Friday’s Short Story: Sacrifice

storyteller It had been made quite clear during the interview process that if I wanted to climb the ladder at Timely Holdings I would have to be prepared to make certain sacrifices. It was also made clear that if I didn’t want to climb the ladder then I had no place at Timely Holdings. So yes, I told them, I wanted to climb the ladder and therefore sacrifices would be made. In fact, I was all about sacrifice, I told them. Had I not put that in my personal statement, about sacrificing? No? Well I certainly meant to. After the stuff about focus, innovative solutions and working well as part of a team and also on my own initiative. I got the job.

So when, at the end of my first week my line manager strode towards me in a goal-orientated way, me being the goal and his orientation being spot-on, and told me that I would have to work on Saturday, who was I to argue? I was on the first rung of a ladder that was going to take me all the way, baby.

Which is why I sacrificed my weekend. Which is why I was sitting alone at my cubicle at 2pm on that Saturday afternoon when Satan strode towards me in what I had grown to recognise as a goal-orientated way. Continue reading

Friday’s Short Story: The Ghost of Dave

storyteller Harry had definitely gone to bed drunk, and he had certainly eaten a lot of cheese. These were two facts: solid, uncontroversial, the kind of truths you could rap your knuckle on.

“I am a bit drunk, and I have eaten far too much cheese on toast,” he said out loud, but the ghost just stared at him, impassively.

He had never seen a ghost before. He didn’t believe in ghosts. These were also facts. Stating facts was helping prevent him from panicking. Continue reading

Friday’s Short Story: The Designer Fire Brigade

storytellerI phoned the designer fire brigade this morning. They were very friendly, considering I was having to shout over the sound of the fire alarm. We arranged a meeting and I went in to discuss my fire-fighting needs.

We sat in a very nice little conference room, and Melvin, the head designer fire fighter, took me through the process of assembling a mood board. They gave me a pile of magazines, some scissors and a Pritt stick. First of all we concentrated on the colours and shapes that summed up my living space at the present moment: I found lots of warm colours, reds and golds, and carefully pasted them into a collage, along with some photographs of people looking sad. Melvin seemed very pleased when I had finished. “Oh, is it hot in here or is it just me?” he said, sort of fanning the air round his face with his hand.

Then I had to put together a second mood board to help me visualise how I might like my living space to look after the designer fire fighters had finished with it. Again I cut pictures out, the colours now cooler – lots of blues and greens, more oceanic. Pictures of kitchens and bedrooms not filled with acrid smoke. And I found some shots of people looking happy. One in particular, of Matthew McConaughey leaning against a chain fence in a sun-drenched Los Angeles alleyway, really seemed to sum up how I would feel if the designer fire brigade could effect the kind of transformations their brochures had promised. Again, Melvin nodded in approval.

He would take the boards, he said, and present them to his firefighting team, perhaps on Wednesday, and they would discuss strategies and solutions, and could they get back to me some time next week with a game plan and, a ha ha, a price plan?

Anyway, by the time I got home the urgency of the project had gone, really. I phoned the designer fire brigade and thanked them for their help and advice. They were very understanding. These things happen, they said, and the final bill, when it arrived, would reflect that, they said.

And as Melvin pointed out to me, charcoal is the new black.

The Designer Fire Brigade
by Harris
more tiny tales

Friday’s Short Story: Secret Origin

A bat flew through Bruce Wayne’s window. Superman was rocketed to Earth from a dying planet.

I was nine and tidying up the bookshelves in the corner of the classroom, because I was a good boy and I got asked to do things like that. The rest of the class were busy with a maths worksheet. I didn’t like maths. I liked being a good boy. I was quiet, I kept myself to myself. I liked tidying the shelves, putting everything in order.

The classroom door opened and in came Mrs Ramshaw; huge, hairy and angry, a furious grey-permed sunset of a face above a formless planet of a body. With her was a little girl who had obviously just been crying.

“Mrs Murphy, Shelley says that one of the big boys made her cry at dinner time. Shelley, can you see the boy who made you cry?”

Shelley scanned the class. Everybody, boys and girls, looked guilty. They fiddled with pencil cases, looked at the ceiling. I tidied the shelves.

It was me. It was me who had made Shelley cry. I wasn’t a good boy. I was a bad boy. I had done it and I was going to get told off. Mrs Ramshaw would shout at me in front of everybody. I might get the slipper. My stomach felt cold and empty as fear and guilt and more fear replaced the blood in my veins. Being told off was the worst thing in the world. The universe was looking at me, cold indifference had turned to icy interest. This was not an improvement.

“Can you see the boy, Shelley?”

I kept tidying. Putting the shelves in order.

“No,” said Shelley.

Shelley couldn’t see me because I was tidying the shelves because I was a good boy.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Murphy. Come on, Shelley. We’ll try Class C.”

They left.

School is where you learn the most useful lessons. Everything was in order. I didn’t get told off. Good boys tidy the shelves during maths and good boys don’t get told off. The emptiness in my tummy turned to warmth. The best feeling in the world: relief. I had got away with it. And the shelves were neat and tidy and the universe was looking away from me again.

I would never be bad again. Honest. I’m a good boy.

I am very quiet and keep myself to myself.

Secret Origin
by Harris
more tiny tales

“Saint” Nicholas Ordeal Over

storytellerFather “Father” Christmas, the wealthy Lap toy manufacturer and philanthropist, has finally been released after a forty-four year kidnap ordeal.

Mr. Christmas had been seized in 1970 by some very, very naughty boys and girls.

News of his release has revealed a massive worldwide conspiracy to conceal the fate of the man known as “Santa Claus”. Parents had been instructed to maintain the appearance that Mr. Christmas was still visiting homes every Christmas Eve, by buying toys that he had previously given away for free.

Precise details of his capture and eventual release remain a closely-guarded secret, but a police spokesman announced they were looking for a Mr. Mattel and a Mr. Hasbro to help them with their enquiries. It is also believed that the Toys R Us giraffe was shot in the face in the course of the operation.

A frail-looking Father Christmas could only raise a red-mittened thumbs up, and mutter something about his kidnappers being “on my list, and not my nice list.” before being placed on a plane bound for RAF Lineham for debriefing.

Father Christmas is expected to return to work next December.

Short Story – Why I’m Still Sat Down

I was sitting on the sofa. It was a reclining future-sofa with a built-in kettle, toaster and toilet. It was a future-sofa because this was the future. The fact I hadn’t stood up for three weeks was beginning to bother me. I should maybe have mentioned that earlier. I hadn’t stood up for three weeks. I had always been lazy, and that sofa was comfortable, but three weeks? Something was clearly up. So I craned round and looked behind the cushions and found this black hole, which had obviously been exerting a gravitational pull on me and stopping me from getting up. For three weeks.

The full enormity of this discovery was pretty overwhelming and a lot for one man to have to think about, so to take my mind off it I switched on the telly to watch The Most Recent Clone of Jeremy Kyle shouting at a promiscuous human/rabbit hybrid who had been neglecting her 73 children and sleeping with the human/chicken hybrid who lived next door.

Whether it was the slight but persistent gravitational pull of the black hole, or the timeless charisma of Jeremy Kyles, I couldn’t say, but here I am still sitting on this sofa above a small but powerful black hole watching An Even More Recent Clone of Jeremy Kyle having a shout at a cash-poor human/marmot hybrid on the telly a month later. Send help. My sofa is full of shit.

This story is dedicated to The Most Recent Clone of Jeremy Kyle who sadly died of furiousness during its writing.

Why I’m Still Sat Down
by Harris
more tiny tales

Short Story – Gareth Beats The Dragon

Gareth had finally vanquished the dragon, and probably should have been feeling pretty good about himself right now. He gave the rust-coloured, scaly corpse a kick in the leg.

“Yeah,” he said, and the crowd of grateful peasants, kings and pretty girls cheered.

He kicked it again, for the want of anything else useful to do, and the crowd cheered again.

His birthmark itched, the one on his swordarm, the one shaped like a dead dragon. He watched the birthmark fade.

“Huzzah! You shall marry a pretty girl,” bellowed King Umbert, a bearded barrel of a monarch and the crowd cheered once again. “A princess! You shall have everything promised to you, and you shall never want for anything ever again. The pretty girls of our kingdom are well versed in the homemaking arts, and are,” he patted his belly, “good at cakes.”

“Great, thank you,” said Gareth. He looked down at the dragon. It was huge, and ugly, and had taken a lifetime to track down and kill. It was the last of its breed.

An unfamiliar itch started on his right arm: a new birthmark, shaped like a man in an armchair, kicking back, taking it easy. A new birthright.

“You won’t be needing this,” said Umbert, taking the blood-streaked Dread Sword of Destiny from Gareth. “We’ll frame it or something. Would you like some cake?”

“Cake,” said Gareth, and he kicked the dragon. And kicked it again, harder.

“Get up you bastard! Get up! I’m not finished!”

Gareth Beats The Dragon
by Harris
more tiny tales

Short Stories

About a year ago I was writing a short story every week (and by short I mean between 500-800 words). I was going through an interesting time back then so they’re all dead metaphorical about how awful the world is when you’re sad and misunderstood and all that, but there’s jokes and references to crumping, ketamine and the final battle between Christ and Antichrist on the plains of Megiddo so, you know… something for everyone, really.

I would generally write them on a Thursday, pop ’em on the blog every Friday and pretty much forget about them. But lately I’ve noticed there’s a few places online that accept submissions, and a burgeoning zine scene occuring in the area just now, so I’ve been flinging them around and a couple of places have accepted them*.

So! You can read Them Bloody Kids and I Don’t Know Why You’re With Me at Friction Magazine:

Them Bloody Kids

I Don’t Know Why You’re With Me

It’s not really a magazine, but then I’m not really a short story writer, so we’re all good.

And another story, Brian Isn’t Coming Out Tonight, will be seeing print in issue two of King Ink’s zine I’m Afraid of Everyone.

You can come along to the launch at Python Gallery on Dec 10th at 7pm. I’ll be doing a reading and stuff, and there’ll be nice lamps and hats. It’ll be good!

*and more than a couple have rejected them, but I won’t be blogging about THAT, no sir. Maybe I’ll write another short story containing thinly-veiled allusions to how unfair everything is instead.