Stories on this page:
Sunday Lunch – Follow – Solid Evidence – Broken – Serendipity
SUNDAY LUNCH – My January 2010 entry to Writers’ Talback’s One Word Challenge has been published on the Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers blog – voted the Best Fiction Magazine in the Preditors & Editors Readers’ Poll 2009.
‘Hey, Doris! What ya doin?’
‘I’m doing the same as all the rest! What’s your problem?’
‘No problem, just curious.’
George turned his broad back towards her. What was so attractive about the others? Why didn’t she want to walk in the long grass with him?
‘How do you fancy a stroll up the plain?’
‘What’s there to do up there? It’s all grass and vultures.’
‘Yeah, but it is quiet,’ he paused and tilted his head slightly to the right and winked.’ … and peaceful.’
‘You know,’ sighed Doris, ‘ you got a one track mind.’ Her frown thawed slightly.
George edged half a step towards her, their shoulders touched. She returned the pressure.
‘Hardly surprising when I’m next to a gorgeous girl like you.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, George, you are such a schmuk’. She turned and faced down hill.
George swung his huge head round to see what she was going to do next.
‘It’s too hot,’ she said, ‘follow me, follow. Down to the hollow where we can wallow …’
He cut her short. ‘If you think I’m going mud wrestling at lunch time … you can think again.’
Phillip woke in a dark room. He was tied to a chair and his body ached from the beatings.
He’d told the police about the gang’s drug runs, and they said nobody would find out where the information came from.
“Phillip,” the voice was behind him, “I hope you had a quiet night. Now, we are going on a trip.”
The zip ties holding him dug farther into his flesh. Two more heavies stood next to him and pulled the chair on to a sack truck, and wheeled him towards the door.
“We didn’t think you’d want to walk in those shoes!” Phillip strained to look at his feet. “The concrete has set nicely, they should last you a few years.”
From the quay, they wheeled him onto a small fishing boat and cast off. When they hove to they were in the middle of the shipping lane.
“Nice spot!” said the heavy, “What do you think?” He turned and left the cabin and the big guys dragged Phillip out on deck.
Detective Sergeant Hawkins came out of the wheel house, “Sorry mate, can’t let you spoil my nice little earner, can I!”
I was just saying …
(197 words, sans titre)
Well, that’s it then. Bloody thing’s broke. Cost near four hundred quid and it’s hardly a year old.
He’s been playing on it solidly. It’s a wonder it lasted this long I s’pose. Silly sod comes in here with a face like a wet weekend and expects me to fix it; just like that! I told him, ‘That’s life; shit happens; live with it.’ That didn’t help of course.
Anyway, I set to and did a Google search and found an agent in the next town, so I sent off an e-mail. ‘Got to send it back to the manufacturer’, they said. Whoopee-bloody-do! That’ll cost me. I reckon by the time they’ve got it, took it apart, umm-ed and arr-ed and fiddled and farted about with it, it’ll be another two hundred quid gone west. Oh, well, at least nipper will be happy. Stops him hanging about on street corners.
It’ll be even worse next year. He wants a car now he’s passed his test. I ‘spect that’ll be a cheap old banger so we’d better get him to join the AA, too. What with that and the insurance, another bloody fortune!
No wonder we’re always broke.
(a true story in 197 words including title)
He laid the bill on the table.
“How much?” she said.
“Over four hundred pounds.”
“We don’t have it, do we.”
He stood up and went to the shop door.
“Where are you going?”
“To get a job.” he straightened up. “You keep the shop going, I’ll be back later.”
They had run the shop together for more than four years, but now rising prices had outstripped income. The electricity bill tipped the balance.
It was a ten minute walk to the local service station. The automatic door lurched to the side.
“Is the manager about?”
“Hang on …” said the youth in charge. He leaned through the door and spoke to someone inside. “…he’s in there.” He jerked his thumb towards the office.
The detritus of a business with too much paper and too few staff surrounded the manager. He looked up and smiled.
“I’m looking for work.”
The manager’s smile broadened to a grin. He leaned back and pushed the sheet of paper he had been writing on across the desk.
“This,” he said, “is an advert for Thursday’s Echo.” He leaned forward, “Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights. When can you start?”
All articles and stories (c) K Patrick Moody