fridayflash

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.

Today, a short ode to waking up, being confused and just kinda stumbling around. This exact story never happened to me, but I like to think it has basically happened to everyone. A genuine attempt to connect with the universal human experience on Nick Bryan Dot Com today.

And, on a less pretentious note, tonight I see Avengers!

Vagrancy

By Nick Bryan

Phil woke up on a bench in Leicester Square, wondering what that sticky mass on his left hand was. Wondering why he was there, or indeed how he’d managed to sleep in the first place. Because, much to his aggravation, it wasn’t even morning yet.
No chirping birds, no light gently bursting through the clouds, or even starting to peep over them. It wasn’t morning, it was night. Late, it felt like midnight had been and gone, the kind of night that he rarely saw. Because, as ever, he had left the pub at eleven and tried to get towards the station.

And then, apparently, fallen asleep on a bench. And then, he thought, poking his hand into his pocket, some idiot had stolen his phone. It had been a good phone too. The slats of the bench had pressed their shape into his back.

All around him, people were still wandering from place to place, with gaits from run to stagger, or the even more impressive stagger-whilst-vomiting. Phil shook his head to try and get it clear; at the moment, the whole square looked like a photograph post-Photoshop to him.

Plumes of light snaked from end to end, from one neon sign and on to another, as if they were bleeding into some central pool, and beneath it, people were running. That rickshaw driver was just circling the drain.

It was only five minutes to Charing Cross, he told himself, if that. He could make it, and if nothing else, there would be a roof or some reassuring sober grumpy people, and less shouting. They weren’t all speaking English, and it was just making his disorientation worse.

He tried to make his way to the corner exit, only for his way to be blocked by a group of police grabbing a kid in a hood, almost elbowing Phil to the ground in their enthusiasm to dispense justice. No apology, either, just the rickshaw driver racing round for another lap, then finally turning off the square at the corner after his. He figured he’d wait until he’d made it home before reporting his phone, then. At least he still had his wallet.

Phil kept making his way down the side, muttering bitterly about why the damn police weren’t doing anything about the rickshaw that wasn’t even on a road, not to mention why they hadn’t woken him up hours ago. As he found his way onto the way that led down to Charing Cross, it was as if he’d shoved his way into some kind of feeder pipe.

This appeared to be the drunken pilgrimage of choice. Evidently, whatever time it was, it was kicking-out time. The entire of London, it seemed, were making their way down here, their Friday night finery in varying states of disarray. Phil’s good shirt wasn’t ripped, but that brown stain didn’t seem like it was ever coming out.

People were shouting and hugging each other, Phil hoped he looked grizzled and wide-eyed enough to keep everyone away. If someone were to go in for a hug now, he couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t cry on them.

So instead of going for a hug, one of the passers-by, perhaps thinking Phil was so out of it he wouldn’t notice, decided to reach into his trousers for his wallet. And, even though he was awake, the temptation was there to just let it go. He didn’t feel in any state to get in a fight with a healthy, opportunistic criminal.

Fortunately, even a well-build pick-pocket didn’t stand much of a chance against the rickshaw, which swerved around the end of the road, managed to weave past a few pedestrians, before finally losing control and smacking straight into Phil’s robber with a satisfying crunch.

True, Phil himself was knocked sideways, losing his balance and barely keeping his footing, but at least he wasn’t going to hospital to have his bones put back in. That arm was in at least four pieces. Feeling better about everything, Phil decided to walk purposefully down towards Charing Cross before the police made it down here to question anyone.

He would’ve called an ambulance for the guy, but damn, no phone.

Copyright me 2012, no stealing innit, email if you like. Thank you for reading. This story almost took place on a night bus, but that would’ve been too autobiographical. I once got approached at a night bus stop and asked where the local dogging spot was, y’know.

Slightly old-school Friday story this week, after a few efforts in which I’ve attempted to change my style, throw out an idea quickly and so forth. Which… may mean it’s not my finest literary hour, but I really enjoyed writing it nonetheless.

And I’m currently 63 pages through Script Frenzy, if that interests anyone. Admittedly, my main conclusion is that I’ll probably go back and re-adapt it into some kind of prose format.

Prophet Warning

By Nick Bryan

‘Beware the horse!’

Joe turned around on that. ‘Come again, mate?’

But before the homeless, bearded man could yell anything more, Lettie tugged his arm. ‘Joe, don’t encourage him.’

Unfortunately, the tramp had already heard the encouragement. He had just been slumped outside the kebab shop, his dented Starbucks cup containing only a few pennies, but when he realised someone was acknowledging his existence, he was on his feet immediately. ‘Look  beware of the horse, my son! The horse will turn about and smite you down!’

‘Wait, will this horse be in the street? Or the living room?’

‘Or his fucking crack dreams, come on Joe…’

‘One sec.’ He turned back to the tramp. ‘So when will it happen?’

‘Sooner that you’d think!’ He shoved a finger into Joe’s face, which was encrusted in an ambiguous brown substance. ‘Mark my prophecy…’

‘So you’re a prophet?’

‘Joe!’

‘Seriously, is this like the horsemen of the apocalypse, because I don’t to miss…’

But before any more homeless wisdom could emerge, a large blob of man armed with greasy overalls and an alarming meat cleaver emerged from the shop. ‘Oi!’

The street prophet turned, eyes widening beneath his mess of hair, and the golden words stopped flowing.

‘Piss off, go on.’ The cleaver gestured viciously down the road. ‘Stop scaring my goddamn customers.’

And so the tramp ran, the courage of his religious convictions failing him in the face of a flaying from an angry kebab seller. To be honest, Joe couldn’t blame him, that guy looked crazy, Like he should be killing his customers and cooking them into the food. The Sweeney Todd of kebab shops, only nowhere near as good looking as Johnny Depp.

As Joe and Lettie finally entered the shop (it said “restaurant” on the sign, but there was no sign of tables, waiters or, let’s be honest, food), the spinning leg of grey meat behind the counter looked even less appetising than usual. That was where they hacked the donor kebabs, of course, using a sword even more terrifying than the one the prophet had been chased off with.

‘So,’ the scary man rumbled, taking his place behind the counter, ‘what do you want?’

His younger and more nervous sidekick skittered around in the “kitchen” area, throwing potato chunks back and forth from one deep fat fryer to another with no end in sight. Joe wasn’t sure if he was making chips or crisps.

‘Um, just the battered sausage with some chips, please.’ Joe indicated it nervously, deciding that was the least unappealing option. This had seemed a much better idea in the pub.

Lettie, even less concerned with being polite than he, politely shook her head when he glanced over. Goddamn it, Joe was going to suffer alone wasn’t he?

It turned out, that was even more true than he’d expected. As the owner bent down to retrieve the battered sausage from the humming cabinet that kept it lukewarm, the other guy nudged the controls for the revolving meat leg of horror whilst trying to adjust the deep fat fryer. And apparently he managed to hit the accelerator, because it went from humming delicately to whirling like a car axle, thrashing horrible sloppy gunk all over the walls. It hit the big guy, it hit the small guy, splattered the cabinet and dripped into the chicken servings, shot over the top and smashed into Joe’s nose and face.

He’d not had time to duck, but Lettiesomehow managed it. She was crouched in front of the plastic front, trying not to giggle at him. So totally deserved it when a blob of oozing flesh peeled off the heated plastic and fell into her hair. She nearly backflipped herself screaming.

Making no particular apology for his manners, Joe spat a few choice chunks out onto the floor, seized Lettie under the shoulder and made to leave. The two custodians of the meat-spinner seemed unconcerned by their departure; the battered sausage was now too battered to sell anyway.

They hurried down the street, Lettie pulling at her hair still, and Joe reaching for his mobile.

Finally satisfied that she’d done all she could without a shower, Lettie looked over to him. ‘What’re you doing?’

‘Calling the food hygiene people.’

‘To come and give you a disinfectant bath?’

‘No. To tell them that place is selling horse meat in their donor kebabs.’

‘Oh, seriously?’

‘Don’t worry, it’ll be an anonymous tip.’

Copyright me 2012, don’t steal, email me if you want, etc. And yes, puntastic title, disgusting moments and a twist ending. Just like the good old days.

This week’s Friday story has a reason behind it, which you’ll already know if you’ve been following me on Twitter this week.

But for anyone who doesn’t (or just doesn’t pay attention): as an exercise for my creative writing MA this week, we all wrote pieces outside our usual styles, left our names off them, they were shuffled and handed out, then we each read one out and everyone had to guess who wrote it.

So what do I write when trying not to sound like me? Well, here it is. And I’m proud to say no-one guessed it was mine at all.

(Although a couple of people tried to imitate me by including bodily fluids or plot twists to throw others off their scent. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, isn’t it?)

Time-Lapsed

By Nick Bryan (obviously this wasn’t on it at the time)

Since Jackson last came to church, the statues had shrunk. The pulpit seemed closer, even though it had never been so far away. He took off his hat, crossed himself by reflex and then wondered if he’d done it the right way round.

The statues gave him no clue, though. They’d seen a million people do this by now, they must know, but they weren’t telling. Theoretically, he should also dip his hand in the little stone bowl of water before doing it, but he wasn’t sure he still had that privilege. He might have mislaid it in the last ten years.

Back then, it had seemed like a cavern, a magnificent display of space. Now he realised it wasn’t even half the size of his old school hall. And the cold breeze wasn’t the rush of the Holy Spirit, it was the chill of a stone building with inadequate heating.

The pews creaked when Jackson sat down, he was amazed they stood up to that breeze. He almost brought the whole lot down like dominoes when he sat back, and he was not a big man.

As he entered his late twenties, he’d found himself viewing his old church as quaint and simplistic. Jackson had trouble reconciling this stone shed, and the old man who stood up front, with all the un-PC views you saw accredited to the Catholic church nowadays.

Fortunately, the old priest was dead, so would never talk with him as an adult about all that. Jackson could keep viewing him as a kindly grandfather figure, who maybe didn’t hold with the gay-bashing and whatnot. He certainly didn’t recall it creeping into the sermons.

Jackson couldn’t remember anything he’d said in those sermons, to tell the truth. But he did like the way the church had never managed to replace him, just left the place standing empty. That was nice. It made his childhood memories seem a bit more special.

A fresh gust drifted through from the vestry, where Jackson had sometimes gone to help the priest tidy up. Nothing there now except a few cobwebs, of course. The body of Christ had surely dissolved into mould, making it impossible to tell whether it was flesh or wafer.

‘You done in here, mate?’

Jackson leapt up, like a kid caught out of bounds. ‘Oh, yes, so sorry, sir.’

‘Nah, no worries. I remember when they knocked down my old school, almost cried right there when I saw it in the local rag.’

‘Thanks for letting me look around,’ Jackson gave a nod, ‘I’ll get out of your hair.’

‘You sure you don’t want a bit longer?’ The workman glanced at his watch. ‘You can probably stay another ten minutes while the boys set up.’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Jackson gave a quick smile as he slipped out, ‘I think I remember as much as I want to.’

Copyright me 2012, please don’t steal, email and ask, etc. Oh, and it’s my birthday on Sunday, but I haven’t written a birthday themed story. I did write one last year, though, if you want to check that out. As my birthday actually fell on a Friday that time.