New Life

The water lapped over the sides of the vessel. He stood at the front and watched the waves.
This was it, there was no turning back.
Land appeared on the horizon and began to approach them.
He went back to his cabin and packed his bag. Soon they would be there and he would be picked up and taken to his new home.
It had to be better than what he'd left.

The Call

The phone rang. She heard it from the garden and it rang at least fifteen times before she made it inside and grabbed hold of the receiver.
Had it stopped ringing because she'd picked it up or had the person at the other end given up?
"Hello?" she said, apprehensively.
There was no voice at the other end of the line. Nor was there a dialling tone. Somebody was on the line.
"Hello?" she said again.
No reply.
She was just about to hang up when she heard a voice whisper.
"We're coming for you, Sarah."
"What?"
"We're coming for you, Sarah."
"Yes, I got that. But who's Sarah?"
"You mean you aren't?"
"No."
"Oh, shit. Sorry."
They hung up.

Smell

Where is it coming from?
It smelled like a sewer in the house. It smelled like a sewer in the garden. It smelled like a sewer in the street. All three places smelled as strongly as each other.
He got on a bus. It smelled like a sewer.
"Can you smell that?" he asked a passenger who moved away from him.
Maybe I smell?
Maybe, indeed. The smell stayed with him all day.
He returned home and showered thoroughly. He put on fresh clothes. Still there was a sewer smell.
He tried to eat his dinner, something the smell made quite challenging.
He went to bed and drifted off as the sewer smell hung over him.

The Way to Work

Every morning he walks the same way to work and every morning he hopes that he arrives to find his workplace reduced to ashes.
The half hour walk is spent fantasising about being sent home due to the devastation and having the day and the rest of his life to himself.
Maybe he should destroy the building himself?
No, he couldn't.
He passes the same people on the way every day. They seem less pissed off about going to work than he does, but perhaps they're just better at hiding it.
He turns the final corner. Disappointment yet again as the building is still standing.
One day. One day he'll do it.

Beard

"That's a nice beard."
The man saying it thought it was alright to grab hold of the beard about which he was talking. The owner of the beard thought otherwise and aggressively pushed his hand away.
"What's wrong?" he laughed.
"How would you like it?"
"What? Oh, get over yourself."
The bearded man thought about this. He smiled and grabbed the other man's throat.
"Nice throat," he said.
The man gasped and thrashed around.
"What's wrong? Don't you like it?"
He let go of him after his face turned blue and he slid to the floor.

Day Trip

The train rumbled and clattered along and he looked out of the window, mostly satisfied with his day at the coast.
After a while the rumbling and clattering of his stomach became almost as loud as the train. He knew the fish and chips he'd eaten had been sub-par, but now they were potentially going to make a reappearance.
He vacated his seat and headed for the toilet.
Once safely locked inside the hermetic cubicle he lifted the lid of the toilet. It was full of paper and based on the smell something a little more sinister lurked beneath it.
He pulled the handle to flush it away and nothing happened. He pulled it again.
There was a loud gurgle, but nothing happened in the bowl.
He attempted another flush.
Another gurgle, followed by clattering. He felt a blast of pungent air coming from the toilet.
It stank in the cubicle and he wanted out. He pressed the button, but the door didn't open.
The toilet gurgled and clattered and more shitty air  blasted from it.
He tried the door once more without success.
One final ear-splitting gurgle and a brown geyser erupted from the loo coating him and the cubicle in a faecal cocktail.
The train rumbled and clattered on.

Election

The polling station had closed twenty minutes earlier and the counting had begun.
"There's a lot of people voting for that guy we don't like," one of the women said.
"Really?" asked another.
She glanced at the two piles of voting slips next to the first woman and her eyes widened.
"We can't have that," she said.
She snatched the large pile of votes for the guy they didn't like and tossed them into a metal bin next to the table.
She reached into her handbag and brought out a canister of cigarette lighter petrol. She squirted it over the ballot forms and then produced a lighter.
The votes burned away and were quickly reduced to ash.
The counting resumed.

Birdhouse

The bedroom window was open. It could be seen from the street and it could be seen from the air by birds.

It was the birds who found this most interesting.

They circled the house, all wondering if they could get into the house and build their nests.

One daring bird made it inside. It was safe and this message was communicated to the others. Gradually they started to enter through the small gap.

Two weeks later the family returned from their holiday. There was a strange smell and a scratching noise coming from upstairs. 

After discovering the horror and devastation the father said: "We need to get them out. We need to destroy them."

One of the children asked: "Can't we save them? Can't we help them?"

The mother and father looked at each other knowing the child was right.

A Dog's Life

Sleep.
Wake up and bark at nothing.
Sleep.
Walk in the park so exciting so exciting sniff everything best day ever.
Sleep.
Lick own anus.
Try and catch a fly.
Sit in master's chair.
Sleep.
Eat dinner.
Sleep.
Repeat.

Wood Yard

"How much is your wood?"
"What sort of wood would you like? We sell all sorts of wood."
"Which is the woodiest?"
"The what?"
"The woodiest?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You know, which is the most wood-like?"
"They're all wood-like. All our wood is wood, so it's not just wood-like, it is wood."
"That's not much help."
"Sorry."
"I might just leave it."
The man sensed a sale.
"Wait. I've got this 2x2. That's quite woody."
"Can I see some?"
The man reached under the counter and pulled out a small length of 2x2, a sample.
"That looks nice. I'll take one."
"One? How much?"
"One like that one there."
The man shrugged.
"That'll be 50p."
"What about nails?"
"What about them?"
"Which are the nailiest?"

Hospital

The pain, the suffering, the death.
He had thrown himself into the middle of it as he ran if from the street and the chaos was overwhelming him.
There were sick people everywhere as he ran along the corridors in search of help.
And then he found it.
The vending machines stood in the alcove like giant, snack-filled robots.
He inserted his coins and awaited his reward.

Masturhate

He was good at putting himself down and punishing himself.
Everything he did resulted in him chastising himself. "You useless fucker, Fred," he would yell at himself after another trivial failure.
The latest punishment involved food. He hadn't eaten for four days after he forgot to record the programme after the news that he wamted to see.
"No breakfast for you," he told himself the following morning upon realising his error. The cereal he had prepared was poured into the bin.
The more upset he became the more he punished himself.
"Perk up or there will be no dinner."
And so it continued. He had slept on the couch for two nights as he deemed the bed to be too comfortable for such a loser.
He knew there was something not right about his behaviour, but in a perverse way he enjoyed it. He felt that it helped him maintain discipline.
The fact that he enjoyed it meant he needed to punish himself in a different way. He decided to give himself the worst punishment possible for enjoying punishment. He allowed himself a sandwich and went to bed. That would show him.

Shopping

Why did he come into town on a Saturday morning?
It was Twat Central. There were hundreds, thousands, millions of them and every one of them was walking in the opposite direction to him.
He fought through the advancing crowd and made it to the supermarket.
It was hardly any better in there. The walking dead meandered in front of him and stared open-mouthed at random items they probably didn't want or need.
The things he needed, however, were not there. Gaps on shelves where they should have been told him he should have got there much earlier, which was no consolation.
He returned home empty-handed and with a brain tumour headache brewing behind his eyes.

Wine

He saw his neighbour in her garden. She was drinking a glass of wine and smoking a cigarette. She was also wearing a dressing gown.
He thought about how wrong that was. It was 2:30 in the afternoon. Too early for wine and too late for dressing gowns. He shook his head and hoped that she wasn't still out there when the kids got home from school in an hour or so. He was appalled.
But more than appalled he was jealous.

Indecision

"What flavour would you like?" asked the smiling man behind the counter.
"Strawberry, please," the little boy replied.
Milkshake day was his favourite day of the week. Milkshake day was every Wednesday.
The boy looked glum all of a sudden.
"What's the matter?" his mother asked.
"I don't want strawberry."
"What do you want?"
"Banana."
"Excuse me," she said quick as a flash to the man behind the counter. "Could you make that banana instead?"
"No problem," he replied, even though it was a problem.
The strawberry milkshake went down the sink and he began making a banana one instead.
The milkshake arrived and the boy looked unhappy.
"I want a chocolate milkshake," he announced.
The man didn't seem too pleased.
"I'll have the banana one," the boy's mother said.
The chocolate shake arrived and they slid into a booth to enjoy their drinks.
The boy looked at his milkshake with contempt.
"I wish I'd asked for vanilla," he said.

Garage

"What will it cost?"
There was a sharp intake of breath.
"Difficult to say."
"Why's that?"
"The parts."
That wasn't a reason and she waited for the mechanic to elaborate. He didn't.
"What about the parts?"
"Oh, you know."
"No, I don't. That's why I said 'what about the parts?'"
"Well, it's difficult to say."
"You know what's not difficult to say?"
"No, what?"
"I'm taking my car to another garage."
She got in and started the car. It still started, but the clanging noise had got worse. She sped away.
"But what isn't difficult to say?"

Sick Bed

Bored, bored, bored.
Even with a mountain of books and magazines and a laptop that could access the world, he was bored.
Being ill was the least interesting thing of all time.
He now knew exactly how many squares there were on the wallpaper of the wall at the opposite side of the room. He'd counted them five times.
He had realised that the stain on the ceiling from a leak years earlier looked a bit like a map of Australia if he rotated his head 36 degrees to the left and squinted slightly.
He knew every detail of a room which felt as if it were shrinking by the hour.
Bored, bored, bored.
He slept.

Oxymoron

It was a beautiful day in Doncaster and the tall dwarf arrived at the restaurant.
'Minimalist all-you-can-eat buffet', the sign announced. There weren't many people inside. It had been open a while and was old news now.
He grabbed a plate before scoping out what was on offer.
Jumbo shrimps and hot Gazpatcho soup were available. That was it.
He wasn't impressed. It was a pretty ugly offering.
He decided to leave almost exactly when a plane crash landed into the place.
He screamed silently as the building crumbled around him, burying him and the other living dead who were now trapped, alone together.

Life in Forms

"And fill this one in. Just your name and address will be fine. Sign here amd here and initial here."
The woman pointed at the places where he was meant to sign and initial, but he was already forgetting it as it was being said. He was applying for a mortgage. The bank had all of his details already. Why did they need him to fill out so many bloody forms?
A rainforest had been decimated just so he could write the same information a million times. He had writer's cramp, for Christ's sake.
"Oh hang on, I forgot these."
The woman laughed as she pulled yet more papers from her drawer.
"What's this?"
"A couple more forms."
"No."
"What do you mean 'no'?"
"I mean I'm not filling out more of your stupid forms. I'm done."
"But if you don't fill them out you won't be able to get a mortgage."
"Houses are overrated anyway. I think I'll just live in a tent in the woods."
He got up and left the bank.

Supper

The sandwich was made.
Ham, cheese, tomato and mayo on some of that bread with the poppy seeds from the supermarket. This would be the best supper ever.
He sat in the armchair and realised he'd left the glass of milk in the kitchen. The plate with the sandwich was placed on the table and he went to retrieve his drink.
When he returned the dog was wrestling with his sandwich on the rug by the fire.

Shades of Grey

The newspapers were thrown from the lorry and on to the pavement in front of the newsagent's.
The newsagent dragged them inside and removed the plastic binding which held them in their neat bundles.
"What's this?"
An angry man entered the shop. He had in his hand a newspaper. It appeared to be the previous day's.
"What's wrong?" asked the newsagent.
"This."
The man flicked through until he found the letters page. He pointed at one of the letters.
"Should have been the proudest day of my life," he said.
"Is that your letter?"
"Yes, but you spelled my name wrong."
The newsagent started to explain that he had no say over what went in the newspaper and he certainly wasn't a proofreader. He just sold the things.
The man didn't listen to him. He pulled out a gun and shot the newsagent. He fell to the floor, bleeding copiously from the new hole in his stomach over the newspapers which were now fanned out all over the floor.
Black and white and red all over.

Weekend Approach

Friday, 08:59
He sits at his desk, the weekend a million miles away. He has all manner of boring crap to do before he can think about having fun.

Friday, 10:45
Is it not lunchtime yet? Jesus Christ, this day is dragging.

Friday, 12:12
He has finished the boring crap. This is what happens when you get your head down and do some work. This is also what happens when you do a half-arsed job that nobody will ever notice.

Friday, 14:26
He received an email inviting him to the pub. Will he go? FUCK YES!

Friday, 15:51
Unbelievable that there is over an hour to go. He stares out of the window and sees children on their way home from school and some adults clearly heading to the pub already. Lucky bastards.

Friday, 16:19
Is this clock broken?

Friday, 16:32
He packs his bag in preparation for legging it as soon as the clock strikes 5.

Friday, 16:47
He has logged out of the system and shut down his computer. He checks his watch. 13 minutes. 780 seconds. 1/110 of a day, give or take.

Friday, 16:58
He waits by the door along with the others with the anticipation of an Olympic sprinter awaiting the starter's pistol.

Friday, 17:00
They all head to the pub like power-walkers, determined to be pissed by 19:00.

Pond

The pond in the back garden was beginning to look overgrown. The poor fish would have no room soon.
He took a bucket and began pulling out excess greenery.
Bubbles rose to the surface. At least one of the fish were still alive.
He plunged his hand into the water to grab more unwanted plants. Something brushed against his hand.
He suspected it was the koi.
As he worked the fish continued to swim by his hands, occasionally grazing him.
He thought that the fish was happy with the job he was doing.
Suddenly he felt searing pain. Something had grabbed his hand tightly. Something with razor-sharp teeth. It chewed and chewed. He screamed.

Waste

"What should we do with this?" the people asked, holding aloft unwanted items.
"Just throw it in the bin," said the leader.
That's just what everyone did, blindly, with everything they didn't have a use for. It went on for years.
Eventually all the bins were full and there was nowhere to empty them. Every ocean and river was full of rubbish. Every city had rubbish jammed underneath it. There was no room left.
"What should we do with this?" the people asked, holding aloft unwanted items.
"Burn it," said the leader.
And so everything was burned. Thick black smoke polluted the atmosphere and the people became ill.
The people all eventually died.
Thousands of years later the planet was discovered by an advanced species.
"What should we do with it?" one of them asked.
Their leader looked at the ruined planet.
"Destroy it," he said.

Bus Driver

The bus sped around the mountain roads. To the uninitiated it felt like a white knuckle ride, but the elderly driver could navigate the winding carriageways in his sleep.

Today was different. He wasn't his usual cheery self and he was driving much faster.

He didn't feel well and he was looking forward to the day being over.

Nobody noticed him pass out, but they noticed the bus pick up speed as it headed down the steepest part of the route.

A bend approached and it didn't look like they'd make it.

The passengers screamed as the vehicle burst through a barrier and soared out over the valley.

Back to It

It was always the same after a break. There was the fear of sleeping in which resulted in difficulty falling asleep and waking too early. There was the dread of going back to the grind. And there was the feeling that the time off had been wasted by not doing enough.
The day was looming on the horizon from the time he'd walked out on the Friday and mentally given his workplace the finger. It had been much further away then, but had neared as the minutes past.
Now, ten days later, they were face to face like two old adversaries.
There way no way out.
Or was there?
The gun in his bag would be a great equaliser.

The Spy Who

He was in a grotty hotel room somewhere in Eastern Europe. It wasn't the glamour of film or novel, far from it. A Travelodge in Loughborough would have been more glamorous.
On the table was a laptop which was helping him listen to the bug that he'd planted in the room next door.
He put on his headphones and listened to the conversation.
There was none. Nothing was being said. Nothing was happening.
He sighed. Three days he'd spent listening and all he'd heard so far was the TV and the sound of the shower accompanied by some whistling. The woman he was listening to liked game shows, it seemed. He had documentated every noise he'd heard for his report.
A bell ringing alerted him to a new email which he opened.
He couldn't believe what he was seeing. They were cutting all agents' meal allowances and overtime was going to be paid at the standard hourly rate rather than double time from now on.
He took off his headphones.
Bollocks to doing the job properly any more.
He went down to the hotel bar and got faceless on Martinis - he didn't give a shit about shaking or stirring.

The Grammarist

"Their aren't enough," said Stanley.
"There," said Oliver.
"What?"
"There."
"Their what?"
"There."
"You keep saying their."
"No, I keep saying there."
"I'm confused."
"You said 'their', but you meant 'there'."
Stanley wore an expression on his face that suggested he didn't have a clue what was going on.
"You need to practise more," Oliver suggested.
"Practice?" asked Stanley.
"Not practice, practise."
"Why are we even friends?"
Stanley walked away.
"Sea you around," he said as he went.
"See," Oliver shouted after him.
Stanley stopped walking and stuck two fingers up at his former friend.
Oliver wondered why this always happened.

TV

She switched on the television.
What is this nonsense?
She pointed the remote at the screen, pressing the button for the next channel. That was also nonsense.
She pressed and pressed the button.
A million channels later and she still hadn't found anything worth watching. It was all pointless, soul-destroying visual heroin.
She lifted up the television set, which was still plugged in, and threw it out of the open window. It hit the concrete below and stopped showing its images.
The gesture would have been more dramatic if she weren't just on the ground floor, but she felt she had made her point.

Lino

He slept on the floor in the kitchen.
It wasn't his floor or his kitchen. It was his friend's.
He'd needed somewhere to stay and his friend had offered. The caveat being that the spare room and sofa were both already in action.
The place was like a hostel of some sort, he thought, people sleeping on almost every available surface.
Here he was under the table with his jacket for a blanket and his rolled-up trousers for a pillow.
He was aware that he would ache all over when he woke the next day.
They'd put away a near super-human amount of alcohol between them which would partially numb the pain of the hard mattress substitute and the only bonus was that if he peed himself during the night the floor wouldn't suffer too much. This was probably better news for his friend than it was for him.
Falling asleep was a lot more comfortable than waking up, but when isn't it?