anyone who’s ever been to the London New Year’s fireworks. It’s a lovely display, but also one hell of a crowd control exercise.

After a break whilst I did NaNoWriMo (more about that here), I thought I’d do another (very) short story for a Friday. I was posting these quite regularly for a while, you can read the previous efforts here, and maybe I’ll finally be able to get into some rhythm again now.

And yes, today’s story is a bit angry. Sorry. I’m calm, honest. It was loosely inspired by a prompt I found on the internet.

The Exploding Teapot Battles Suburbia

By Nick Bryan

One day, in a square house, Mrs Bailey took her teapot from the kitchen cupboard and clattered it down onto a surface, jarring it painfully in the process. Before it had time to recover, she had plucked again, ripping the lid from its top hole, and filled it with boiling water.

The strange sensation of being irrigated was one it had gotten used to, but there was still that unpleasant sloshing sensation, especially when it was tugged back from the sink and left on the side again.

Remember the talking, dancing teapot for Beauty And The Beast? Well, imagine that, only worse. In reality, sentient crockery would not gain the ability to sing in harmony, or grow a curiously human-looking face, would it?

Obviously, if a teapot were to one day spring to life, it would only be able to do one thing, and that was spontaneous self-destruction. And whether you buy the logic or not, that was the only thing this teapot was capable of doing.

All the intelligence of a human, all the self-determination of a low-ranking Mario enemy. It could shatter itself into shards, or it could sit there indefinitely, working up an increasingly steamy head of frustration through boredom. Like any sentient being that finds itself literally unable to do anything, it eventually turned to thoughts of suicide.

Unfortunately, the teapot didn’t merely grow depressed as its enslavement progressed, it also grew bitter. And it was often filled with boiling water, so if it timed the sudden explosion perfectly, it could burn someone’s arm, perhaps even drive a shard of itself deep into their eye.

Its excitement was almost unbearable. After weeks of observing and re-observing the morning routine of the Baileys, it had spotted the perfect opening to detonate and cause maximum devastation. These people would rue the day they left the teapot on the coffee table during that film about suicide bombers. Had they not learnt anything from raising two (doomed) children?

Finally, it was lifted from its position on the sideboard. The water swished around again, steam vented through the spout and it was carried into the dining room, where a bunch of them sat around. The two kids, picking at their cereal, and the two adults, ready for tea.

It could probably take at least half of them out, it thought. Explode as she reached the table, then both adults would get a face full. That’d be fun. The kids might even rush to the other side of the room, in time to stick their foolishly bare feet into a hot puddle.

But the time wasn’t right. It hadn’t spent months biding its time to play its only card too early. So it waited patiently in the middle of the tabletop as it was allowed to cool. It wasn’t sensitive to temperature, but after all this time, it had ascertained how long they would wait before drinking it. And as ever, the teapot was right.

The water spouted forth into the cups, and the teapot was a few ounces lighter. Christ, it thought, this was bloody boring. He’s still talking about his job. It was a wonder his wife hadn’t smashed the teapot over his head years ago. In fact, said teapot had spent a fortnight at the start of its time here waiting for that very event, before concluding that the woman either hadn’t the guts or was too stupid to realise how dull it all was.

So the teapot would have to do the job itself.

Eventually, they drank their tea, and the pot readied itself for another dignity-free yank back towards the kitchen. They would make another cup of tea, it knew, and sip it whilst the kids put on their ties and did up their shoes.

However, his transport had barely made it halfway from chair to doorway when her son leapt up early. The teapot’s heart would have leapt. This was not on schedule; the brat had to stay there for another couple of minutes.

Fortunately, his mother agreed, and ordered him to be good and finish his cereal. Whatever stupid thing he had to show her, it could wait. So he dug his spoon back into the brown mush and sat back down sulkily, whereas the teapot was allowed to swan out of the room. It did feel smug about that.

And in the kitchen, it was put down and re-filled. This was the crucial moment, the teapot told itself. This was do-and-die.

With a scuttle of little feet, the kids finally rushed through to hand back their cereal bowls and claim their lunches, whilst their mother would wave them through, before taking the next pot of tea back into the dining room. It was as nauseatingly regular. So she lifted the teapot, as the kids dashed underfoot.

Now, the teapot had been watching the kettle for a while. It was hard to tell whether the electrical appliance suffered the same desperate, pouring hopelessness, but it certainly hoped so. Because it had already decided they were going together.

With a crash, the teapot exploded mere inches above the kitchen surface, sending a splash of boiling water downwards and sideways. It detected some very satisfactory screams as the kids were scalded and spattered with shards of itself, but that wasn’t its primary focus. It was far more interested in the liquid dripping over the kettle and accompanying plug socket.

Finally, it sparked, igniting a kitchen roll and setting the kitchen aflame as the occupants continued to roll around and scream. On that pleasing note, the teapot finally died.

As ever, please don’t steal, if you should want to use it for anything, I imagine I’ll let you. Just email me and ask or something.