This was the hardest job I had ever undertaken since giving up my day job to become a stand-up comedian.
When I got a call from the BBC I thought my luck was in, my fortune made.
I soon changed my mind when they explained that I would be the warm-up guy entertaining the audience so that they could record the canned laughter for the radio shows.
Filed under Flash fiction, Self compositions, Whimsical
Florence paused at the door, “what the hell did you just say?”
She watched as their only daughter Susan, wearing a face like thunder had jumped into her car and set off up up the road with a screech of tyres and a trail of smoke.
Her husband Jim, sitting at the table looked guiltily at his wife. Then he couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth turning up as he started to smile.
“All I said was if she was going to sit outside wearing any less clothes, the neighbours would think she’d forgotten the bathtub. It was only a joke. I didn’t think she was that touchy.”
“Oh Jim, after all these years, will you never learn?”
Filed under Flash fiction, Self compositions, Whimsical
The only sound to break the silence of the cold, moorland peace was a solitary car engine as it proceeded along the narrow roadway. The engine tone changed and there was a moment of quiet before the sound of grating metal and the breaking of glass hinted at some form of accident. Then all was quiet again apart from the plaintive mew of a buzzard, circling high in the flat, grey sky. The only witness to what had befallen.
Sarah woke with a start. She shook her head trying to clear her thoughts and remember what had happened. The last thing she could remember wasf rantically trying to control her car as it span before sliding broadside into the hedge. To no avail, the brakes had had no effect due to the closely packed snow and she remembered the jolt as she came to a halt. She instantly regretted waiting too long in the town before setting off for her parent’s cottage on the moor. It had been foolish not to leave as soon as the snow started to fall.
The driver’s door was open and she reached to her left where her bag was sitting on the passenger seat. Although her head felt fuzzy at least she was physically uninjured but she dreaded looking at the probable damage to her car. She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. The screen was blank, no signal. Realising that it was unlikely any other car would be travelling on the snow-covered road she thought it would be best to find a farmhouse to make a call. Luckily the crash had occurred close to a gateway through which a track led up to the right. Hoping it would be a farm track she slid off of her seat and out of the open door. Sarah wrapped her scarf around her mouth but she had no gloves. Despite the snow though, it was warmer than she had expected.
Although she couldn’t see a building she could see a glow at the top of the track. It looked as though the sun was breaking through the cloud in watery beams. The snow had stopped falling and taking her bag she started to trudge up the track. Her footsteps muffled by the deep blanket of snow. As she neared the top she could see that the glow was not sunlight but curiously looked like the entrance to a cave carved out of a soft, rounded form of rock. It was hazy which she thought was probably due to a smoky fire although she could not smell it. Through the entrance she could make out two figures sitting at a table just looking at each other. She called out but they didn’t seem to hear her. As she approached one of the figures looked up and only then appeared to notice her approach. He or she raised one arm in a wave and appeared to beckon to her as if inviting her in. Sarah could see the figure’s mouth opening but could hear no words and their face looked shiny and flushed with a light yellow glow which looked welcoming and warm. Sarah became confused, she looked over her shoulder and was shocked to see no footprints leading from the car. She cast her mind back to how she had left the car without removing her seatbelt. Only then did she realise her situation and her tears began to flow.
Filed under As you read it, Flash fiction, Otherworldly, Self compositions
The stream looks calm, no ripple disturbs the surface. As if viewed in a mirror, images of the banks and wide sky form exact portraits of the landscape without the need of artist’s brush or photographer’s lens. The beauty of the scene is of no concern to you though.
It is Autumn and the waters of the brook are swollen after the first seasonal rains. Intuition tells you that changes will be taking place within the recent torrent. Now-placid and canal-like. This could be what you have been waiting for. From your pocket you take a jam-jar, emptied of it’s sticky contents, label removed and ready for use.
Three feet below the water’s surface the annual miracle has started. If, like some Old Testament miracle, the waters were to part, you would be able to witness an amazing spectacle.
Not trusting to any help from Moses your jam-jar will be required. Cautiously approaching the water’s edge you lie face down and place the jar on the surface. All the action is now laid bare to your eyes.
Before your eyes activity hidden from view is revealed. You are able to glimpse the private love act of salmo salar, the Atlantic salmon.
After years spent cruising the Atlantic ocean male fish known as jacks have answered an uncontrollable urge to return to their birthplace. The increasing depth of water due to rain has enabled them to make their way up small rivulets. On their way the urge is so strong that they have no time to eat. Sea-lice has caused their scales to turn from fresh silver to a chalky white as they shrink and fall to the riverbed. Acquiring a deep blushing red the jaws resemble elongated hooks making the act of eating impossible anyway.
Females have laid millions of eggs in scrapes on the gravel beds and as the males release their milt it forms opaque clouds before settling on the eggs ready to fertilise and start the new life necessary for the success of the species.
All this is revealed as you lean over the water’s edge with the jar resting on the surface.
You take the jar and leave the fish to their devices’ knowing that within a few days with little rain the waters will return to their shallow state. Returning to the brook you will see many salmon stranded and dying, their work done. Their bodies forming a bonanza feast for the local wildlife.
Meanwhile within the stream the fry will hatch and soon be swimming, ready to face the trials of life and begin the cycle once more
Filed under Factual, Flash fiction, nature inspired, Seasons, Self compositions
The tweet had come through to my phone whilst we were driving over to see my aged Mother. This was to be a surprise visit. For three weeks she had been pestering me to introduce my latest girlfriend to her. I suppose she was as shocked as I that a nice young girl was willing to accommodate my foibles, bad habits and awful sense of humour and be foolish enough to meet me more than once.
Every time I had ever mentioned a girl’s name I could imagine her plotting a wedding. So far, she had been disappointed and I wasn’t sorry to keep dashing her hopes.
I could imagine her reaction when I had announced that I’d met someone and this crazy girl had expressed a desire to meet her despite my reservations and thinly veiled warnings.
The afore-mentioned was called Sally, and was beside me in the car. She picked up the phone when the notification sounded and told me that it was a tweet then asked if I was happy for her to read it for me.
It transpired that a Great grey shrike had been sighted about fourteen miles away from our destination. Sally was aware that I was a pretty keen birdwatcher and had occasionally sat quietly in a bird hide with me and despite her probable boredom had manged to retain a sense of humour. I sensed that under the attractive exterior was a closet twitcher.
This bird would be a first for me and as I always carried binoculars in the car this was an opportunity not to be missed. We stopped and taking the phone from her I checked the time of the message. Then we pulled the atlas out of the glove compartment and with a growing excitement on my part, started to plan the route to the last known sighting place. We could get there within half an hour. It was out at the edge of the moor, quite close to one of the narrow B roads that abound in that part of the country.
As we approached the site it was easy to spot for there were quite a few cars drawn up along the grass verges. We followed suit and grabbing my binoculars and camera we headed for a break in the granite, dry-stone wall. Luckily the ground was dry as there had been unseasonably little rain for the past couple of months.
There was a small group of people standing about a hundred yards from the opening; a few standing next to tripods on which were perched cameras with telephoto lenses attached. Each as long and thick as one of my arms. All lenses pointing at a medium height ash tree with sharp, snapped limbs and very little leaf cover.
Sally and I tagged on the end of the semi-circle and raising my glasses I started to focus on the bare branches. It only took a couple of minutes to spot the first tell-tale sign of the shrike. Festooned over the spiky, short branches I spotted a frog, two mice and numerous large flying insects, all hanging grotesquely like circus acrobats frozen in mid-swing. Each little corpse starkly silhouetted against the darkening sky. A few twitched haphazardly in their death throes. I asked Sally if she wanted a look and was surprised at her eagerness to take the glasses from me. She asked me what was happening there so I explained about the rather gruesome habits of this bird, also known as the Butcher bird. Her fascination was palpable when I explained that the bird catches prey when it can and uses a tree or sometimes a wire fence as a larder in case food becomes scarce.
An excited tremor passed through the group and all eyes went up as suddenly the focus of our attention turned to a small grey bird that flew rapidly back to the tree. Then it hopped from branch to branch looking for another natural hook on which to hang the still struggling body of a field-mouse. Then he was off again and with my desire to add this bird to my list sated, Sally and I took a few photos of the grisly display. With a broad grin on both our faces we returned to the car to continue our journey.
I was happy that Sally had been so interested but the look on her face when I told her about the larder could be a bit worrying as it might show a different side to her character..
Filed under As you read it, Flash fiction, nature inspired, Self compositions
Beautiful bower,
Stained marble stones hide bleached bones.
A place of sadness.
From his raised throne at the head of the hall, the Compte LaReine turned to his master chevalier.
“I’ll see them now, my three guests.”
The heavy oak doors at the end of the hall swung back and three white robed knights were invited into the long, wood-panelled hall. They had surrendered their swords and shields, distinctively marked with the red long-halted cross.
The three approached the dais and bowed low before the Count. Dubois, their spokesman started to introduce himself and his companions but was rudely interrupted by a loud, bellowing voice demanding the reason for their apparent desertion from the Templar order.
Unbeknown to them the Count was dismayed that they had not been willing to divulge the whereabouts of the legendary famed Templar treasure. He knew that the Order had lost favour and wished to curry favour with King Phillip. After secret negotiations he had agreed that the three, accused of heresy, although falsely, would be confined for two days and without trial, put to death as ordered by the King.
“Take them below,” he thundered and roughly, without ceremony, they were lead away. Two days later they were unceremoniously put to death and their bodies taken and placed in a shallow grave in the forest to be forgotten.
So they remained for the next two centuries until the Pope was persuaded to grant a pardon to all the French Templars and throughout the country, the bodies were exhumed where known and re-interred beneath marker stones in the territories where they were once revered for their piety and fighting prowess.
These stones remain a place of pilgrimage, although more often a destination for treasure hunters and the curious.
It was the first day of our guided tour. Myself and the other thirty passengers exited the luxury coach as we arrived at the forbidding wire mesh gates. I assumed that like me, all were on a personal pilgrimage.
i looked around at my fellow travellers, there was no look of expectant excitement on any of the faces. On the journey the atmosphere was subdued as everyone was visiting to bring closure to stories of their family’s fate.
Photography was allowed so I sent my drone up, instantly tears formed as it picked out the child’s toy on the roof.
I gazed at the ashen faces and tired expressions of my companions. For three days we had been hiding atop this rocky outcrop. Shivering in the dark of the cold nights and crouched among the rocks by day, reluctant to light a fire for food and warmth in case of discovery. We had seen no aircraft overhead for the last forty-eight hours which we all agreed may have been a good sign or perhaps a sign of something worse to come.
Far below, the dark, oily, clouds of smoke drifted lazily across the plain where only a few days before there had been green, lush fields and trees. Now all was a scorched , brown, devastated wasteland.
There was no way of knowing if it would be safe to descend and although we could obtain fresh water from the numerous springs our food supplies were running low and would soon be extinguished.
There was still no phone signal and the batteries would soon be running out leaving only the radio from which we had heard nothing since we saw the bright glow in the Eastern sky with the ominous mushroom shaped cloud that could only have meant one thing.. We could only hope that there were others down below but it had all happened so fast that we could not be sure we were not the only survivors.
Had we few not been members of this expedition we also would have been victims of the catastrophe. unleashed in such a brief time.
We decided to take a vote on finding volunteers to make a descent into the valley. This would be the only way to check if there was a glimmer of hope for our and the rest of mankind’s survival.
Filed under Flash fiction, Self compositions, Temperatures rising
Over the western hills the sparse, silver clouds are tinged with red. The sun, not yet set gives up it’s daily battle with the revolving Earth.
A slight breeze starts vibrations in the tall grass heads previously still in the heat of the day as the first chill wind from the shore heralds the onset of evening.
The rain-washed, sun-bleached skull lies on the path of low foot-worn grass between the heather tussocks.
Tonight there will be no moon to cast it’s glow over the silent tors. The evening air remains curiously warm, almost sultry.
Imperceptibly, as if guided by some gentle, unseen hand the skullbone is turne to face the darkening Eastern sky. d
In the distance, a low unearthly sound as of the moaning of the wind in the mast of a storm-tossed sailing vessel can just be heard. The skull shudders and begins to roll to the side of the path. Like the growth of moss but vastly accelerated, a black downy growth begins to form a shadow on the stark, white surface. The black down grows longer until it resembles the short, thick fur of a dog. An impression helped by the impression of long limbs and thickset body of a hound which appear to be forming around the single skull.
At last there stands a large hound. Saliva drips from the muzzle as the jaws open showing a row of strong teeth where once were just sockets. Red, unblinking eyes like cinders stare out as snorting nostrils flare and a snarl escapes the shaking head.
Darkness reigns but the black fur is embued with a dull, green lustre. If anyone was near they would start to sense a foetid smell, increasing in strength with each shake of the thick flanks.
While out over the darkening hills the previous low moaning is now distinguishable as the baying of a pack of hounds.
The newly reborn beast raises it’s head turning to the right and left. Upraised newly grown ears point straight up, cocked, listening.
With a snarl and a huge leap the beast runs off in the direction of the approaching pack.
Across the moor a dark-cloaked rider sits atop a heavy black steed. His hood rolls back allowing a glimpse of a white, gaunt cadaver-like grin. He frowns. he struggles to control his rearing horse, while in his free hand he holds a horse-whip which with every flick emits a stream of red and gold sparks. Around the horse’s feet a pack of identical black hounds snarl, circle and fight, cowering at every crack.
Soon the pack will be complete again and the Heath hounds will start their nightly hunt seeking out the souls of the wicked.
I walked back down to the slipway at first light. As expected there was only one reminder of our work from the night before, at the last low tide. Of course none of us could be sure if the Gods had smiled favourably upon Ulrika and allowed her to escape ready to rejoin the world of men.
Not that she could come back into our community. The prejudice of the villagers was too great. Many of the young men would be unhappy that she had been taken from us before she had given her acceptance of a marriage proposal.
Apart from the memory of her long, flowing, red hair nothing was allowed to remain in the minds of men. Her name could not be spoken. Her supposed crime never again mentioned unless as a warning to naughty children who failed to eat their meals or refused to carry out their chores.
Elder brothers and sisters would frighten their younger siblings by telling them she was hiding under the beds, as older children do.
I was saddened for I did not believe the tales they told of her. That is why I had returned to the place of the crabs. I was not disappointed. if the Gods had not intervened then overnight the crabs and fish had done their work.
The white rock which had been so carefully placed upon her bare chest sat lonely in it’s place. No scrap of flesh or bone remained. Picked clean by snapping claws and teeth.
Ulrika was now far away, either in the hands of Gods or men and I would be the only one who would feel remorse.
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