GONE FISHIN
All those years ago when a Scottish lady fished a strangely shaped and inexplicably noisy stool out of the toilet bowl, everyone told her she was mad. She should have flushed. But how was she to know? She believed a wailing, orange piece of something rejected by her body had novelty value and could possibly be sold for a small fortune as a work of art. What she couldn't foresee is that Donald, as she called it, would gradually take a semi human form and have secret meetings with other pieces of shit from around the world, convening in toilet cubicles to avoid suspicion, to bring about the end of human civilisation. Some of these turds were, either accidentally or by design, flushed into oblivion, others thrived. Now Donald, Benjamin, Vladimir and Keir have formed an axshit of evil and we stand on the brink of very dark times. We need to shit out a saviour. Our chances are slim.
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BATTERSBY
Battersby seems to resent his name. I think he probably thinks I'm saying Battersea and it reminds him of his days in the home. He tells me he wants to be called Beautiful Nuisance, and I laugh at the suggestion. Who the Hell would give a dog a name like that? Maybe if he were a greyhound it would be a good racing name, but a common mutt? Don't be stupid! When I call him by his name he refuses to speak to me, which is a shame because we have had some great conversations about art, poetry and music (when not playing chess.) It got to the stage where compromise was the only solution, and he has agreed to accept just "Nuisance" on the condition that I never tell anyone he likes opera. I never was any good at keeping a promise but it's ok. He can't read, and I shall only ever read this out loud when he's got his earbuds in. People always seem surprised when I say he can't read, but what do they expect? He's not even three yet.
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DIG THIS
I really liked the new house when I moved in. The rent was very reasonable for a two-bed semi in a quiet area of the town and I felt really lucky to find it. No letting agents taking their slice of the pie, just a very pleasant landlady, Helen, who seemed incredibly helpful. If I were 30 years younger and a foot taller, I would swear she was interested in me. But she's young, probably mid-twenties, quite tall and slim with blond hair cut in the iconic Princess Di style, so thank goodness I don't have to worry about it. She told me she kept the rent below market rate because she had inherited the house along with a fair chunk of money from her parents and felt it would be nice to help someone avoid the extortionate rents being charged these days. I half expected her to say she was going away to walk through landmines, but she didn't.
I was downsizing. I live on my own, being something of a loner with an aversion to human beings but previously rented a three bedroom place in a run-down area. I decided to move when my pet chimpanzee completely ignored my warning not to take the TV into the bath with him. After the inevitable sorry episode that followed (and that was just Eastenders), I had to get out of there. I wasn't actually allowed pets, and the letting agent manager just happened to drive past when I was burying Simon (the chimp) in the garden. In hindsight I should probably have buried him in the back garden but I'm sure they would soon miss him at the office had I done so, so I just agreed with him that Simon broke the tenancy agreement even though technically he was dead now, and was forced to leave. Simon liked that front garden. The looks he got from unaware passers by never failed to amuse him. I'll miss him.
The new landlady agreed that I could have pets provided they didn't play the trumpet. I decided on a goldfish to be on the safe side. Not as interesting as a chimp, but at least it doesn't watch Eastenders. It seems to enjoy silent karaoke. Can't see the point of it myself, but each to their own.
The new house was bliss for about three months. The neighbours didn't ever speak to me (in fact, I never saw them) and they didn't have any brats to disturb the peace, so I could go out to work, do my job as an executive toilet brush, go home, wash my hair then do my own thing, which usually involved listening to music or internet trolling.
It was after about 3 months that things started to go awry. The atmosphere seemed to change, and I couldn't put my finger on why. One day in late May I got home from work a little later than normal, around 5.45 pm. It was an exceptionally warm day, getting on for thirty degrees Celsius.. There are never "good" days in my job, but that one was a stinker, so I was not happy to find what I assumed to be the neighbours I've never seen coming out of their house and heading towards me as if they had something to say. I hate conversation at the best of times, but in that heat straight after work, it was too much. The odd thing was that they almost didn't look real. They could easily have been apparitions. As they approached me, they just disappeared. I was so tense about having to talk to them that the disappearance came as a relief to be honest. It didn't register that they had just disappeared before my eyes. Maybe I was tired. I had faced a lot of shit that day.
When I got inside the house having fumbled for my keys for what seemed like an eternity, I swear I saw Simon standing there shouting "dig! dig! Dig the back garden" and then turning to dust. This unsettled me for some unknown reason. I felt there was something not quite right. I hope he is not peeved with me for not giving him a decent burial.
After composing myself I decided that I was hallucinating and needed a rest. I didn't see a doctor because of what happened when I told them my chimpanzee thought he had mumps. I thought a few days rest would be all I needed, but the atmosphere in the house was vile. To walk into the kitchen was like walking into an abyss of pain and misery. A bit like watching Eastenders with Simon, but worse.
After a few days I decided to text Helen to tell her what was happening, but she didn't reply so reluctantly I phoned her.
At the fourth attempt she answered. She sounded angry. Her first words were "what the fuck do you want?"
I explained. She scoffed... "what the fuck do you expect at that price, a palace? Did you believe all that shit about the inheritance? My goody two shoes persona? Nah! It's the same every year when summer comes. I can't sell the place. No one wants it. But most of the year it's Ok. So pay the reduced rent or fuck off."
This was very definitely a different Helen to how she portrayed herself when I took the house. Suddenly I thought the only association with landmines would be planting them. Maybe she was having a bad day. But I took her advice and fucked off. To the damp, dark but expensive one bed apartment I now occupy. Every time I want to go outside I have to play dodge the neighbour. I'm sure most of them are OK, but I don't risk it if I can help it. And today the local rag printed a story that confirms my aversion to people. Helen Charlotte Anderson, 27, charged with murdering the couple next door and burying them in the back garden. From the pictures of the couple, it clearly was an apparition of them I saw on that day in May. And "DIG DIG DIG THE BACK GARDEN" was not Simon being angry at me.
I'm not allowed any pets where I am now, I'm usually at work when the letting agents do their inspections, and there is no garden. What could possibly go wrong?
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(Dig This and Smile 2025, first published by Pikers Press)
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THE SMILE
For many years, whenever I closed my eyes I saw the face of a beautiful young woman, smiling. I didn't know who she was, but she seemed somehow familiar. Then I saw a black and white photo of my late mother aged eighteen, and I knew immediately- it wasn't her.
(Fist published by 50 word stories)
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A RACE TOO FAR
I was famous. The new superstar of the track, I had already won several big races, and it was time for the biggest of all. I was going well, tracking the pacemaker. Greatness was mine for the taking when I felt a sharp pain in my side. I had been told it could happen, but why now? Why just as I could reach out and touch immortality? No human hits me with a whip. I threw the bastard off my back and kicked his teeth out. Apparently, you only get one chance at the Derby, but I have no regrets.
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(First published by Friday Flash Fiction)