On a suggestion from my Creative Writing MA tutor, I seem to be writing about schools a bit at the moment, and I see no reason you guys should escape. So this is a story about teachers and, yes, it is ridiculous.

However, I sent it to my little sister, an actual primary school teacher, for fact-checking, and she approved it, so there must be a grain of truth in there somewhere. Well, maybe half a grain.

And if you liked this, more small stories are available.

Crayons

by Nick Bryan

Over there! The poster little Liam made! The paints were daubed all over the place, because he hasn’t worked out colouring between the lines. Bless his little cotton motor functions. Maybe one day he’ll re-invent impressionism.

And dangling nearby, Alice’s mobile, I’ve no idea what all that stuff hanging off it is meant to be. Well, except the paper dinosaur, I definitely recognise that. I quite like dinosaurs, you see. I may have suggested it to her.

And the toys, scattered across the room, varying stages of decay. Bite marks, stitched repairs and coloured stains. It was seven at night, and they were by far the most intimidating presence in the reception classroom. They threw shapes across the wall, armless men and half-gutted foam shapes.

Even though it was my classroom and I spend hours every day in here teaching the reception kids, I had to admit, I was unsettled. Partly because of the dark, but mostly because I had no idea what was coming. Miss Dalston had asked me to meet her here, after a prolonged awkward spell.

First, she’d glared at me after I took the last cucumber sandwich that time. It had seemed an intense look, all things considered. After all, there was always cheese and ham. And then I’d re-organised my class’s schedule to book the main hall for a different time. No big deal, I had just gotten sick of five year olds vomiting because P.E. was directly after lunch.

But the secretary, a vacant, constantly-tranquilised woman, had either not noticed it clashed with Miss Dalston’s booking or simply not bothered to tell her. Either way, it had ended in more sharp looks.

Things came to a head this morning, when I spotted one of my kids beating a little girl with a branch he’d torn off a nearby tree. That kind of behaviour would not be tolerated, I’d said. Knocking your fellow students about is not permitted, and nor was vandalising the school scenery. Although he was the kind of pint-sized thug I’d have expected it from, to be frank.

Anyway, he kept protesting, but since he was one of my students, I felt there was no reason not to send him home immediately, pending a curt conversation with his parents concerning not beating other students around with saplings.

Unfortunately, in my disciplinary fervour, I forgot that the child in question had an identical twin. His brother was in Miss Dalston’s class, and it was he whom I had just sent away from school. To be honest, in light of the severity of the offence, I felt my decision remained reasonable anyway.

However, Miss Dalston did not see it that way. Her eyes raked into me as she stormed back from the secretary’s office, no doubt having failed to discern much of use. Since the secretary probably thought the twins were the same child and she was seeing double.

It was lunchtime when a scrap of used receipt appeared in my pigeon hole, a message scrawled on the back. She still had not spoken to me in person about any of this. Apparently I was to meet her in my classroom at seven for “a word”. Seven wasn’t particularly convenient for me, to tell the truth, since school was done by three, but I didn’t want to provoke her any further.

So myself and another, saner, teacher went for a pint to kill a couple of hours. He did suggest that perhaps I’d misconstrued the subliminal messages of her terrifying dark stares. Perhaps she was secretly attracted, and wanted me at school after dark for a thrilling illicit liaison.

When seven o’clock rolled around and the door slowly opened, that option dissolved in moments. There was no sex for me here. There was some disappointment there, but mostly fear. In fact, the only good news was that she was not wielding a knife.

She let the door drop shut behind her, and suddenly I wished I’d been bright enough to turn the light on. The lighting outside may have let me move around freely, but now it was creepy.

‘Hello,’ I waved, stupidly, ‘what did you want to see me about?’

Finally, she replied. ‘I’ve heard that bullying in schools isn’t just for students. I believe you are trying to force me out of here by undermining my authority and stealing my sandwiches.’

Unable to think of a rational response, I stared blankly. Suddenly, I realised that she was weaving through the tables towards me. I tried to keep one of them between us, but it didn’t work.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had a handful of crayons shoved into your face, but it’s a horrible experience, not to mention quite waxy. For a moment, I felt myself drowning in bright green slippery gunk, like some garish oil slick.

Fortunately, I was able to grab one of those partially dissected foam cubes and smack it into the side of her face, before rolling to one side, spitting out crayon and impaling my own legs on discarded action toys. Was this how she disciplined the children?

She was also on her feet, whilst I was still swearing on the carpet. I wasn’t sure if I was the bully or the bullied by now, but regardless, I was not enjoying it. I’d been expecting a rude conversation at worst, not a beating. I was left with no choice but to run away, unheroically.

As she picked whiteboard pens from her pocket and threw them like darts, I scrabbled upwards for the door, knocking my head on the side of a table in my haste. This was simply too British for words. Store it up in your mind for weeks, then have a breakdown.

I finally made it out of the classroom, the relief beating in my head and a hurled jack-in-the-box beating against the wall. Outside was a plastic school chair, ropes dangling from its sides and a small knife left near it.

Had someone tied up a child? This was downright strange.

Miss Dalston, a moment later, emerged from the classroom looking dazed and rubbing the rope burns that were suddenly incredibly prominent on her wrists. I just stared, as a small group of police came around a corner, expressions none too sympathetic,

The officer in charge was shouting something about lowering my weapon, and I suppose it did look like I’d been in a fight. Also, one of them said they’d found the child I’d locked in the cleaner’s cupboard.

This was one hell of a set-up. I didn’t think we teachers had this much free time. I was so transfixed that I forgot to release my grip on the foam cube, so one of the policemen shot me with a taser.

Copyright me, don’t steal without emailing, peace in our time, prayers for Japan, hope you are well, etc.

Time for the final part of my slightly childish action trilogy. Next week, I promise I’ll write something thought-provoking about the relationship between a father and son, or whatever the cool writers do. Part one is here, part two here and the original appearance of these characters from last summer is here.

And while you’re here: I might use one or two of these Friday stories for a thing I have to submit writing for. If you have read a few of them in the past, do you have any favourites? Any that particularly stand out? If opinions exist, leave them in the comments below, or email me if you’re shy.

To remind yourself of all the previous stories, you can look at my exciting archives. Anyway, let’s get on with this dramatic ending.

Bombs Away – Part 3

By Nick Bryan

‘Any ideas yet, Ellie?’

‘Why do I have to have the bloody ideas?’

‘Well,’ Edward shrugged, ‘I had one and it isn’t working?’

To emphasise the failure of his only strategy, he banged his iPhone into his fist, failing to spark even a single bar of reception from it.

Eleanor just sighed. She could hear the men with guns advancing from either side. If only she had learned kung-fu, rather than relying on the combat tactic of distracting people with conversation until Edward could punch them in the face.

Alas, she didn’t think that would work here. These people were not confused elderly security guards, they were prepared for all kinds of enemies. Perhaps if she’d worn a more revealing top or had a knife.

Meanwhile, Edward had gotten as far as pulling the battery out of his phone, in order to replace it and restart. So she really was on her own then. Pressed against the back of a large, circular bin, about to get arrested by anonymous men in black.

And Edward and Eleanor didn’t have magical powers, nor were they aliens, so she doubted they would be taken to a secret base and anally probed. More likely, they’d just be executed on the spot for being inconvenient.

In a slight panic, she glanced at the floor. Not only could she see the shadows of their pursuers about to move into her eyeline, she also spotted the cable that had been clipped to Edward during his rubbish-diving adventure. It wasn’t much, she thought, but she could probably do something with it.

One end was still attached to the wall of the warehouse. So, dragging Edward with her by the arm, she managed to clip the other onto the huge towering bin that they cowered behind. For ease of emptying and transportation, all the bins were on wheels. The brakes were on, but as luck would have it, the pedal was right next to her.

Having set the wheels free, the rope in one hand and her husband suspended from the other, Eleanor pulled the bin backwards, getting it rolling between her and the men with guns.

It was a bold move, but one that worked perfectly for a few seconds, at least, until the huge weight became too much for her to pull along by herself, especially with the rope pulling in one direction and the weight of Edward tugging in another.

Finally, Eleanor stumbled over her feet, the rumbling sound grew louder and she fell downwards. The bin rattled away, picking up speed with no brakes, and for a few seconds there was a clear line of sight between the cats and the mice. She really thought that might be it.

But even the slowing of time whilst Eleanor waited to be shot couldn’t stop the moving bin smashing hard into another. Namely the one containing the bomb. Even Edward, his phone finally back on, looked up in horror.

All he could muster in time was ‘shit Ellie it’s going to’, before both of them began to fall over. The two men from the security services dived for cover, but Edward and Eleanor only had time to leap into each other’s arms on the ground, as the rubbish spilled out with an almighty clang.

Everyone was ready for an explosion that would kill the lot of them, but it never came. And, helpfully, the archaeologists were still upright, whilst the government men quivered on the floor.

Finally taking control of the situation, Edward grabbed Eleanor’s arm, taking her with him as he leapt over the spilled waste. He glanced at his phone, and murmured briefly to his wife that ‘worryingly, that bomb might be better made than I thought,’ before punching at the touchscreen.

The armed interlopers had almost gotten themselves up and in pursuit, but Edward and Eleanor were well clear by now. And, finally, there was a short silence, followed by an almighty bang as the garbage exploded. Metal and plastic shrapnel flew in any direction, but Edward had already pointed them both at the floor.

All that remained was a ringing in their ears. Slowly, they sat upright, shaking their heads, until Eleanor broke the silence by looking at her phone.

‘Edward, you sent me a text just now saying “Good evening, dear”? Was that really the best time?’

‘No, no,’ Edward nodded cheerfully, ‘that’s what set off the bomb. I thought it might have some kind of mobile phone detonator. One so terribly made that I could set it off just by texting nearby.’

‘Oh.’ She paused. ‘Bloody well done, Edward. You get a raise.’

She leapt up and dusted herself off. ‘Now, best get out of here before anyone comes looking for those two.’

Quickly, they squeezed through the gates. Eleanor considered whether they needed to cover their exit, but with the charred plastic, loud explosion and scattered body parts of government agents, it was a little redundant.

Edward, meanwhile, was checking the pulse of the security guard they’d knocked out. ‘Good, he seems fine,’ he observed, seeming genuinely relieved, ‘it’d have been sad if he’d been blown up.’

‘I suppose so, honey,’ Eleanor shook her head, before sweeping to the car. ‘We must try and make ourselves scarce now, I don’t think I’d do well in prison.’

‘Oh, okay.’ Edward sighed. ‘This was quite exciting, at least.’

She glared at him. ‘For that, you pay for dinner.’

‘Oh, Ellie. You know I’ll just charge it to the joint account again.’

And so they drove on their merry way, another adventure complete.

This disclaimer feels more redundant every time I type it, but don’t steal, copyright me, email me and mention it if you want to use these anywhere for whatever reason. And don’t forget to comment with your favourites! (If you have favourites.)

Last week, I posted the first part of my attempt at a big, not-very-serious action adventure featuring some characters from one of my first few Friday stories. This week, the story continues. I’m not sure I can say much more.

Oh yes: More stories are available if you finish this sequence and want more.

Bombs Away – Part 2

By Nick Bryan

Things looked bleak for Edward. After all, he was trapped in a large, hollow bin, alongside a ticking bomb. But he’d been in worse situations, for example he had once been locked in a cage alongside a sleeping tiger with diarrhoea.

So this wasn’t the time to sit there, flashing his life before his eyes and worrying about telling his wife he loved her. After all, she was right there on the radio, shrieking at him to “stop gawping and get a bloody move on”, so that was un-necessary.

It was now certain: the bomb in question was no elderly relic. Which meant he didn’t need to remove it in one piece, or touch it at all. It looked like it had been constructed by a terrorist last week, and they could hardly sell it to law enforcement for money. They would be laughed at, then arrested.

So Edward’s only concern was escape. He pulled his rope tight, aiming not to disturb any more of the assorted junk. He had successfully clanked his way down here without setting the bomb off; it should be possible to put this motion into reverse.

His foot braced against the side, and he lifted himself clear of the dirt.

‘Edward!’ Eleanor’s ever-patient voice appeared to berate his lack of momentum. ‘What’s going on in there?’

‘Busy, honey!’ He took another step. ‘Talk soon!’

Edward was now suspended by thick cable above an array of electronic crap and a shoddily constructed explosive. He had been in much the same situation earlier, of course, but not knowing had made it somehow better.

Glancing at the bomb again, the solder was still damp, wires stuck out all over the place and was that something leaking? He had no idea how it was triggered; no sign of a countdown clock to give him a deadline. Maybe someone had to send a text message.

Nonetheless, he wanted to get away from the thing, because it looked like it could go off at any second, just because. He took a few more steps up the side, before his foot almost slipped on some oily stain. Fortunately, his grip tightened in surprise, rather than giving up, so he remained in place, swaying back and forth until he trusted himself to stamp back onto the edge. He knew he should have taken that correspondence course in defusing explosives, it would’ve come in useful eventually.

Although, he comforted himself, the technical learnings would have been useless when confronted with such a amateurish effort.

Forgetting such things, he clambered a few steps higher. Next time, he thought, his wife could do the hard labour. Still, he was nearly at the rim now, nothing had gone bang, his cable was holding. All he had to do was look over the top and then Eleanor would…

Actually, why was his wife being so silent?

‘Ellie?’ He tapped his headset. ‘You’re quiet, what’s happening?’

No response. Returning his free hand to its position on the rope, he hauled one more time, and his head popped over the top. To his slight alarm, there was a man in a crumpled suit holding a gun to his wife’s head. She wasn’t crying, just looking rather cross.

Her radio headset was in his other hand. Edward glanced around, but didn’t see any sign of a full on stake-out. Was this the police?

‘Security services,’ the suited man called out helpfully. ‘Get out of that trash can and place all your equipment on the ground.’

‘Look,’ Eleanor sighed impatiently, ‘we’re archaeologists, not terrorists, we thought it was a…’

‘I don’t care,’ he sneered, and he really seemed not to, ‘just get down here.’

Someone else slid out of the shadows and trained a gun on Edward. Fucking hell, he thought, authentic men in black? He was just a normal bloke trying to earn a living, was this fair?

Nonetheless, they were armed and he was one chap dangling from a rope – hardly in a position to act superior. With a gentle slide, he lowered himself to the ground. Kicking the bin now would only be asking for trouble.

Finally, he let go, and unclipped his harness, letting it fall to the ground. He didn’t carry a gun, because the legalities involved were simply too tedious. So, raising his hands simply above his head, Edward took a few steps towards his waiting public.

‘I’m telling you,’ Eleanor was insisting, ‘we’re only here for the money.’

‘With that accent,’ the man in black smirked, ‘I doubt you need the funds.’

‘Oh, you’re right darling,’ she scowled at him, ‘if only I’d worked down the mines for a few years and leant the real value of money.’

All told, Edward wasn’t sure this was the best approach when threatened with a firearm, but it got both men looking at her. Taking a deep breath, he jumped for the nearest huge bin that didn’t contain an explosive. As his two attempted captors spun around, ricocheting a bullet off the one containing the bomb, he disappeared behind his large metal cylinder of choice.

Seconds later, his wife joined him, which gave him a small start.

‘How did you escape from those two?’

She grinned. ‘They weren’t looking. And it seems they’re quite slow.’

‘Well, there’s two of them, so they’ll probably be coming round both sides of this thing soon.’ He wasn’t entirely focused on her by this point, as he’d pulled his mobile from a pocket and started tapping it urgently.

‘Well, shouldn’t we do something?’

‘I had a plan,’ Edward muttered, ‘but it revolved around sending a text message.’

‘Whoever are you texting at a time like…’ She cut herself off. ‘Actually, I don’t care, just do it.’

‘I…’ He swore. ‘My iPhone’s lost reception. Okay, we’re fucked.’

TO BE CONTINUED

Next week, the last part of this story. Then maybe something a bit more conversational and less explodey. In the meantime, copyright me, no stealing, email me for authorised stealing, etcetera. Usual sort of thing.

Hello. This week’s Friday story breaks two sets of new ground. Firstly, I am revisiting characters from an old story, which I have not done before. This old story, to be precise, although it is not essential reading. I think this one is still pretty comprehensible. (Well, to the extent that it makes sense.)

Secondly, it is multi-part. Probably two or three parts, I haven’t decided. We’ll see how much I’m feeling it when I sit down to write next week’s. If you can’t wait until then, you can read many more stories here, none of which resolve the cliffhanger.

Bombs Away – Part 1

by Nick Bryan

‘I don’t understand, you want to do an archaeological dig?’ The security guard peered at them as if they were senile, even though he was the one who was old. ‘On an industrial estate? May I ask what you expect to find?’

The woman, wearing vest-top and heavily pocketed trousers like a more realistically proportioned Lara Croft, sighed and looked indulgent. ‘These kind of sites are under-utilised, my good man. There might be all kinds of treasures here, waiting to be uncovered.’

‘But…’ He stammered a little, confused by the scale of her masterplan. ‘It’s all tarmac and whatnot. Won’t you need a… a digger, or something?’

‘Let us worry about that, dear.’ She reached into the pocket on her thigh. ‘Here’s our paperwork;, I hope it’s in order.’

Without blinking, she watched as he read the three or four sheets, still shaking his head in bewilderment at what the young people got up to nowadays. However, he soon started to concentrate more, and a twitch settled around the corner of her mouth.

Finally, she said, ‘Is something wrong, sir?’

‘This is, um,’ he was concentrating on the lengthy reference numbers, ‘I’m afraid some of these don’t quite match, I’m gonna have to call my boss.’

‘Oh, well,’ she sighed with apparent resignation, ‘fair enough.’

Her acceptance, it turns out, was not of his having to check. Rather, she made a cutting motion with one hand, and a tall, well-muscled chap in black appeared, swept the guard’s wrists aside with one arm and punched him squarely in the face with the other.

For a second, he simply appeared bewildered, before finally falling backwards onto the ground like a cartoon character.

‘Good shot, Edward.’ The woman nodded and stepped delicately over the collapsed mess.

‘Hm.’ Edward kept glancing down at him. ‘I wish the papers had worked, I hate hitting old people.’

‘Sometimes, these things are necessary.’ Brusquely, she shoved through the gates. After all, nothing must stand in the way of uncovering history, not even elderly security guards who were only doing their job.

With one more backwards twitch, Edward joined her on the inside. Now, it was time for the past to be extracted, gently tidied and sold on for a tidy profit, as was the forte of Eleanor and Edward, wife-and-husband archaeologists.

It was true they were not doing any digging this time, but hopefully that wouldn’t dent their archaeological cred too much. After all, the other week they had uncovered half a Roman vase in a retirement home garden, digging with only a trowel for weeks. After all that hard graft, they held a short meeting (chaired by Eleanor) and decided they were owed an easy one.

Skirting carefully around the visual range of a security camera, Edward glanced at his wife. ‘So it’s in one of these bins, you say?’

‘That is what our informant said, darling, yes.’

‘I see.’

Edward glanced nervously at the bins in question. The industrial waste receptacles were gigantic, nearly twice his considerable height, and unpleasantly cylindrical. He wasn’t looking forward to going diving in there. Especially considering their “informant” had been a terrified teenage boy who had probably told Eleanor whatever she wanted to hear so Edward would stop hitting him.

‘So are we diving into these things?’

‘Mm-hmm.’ Eleanor was glancing at one particular specimen on the edge of the yard, still pleasantly far away from any cameras and outside an electronics wholesaler. ‘I reckon this is about right for what he said.’

‘And we’re looking for a bomb?’

‘An unexploded bomb, dear.’ She grinned. ‘The kid saw it fall out into this bin from some truck of scrap and was on his way to alert the authorities.’

‘Fantastic.’

He pulled a length of thick mountaineering cable from his backpack and began looking for something to attach it to, as Eleanor wittered on.

‘…and I’ve heard some people collect these unexploded bombs, like WW1 or WW2 stuff, maybe even a nice landmine from a recent war, once they’ve been deactivated, they can really fetch a tidy sum at auction.’ She laughed, aloud. ‘Obviously, this one might still need to be deactivated.’

Edward was comforted to hear she had considered the risk of their big find blowing up in his face, and decided it was acceptable.

Finally, he lashed his line to a metal handle sticking out of the wall, which might let him stretch along to other bins as well, then began to climb the ladder set into the side of her prime suspect.

‘Are you okay up there, Edward?’ She finally deigned to notice him.

‘Not bad, not bad.’ He completed his ascent and peered over the edge. The bin was not as empty as he would have liked, being nearly a third full of metal and plastic scrap. Edward wasn’t relishing the prospect of sweeping through a few feet of waste when he knew any of the items could explode.

Still, he was at the top now, Eleanor was gazing expectantly, so he swung his legs over the top with a single heavy leap and let himself slide down the interior of the bin. His footsteps clanked on the side, then echoed back to get him anew.

That noise was joined by a buzzing from the radio on his shoulder, which soon gave way to his wife’s honeyed tones. ‘Edward? Any sign of it?’

She sounded excited, even through the layer of static. He hated to disappoint her, but nothing on the top layer looked like a good candidate. More was the pity, as it meant he’d have to go burrowing.

‘Uh, nothing yet, Ellie.’

With a sigh, he reached for a particularly large broken computer and gently flipped it over, hoping that he didn’t land it on anything combustible.

When he immediately spotted it beneath, his first sensation was relief that it had not taken long. Unfortunately, this soon gave way to less pleasant feelings.

‘Eleanor, I think I’ve got something.

‘That’s fantastic!’ And she sounded like she meant it. ‘What do you think, World War Two? The forties? Germany, America?’

‘Well.’ He sighed. ‘At a guess, I’d say early twenty-first century, maybe 2011, some terrorist’s garden shed?’

The parts were all shiny, and the lights were blinking very fast.

TO BE CONTINUED

This story copyright me in 2011, all others similar. No copying, no laughing. If you want to discuss any of the above, or using one of the stories elsewhere, emailing me is an option.

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

0646

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.

0852

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.

0947

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.

1135

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.

1315

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.

1500

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.

1656

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.

1712

1850

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.

2000

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.

2110

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.

2145

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.

2220

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!

2246

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.

2330

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.)

2355

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.