Short Fiction

Another not-that-mature effort this time, perhaps, but it’s not very long and does include reference to the concept of “morphic fields”, so it’s not all lowbrow. And it’s probably an incorrect reference, but the lead character isn’t meant to be a scientist or anything.

Much like myself. Oh, and if you want to see the situation in which I wrote this, Tuesday’s post on writing environments still exists. This story came out of a conversation I had whilst on holiday in Austria, and is the closest you lot will get to a souvenir. Enjoy!

From Above

By Nick Bryan

After picking his way up the whole mountain, Lewis Reilly was getting light-headed. When he looked back, the ground looked massive, yet the houses were like toys.

It would be exaggerating to describe what Lewis had done as “mountaineering”, after all it was a small peak, not to mention an ascent entirely on foot. Not high enough for there to be snow on top, although still sufficient to shatter every bone in his body if he slipped.

Considering Lewis was a man who had struggled to walk all the way into town centre from the suburbs, this was a spectacular undertaking. He was surrounded by people who had clearly been preparing for this much more carefully, whereas he only had two bottles of water and his wits.

Still, he’d made it. The summit! He took in the fresh air and then set about his business.

And this probably requires some explanation: a couple of months beforehand, Lewis Reilly had marched out of his door and been crapped on by a pigeon. He hadn’t liked the flying feral bastards before now, but being dive-bombed was simply not acceptable. There were standards. There were rules.

The pigeons, he thought, simply didn’t understand that these things were disgusting. And he’d once heard of such a thing as a morphic field. An idea that, once a certain percentage of animals learnt a skill, the entire species rose up to grasp it.

Well. Lewis didn’t pretend to have a high-level grasp of morphic field theory, or anything else complicated, but if he could get the lesson across to even one bird that having crap rained down on you was unpleasant, perhaps the whole lot of them would come to the same realisation. So, with that in mind, at the top of a non-snowy peak, Lewis went to find an unsuspecting bird perched below that he could go to the toilet on.

Copyright me 2012, don’t steal, email me if you want it for anything, and yes, myself and my friend were up a mountain in Austria watching the birds go by. And talking about poo. As one does.

In this week’s story, it’s another all-dialogue effort, only days after I wrote a blog post about how much I love dialogue. Wow, it’s almost like I actually plan this stuff.

Also inspired by my friend Alastair using contactless card payments at the branch of Pret where I was trying to think of a story. I’m simple and easily influenced sometimes.

Anyway, let’s go!

Contact

By Nick Bryan

‘Sir, I see from your card that you can now use contactless payments!’

‘Come again?’

‘Contactless, sir. You touch your card here, the payment goes through and you don’t have to type in your PIN number.’

‘But what if I want to?’

‘Type in a number?’

‘Put my card in the machine. Like I have done for years. It took years to adjust to even that.’

‘Sir, you’re buying a newspaper, three bread rolls and a can of Diet Irn-Bru. Surely for such a small purchase, you may as well…’

‘Maybe I enjoy the interaction, young lady. What do you think of that?’

‘Sir, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, the PIN pad’s right here if you want to…’

‘Perhaps I get a small twinge of pleasaure from coming to your shop and speaking to you ladies for a few minutes about the affairs of the day whilst waiting for that huge calculator to take my money.’

‘Well, I certainly didn’t mean to belittle…’

‘And another thing, whatever happened to the customer is always right, eh? I come in here, wanting nothing more than to go through the day as I normally do, and you can’t leave me be can you?’

‘I’d be happy to call my supervisor over so you can talk to him inst… I mean make a formal complaint.’

‘What’s next exactly? Are you going to force an iPhone down my throat?’

‘Sir, I really can only apologise if I have upset you, but the queue behind you is getting rather long now. I’ve got the total value of your shopping at £1.70, I will pay for it in cash out of my own pocket now if you promise to leave quickly and quietly.’

‘In cash?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not card?’

‘I promise, sir.’

‘Okay. I’ll allow it.’

‘That’s very generous of you, sir.’

And so Frederick Fox left the corner shop, having used that method to get a free newspaper from different shops every day for a week. Tomorrow, he would finally be caught out after he tried to get a bagutte instead of the bread rolls.

Copyright me 2012, no swiping, email me if you want, etc. Frederick Fox is such an obvious name that I am sure it must be from somewhere, but can’t remember where right now. Is he a superhero? Is he… Fox-Man?

Hello!

Tiring schedule at the moment, but the MA portfolio is slowly getting cranked out, as is a bunch of internet material. Most recently, I did a slightly mocking TV news summary for The Digital Fix, which I think came out okay and may even do again in the future if I have time.

Oh, and on Tuesday on this very website, I reviewed the sci-fi novel Genus. And I’m about to post a short story I wrote about not-really-politics. Now, if someone could just edit my novel for me…?

Scarlet Letters

By Nick Bryan

My name is Richard Redmond, and every year on the fourth of June, I send a postcard in a red envelope to my local MP, with a smear of blood across the middle of the writing space.

It’s not my whole life, just part of it. After all, doesn’t take long. But after the first two or three years, started to panic a little. Forensic technology was advancing, so I wore gloves whenever I touched the postcards, which meant buying them in winter so I didn’t look weird in the shop.

The postcards were a range of themes, didn’t particularly matter, and the envelopes bought in multipacks, which was nice. It meant I could buy them and touch the packaging, as long as I was careful not to graze the contents. So I could buy the envelopes any time of year.

And then I had to find a different kind of blood, in case they took DNA from my blood samples. I started using cow blood, squeezed out of fresh butcher’s meat, and then I cooked the joint up for my wife and kids.

My constituency is in Norfolk, but I didn’t want him to pin me down, so I sent it from a different town every time. During a spell of unemployment, had to save for a while to get train fare to Edinburgh together. Could’ve just used somewhere closer, but I’d had a plan. Numbered a few locations and then randomised the numbers using an online generator.

Of course, a couple years back, my MP was voted out by the Tories. He’d been in power for a while, Labour were being swept aside, and it left me with a decision to make. Did the new guy inherit the letters or did the routine demand I stick with one man?

I thought about that for a long time. So much so that I narrowly missed a kid whilst driving home from work. But eventually, at eight in the evening on the fourth of June, I decided it had to be him. Found his office address online and got on with it.

I thought this might be the turning point for him, the postcards continuing when he left the job. I kept waiting for them to come and find me, catch me, give me my moment. Why did you do it? I knew they’d ask me that. Why the blood? Why the red? Why nearly a decade?

Of course, the clue was the postcards. I’ve never forgiven the fucking politicians since one of their massive conferences ruined my holiday in Brighton in 1988. But I never got to tell them this, because they never came. They probably thought it was politically motivated, just because the blood makes it look impassioned.

Well, fuck them. I’ve never voted in my life.

Copyright me 2012, hello, email me if you like, but please don’t enclose a blood sample.

This is a story I managed to write a plan for at 00:30 last Friday, but sadly time pressure (well, mostly the need to go to work that day) prevented me from actually getting it posted on the day.

So here it is at last, although I did post a blog post on Tuesday about the use of technology in stories, although that doesn’t apply to this at all.

Balloon Debate

By Nick Bryan

One day, shortly after noon, they came together in the corner of the playground.

Casual negotiations had failed to settle their differences, so the three had no choice but to begin the formal process. Which was just how The Arbitrator (or Anthony, but he liked it when younger kids called him “The Arbitrator”) wanted it.

Two years older than them, eons more life experience at the ripe old age of nine, he was ready to settle any difference, get the problems out of the way rather than allow a messy fight to take place, risking the adults getting involved.

He couldn’t believe the other kids let him get away with it, to be honest.

‘So, boys,’ he began, ‘I understand you’re having a disagreement over who gets this helium balloon?’

And with his other hand, he lifted the red balloon a few inches up to indicate which one he meant, and it bobbed next to his shoulder. There was a real temptation to release it and watch most of them scream, but that would be an abuse of power.

Finally, the first kid piped up. ‘Yes. It was the last one left after our class. We all want it.’

Thoughtfully, The Arbitrator nodded. ‘And what do you want it for?’

The tiny boy looked a little bashful. ‘Um, I want to let it fly away.’

And the others sniggered at him, but he continued. ‘I just think it’d be cool. And surely the balloon will be happier?’

‘That’s just a waste!’ The third one, tall and twitchy, was openly laughing at the idea. ‘Don’t give it to him!’

‘Hey,’ Anthony gave him a firm point, ‘you brought me into this, you listen to me. You,’ he continued, ‘middle kid, what do you want the balloon for?’

The second, a little girl sucking her thumb as if she’d die without it, cleared her mouth long enough to say: ‘I want to take it home.’

‘Why?’

She shrugged. ‘Because it’s pretty?’

With that, the thumb went back and she fell quiet again. Not even more sniggering from the tall one on the end could rouse a response.

So, with little else to go on, The Arbitrator gave the final kid his say, even though he was tempted to exclude him from the event for being lanky and rude.

‘And why do you want it?’

‘Well,’ he began, obviously louder, ‘I wanna breath in the helium and make my voice go squeaky!’

‘Of course you do.’

‘It’ll be amazing!’

‘Yeah.’

Not wanting to give that one more chance to speak than necessary, he turned away to begin deliberating. The little girl was giving him the wide, pleading eyes, and the two boys were hopping on the spot. The big one was obnoxious and the little boy reminded him of a tiny devil-child.

Still, he had it. ‘Okay, kids,’ he started off, ‘I think I’ve found a way of keeping everyone happy.’

He lifted up the balloon. ‘Ready?’

Huddled together, they nodded excitedly.

‘The winner is…’ He began to pass the balloon forward. ‘You, small girl.’

He passed it to her, and she cracked a big grin, then took the balloon. Even removed the thumb from her mouth long enough to thank him, before skipping away, leaving him with the two boys glaring.

‘That’s rubbish,’ the obnoxious one started up, ‘how is this keeping everyone happy?’

‘One moment please.’

He pointed across the playground at the little girl, dancing along, lolloping along the concrete with increasing glee. Until, finally, she hit a dent in the surface and tripped slightly. She didn’t hurt herself, but her grip on the balloon string was the first thing to go, and before she could do anything, it was flying away.

Thankfully, she didn’t cry or Tony might have felt guilty.

Instead, he merely turned to the tiny staring boy and said: ‘There we go. It’s flying away, just like you wanted.’

He didn’t exactly smile, but seemed satiated for now. He turned and began to meander off, leaving only one annoying loud boy. ‘And what about me? They all got what they wanted, how about…’

And, with a flourish, The Arbitrator took a firm step forward, gripped the kid’s shoulder and kneed him in the testicles, sending his voice squealing out over the playground, a good few octaves higher than usual.

If this wasn’t justice, Anthony thought, he didn’t know what was.

Copyright me, hello, please don’t steal, email me if you want to steal it in an authorised fashion or just, you know, say hello. Someone actually did email me about the last Friday story, that was weird. But in a good way.

Morning.

Not much time today, or this week as a whole, hence a slightly dashed off snippit of dialogue as this week’s “Friday story”. But I think there were a few good jokes in there, so here it is regardless.

Oh, and if you didn’t catch it earlier in the week, I have also been doing a bit of blogging about writing. Well, the plan is to do it every Tuesday, so here’s the obligatory intro post. First real attempt coming up in a few days.

Faker

By Nick Bryan

‘Caroline? Can you hear me?’

‘Yeah, are you nearly back yet? The lasagne’s sagging in the middle.’

‘Bit of a delay, I’m on a train and there’s a guy having some kind of fit.’

‘Ah, shit. Is he okay? Why are you muttering?’

‘I’m hiding in the toilets.’

‘Why? Is he contagious?’

‘No, I told them I was a doctor.’

‘What? Why the fuck?

‘I don’t know!’

‘You’re not even a vet or a dentist!’

‘It’s been a long day, the boss was being an arse, I just wanted to…’

‘What? Feel special? Jesus.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘What next? Pretend to be a gynaecologist for the hot sexiness?’

‘Okay okay okay.’

‘Just go out there, tell them you’re an idiot…’

‘Not a doctor.’

‘… a moron, come home and we’ll try to forget this ever happened.’

‘You mean you won’t post about it on Facebook?’

‘Only if you’re very nice to me.’

‘Say, don’t these train toilets drop straight down onto the tracks?’

‘You’re not thinking of running for it at the next station?’

‘You reckon not?’

‘Call an ambulance before the man dies.’

‘Or I could pretend I’ve fainted in here?’

‘Yeah, I’m doing the Facebook posting now.’

Copyright me 2012, don’t steal, email me here, all that jazz. And yes, I imagine he probably just went out there to face the music shortly after that. Or stayed in his cubicle and called an ambulance, I haven’t entirely decided.