fiction

Time for some horror creatures this week! Maybe because Being Human has just finished, maybe I just felt like it.

As ever, see more Friday stories on the Friday Flash site.

Fall Of The Vampire

My friend Joel said he was a vampire, but in order to get his fix without taking anyone’s life, he would just fish tampons and that kinda shite out of bins, then squeeze them into his mouth.

Said this was his gift, his curse, much like going to parties and showing off to gothic teenagers. He did sharpen two of his teeth with a metal file though, so that’s dedication to the cause, I suppose.

I mean, I still suspect he just did the thing with the tampons because he liked it. As gestures of sacrifice go, I’ve seen better. I myself am a zombie, but have discovered I can get perfectly good meat from the supermarket. They even have home delivery, so I don’t need to expose my rotting carcass to the people outside.

But am I a zombie, or do I just pick my scabs a lot?

I’d test it, but I’ve not got the guts. Much like I can’t bring myself to actually keep Joel away from his used feminine hygiene products. Truth be told, you can get by without being a crazed killer, as long as you’re not a huge gothic poser.

Or a werewolf. Those guys are screwed. I’m so tired. You don’t realise how little energy you have once you’re dead. I had no choice but to quit my shitty job and unplug the phone.

No, this isn’t about the band Placebo – although, true story, their lead singer Brian Molko received a doctorate from Goldsmiths the same year as I got my MA. Sadly, I wasn’t at his graduation.

Anyway, new Friday story below. If you wanna vote for Hobson & Choi on Jukepop today, you can now sign in with Facebook instead of needing to actually register there.

On with the story. More available on the FridayFlash website if you so desire.

Placebo

“Doctor, how’s it going? Good, cool, me too.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit awkward, I know. It’s like, we barely know each other, and I’m meant to tell you all my deepest secrets. Don’t you have a couch I can lie down on or anything?”

“Bet you get that all the time, huh?”

“Hah, yeah. Why did I seek therapy? I guess… Well, it’s hard to know where to start, isn’t it?”

“Okay, so, a few years ago, I was reading a paper on the placebo effect, you know the one? You give someone sick a fake pill, tell them it’s medicine, and their condition often improves?”

“I mean, I’m not sure it would work with cancer and AIDS or whatever, but you know, the common cold, broken legs, depression, I could see that.”

“Shit, you’d better not give me any placebos. I mean, I’ll be expecting it now anyway, so it won’t work.”

“Right, anyway. Not too long after that, my wife died. My daughter was three, and she was really torn up about it. I mean, truth be told, I was almost hoping she wouldn’t know what was happening, but unfortunately she was up with it and she totally fell apart. Crying, breaking stuff, refusing to come near me. I blame television.”

“So I started writing her these letters from her Mum. Beyond the grave type shit, told her it was our secret that she’d gotten in touch and she wasn’t to tell anyone and… weirdly, she’s been fine, not told anyone either.”

“Yeah, I have found I really enjoy writing the letters too. Maybe it’s been a bit like therapy, eh doc? I’d better not tell anyone or you’ll be out of a job.”

“So anyway. She’s five now, going to school soon, I’m terrified she’s going to mention her letters from the dead to some other kid and the whole placebo’s going to wear the fuck off. Don’t suppose you have any suggestions?”

“Well, other than that one.”

“Yeah. You know, I was going to try and end the whole thing in character, or whatever, hope she’s able to deal with her Mum disappearing better now she’s a bit older. So I started writing the goodbye letter and I just can’t get through it, it’s just…”

“Urgh. I can never tell whether I’m saying goodbye to my wife again or my little girl, but turns out, it’s pretty shit either way. Who knew, right?”

“Don’t suppose you have any idea what I can say, do ya? Any pointers? If you’ve got a pre-written example around, that’d be pretty handy too.”

“Do it myself? Christ. What the hell am I paying you for?”

Morning. Another week, another story, not much preamble here. If you have ten minutes to read and/or vote for Hobson & Choi, you win my love.

Anyway, on with this week’s story. As ever, plenty of other good flash work available on the FridayFlash site.

Flat Tyre

The way I tried to explain it to Lucy was this: it’s not that I don’t want to come to your birthday party, I just can’t. I’m not lazy, I simply can’t move.

If you think about it in terms of cars, and why wouldn’t you, I haven’t run out of petrol or had some vague breakdown, it’s more like I’ve got a flat tyre, maybe? Like my body simply isn’t equipped to travel – I’d love to come see you on your special day and give you a hug and a card, which I guess I’d have to pick up on the way, but I’m simply not up to it.

My feet won’t move, the bus stop is too far away, my tyre isn’t just deflated, but the wheel’s fallen off, and I dunno what’s happened to the spare, I suppose someone stole it. Maybe smashed the windscreen in too, so not only can I not start the engine, but if I tried to pull away, the police would nail me.

See, it’s not just that it’s broken, it would be irresponsible. Like, my senses are so shattered, if I tried to go to Lucy’s party, I might trip over and knock people into the road. Not just myself, but someone else. It might even be a baby.

And I was meant to be bringing my three housemates too, which would make it doubly foolish, since if they came, they’d be caught up.

Collateral damage. The airbag might save me, but they’d be thrown through the window into the road, because we don’t all have our seatbelts on, you see.

And in this case, the seatbelts are sobriety, the windscreen is the railway bridge near my house and the airbag is… I dunno, friendship or something?

I can’t actually drive, so I wasn’t sure. Anyway, so I phoned Lucy up and told her all of this, right, even managed to rev up a little sob, and all of a sudden, she drove right round to my house and punched me in the face. My housemate even let her in to do it.

I mean, women, right? That kind of attitude could cause a twelve-car pileup.

Another week, another Friday Flash, and this is a fairly brief piece (because I’ve been busy working on my comedy-detective serial (vote for me, etc), I quite enjoy the conceit though. Maybe it’s too clever for its own good, but here it is.

Messages Never Sent

Hi Bob,

I’m sorry about last night, I feel awful about it. You probably don’t believe me.

Michelle

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FUCK YOU YOU BITCH I HOPE I NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN!!!

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Hey, I’m feeling pretty tired, don’t know if I feel like the pub tonight. I’ll see you again soon though.

---

If you wanted to stay in touch, here’s my new address…

---

I’m sorry, I almost told you the new address, but you’ve been really weird lately.

---

I know I said I’ve been really tired and that’s why I got so angry, but to be honest, I just feel so bad, y’know? Like I’ve locked myself out without meaning to.

---

Look, is this really a good idea?

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Why do I always pussy out?

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Look, for god’s sake, I’m sorry you weren’t sure about me until it was over, but it’s too late, you know? Some things you can’t just take back. Get over it.

---

For fuck’s sake, can’t you just tell me to get over it instead of always murmuring shit and platitudes?

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Goodnight, Bob. Lovely to see you earlier.

---

M,

Fair enough. About time we were honest with each other.

B

Another Friday story, and this week, the vague theme of romance, since yesterday was Valentine’s Day.

Also featured this week: the theme of ducks. My first ever Friday story was also about ducks, and I revisited them a year later as a kinda anniversary thing. No such excuse this time, I just like ducks.More Friday stories by talented folk available at the FridayFlash website too.

The Grumpy Duck

Benjamin only had a few minutes to unwind in the empty staff kitchen before going back on shift, so was making the most of it. All at once, he drank a coffee, ate a cheese roll, scanned the newspaper and checked his email on his phone.

With all this business to attend, he didn’t appreciate when his friend Luke interrupted him with a “Benjy. How’s it going?”

Comradeship only goes so far when your break is only fifteen minutes and the afternoon had been a bitch.

Benjamin threw him a grunt, hoping to end this quickly. They already had plans for a drink after work, getting his feet under the table now too was just clingy.

But Luke was here for a reason. “Cool cool,” he continued after nothing followed the grunt, “me too, but I gotta give you this note.”

Even though he was trying not to engage, Benjamin looked up. He wasn’t expecting any messages, but who could resist a mystery? “Wasn’t expecting a note.

“Luke held up the tiny folded leaflet, with scribbled ink visible through the paper and smiled. “Me neither, but this is a good one.”“You read it?”

“Well, I know how pissy you are about your breaks, I didn’t want another missing shoe incident.”

Benjamin sighed and snatched the paper from Luke, his hopes of peace and quiet in tatters. Before he’d even unfolded the scrap fully, Luke started talking as if the whole thing was common knowledge.

“So, right, I saw her when she handed me the note, she’s pretty hot. In a shy way.”

But Benjamin could only stare. “So this is a note asking me out?”

“Yup.”

“She says she saw me working out there and wants to know if I want to go for a drink when I finish?”

“Yup.”

“What…” Benjamin had to collect his thoughts. “But I work as a theme park duck. I wear a full-body costume and head mask. She doesn’t know what I look like.”

“Maybe she saw you on the way in. Or maybe she really likes ducks. Or Chinese food. Who cares?”

“Is this a joke?”

“I wouldn’t do that to you, mate. I know you have no sense of humour.”

“Hm.” Benjamin stroked his chin. “You said you saw her?

”“Yeah. Seems alright. Had the decency to look embarrassed.”

“But… why would you ask out someone you’ve never seen?” He flicked the leaflet onto the table. “It doesn’t make sense. I mean, I spent today flapping at kids and giving out leaflets.”

“Maybe she’s aroused by the tone of your quack.”

“My quack is pretty good now.”

“After you spent that whole weekend rehearsing it.”

Benjamin rolled his eyes. “At least I give a shit. Mark’s quack sounds like a sheep baaing into a whistle.”

“But Mark is a dick. The kids run away crying from him.”

“Maybe she meant this note for him.” Benjamin picked it back up again and studied it. “How could she know which duck is which?”

“No, she asked for the one the kids actually liked.”

He sighed yet again. “I spent ages trying to find someone’s mother today, but she’d nipped out for a cigarette round the back of the women’s bogs. She left the boy to himself and he scraped up his knee.”

“Yeah, I heard.”“

And I told her she was being selfish and her son was more important than her cigarette.”

“Angie thought it was hilarious. She’s trying to sneak the CCTV footage onto YouTube.”

He ignored Luke and kept going. “She said I was a jobsworth and asked me where my sense of fun was.”

“Everyone wants to know that, Benjy.”

“Urgh.” Benjamin levered his feet off the table and readied himself to get back up into the pouring sweat and sunshine. “Nearly got Brad from security to beat her up, but he said he wouldn’t hit a woman.”

“Thwarted.”

“I know.”

“Right,” he waved a casual arm, and his duck feathers wafted behind it, “see you after work for that drink, I suppose.”

“Will I?” Luke stared at the empty chair as Benjamin juddered away on massive webbed furry feet, before calling out after him, note held aloft. “So you’re not going to meet this girl, then?”

Once again, Benjamin could only stare at the note. “You think I should?”

Luke laughed. “Dude, she says was in the ladies and overheard you shouting at that idiot, she probably thinks you’re some kind of superhero. The Quacktastic Duck-Man. This could your only chance at happiness.”

“But she still hasn’t seen my face.”

“I know. Some people have all the luck.”

Finally, Benjamin just snatched the piece of paper from Luke’s hand and left. He had five minutes of his break remaining, but he’d need all of them to text her on his phone with the duck costume still on.

TWO HOURS EARLIER

As the kid’s mother stomped away, Benjamin growled to himself, resolving to get Brad to beat her up if he could. He probably wouldn’t, but what was the point in being a pretend duck if he couldn’t abuse his powers?

But first, since he was near the toilets anyway, he stopped to have a piss. He was conscious of someone leaving the women’s loo as he entered the men’s, but didn’t feel like confronting yet another pissy customer who felt he’d tramped on their rights.So he ducked into the toilet quicker than natural, pulling his duck head off as he went towards the urinals. Thankfully, no-one else was in there, as the urinals were tightly packed and his costume was bulky.

Suddenly, just as he’d managed the difficult task of getting in position and peeing through the suit, there was a quick movement behind him. Instinctively, he turned towards it, but they’d gone by the time he’d trained his eyes on the door. Turning to follow them wasn’t really an option either –would only get messy.Benjamin sighed and thought nothing more of it.

For the first time on this new site – in fact, based on a glance at the archive, the first time in over six months – it’s time for a Friday story. No preamble, I’ll just get down to it.

You can see more stories by other writers on the Friday Flash website, or join in yourself. Any comments on the below always welcome.

Gravestones

My name is Sam and I hang around in the local graveyard.

And after a while, you memorise a few stones, not the bigger ones. I avoid them, they get enough attention.

Besides, the huge monuments are obviously someone rich, and we all know what it’s like to be rich. They cast a shadow over the smaller ones and I lie in the grass, not letting the shadow catch me. Sometimes I move to be sure. I’ve never met them, but I hate them.

The little ones, though – they’re more interesting. Why bother asking why Mr Richard Parker (1901-1966) wanted an angel over his dead body, yet Mrs Louisa Parker (1897-1988) chose flowers? I don’t even care if they were married.

But why choose a thin stone, like Miss Karen Stone (1930-1967), or a fat one like Mr John Cale (1944-1990)? Green and long, like Mr Henry Armstrong (1940-2003)? Does that mean they were tall or thin or fat or green themselves?

Obvious is boring, or just miserable, like Maisie Wilson (2004). I don’t want to imagine that. I want a world of people to think about, all rising and falling with their stones. Not talking to them, I don’t talk to gravestones, that would be silly, they wouldn’t reply. I get enough of that at school.

I come here because it’s interesting and you can get under their skin. It’s like people-watching, only they can’t see you. I tried to explain this to Anna once, but she just said it was boring. Not stupid or crazy or anything, just boring. I’d have preferred crazy.

After a while, I realised why huge wartime graveyards with hundreds of identical crosses (1894-1914) are so depressing – it’s because they’re so the same. All individuality sucked out, reducing all these people to nothing but the way they died. If I ever joined the army, I’d start a will before I went, just to stop that happening to me.

I’ve thought about my own gravestone a lot since I started coming here. I think it would be small, I’d want it to be small. It would appear ordinary at first glance, but unfold amazing details if you took a proper look at it.

I have this dream, but I don’t know what the details would be yet. If I died tomorrow, I’m not sure what would happen.