Valentine’s Day : That baby faced killer thing

rodent

https://pixabay.com/en/meerkat-fur-small-face-mouth-316736/


 

He rests his elbows on the rail, gazing out at the twitching streaks of sandy fur, a few square yards of mounded dirt littered with scraps of drying vegetable.

‘Aren’t they amazing?’

‘I guess,’ she says.

‘You don’t like them?’

She shrugs. ‘They’re a bit done, aren’t they – meerkats?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘All that standing on your back legs looking cute and killing snakes – ‘

‘I think it’s mongooses that kill snakes.’

Another shrug. ‘What’s the difference? Anyway, they’ve got the baby faced killer thing down. But they still smell like my hamster after it ate one of its babies.’

This wasn’t how he’d imagined the conversation. ‘But they look out for one another. Their family units …’

He feels her body stiffen against his.

‘You want to talk about that here?’ she says.

‘Well. You know. Spring. Nature in all its fecundity.’

‘And kids screaming for ice cream. And kids screaming because they “didn’t see the monkey pooing, Daddy”. And kids just screaming because that’s what they’re good at.’

‘I just thought …’

‘No, you really didn’t. And next time, take me somewhere that doesn’t stink of dead rodents.’

He smiles. ‘Next time?’

 


First posted in response to for Roger Shipp’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practioner, Week # 15 2016. See here for full Ts and Cs.

Another repost, this time with a Valentine’s Day theme. Well, ish. Look, it’s about as romantic as I get, alright?

Will be posting and commenting in the flesh again soon, when normal service will be resumed.

 

FFthPP : The luckiest man who ever lived

 

Old Man

 

AdinaVoicu https://pixabay.com/en/old-man-time-watch-fear-old-age-1507781/


 

Artie Baybrock was born three weeks premature on the concrete floor of a public bomb shelter. As incendiaries engulfed the city’s churches, as flames turned surplices to black tissue and melted chalices gilded worn tiles, Artie arrived – purple, bloodied, cat cry drowned by the city’s moans.

Artie survived the night, though his mother died just as the all clear sounded. Lucky Artie, you might think, though during a childhood with Sour Aunt Gertie and her cane, he didn’t.

Decades later on his 72nd birthday, Artie was alone as usual. He had been a lifelong bachelor, no children, few friends left above ground. He hobbled to the charity shop to treat himself to a new jacket, the old one too worn and stained, or so his carer said.

As he left the shop, new purchase drooping from coat hanger shoulders, he slipped his hand into the pocket, felt a bump in silky the lining. He pulled out something round and smooth – a watch, golden as a melted chalice.

On the back an inscription:

For Artie, from his loving Mother x

That night Artie died in his bed, safe in the knowledge that he was the luckiest man who ever lived.

 


Written for Roger Shipp’s FFthPP. See the photo (no guiding line this week) and write a story in 200 words or fewer. See here to join in.

The original draft of this was longer, the opening based around the deadliest night of the Bristol Blitz – 24th November 1940 – when Bristol lost so many of its landmarks (including  the beautiful Dutch House and several churches). Two hundred people died that night, 187 seriously injured.

The effects of those raids surround you in the modern city – in the gutted churches that still stand as memorials to the dead; in many of the city’s parks and open spaces (one of which is at the bottom of our road) where houses were cleared by incendiaries, never to be rebuilt. To read some personal stories, visit here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FFftPP: Scorched carpet and ash filled shoes

 

Shoes

https://pixabay.com/en/light-paint-leather-boot-boot-shoe-316067/


 

‘There’re his shoes. Where’s Simmonds?’ Constable Grant points at the lace-ups with his Biro.

The end’s chewed, suggesting he needs something to do with his mouth while he’s thinking. Never a good sign.

‘If you have more searing insights, be sure to tell me,’ says Butler.

Butler passes from the bedroom (scorched carpet, floorboards untouched; ash filled shoes) and into the kitchen. A sink of dirty crockery – a lot for one person – and an odour only a single man would live with: feet, stale cigarettes, badly aired clothes. It’s a smell Butler knows from his own flat.

‘Grant,’ he calls. ‘Check out the bathroom.’

‘Sure, guv.’

Was he as clueless when he started? Too many TV coppers, that’s the problem. Too many Morses, too many Frosts.

‘Guv.’

There are more scorch marks along the kitchen counter and one on the wall above the hob, as if a flaming tennis ball as bounced along the surface …

‘Inspector.’

‘What?’ he snaps. He needs the forensics. That’ll kick start his brain. And a double espresso.

‘Inspector Butler, you need to see this.’

Fear in Grant’s voice.

‘Alright, son, what marvels do you want to share with me?’

Butler walks into the bathroom. The smell of drains, of burnt flesh – sulphur. ‘Christ,’ he says, staring at the walls.

 


 

Written for Roger Shipp’s Flash Fiction for the Pureposeful Practioner. See the photo, use the sentence – this week it’s There’s his shoes. So where is …” – and scribble away. See here for full Ts and then some Cs.

FFftPP : A tiger in my pocket

Bird

https://pixabay.com/en/parrot-bird-fly-animal-wildlife-316217/


 

‘There are no half measures with you, are there Mr Gibson?’

Gibson stared at his slippers, a little boy caught misbehaving. ‘Mother said I had an addictive personality.’

Shame you’re not addicted to cleaning, I thought, but kept it to myself. The stench in the flat made my eyes water. A blue feathered missile dive-bombed me, claws tugging my hair. I should have brought a hat.

Gibson flapped an arm towards the bird, which ignored him. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Milligan. Captain Flint doesn’t like strangers.’

Flint perched on the dresser, preening his lurid feathers with a beak that could open tin cans.

I looked at the guano mottled floor, the streaks of white and black staining Gibson’s cardigan. ‘Quite. Last time I was here, I counted 53 birds.  How many are living here now?’

‘Err.’

‘Mr Gibson, you must rehome them ‒’

A harsh caw shattered the air. ‘Tell the hooked nosed council baggage to leave us alone.’ Captain Flint stared down at me with beadlike eyes.

Gibson flushed purple from his wattle neck to his thinning hair roots.

‘Just do it, please,’ I said.

Some days, I so long for a pet tiger.

 


 

For Roger Shipp’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. See the pic and try to include the sentence – this week,  “You never do anything halfway….” – in a story of no more than 200 words. See here, why don’t you.

FFftPP : The whisky lifejacket

Bone

https://pixabay.com/en/bone-large-ostrich-femur-bleached-316228/


 

‘The first one was a surprise…’ Father Connell clung to the mug of whisky as if it was a life jacket.

I’d never seen him drink anything stronger than an espresso from Molly’s Café and I’m sure that ended up watering the sickly looking yucca in the window.

I smiled – I hoped – reassuringly. ‘I should think it was.’

His hand shook, amber liquid lapping at the mug’s rim. I considered taking the 21 year old Glenfarclas malt back into protective custody, but resisted the temptation.

The phones were ringing behind me, Constables Ross and Dunlevy stemming the flow best they could. Calls had mainly been from local newspapers, but as the story spread, the nationals had been in contact too. There would be a press conference at three, the Chief Constable’s chance to sound reassuringly in control while not having a clue what was happening.

The priest had closed his eyes, mug raised, shivering. ‘The bird’s a moa?’

‘So they say.’

‘And the other?’ He licked his lips. ‘The missing one?’

I gazed longingly at the bottle of Glenfarclas. ‘A smilodon. Sabre tooth tiger to you and me.’

‘How?’

I shrugged. ‘Better ask your boss, Father.’


Written for Roger Shipp’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. See the pic, read the quote – this week ‘The first one was a surprise…’ – and be inspired. Ts and Cs here.

Oh, how the mind works in convoluted ways. Saw the bone belonged to an ostrich, thought of animals in incongruous places … And naturally, that led to extinct animals appearing in English rural communities.

FFftPP : How the crocodile got his smile

 

Alligators

 

They were the length of my palm back then, scales soft as Grandma’s jowls. They’d walk along my arms, claws tickling. In the sunlight, they glowed emerald, an iridescent flash as their tails curved against the sway of their bodies.

I was okay with them eating worms and slugs plucked from the veg patch – even the crickets that were daft enough to hop into their garden cage. It was only nature after all.

Then one day I found them draped in cloaks of lapis velvet. For a moment I was caught by the beauty of shimmering blue against the green. Then the gears jumped in my head and I saw – a butterfly. They were eating the most exquisite blue butterfly, frail wings shuddering in their jaws in a sickening imitation of flight.

They mewed as I opened the cage, cried out as I threw them into the river. They called in the night but I pulled the pillow around my head.

Now they’re back, grown beautiful and monstrous. They bask in the garden, trample the peas, pull down the bean canes.

They’re waiting for me.

Through my terror I know – it’s only nature.

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For Roger Shipp’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practioner. See the pic and include or allude to the sentence – this week It was instinct. I just let go of them- and write a story in 200 words. See here to join the fun.

FFftPP : A moment only

Motel

https://pixabay.com/en/motel-hotel-sleep-pennsylvania-316295/

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‘I’m not staying here.’ Helen’s arms are crossed, chin tucked close to her chest.

Phil hates this, the three-year-old inside a body ten times that. It’s sickening – self-indulgent in light of everything.

He looks through the grubby windscreen to the motel. The paint’s peeling from the sign, falling away like scabs from a healing wound. There’s a group of figures smoking by the main door. Their skin and hair shines orange in the lamplight, their clothes are torn and greasy with dirt, boots scuffed. He can smell their tobacco through the open car window – it’s the cheap smuggled kind, the only type left since imports were halted.

Phil sighs. ‘Look, the place has a roof and four walls. Better than most we’ve seen since we left London.’

And these people are at least alive, he thought. There was one point in their journey, just outside the ruined Stratford, when he wondered – was there anyone not dead or running?

One of the men laughs, showing one gold crown radiant amid white molars. It’s a moment only. But it’s warm and human and Phil yearns for more.

He opens the car door and slams it behind him.

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Written for Roger Shipp’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practioner. See the pic and be inspired by the line – this week ‘I’m not staying here, honey’ – though I omitted the ‘honey’! See here for full Ts and don’t forget the Cs.