After attending the Out Of This World exhibition at the British Library on Tuesday, featuring lots of sci-fi books on sticks, I decided I’d attempt science-fiction this week. Admittedly, it isn’t exactly hardcore aliens and time travel.

Oh, and for fans of stories what I wrote, I may have some exciting news soon. Maybe, just maybe.

Sealed

By Nick Bryan

‘Doctor Farmer? Excuse me?’

‘Sorry, no-one normally calls me that. Are we starting?’

‘We are. Can you just introduce yourself please?’

‘Of course. I’m Mark Farmer, I’m 37 years old and I’ve been working on “intelligent fabrics” since I was 25.’

‘And what does that mean, exactly?’

‘It’s a wanky buzzword meaning any fabric that does something other than sit there. Applications largely military, but I managed to sell a patent into fashion.’

‘Which was the “self-sealing join”?’

‘Yeah. The one where two edges of clothing merge seamlessly, rather than needing a visible zip or buttons.’

‘I gather it took off rather?’

‘Yeah, it turns out for a lot of people, the visible join is part of their “style”. I don’t really get it, but I guess I’m a scientist who mostly wears cotton.

‘Very good, Dr Farmer.’

‘Thanks. But we get used in hoodies and dresses, the occasional shoe. Apparently we’re the new Velcro.’

‘And it was a hoodie which caused the incident in question, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah. Look, I really do feel awful about that.’

‘You weren’t directly responsible, Dr Farmer.’

‘Please stop calling me that.’

‘Apologies, Mr Farmer. So, from your perspective, can you describe the incident? Again, you’re not in any trouble, we just want to get your expert opinion.’

‘Okay. Um, so the kid, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten his name…’

‘Ashley William Marks, of 33 Shortlands St, South London. Known commonly as “Ash”.’

‘Thanks. Ash was wearing a cheap hoodie he’d bought from a market in South London, using the self-sealing join. It was a cold, choppy day, so he’d done the front up.’

‘Sorry, how does it actually work in practise?’

‘The join? Well, you press the two edges together relatively firmly and they merge together. Then you just run the pressure up the line, as far as you want it to go. Then they stay as one until you press the notch at the bottom tightly and the whole thing comes open.’

‘Very impressive.’

‘Thanks.’

‘So, continue.’

‘Right, well, Ashley Marks was on his bike, cycling to see his friends or whatever kids do. Unfortunately, the hoodie was a  shitty knock-off, they’d stolen the join, reverse-engineered it or something, the police don’t seem sure.’

‘Is that possible?’

‘Of course. Once you innovate, everyone copies you and claims they didn’t. I’m just the scientist, you lawyers can worry about patent law.’

‘So the join didn’t work?’

‘Oh, it worked. But whatever sweatshop morons made the hoodie had put the seal on all the edges, up to and included the rim of the hood itself. And of course, Ashley Marks had the hood up to break the wind.’

‘And health and safety didn’t catch this?’

‘You think they have standards and practises in the half-arsed knock-off industry? We should count ourselves lucky the cords didn’t seal together and strangle him.’

‘Are you alright, Mr Farmer?’

‘Sorry. So Ash was cycling down the road, the wind was whipping his hoodie around, and the edges of the hood were pushed together hard enough for the join to switch on.’

‘Yes, that’s what we’ve got here.’

‘Suddenly, Ashley Marks went from wearing a hood to a full-face Spider-Man mask, only without the eye holes. Whilst cycling down a street in South London. A few seconds later, a large articulated lorry came around the corner.’

‘And then he was quite severely injured, yes.’

‘Oh, you don’t fucking say?’

‘According to his hospital records, multiple broken bones, a collapsed lung and one arm more or less crushed. Probable brain damage if he does wake up at all.’

‘Wow. He’s probably going to sue when he gets off life support.’

‘Yes, Dr Farmer, that’s why we’re conducting these interviews, just to make sure we have our bases covered in the event of litigation.’

‘You lawyers are such lovely people. And stop calling me Doctor.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr Farmer, but we have to be prepared. If he came after you personally, it could have a long-term effect on your work.’

‘He’s not exactly from a rich family, I don’t see him suing.’

‘But on the other hand, a few hundred grand from us could be their ticket to a better life.’

‘Lovely sentiment. This must be how the guy who invented the atomic bomb felt. I wasn’t really prepared for this after choosing to go into textile science.’

‘We have a full schedule of interviews, Mr Farmer, so we really have to…’

‘I mean, I can’t even say I “just wanted to help people” or anything wanky like that. I just like playing with materials and chemicals.’

‘Do you want us to make official record of that, Dr Farmer?’

‘Look, for the last time… oh, can you just piss off?’

‘Certainly, Dr Farmer. We’ll send the transcript of this interview along tomorrow for your signature.’

‘Can’t wait.’

And check out the all-dialogue thing. Brave format experiment or utter laziness? You decide. Copyright me 2011, please email if you wish to steal, thanks.

I realised today marks (almost) one whole year since I first posted this story about ducks and the whole tradition began! Admittedly, I haven’t quite managed a story a week, this will be the 31st I’ve posted in that time, but still.

In an indulgent homage to myself, this story also features a duck, and you can see the rest of the backlog as ever. Enjoy!

Duck And Cover

By Nick Bryan

‘Look, you’re not allowed to own a gun anyway, you know, legally, so you shouldn’t be…’ Mid-lecture, Eric stumbled over a tree root and needed several running steps to resume his footing.

‘Some of us have ways and means.’ And Matt hopped effortlessly over that snaking root, doubly mocking Eric with his grace and favours.

‘Great,’ Eric sighed, looking down the leafy slope before them. ‘If only I was a posh twat like you, I too could wander around forests, armed to the teeth.’

‘Don’t call me a posh twat. But speaking of which,’ he looked back the way they’d come and lowered his voice, ‘where’s my girlfriend?’

As the bushes rustled, Julia struggled slowly through. Eric was halfway tempted to repeat what Matt just said, but didn’t think it would ease this already awkward hike. Once his mobile had signal again, he was going to send another passive-aggressive text to his own girlfriend about cancelling at the last minute, leaving him the third wheel in a hellish tricycle.

To be specific, the front wheel; the one that cruised through the shit first so that the back two could avoid it.

But as Eric really got to mental grousing, there was a high pitched scream behind them. Dutifully, Matt dropped his pack and raced over to Julia, who had tumbled over the exact same tree root. Unlike Eric, however, she had not run the impact off, instead twisting her ankle and falling a short distance down the slope before the weight of her backpack brought her to a standstill.

‘You okay?’

‘Yes, I think so.’ But then she reached down to her ankle and winced. ‘Maybe not, to tell the truth.’

She smiled sadly, leaving Eric and Matt to exchange glances. That slope was still pretty long, neither of them wanted to end up helping an injured woman down it. But there was no way out for Matt without looking unchivalrous, which left Eric to support her other shoulder unless he wanted to look like a prick.

Amid a flurry of swearwords from Julia, interspersed with growls from the other two, they eventually reached the bottom, a mudbowl of dirt, leaves and animal faeces. Julia still could not walk without gasping, in fact their lazy efforts in helping her down had only knocked the ankle more.

‘I think we should stay here.’ She pointed insistently at the ground where she now sat. ‘We were going to camp anyway and I’m not going anywhere.’

Eric, to be honest, was happy to get a sit down, but Matt was furious. ‘What? But we had plans to camp over there.’

Before Eric found himself in the middle of a full-on dispute, in which he wasn’t even sure he supported either side, there was an interruption from a fourth party: a duck. It quacked, it fluttered, then finally skittered away into the foliage.

‘Wow.’ Matt breathed deeply. ‘I didn’t think there was even any water around here.’ And he gave Eric a twinkly grin. ‘So that’s dinner sorted.’

With barely a pause, he turned back to Julia and indicated the dry matter around her.  ‘Sweetie, can you scrape some of that shit together and make a fire?’

And without even waiting for an answer, he was off into the undergrowth, crunching after the duck and reaching into the pocket where he kept that gun. Christ, what an arsehole.

As per his earlier thoughts about chivalry, Eric should probably stay and help the injured girl build a fire. Unfortunately, he had more pressing matters to attend to. Dashing loudly after Matt, he hoped his clodhopping footsteps would make the stupid duck fly away. No such luck.

At last, no doubt due to his better diet, Eric overtook Matt and managed to get between him and the duck. The hunter was holding his handgun by now, which was a little intimidating.

‘Matt, stop.’

‘What now?’

‘You know what.’ Deep breath. ‘I’m a vegetarian.’

‘You’ve got a nice pasta salad. No-one’s forcing anything upon you.’

Eric was fairly sure that click was some kind of safety catch.

‘C’mon, Matt.’ Why wouldn’t the stupid animal just fly away? ‘Don’t kill the duck.’

‘Look, I’m not really in the mood for this. It’s bad enough Julia’s going to be whining all evening about her ankle.’ As Matt muttered darkly, Eric couldn’t help but notice the gun was now pointing directly at him. ‘Fuck off out the way or I’ll shoot you.’

Eric wasn’t sure he’d even seen a gun in real life before, and now he was being threatened with one, out in the forest where no-one would hear, in a fight about a duck. What the hell does a normal person do in this situation?

‘Matt, you’re not going to kill me over a…’

‘Fair point.’ He lowered the gun slightly to point at Eric’s leg. ‘Is this plausible enough for you?’

It was right then, for the first time, that Eric thought Matt might do it. Teeth gritted, eyes widened, sweating heavily; hopefully he’d picked up some kind of fever and hadn’t always been this insane. Eric could think of nothing else to do besides closing his eyes and hoping.

There was a gunshot, and then a flap as the damn duck finally ran for its life.

But instead of hearing his own voice yelling out, it was Matt’s shout that Eric heard. Slowly, he opened his eyes one at a time. His friend was on the floor, clutching his ears but not bleeding from anywhere. Julia, meanwhile, was leaning against very heavily on a tree behind him, lowering a tiny handgun. It looked like she’d fired past him, but with the barrel almost next to his ear at the time.

‘Christ, what an arsehole.’ She sighed. ‘Obviously, we both have guns. It’s a hobby. So can you come help me with this fire?’

‘But what about…’

‘After that remark about me whining, I hope I blew his eardrums out.’

As Matt writhed on the floor, Eric began to think they might deserve each other. He hurried to start helping with that fire before Julia thought he might be slacking off.

Copyright me 2011, please don’t steal without emailing me first, happy anniversary to me, etc. Trivia: This story was originally called “Another One Bites The Duck”, but that was just too much pun.

This week, in the traditions of such high-concept stories as Cowboys & Aliens, Pride & Predjudice With Zombies and Pirates VS Lib Dems, I have done Monkeys Vs Pigeons. It is slightly shorter than some of the Friday stories because, let’s be honest, there isn’t that much mileage in the joke.

And yes, this is some light relief after last week’s thoughtful look at mortality. You can read the archives here, and I might consider something more serious next week.

Monkeys Vs Pigeons

By Nick Bryan

In the last twenty-seven minutes, Ted had seen dark things. His friend Ed had been walking along, pecking seeds and knocking his own head into walls, before being snatched up by a huge, gangly orange arm.

Then Ned, more confrontational in his style, had charged beak-first at a rustling sound in a bush, only for it to burst out, covered in black fur, and crush him underfoot.

So Ted was alone, bewildered and lost in the forest. It was difficult being a pigeon under this stress. They weren’t built for being hunted by unseen enemies, for one key reason: if the enemy remained unseen for longer than ten minutes, Ted was likely to forget the whole thing and start slowly ambling along, gazing at the floor.

He wasn’t sure how he’d been separated from his friends, because once again, he’d simply been distracted for a few minutes and the rest of them had gone. It had just been him, Ned and Ed, until the other two had been picked off by monkeys.

Suddenly, Ted realised he could fly and slowly buzzed up into a tree. It was a jungle out there, and a strangely literal one at that. Hadn’t they been in Regent’s Park a moment ago? Where the biggest threats available were being kicked by a child or unthinkingly walking into a lawnmower.

And now they were in some humid hell. Ted fluttered to a higher perch, and was rewarded by a hurled grapefruit splatting against the bark next to him. Before he had time to stick his beak into the pulped remains, another one hit even closer and he tried to fly for safety.

And as he reached a higher level, trying not to look down, a tiny monkey with an enormous tail jumped onto the same branch. They eyed each other nervously, Ted trying to stop his eyes twitching, until the tail flicked out at him. Ted, surprised, jumped backwards, but unfortunately there was little space to manoeuvre on that tiny branch.

So he fell downwards, only just managing a few wing-flaps to slow his descent. On the ground, two enormous monkeys awaited, waiting to pulp him like they had his friends. Ted had no idea what he’d done to earn this rage, he’d never even seen a monkey before, and was pretty sure they didn’t have to compete for the breadcrumbs from the tourists.

Sulky hairy bastards. A huge orang-utan arm slapped him aside and Ted flapped his wings pointlessly as he went into a tree. He was dazed and wandering in a circle, which made him feel like everything was finally back to normal, when the huge black gorilla tried to seize him in a fist.

Hopping from one spindly leg to another, he sidestepped that, only to meet yet another backhanded slap from that gangly arm. Did the orange monkey not have another move? Apparently not, as another slap followed seconds later. Avoiding it by a feather, Ted suddenly had an idea hit him full on in the face. Which, at least, was better than another monkey-hand.

Quickly, before he could forget his own plan, he tugged his dented wings into motion and hovered in the air directly in front of the gorilla’s face. And it was a little slow to react as ever, because the orang-utan let off yet another slap first. Employing reflexes he barely knew he had, Ted hurled himself to one side, letting the flailing orang-utan blow crack into the hard cheeks of the gorilla.

And then, of course, monkey infighting erupted. Ted, lost in the jungle, fled for his life, hoping to god that he had just wandered into the wrong part of a zoo.

Copyright me 2011, please don’t steal, I know it’s tempting to rush off and make a movie, but email and ask first, yeah?

Morning. This week’s story was written after I drank some port and developed a strange fever. That’s my excuse, anyway. Also, I’m trying to challenge myself, so the style is perhaps a little different from usual. Yes, that is another excuse.

As ever, feel free to read the backlog.

Thank You For Watching

By Nick Bryan

Ralph, as ever, had a quiet day. Get up, go downstairs (that took ages now), go to the toilet (so did that) and turn on the television (still pleasantly quick).

Then, for half an hour, he channel-surfed, before even changing out of his slightly rank pyjamas. To be honest, he was stalling, because that would also take a bloody while. But it wasn’t just that, he refused to be one of those old people who just stuck whatever on the TV as background noise.

His high standards for distraction had caused problems back in the dark days of only five terrestrial channels, but nowadays, with his digital box installed, he could be a damn sight fussier. He’d buy some ludicrous cable package if he could afford it, simply for additional choice. Sometimes he churned through all the free options, and still had to turn it off on principle.

But for some reason, Julia refused to accept that the full Sky Entertainment package was part of her duty to give her old Dad a comfortable retirement. He hadn’t directly asked, but surely there had been enough hints?

That failure tasted especially bitter right now, because once again there was nothing bloody on.

So he glared at Julia’s family portrait above the fireplace. The kids had the full Sky Family package at their place, even though she claimed they never watched it, being too busy running around, attending after-school clubs and the like. He hoped she was lying to impress him, otherwise that was a tragic waste of transmitted content.

By the time Julia arrived at four o’clock for a visit, there was still nothing on. Ralph had gotten up, made some food, changed out of the nasty pyjamas and organised a few photographs, but his grudge hadn’t faded.

‘So, did you see that new medical show on Sky One?’

‘Hm?’ Absent-mindedly, Julia plonked down a bottle of something on his coffee table. ‘No, must have missed it. This is from Liam, by the way.’

That was the husband, rather than one of the kids, so the red colour meant wine rather than Ribena. He had to make this deduction himself, since it wasn’t labelled. Did they get this stuff from the back of a lorry?

‘Oh, me neither.’ Ralph nodded, ‘I don’t get that channel.’

‘Right.’ She sighed, and he thought he saw exasperation, but it was brief. Come on, he sighed. Just cave in like a good girl and buy the damn subscription. Surely he hadn’t raised her to be this inconsiderate?

Still, plenty of time. He grabbed one of his larger wine glasses and filled it from his new bottle. This was a long game.

Child Number One, or “John” if you prefer, was glued to the television, which at least stopped him breaking anything. And one of the poxy terrestrial channels too; more proof they did not need that expensive Sky package at all.

Sighing, he took a quick gulp. ‘Want some, Julia?’

‘I’m driving, thanks,’ she muttered, not sounding thankful. Had she always been so borinf? Or was it the husband’s fault? ‘Are you sure you should be drinking that so early in the day? I mean, it’s not…’

‘Ah, quiet,’ Ralph tutted her down, ‘I know what I’m doing.’

And he did. He drank, he laughed, he complained that the kid wasn’t called Ralph Jr. Of course, to tell the truth, he understood the reasoning. After all, Ralph was the name of the stupid kid on The Simpsons. He enjoyed that show, but it rendered his name unusable to future generations.

After a while, the child got bored of television and went outside to play. Ralph downed his third glass of red stuff and began to flick channels again. Time had passed quicker than he thought, it was almost primetime. There was a strange burning in his stomach, spreading upwards into some kind of fever, and that liquid was richer than he expected.

Julia hadn’t spoken for a while, presumably supervising whilst her son ate insects in the garden. At least that would stop them nibbling his plants. With a satisfied smile and another glass in his hand, he sank back into his chair. Maybe there was nothing on any channel because he’d seen everything already? That was a nice way to think of it.

His fingers were getting stubby, usually one indication that he might have over-done the drinking. After more scrabbling with the remote, he finally dropped it. But it seemed like the channels were still flickering, though. It seemed hot in here, didn’t it? And loud.

Stupid pop video layered over unfunny sitcom, the wisecracks melted into each other like ironic ice cream and Ralph couldn’t entirely tell if that car was on TV or outside. Some moron had let a bunch of “experts” loose to redecorate, and he didn’t need to look at the results to know it looked shit compared to his own house. Was that his heartbeat, or was the music still on?

Doctors screamed at patients, lawyers screamed at each other, an unusually impassioned voice screamed ‘Dad? Dad?’ with the rhythm of the EastEnders cliffhanger beat, and finally the austere newsreader tapped his papers on the desk and said ‘Goodnight, thanks for watching’.

If I ever collect these into any kind of compilation edition, this one will go at the end. Copyright me, don’t steal, email me to discuss authorised stealing, et cetera.

Happy Friday, everyone. Well, moderate Friday anyway. Today’s story is set in a pub, and considering how much time I spend in them, I’m surprised it’s taken us this long to get back here. Enjoy!

And as ever, if you liked this story, more are available.

A Drinking Problem

By Nick Bryan

‘So, you as bored during that meeting as me?’

Harry smirked and leaned against the bar. ‘How did you know?’

‘Well, you gotta be concentrating on a doodle that fiddly. It was like a fucking mosaic or something.’ Jim, pleased to see his companion relaxing, leaned forward to suggest conspiracy. ‘Mine was just a huge robot. But man, it was massive. More laser guns than all the X-Men combined.’

‘Never pegged you for a nerd, Jim.’

‘Oh, yeah, I love that shit. X-Men, Spider-Man, those other ones.’

‘Really.’

With so monosyllabic a comment, Jim worried he was losing his audience. Time to share something, he thought; create an intimate atmosphere through disclosure of secrets. Well, as intimate as he was going to bloody get in this awful pub. The place was rammed, mostly with people from the surrounding offices.

A tableload of their particular colleagues squatted in the corner, being drunk and sweary, but Jim wasn’t willing to risk that. Harry had a history of growing restless and legging it when put into loud group situations, and Jim was already worried he would leave too soon based on the tiny size of his drink.

So, it was time to force a private discussion. God knows how he’d make this sound natural.

‘So, Harry, how’s the wife? Thought I heard a tense bit of phone banter the other day.’

‘Ah, yeah, sorry about that, I thought I’d kept my voice down.’ Thank fuck, Jim thought; he’d been completely lying and hoping. ‘Yeah, she was having a bit of a time last week, she does that sometimes. Work and stuff, she says. Think she’s alright now.’

‘I hear you, man,’ Jim nodded, taking a swig with empathy, ‘Used to have all kindsa arguments with my ex, and it was always someone else’s fault. Except that time I dropped a brick on her foot; that one was on me.’

‘Right,’ Harry seemed doubtful that Jim truly grasped the problem, ‘haven’t you been single for a couple of years now?’

‘Well, a few dates, but no “relationship”, nah. Certainly nowhere near taking the marital plunge like your good self.’

‘It’s nice,’ he nodded and smiled, which surely counted as engagement, ‘it’s so good being able to rely on something, you know? I used to get so worried about everything disappearing, and now I don’t have to as much.

‘Hm.’ Thoughtful pause, carefully observed. ‘Still, I hear you shouldn’t take ‘em for granted. Saw that on a daytime chat show.’

‘I think I saw the same episode, actually.’

And Jim laughed for longer than sounded natural, to let himself mentally regroup. ‘Well, does dropping shit on their feet count as taking them for granted?’

‘Depends. Was it because you didn’t notice she was there?’

Harry fixed him with a glare, which Jim evaded. ‘Maybe. She was being quiet.’

‘Maybe you should work on that, then.’

‘What, really get to fucking grips with the issue in the relationship?’ He laughed outloud. ‘Is it a bigger problem than her dumping me years ago?’

‘Good point,’ Harry nodded, having a short chuckle at his own stupidity. ‘Maybe this one drink has gotten to me more than I thought. Might make a move.’

‘Shit, really? What’s the time?’ Jim hadn’t meant to give Harry an excuse to leave. But it had been a fair while now, he supposed, reaching into his pocket to check his phone. And, in fact, it turned out Harry was fine to leave.

‘Okay mate, I’m gonna go see if these guys want to amuse me for a bit,’ he jerked his thumb at the crowing mass in the corner, ‘but cheers for coming out, yeah? About time you braved the pub.’

‘No problem, was fun.’ Harry smiled with genuine glee, and shook his hand surprisingly firmly. ‘See you tomorrow?’

‘Assuming I’m not dying in bed, yup.’ Jim raised one hand in a cursory wave. ‘Take it easy.’

And Harry was out the door, after a few awkward shoves past other patrons, muttering apologies. It swung shut behind him and Jim read the text message again, and again. Dawdling at the bar, he stared at his phone vacantly. He was starting to look simple, he thought.

Finally, as he moved to swing a foot around and make for the corner, his friend Andy broke from the group and leapt into his orbit first. ‘Jim, how’d it go?’

With that kind of urgency, clearly Andy had been watching for Harry’s departure. ‘Ah, it went as well as it could.’ Jim shook his mobile vaguely, still clutched in his hand. ‘Just got a text saying she’s finished packing her shit and it’s safe to let him go.’

‘Brutal.’ Andy nodded sadly, and couldn’t stop himself from adding: ‘You sure you’re not sleeping with her?’

‘Mate, I told you, no married women. More trouble than it’s worth, even if you could take the husband in a fight. Wouldn’t mind a crack once she’s single, but no. Strictly business.’

Andy smirked. ‘You do know that kinda makes it weirder?’

‘Hey, she gave me three hundred to distract him for an hour while she moves out.’ Jim shrugged. ‘Covered four drinks with change.’

‘And you don’t feel at all guilty?’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ Jim sighed and finished his pint. ‘But think of the awkward conversation he’d have had. Y’could say I’ve done them both a favour.’

‘You actually believe that horseshit, Jim?’

‘Not one bit.’ He gestured towards the bar. ‘Get the drinks in, will you?’

Sorry if that was a bit of a downer, a friend of mine challenged me to write a sad story. Not sure if I succeeded or not. Also, copyright me, please don’t steal, email me if you must steal, etc.

New Friday story, and I’m afraid it’s a bit shorter than usual. My usual thousand words is on the longer end for “flash fiction” anyway, this one just didn’t need to be that length.

And today I’m going to talk about the perils of excessive social networking website use; not autobiographical, I hasten to add. (My jokes are way better than his.) More stories available here.

COL

By Nick Bryan

Three Days Ago

I finally added that girl on Facebook, I thought this might be how we finally bonded. Unfortunately, seventy-six minutes after she accepted my request (yes, I counted), her uncle died. I know he died, because she posted this:

“Uncle John passed away this morning. Can’t believe he’s gone. :’(“

So presumably she’s quite sad. I mean, I’m not certain. I know she used a crying face made of punctuation, but ever since “LOL” lost all meaning, it’s hard to tell whether feelings typed online are mirrored in the real world. I mean, are those real tears or are they “LOL” tears? Is she crying out loud?

It seemed rude to ask.

Two Days Ago

I woke up from a nap at 4PM, wondering whether I should have left a sympathetic message out of respect to the dead uncle. I mean, I barely know her, we’ve exchanged thirty-eight words at parties (yes, I counted), but still, it’s a nice thing to do isn’t it?

When I checked my computer, there were six responses to that status, many had the same surname, and one was from her. I didn’t recognise a single person there. Most of her friends had stayed out of it, so I’d probably gone the right way.

Or perhaps they’d all expressed their sympathy by private message or text. I do not have her phone number. Later, I typed “Sorry for your loss.” into the comments box and stared at it for a while.

And then it was bedtime.

One Day Ago

So, she posted something new today. It was surprisingly upbeat.

”Great day at work – boss was out so built fort out of stationary. Then it fell on Johnny’s head!”

So maybe she isn’t that upset anymore? How long does it take one to get over the death of an uncle? I mean, it’s only an uncle, after all. When my uncle died, I barely even registered it. Didn’t even warrant a Facebook posting.

So I decided, since she was being jovial, I could probably be funny in return. I settled on this:

“Did you only hold it up with sellotape? I really recommend staples.”

I waited for a while afterwards, but there was no reply from anyone else, which was a bit of a downer. No-one even ‘liked’ the comment.

Today

I noticed today, for the first time, she appeared to be on the Facebook Chat instant messaging thing. After seventeen minutes or so (yes, I counted), it seemed reasonable to assume she was on for a sustained session, rather than merely glancing at messages.

After a stiff drink, I said hello. It was a little awkward, but we did manage to exchange more than thirty-eight words, thus doubling our total. And then, in a bid to try and move the conversation onto a higher plane, I decided to try this message:

“Maybe if your uncle had used staples rather than sellotape to hold up his stationary fort, he’d still be with us today.”

There was a pause of six minutes, then she said:

“LOL”

Nothing else followed, I’m unsure what to think now. Maybe the uncle isn’t really dead.

Thank you for reading. Please ask before stealing. And remember kids, don’t spend too much time on Facebook.