Love Story

The car sped away from the house, making Lewis Hamilton look like one of those Sunday drivers with the flat cap and leather gloves.

Jane wasn’t usually a careless driver, but the argument she’d just had with her partner had filled her with rage.

“You’re not spontaneous enough,” Claire had told her.

Buggering off suddenly was fairly spontaneous, so that had shown her.

She thought she’d drive around for a while and let things calm down before returning home. They’d say their sorries and crack open a nice bottle of wine and watch a film on the sofa. It would be ok again.

Except the anger wasn’t dissipating in the slightest.

Jane screeched around corners and accelerated down one-way streets, turning the market town into an urban rally. Instead of excitable spectators cheering her on, the streets were lined with frightened pedestrians, some of whom leapt out of her way as she mounted the kerbs frequently.

She turned back into her own road, feeling no calmer.

She could see Claire in the garden.

Jane pushed her foot to the floor and roared towards her.

Claire waved and smiled, but her face turned to shock as she realised Jane was heading straight for her.

She was paralysed.

Jane bounced the car over the pavement and through the hedge. The car struck Claire, still travelling at 50mph.

Claire was knocked through the living room window and the car smashed into the wall behind her, the bonnet crumpling like an accordion.

Jane was thrown through the windscreen.

Their bodies ended up together on the carpeted floor, locked in a twisted embrace and looking like Juliet and Juliet.

Old Age

“I’m not worried. I’ll go to heaven,” John said.

“What a crock of shit! They’ll never let you in,” Derek replied.

This was typical of the conversation that the two old men had in the nursing home. They regularly had such discussions that soon spilled into arguments.

“Of course they’ll let me in, you prick.” They were always affectionate towards each other.

“No way, shit stain. God sees everything and he’ll have seen you cheating at bridge last week.”

“Fuck you, I never cheat, ball rash.”

The two men got out of their chairs as quickly as they could, which was at about the speed of a slow-motion snail race.

They were both wheezing when they faced off against each other.

“Why don’t we find out if you’ll get in, wank sack?”

“Bring it, you grandson fucker!”

Punches were thrown. It looked like a slowly choreographed routine rather than the Marquis of Queensbury-style display they both hoped for.

Two old women were sitting on the other side of the room watching them in between bouts of knitting.

“Look at those two, at it again,” said the first one as she rolled her eyes.

“It’s the best entertainment we ever get in here,” replied the other. “Go on, John! Deck the cunt!”

John turned and smiled at her. While he was doing this he was caught under the jaw with a tremendous uppercut.

His lights went out straight away and he folded to the floor like a deflated bouncy castle.

Derek bounced around as much as a man his age could. The adrenalin was coursing through his veins and he felt thirty years younger. “Get up, you big fucking sissy bastard!” he laughed.

The place was actually called Leafy Oaks or some other such arboreal-themed name, but the residents affectionately called it Death’s Vestibule and the moniker had never seemed so apt. 

John didn’t get up from the floor until he was lifted up by two paramedics half an hour later. They weren't in a rush.

The two women resumed knitting once the show was over.

“Do you reckon he made it to heaven?”

“Fuck knows.”

Ramble On

She walked up the lane and opened the gate. She stepped into the field full of sheep and headed up the hill.

She loved going on country walks and living where she did facilitated this.

The fresh air was something she never got during her time in the city and the silence, well it wasn’t quite golden, but certainly a silver medallist in the Nature Olympics.

She rambled onwards, knowing she’d be at the top of the ridge enjoying the view in about fifteen minutes.

She stopped and took a swig from her water bottle. The bottle may have contained wine, but what does that matter?

She reached the ridge and turned to look at the village below. It stood there looking like a postcard view of the English countryside.

It was a sunny day and the river gleamed as it wound its way down the valley.

She reached into her rucksack and took out a box with a button on it. She extended an antenna from the box and took another look at the village.

She pressed the button and smiled as the village exploded.

Friday Night

I’m glad I made it home alive.

The girl I met last night was nothing short of a psychopath.

I’ve been going out and picking up girls in bars every Friday night for years. I like the casualness of it. We’re all there for the same reason and nobody pretends otherwise.

I surveyed the bar and spotted a blonde-haired girl who was yet to be hit on. She was absolutely gorgeous and, if I’m honest, more than a little out of my league.

I thought what the hell? and sidled over to her at the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?”  I asked her.

She looked me up and down and replied: “Honey, you’re going to need a better line than that.”

She was right. It was a stupid opening gambit.

I licked my finger and touched her blouse with it. She looked puzzled.

“How about I help you out of those wet clothes?” I asked, smiling.

She let me buy her a drink. And then another. We talked and she kept scowling at the barmaid who was attempting to flirt with me. I found her jealousy to be quite a turn on.

Before long she whispered in my ear: “We’re going back to my place now.”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

Once back at her apartment we undressed quickly. I’ve always been a huge fan of sexual congress and I was keen to get it underway as quickly as possible.

She tied me to her bed with four silk handkerchiefs. Kinky, I thought, as I laid there like an aroused starfish.

She left the room and returned moments later carrying a large knife. It gleamed in the dimly-lit bedroom.

The unnerving development had a wilting effect on me and I began to squirm in an attempt to get free.

The girl laughed. “I only want one!” she cackled.

“What?” I yelled as I continued to thrash about.

“One testicle,” she explained, as if it was a normal statement.

I had nothing to say to her at this point. I was almost paralysed with fear.

“It’s for my art project,” she slurred, and gestured towards a shelf at the far side of the room.

The shelf housed jars of various sizes. Each jar contained what I assumed to be testicles. There must have been hundreds of them crammed into the glass vessels.

“You’re fucking crazy!” I remarked.

She laughed again.

I know I’m an awful human being, but the terrible act I’d committed was what ultimately saved my life.

The girl began to stagger as if more drunk than she was. She seemed confused and her eyes began to look heavy. The knife fell from her hand and she collapsed on the bedroom floor.

The roofie I’d slipped into her last drink had finally kicked in.

It took me a little while to get free, but once I did I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

I might stay home next Friday night.

Retribution

Frank knew he didn’t fit in from day one. He was analogue and they were all digital. He was deciduous in an office of evergreens.

And now Frank was drunk. Actually, Frank was hammered. After the years he’d given them, they’d suddenly decided to make him redundant that morning. He swallowed his beer and staggered out of the bar.

It felt as if the pavement was being tilted as he weaved along it and headed home.

He was going to get the gun that was hidden in his bedroom. And his address book.