Tag Archives: Friday flash

A Boy and His Dragon

Posted on June 24, 2011 | 22 comments

The young knight moved with the rhythm of his horse as it plodded on through the rising mountain range. He remembered the day he left the citadel when dawn’s rosy fingers crept over the landscape, warming the cold earth with her delicate touch. A rooster heralded the day while the sows chuffed and snuffled amongst the hay in the stalls. The cows waited impatiently in the yard, eager to be rid of their bulging surplus, scuffing their hooves and quietly rumbling their displeasure at having to wait for the milkmaid.

In the stables, his horse sensed his nervousness and anticipation, and whinnied uneasily.  Mounting the steed the knight looked around at the grim, grey walls.  No fanfare sounded, no merriment signalled his departure.  This was a journey anticipated with excitement and foreboding.  Every knight had to earn his rank with a deed of valour.  This knight sought the most prized of all trophies, the horn of the dreaded wyrm, the ancient red dragon.

Day followed day as the knight traversed the kingdom’s terrain.  The green plains surrounding the castle and the village merged into the sparsely wooded forests.  The trees transformed into cathedral-like pillars; sunlight filtering as a candle chandelier.  The forest neither threatened nor welcomed, simply accepted the presence of the knight and his steed.  High in the canopy birds chatted about the passing of the weather and the movement of the deer across the ranges.

Each passing day took the knight closer to his destination, the lair of the great wyrm. With each passing footfall of his horse, the animals became quieter until silence lowered its head in sombreness as the knight approached the dragon’s cavern.

The forest ended abruptly at the foot of the mountains. The sides rose steeply into the clouds forming a white wall. Wisps streamed out like banners unfurling declaring signals of war.

“Let us take the battle to this scourge,” said the knight.

The traverse was steep, littered with the bones of earlier combatants. The knight’s strength melted in his chest like the spring thaw.

“Have courage and fear not,” he said to himself.

Close to the summit the knight paused to plan his assault. At the cusp of daybreak the knight crept to the edge of the dragon’s cavern. Peering around a boulder he spied the great wyrm, curled on himself like a dog. The red sheen of the dragon’s scales glittered in the early light, a magnificent vision of ruby and rose. The slow rise and fall of its great body suggested it was sleeping.

“And what is your name, knight?”

The knight was taken aback by the sudden hail. “How did you know I was here?”

“You humans are clumsy and so predictable,” said the dragon. “You are best swatted out of the air like flies. But your name young knight.”

The knight took a stance of combat. “My name is Sir Justin of Thornleigh.”

“Ultimately, your name is unimportant. It is simply protocol. You are one more to add to the collection.” The dragon rolled to one side, exposing its underbelly. Melded into its scaly hide was a wall of shields. Justin recognised the standards of known champions.

“Dragon, would you give me the pleasure of your name.”

“Ulfthalas. Now pleasantries are over, we can commence hostilities.”

The fireball exploded from the dragon’s mouth. The knight dove to his right before rolling under the dragon’s tail as it swung overhead, the spikes grazing against his shield.

The element of surprise gambled on and lost, the knight sprang forward to attack at the dragon’s forequarters where the shield wall ended. The dragon’s cavern afforded some room for the wyrm to manoeuvre but the knight harried and hacked at the weak points, away from the fiery blast and the swinging tail.

Roars of frustration emanated from the dragon’s throat as it clawed back and forth to reach for the harrying knight underneath. The dragon raised its left foreleg and aimed to squash the knight. Bringing the claw down, the tips of its claws scored the shield, splintering the wood.

Taking his chance, the knight leapt up the dragon’s leg and swung onto its back. Sitting astride the dragon’s shoulders, the knight took his sword in two hands and raised it above his head, preparing to strike the death blow.

Suddenly, a motherly voice sang out like church bells at Sunday service.

“Justin, it’s time to come in for lunch.”

“I’m coming Mum.  I’ll be there in a minute,” replied the young knight, pushing the bike helmet out of his eyes while the dog yapped and dodged around him. A green towel tucked into the collar acted as a cape, fluttering out behind.

 

The knight turned and addressed the dragon, “I beg your pardon, but I am summoned forthwith to sup.”

“Forsooth, one cannot deny the command.  We will continue our melee at a later stage.”

Drawing his sword to his chest, Justin saluted the dragon and bowed in reverence to his worthy opponent.  The dragon lowered its head to the knight in solemn respect.

 

The knight turned and began to discard his weapons and armour.  The wooden sword clattered against the garbage can lid shield as it dropped into the dirt. Large gardening gloves fell easily off little fingers.  The bicycle helmet bounced along the ground and caused the dog to leap away for fear of being skittled.  A cardboard box covered in aluminium foil served as a breastplate and was left at the foot of the stairs as the screen door clattered shut.  The dog sat expectantly at the door waiting for the boy’s return, but soon gave up and returned to gnaw its favourite bone under the shade of the orange tree.

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Tougher Than a Service Station Kebab

Posted on June 12, 2011 | 20 comments

They say legends are born, not made and it’s only a matter of time before their true potential is revealed. This is one of those stories.

One Saturday night, three housemates tumbled out of the pub under the heady influence of fermented hops and headed down the hill. The way they saw it, going home was considered “downhill” despite the obvious rise to the concrete landscape.

At the last corner before turning into their street was a service station. Sitting at the perimeter of the service station lights was a silver caravan, a relic of the 1950s. It had converted into a makeshift kitchen, resting on a pile of besa blocks. It had the rounded form, like someone had flattened an oval, yellowed lace in the rear window. The door side had been converted into a servery hatch with a Formica bench top, now cracked and rusted along the metal coping. Fly screens came half way down the wide open window allowing the passing of food and money. A roller screen kept the daylight at bay.

The proprietor, Mr G, never spoke, or when he did, it was little mumbles. He could take a dozen orders in his head and knew who ordered the double meat, half meat, chilli sauce or extra tabouli on their kebab.

The trio, Andy, Stuart and James caught the aroma of the kebab caravan and followed their nostrils, leaning against the bench top and soaking in the delicious aroma.

Mr G. nodded and took their orders while the lads fell to the philosophy of the kebab.

“A kebab isn’t a kebab unless you end up wearing some of it on your shirt or jeans,” said Stuart and there was murmured assent.

“I prefer the kick you get from chilli sauce,” James said, his mouth beginning to salivate.

“It’s the perfect meal of meat and vegetables,” Andy intoned as the three wise guys watched their late night feast being prepared.

Shortly after, three kebabs were delivered, wrapped in foil and garnished with a serviette.

“You always need more than one serviette, I reckon,” said Andy as they began the drunken stagger home, peeling the foil back from their midnight snack. “We should get Mr G. to put some more out.”

Walking and eating are not actions easily mastered, doubly so when intoxicated and trying to eat a kebab. Somehow the trio managed the short walk home and finished their midnight feast at the kitchen table, licking sauce-laden fingers and mopping stray strands of onion from their chins.

“Right, I’m off to bed. Night fellas,” said Andy.

James and Stuart raised their hands in recognition but were not too far behind in heading for the horizontal.

The horror began in the breaking dawn of Sunday morning. James was the first.

He woke up feeling the effects of a late night kebab and a few too many beers. The queasiness of his stomach he put down to the night before. Suddenly he felt his stomach lurch. Vaulting from his bed he bounded into the hallway and sprinted the short distance to the bathroom. Kneeling before the porcelain god, he embraced it in a pose of worshipful adoration and presented his offering. His stomach muscles heaved in violent protest, venting the contents in a technicolour stream.

Each spasmodic episode racked his body until he saw stars. His fingers fumbled for the button before successfully washing away his sins. As the bowl emptied he spat to clean out his mouth. He was shocked by its ferocity. His gut rumbled in turbulent fury and he spewed again.

Resting his head against the coolness of the tiles he surmised it was simply the results of last night’s drinking and the service station kebab on the way home.

“Out of the way,” said Stuart as he rushed into the bathroom, covering his mouth with his hand. James’ and Stuart’s legs became tangled as Stuart occupied the space where James had been. James scrambled out of the way while Stuart chundered into the bowl.

“What the frig is going on?” asked Andy rubbing his eyes while scratching his crotch. “How hung over are you?”

“This is no hangover. This has got to be something worse.” James washed his face in the sink before holding his stomach.

“Food poisoning, perhaps,” said Andy.

Over the next hour, Stuart and James tagged each other in and out of the bathroom. There was one unfortunate crossover and James was forced to use the sink. Andy watched the scene like a UN observer, choosing not to get involved, while the other two wondered when Andy would be struck down.

James and Stuart sat on the lounge under blankets with grey, clammy faces. Each had a container, be it a bucket or an Esky positioned at his feet. The pungent stench of vomit permeated the house, puncturing the force field of air freshener.

“I have hurled so much my stomach just hurts,” said James. “There is absolutely nothing left.”

“My girlfriend makes me do Pilates with her and I thought it made my stomach sore. I will never complain again.”

Stuart leaned forward and dry-retched into the Esky. Low moans echoed.

“Here you are boys,” said Andy, from the front door. “I’ve brought you some relief.” He passed a bottle of Gatorade to each weakly offered hand.

“Take it easy. Little sips, little sips or you’ll be throwing it all up again.”

“I can’t believe you’re not affected by this,” said James.

Andy shrugged. “Guess I’m just tougher than a service station kebab.”

And thus, a legend was born. But like every superhero, Andy’s hubris would be his undoing, but that’s a story for another time.

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The Red Balloons

Posted on April 22, 2011 | 15 comments

This is a collection of vignettes written over a period of time, using the symbol of a red balloon. The other symbol is the black dog, a metaphor for depression. Each is only six sentences in length.

#1 – Prayers

Elise scrummaged in her little sister’s art and craft box for a marker. Sitting against the bed she wedged the red helium balloon her knees and began to write the jumbled and dislocated prayer of a twenty-something. Looking at what she had scribed, it looked like a crossword puzzle with the answers filled in but no clues to help give meaning.

Going into the backyard she took a deep breath and let the ribbon unfurl through her fingers as she exhaled. Elise shaded her eyes as it rocketed upwards, a seed propelled by faith, with hope that it would conceive and bring forth life, until she could see it no more.

She wondered if it had reached God or if it had burst before God could read it.

#2 – I’ve Always Wanted To Fly

I’ve always wanted to fly as I watch the balloons float away above the carnival, wishing I had that freedom.  The closest I can get to that wish is memory and imagination.  My body aches at the remembrance of grasping the chain of the swing set; leaning backwards, getting dizzily disorientated watching the world arc from blue to green to blue.  I imagine flying feels a lot like swimming in an aquiline ocean, rising and falling with the phases of the moon, feeling the push and pull of the currents.

Reaching behind I untie the red balloon from the handle of my wheelchair and say a little prayer.  I let my red balloon go into the blue firmament of heaven, above the heady aromatic cloud of fairy floss, deep fried food and the dusty warmth of cattle, to live vicariously for me.

#3 – Simple Pleasures

Streamers floated in the breeze and cake crumbs littered the tablecloth while the lounge room floor was strewn with the debris of a six year old tornado who had torn into wrapping paper to get at the goodies.  But Matthew abandoned the boxes of Lego stacked beside a bright yellow dump truck covered in layers of new t-shirts and pants for a dash around the backyard.  A bright red balloon trailed like a comet behind him as he whooped and hollered while the dog leapt and barked and howled with delight.  In his game the balloon became an orbiting moon as astronaut Matthew moved in slow motion steps with a bucket on his head.  A few days later he imagined that it was a jellyfish when it hung in limbo between the ceiling and the floor and he pretended to swim around it as it bobbed in the air.  Grandparents and relatives chuckled their approval and remembered when things were simpler and would not begrudge a small boy his bright new toys.

#4 – Hope

The red balloon bobbed above the heads of the comings and goings in the hospital corridor like a colourful speech bubble.  It bounced into the children’s ward where tubes were worn like necklaces and bandages were a new zombie craze.  Offsetting the bleep of machines and odour of sickness the red balloon added another splash of colour, lighting up sallow faces.  With the help of a black texta, some purloined rubber gloves from the box on the wall and a little bit of creativity the red balloon became a dancing clown.  Laughter expelled fear to the dark corners of the room while hope settled in the creases of rumpled blankets.  And for a brief moment even the adults were children again, joining in the mirth and imagination, remembering their own made up games.

#5 – My Black Dog

My black dog flumped onto my feet while I watched television, formed to the curvature of the couch, and in his mouth was the tattered remnants of my red balloon.

All afternoon I had watched him skulking around the back door, but he nuzzled his way in, eyeing off the red balloon that floated on the draughts through the cracks in the windows. With a quick snap he had taken the balloon in his mouth and popped it.

He looked triumphant with his saggy jowls knowing I was defeated and would not move from where I had taken up position. The afternoon shadows crept like soul’s darkness across the floor, a marshy quicksand that sucks you down below into its depths.

However, my black dog tends to forget that I have a pocketful of red balloons.

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Baa Baa “Adjectival Colour Nomenclature” Sheep

Posted on April 8, 2011 | 24 comments

The Committee members shuffled papers and snapped locks on briefcases. Coffee orders were taken and promptly delivered before withdrawal symptoms set in. The small bowls of lollies were passed from hand to hand and rapidly emptied. The cream biscuits were always popular comestibles, except for those who believed in the fattening effects of dairy-based products. Otherwise they were simply scoffed down with slurps of tea or coffee. Chocolate biscuits had been banned after an unfortunate incident involving The Chocolate Orgasm, otherwise known as The Tim Tam Slam, the Heimlich manoeuvre and an emergency clean up response crew from Domestic Hygiene.

The Chair of Non-specific Gender motioned for the meeting to start.

“First order of business: Inappropriate Adjectival Colour Nomenclature in the emergent adult nursery rhyme Baa Baa Black Sheep.”

Mutters of consternation rippled along the table. Tortoise shell spectacles and twin set cardigans were shuffled back into place. Spectacle chains rattled on pearl necklaces.

The Chair raised his hand and the murmurs ceased. “It is clearly understood that ‘black’ as a colour nomenclature is not appropriate. While as a colour designation it allows for a stunning example of alliteration in conjunction with onomatopoeia for pre-educational individuals, it has been suggested the adjectival colour nomenclature of the sheep contains racial overtones derogatory to the descendants of African origin. It is out task to determine another adjectival colour nomenclature. What other colours can we propose?”

“How about ‘Baa baa blue sheep? It maintains the alliterative structure of the nursery rhyme and has no apparent discriminatory overtones.”

From the other end of the desk came a response. “Blue is a stereotypical boys’ colour and we’d only be reinforcing the inherent patriarchal notions of gender, subjugating the feminine and universal womanhood.”

“What about pink, then?”

“Then you’re espousing matriarchal hegemony, which while brings a measure of equality back into society, only serves to reinforce the stereotypical colour of femininity for girls.”

“Baa baa red sheep?” someone else volunteered.

“It will give you the socialist vote, however I don’t see them reciting a chant that programs an economic model of the mode and means of production where the sheep has to give up its hard grown wool for the sake of a snotty young capitalist.”

A snort of muted laughter drew attention. “Three words: feminine hygiene product. I wonder if there’s a commercial featuring sheep playing tennis, running along beaches and generally being carefree?”

“And you can discount the colour grey as a monotonous capitalist framework for serving the system.”

“What about purple?”

“Historically it’s the colour of royalty. The monarchists would be saluting with Earl Grey Tea from their Wedgewood china cups. Especially with a royal wedding front and centre of the public eye at the moment. However, the republicans wouldn’t stand for it.”

“White?”

“Too many colonial and imperialist overtones. And besides, it’s too bland. It’s like vanilla ice cream; everyone eats it, but no one really enjoys it.”

“Yellow?”

“Well, sheep aren’t really an Asian thing are they?”

“Green?”

“It gives you the environmental vote, but then you’ve lost the capitalist community.”

“Orange?”

“Too Dutch. Have you ever watched a sporting event where they are playing? It’s an eye sore seeing a wall of orange.”

“Can I suggest ‘Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep’?”

“The rainbow has been appropriated by the GLBT community so come Mardi Gras time you could sing about sheep all you want. But then you’ve marginalised the heterosexual community and let’s face it, they are the ones currently filling the majority of vacancies in formative adult nurturing centres and pre-educational institutions.”

There was a pause as the committee stalled at the lack of remaining colours. An impasse looked inevitable. A voice broke their ruminations.

“I think we are overlooking a very important part of this nursery rhyme.”

The committee looked towards the member.

“Well, if you ask me, isn’t this little ditty a little bit species-ist? Why does it have to be a sheep? What about other wool-bearing animals: llamas, alpacas, goats? Shouldn’t they have a say in all of this?”

 

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Camouflage

Posted on March 25, 2011 | 19 comments

Jake slipped into Biology class, head down, eyes up, heading for his usual seat near the window, close to the front of the room. The teacher wheeled a trolley out from the Prep Store. Lifting a large fish tank she placed it in the middle of the teacher’s desk, inviting the students to come forward.

The class crowded around the teacher’s desk staring into the large fish tank jostling for best viewing rights. It was converted into a terrarium, the top covered with thin wire gauze, filled with twigs of eucalyptus leaves. Jake found himself nearest one end of the fish tank with two girls peering around his shoulders. Heads swayed backwards and forwards, peering in, hoping to spot something.

Finally a curious student asked, “Miss, what’s in there? Apart from leaves and stuff.”

“Look closer. Look for shapes that look like sticks but perhaps are not.”

The class reconvened their search.

“Oh, look. There.” Jake pointed, his finger close enough to the glass of the fish tank to form condensation. He wiped it clean and pointed again before withdrawing.

“Where?” someone asked. “I can’t see anything.”

“Hang on, I can see it,” said the girl behind him. “It looks like a stick is hanging upside down.”

With the puzzle solved, exclamations of discovery sounded around the desk.

“Found one here.”

“There’s another on this side of the tank and it’s different again.”

The teacher began writing on the whiteboard, telling the class the scientific names of the occupants of the fish tank.

“What you see are phasmids, or more commonly known as stick insects. To be more precise, they are of the class Insecta and the family Phasmatidae.
The teacher removed the wire gauze and reached into the leaves. Drawing her hand out, a stick insect spanned the length of her hand, its legs dancing an insect version of The Robot.

“This little beauty is ctenomorpha chronus.”

“It’s like a pencil on steroids,” said one lad, causing laughter to erupt.

Jake laughed too, taking note of its pencil-like body shape, angular legs and looking for all intents and purposes, like a stick.

A few students recoiled, uttering shrieks and expressing shivers as the alien insect began to move along her hand.

“Can I hold it, Miss?” asked Jake in a bold show of visibility.

The teacher extended her arm towards Jake who offered his open palm to the insect.

Jake mimicked the stick insect’s movement with his head, rocking backwards and forwards, swaying like there was a breeze. He wished it was a fire-breathing dragon.

It had been hidden away in shape and hue. The camouflaged shades of green and brown and angular lines of legs shielded it from spying students. Outside the safety of leaf and twig the insect was vulnerable; Jake felt an affinity with the creature.

“Oi, dancing boy. Give us a go,” said one boy.

Unaware he had continued to mimic the insect’s actions ever so slightly, Jake’s face flushed. Extending his hand he watched the stick insect traverse the fleshy terrain.

The array of school uniform framing the edge of the teacher’s desk caught Jake’s attention. They looked like the leaves on a branch in their uniformity: white shirts and grey shorts for the boys and white shirts and blue skirts for the girls. A navy tie completed the camouflage.

Around the edges subtle differences emerged. Shirts tucked in and shirts tucked out. Ties adjusted to the top button, also done up, to ties flying at half-mast. Skirts exposing more thigh than covering it or knee length decorum. Blouses framed cleavage and an array of coloured bras, signals of defiance or signs of invitation. Hair was spiked, straightened, teased, gelled and preened while metal fragments adorned ears, eyebrows, lips and noses.
Jake loosened his tie slightly, fingering the top button until he felt the pressure of the collar release.

Returning the insect to its environment was a signal for the students to return to their desks. Jake retreated to his seat, blending in again as the lesson continued.

At the conclusion of the lesson Jake slipstreamed from the classroom to the corridor in the wake of the student body as it ebbed and flowed from one class to the next, pushed and pulled by the phases of the bell, disappearing from sight in a whitewash of uniforms.

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Photographs and Diamonds

Posted on March 18, 2011 | 20 comments

Joseph picked up the silver-gilded frame and stared at the image. A nervous young man stood stiffly in an army dress uniform with his arm around the waist of his new wife, dressed elegantly in a simple, straight white satin dress and carrying a simple bouquet. The couple stood in front of the church doors as well-wishers broke into applause.

He remembered how giddy Helen was with excitement the day they decided to get married. Home on leave he asked her. The war prompted quick action on the field of battle and off it. A promise was a promise until the day you died. And that could be any day. It was a time when memory was long, a handshake communicated trust and steadfastness was an anchor in a marriage.

The young man aged into the weathered reflection staring into the photograph. Sixty years had passed since that day and with it a million memories.

Returning the photograph to the dresser Joseph straightened his tie and adjusted his cuffs. In the mirror a formal black suit replaced the dress uniform. Helen interrupted his reverie.

“It’s time for the party, dear and we are the guests of honour. Everyone is waiting for us. Happy anniversary, darling.”

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Waiting – A Triptych

Posted on March 11, 2011 | 21 comments

Part 1

The kitchen tap dripped unceasingly and most of the cupboards hung at jaunty angles. Her friends were busy salivating over Jamie Oliver or pursuing the latest project from Better Homes and Garden, but she didn’t see the need in creating a mausoleum of monotony.

For her there was always something else to do, something else that was a priority on a timetable that ran perpendicular to everyone else’s.

She saw no sense in waiting. Waiting was a weakness.

Quickly she rinsed her bowl, spoon and mug before putting them on the dish rack to dry and headed out the door.

Part 2

She picked up the silver-framed photograph of a woman nursing a newborn baby.  In the photo her arms were wrapped like a wall, protective and sheltering. She remembered the woman she was then and the intense possessiveness she had felt. It was a selfishness that drank like the child at her breast; even wanting to withhold the child from its father.

“Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone,” she murmured.

She waited for that sensation again as she packed the photograph into her luggage, waiting for the taxi, hoping the grit would become a pearl.

Part 3

She sat in the car outside the school hall, listening to the ping of the engine cooling while she waited for her daughter to finish dance class.  In her mind she compiled a list of all the things she had to do, all the things that made her wait: collect her son from sport, guess her husband’s return time from work and sorting the three foot high pile of washing. She glanced at her watch, wanting to hurry the time, and then watched the hall doors for a glimpse of pink tulle to come running.

“What are you waiting for, Mummy?” said the little ballerina as she scampered into the car while the engine sat silent.

“I don’t know, darling, I don’t know.”

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The Umbrella Flowers

Posted on January 21, 2011 | 19 comments

The rain made mad dashes down the windowpane.  Droplets raced one another to reach the bottom.  Kneeling against the back of the couch Charlotte settled into the cushions, peeking at the street through the rain.  She pretended the rain was writing messages in a special language only able to be read by a four-almost-five year old.

Charlotte pressed her hands to the window and watched the condensation form around her fingers tips. She touched her nose to the glass.  The moisture and coldness tickled the tip of her nose making her giggle.  As she giggled her breath clouded the glass and obscured her view.  Wiping the glass clear with the sleeve of her t-shirt she breathed again to see how far she could fog the glass.
“Daddy, the umbrellas are flowering again.”
Her father came and put his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.
“Umbrellas only flower when it rains,” she said with the authority of a four-almost-five year old.  “They are mostly black in colour, which are sad looking.  I like it when there are some coloured ones to look at.  They are my happy umbrella flowers.”
Father and daughter knelt side by side on the couch and counted the umbrella flowers blooming in the street on their fingers.  Daddy counted black umbrella flowers while Charlotte counted happy umbrella flowers.

“Can we go outside and be umbrella flowers too, Daddy?”

A loaded question with the weight of a young girl’s expectations balanced against a father’s responsibilities.

He looked at his daughter, stroking her hair with his hand.  “I’m sorry darling, but Daddy has a lot of work to do.  Maybe some other time.”

He kissed her on the forehead and pushed himself off the couch.  Charlotte sank into the lounge cushions and went back to watching the rain.  The four-almost-five year old body language matched the gloomy pattern of the weather.

Back at his desk the storm of papers, spreadsheets, bills and accounts swirled into random patterns.  He tried to focus but couldn’t.  Leaning back in his chair he could see into the lounge room where Charlotte still sat peering out the glass.

“Stuff it.  It can wait another half an hour.”  Throwing down his pen he called out.  “Come on sweetheart, let’s go and be umbrella flowers.”
There was a mad scurry to find Dorothy the Dinosaur gumboots, raincoat and hat.  A short delay was encountered as they scrounged for umbrellas.

Standing in the doorway to the backyard Charlotte and her father watched the rain hand in hand.

“Are you ready, darling?”  With a snap of plastic an umbrella bloomed, bright red with black lady bug spots.  “Here you are.”

Charlotte dashed into the rain and stopped in the middle of the backyard, a brightly coloured flower.  She looked with glee at the rain dripping off the tips of the umbrella as it played a nursery rhyme rhythm.

“I am a happy umbrella flower, Daddy.  Look at me.”  She sploshed and splashed through the puddles in the backyard, a bright red spot of fun.

Squatting down on the garden verge Charlotte peered into the wet foliage.

“What can you see, sweetie?”

“Come look, Daddy.”

Joining his daughter at the garden’s edge he looked to where she was pointing.  A common garden snail trawled the leaf.

“His eyes are up on long, long stalks and they are looking at me,” Charlotte said.  “We won’t squash this one, Daddy, will we?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“This snail is grey and his shell is all brown and swirly and he’s moving along the leaf.”

Under the pitter-patter of the rain on a black umbrella flower and red umbrella flower with black dots, father and daughter watched the progress of the snail until it reached the tip where it turned around and headed back again.

“Let’s go, Daddy,” said Charlotte.

The umbrella flowers went on an expedition around the backyard, looking under leaves, poking sticks into puddles and counting the rain drops as they fell from the corner of the clothesline.

“I want to go inside now, Daddy,” said Charlotte.

At the back door, umbrellas were shaken out, gumboots pulled off and raincoats discarded.  Charlotte rushed into her bedroom and brought out her dolls to the lounge room.  From his office desk, her father heard a replayed account of their time in the garden as umbrella flowers.  A broad smile emerged on his face.

While he sat at his desk poring over the storm of paperwork, a little person who was four-almost-five appeared at his side.  She threw her arms around his middle and said, “I love you, Daddy,” before running back to the lounge room and her dolls.

“I love you, too,” he called out loud enough for Charlotte to hear.

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The Great Chocolate Conspiracy Episode 13

Posted on November 27, 2010 | 20 comments

Welcome to The Great Chocolate Conspiracy! Chocolate Digestive biscuits have disappeared from the shelves right across the eastern seaboard of the USA, and now the shortage has spread to London. Detective Chief Inspector Sam Adamson and his international team of investigators from the Metropolitan Police’s Confectionery Crimes Unit (CCU) have been tasked to solve the mystery.

This is the first installment of this multi-part flash fiction story that originated during a chat between the authors on Twitter. You can read how it all began here (links to all the installments will be added to the author list as they are posted).

The next installment will appear on Friday, December 3 at Lily Mulholland’s and you can keep up on developments in the meantime by following the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter.

*****************************

Sam followed Agent D. Ling’s tweed covered derriere up the ladder, trying not to gag on the bitter smelling ointment under his nose, but enjoying the view.

Agent Ling pushed the trap door open and Sam followed her up into a small storage room full of cleaning products, mops and buckets.  The door lead into a convenience store, stocked with all manner of condiments and tins of food.  The fridges hummed a merry tune, the cartons of milk glistening with condensation.  Sam did a quick reconnaissance of the shelves revealing a large gap where the chocolate biscuits had been.  And the boxes of tea bags sat forlornly without their caffeinated cousins.  A faint whiff of chocolate hung in the air.

“Blimey,” said Sam, his stomach growling.  “I could murder a cuppa and a biccie.”

“How about a museli bar?” asked Agent Ling.

“No thanks.  Birdseed never was my thing.  Now there’s something worth eating.”  Sam reached for a bag of crisps and ripped it open.

“Come along, Detective.”

With his spare hand, Sam grabbed a packet of custard cream biscuits.  “For later,” he said sheepishly and followed Agent Ling to the front window of the store.

The street had the appearance of normalcy except there was no one wandering the streets.

Agent Ling opened the door, the little bell jangling above it.  The aroma of chocolate assaulted Sam’s nose; his mouth became a tidal wave of Pavlovian response.  However, the sight of mutilated bodies piled against one another turned his stomach.

“That’s sickening,” said Sam, his face turning green.  Agent Ling turned to her right and strode away.  Sam trotted after her, his limp slowing him down slightly.

“Steady on.  It’s been a bit of a rough day.  What happened here?” asked Sam.

“The side effects of the additive FRAPPE added to the coffee and chocolate are devastating. Think caffeine withdrawals taken to the extreme.  Once people were moody and irritable; now they are homicidal and will do anything to feed their addiction.”

Sam whistled under his breath.  He shuddered to think how much of a moody bugger he was without caffeine.  Agent Ling continued as she stepped over a severed limb.

“It turns people into caffeine zombies, craving only one thing, to the exclusion of everything else.  When it doesn’t get it, the victim turns psychopathic.”

“Imagine if you were Elvis?” said Sam.

“FRAPPE started with additives in chocolate biscuits and coffee, but they went one further here in Grimsville: airborne chemical warfare.  They used simple household air fresheners containing the additive like the ones in doctor’s waiting rooms.”

A pager beeped on Agent Ling’s waist.  “Your team is here.”

Sam shaded his eyes against the sun and watched as a dark silver Bentley turned into the dusty avenue, followed by a black van, until they pulled up beside him.  The side door of the van opened dispensing Marier, Juniper and La Paglia.

“My Crumblies.”  A still slightly groggy Agent Bronyaur stumbled into the sunlight.

A gentleman exited the Bentley, his moustache elegantly grey to match his receding hairline.  In one hand was a thermos, the other, a chocolate bar.

“DCI Adamson, my name is Earl Grey, leader and co-founder of TEA.”

Adamson accepted the Earl’s extended hand and the thermos and chocolate bar.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“And you too.  Your unit has done admirable work. We are the invisible support behind the CCU.  Tea and coffee have coexisted for centuries, but FRAPPE’s plan is heinous.  Dr. Nishida and Professor Motley are to be stopped at any cost.”  Earl Grey glanced at his watch.   “It would not be prudent for me to be found here.  Agent Ling will assist you.  Farewell.”

The Bentley and van disappeared back down the avenue.

“Come,” said Agent Ling.  “We have work to do.”

Gunshots startled the party, scattering them behind the nearest parked car.

“Who in blazes…?” Adamson cursed.

Marier poked her head over the bonnet.  “It’s Professor Motley.”

Motley charged at the Crumblies, firing randomly in their direction.  Sam looked around for options.

“She’s out of bullets,” said Agent Ling.

Sam spied a wrapper in Marier’s breast pocket.  “Quick, give me the chocolate bar.”

Beside him pink elastic poked out of Agent Bronyaur’s trouser pocket.  Sam whipped it out.

“How the hell did you get my pink thong?” interrupted Juniper.

“Never mind how,” said Sam.  “Time to get my Macgyver going on.”

Sam grabbed the lingerie and improvised a slingshot.  He broke off a segment of chocolate, pulled back on the waistband, took aim at Motley’s mouth and let it loose.

The piece of chocolate hurtled through the air and lodged in the back of Motley’s throat setting off a chain reaction.  Motley’s face turned a shade of red usually seen on the rump of a baboon.  Her hands scrambled at her throat trying to dislodge the chocolate.  Guttural gasps of air gurgled in her throat as she collapsed to her knees.  Motley’s head snapped back suddenly, her body going rigid, before collapsing face first into the dirt.

“Death by chocolate,” Sam quipped, standing to his feet.

A shadowy figure stepped into view.  Dr Nishida eye’s bored into Sam from a distance.

“DCI Adamson, you tea-swilling-chocolate-biscuit-stealing lump of congealed monkey vomit who wouldn’t know art if it bit his rather ample backside!”

Sam tried to get a look at his backside but only succeeded in looking like a dog chasing its tail.

“Look at me, Adamson,” Nishida yelled.  “You will pay for what you did to my culinary masterpiece!”

“Bugger me,” said Sam.  “This is going to get ugly.”

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The Corner Store

Posted on November 19, 2010 | 10 comments

Red and blue lights flashed a macabre disco strobe across the front of Mr Lee’s convenience store and the open doors and windows of the neighbouring houses.  Police and ambulance radio chatter provided the soundtrack to the evening’s events.

The local newspaper reporter stepped out of her car, pen and paper in hand.  Her camera man checked his pouches and went to get the story from the police and take some snaps.  She scanned the scene.  The police and ambulance officers moved about their duties with precision. The neighbours were kept at a respectable distance behind the police tape and their own fears.  Huddled in small family groups they whispered gossip and theories to one another.  Parents kept a firm hand on their children, drawing them in close.

The footpath in front of the door was strewn with shards of glass, a set of keys and a large padlock.  Inside the corner store, police cameras illuminated the carnage; a secondary tempest and lightning storm making the onlookers shield their eyes.

Neighbours peered into the narrow doors of the store into the storm’s epicentre.  Wads of bloodied cotton mixed with stock strewn on the floor.  Numbered cones outlined the scene; a forensic dot-to-dot puzzle.

The reporter moved from group to group, looking for a story angle.

People huddled in small groups, furtively eyeing the shadows, hoping that nothing was hiding.

One old man in a faded cardigan and tattered slippers shuffled up to the reporter.  “I’ve lived in this area for thirty years and never has this place been robbed or broken into.”  A cigarette passed to his lips.  “Mr Lee’s been a part of the scenery for almost twenty years.  He knows all the kids by name and their families.  He is a fair and decent man.  Is he still alive?”

“I don’t know,” said the reporter.

“I buy my paper every morning on the way to the station,” said one man.  “Mr. Lee is always smiling and good for a chat.”

“And I get bread and milk from time to time when I forget to stock up,” said the woman next to him.

The child huddled in between them butted in, “I buy chips and lollies from Mr. Lee.  I especially like the bags of mixed lollies where you get one of everything.  Teeth are my favourite lollies and I could eat a whole bag of them in one go.”

“Bought my first girlie mag from here,” said a young lad, baseball cap perched precariously on the back of his head.

“And your first smokes.  Both of which you bought with a fake ID,” countered his mate.

“Shut up, man.  Don’t tell her that,” replied the young lad, punching his friend in the shoulder.

The clatter of a trolley diverted people’s attention to the doorway of the corner store.  Ambulance officers surrounded a body strapped to the trolley, one holding an IV bag above his shoulder.  Mrs Lee stuck close to her husband, one hand holding his, the other clutching a fistful of tissues.

“There’s no story here for us,” the camera man said to the reporter.  “Police reckon it was just a robbery that turned violent; probably local thugs shaking down the owner or kids needing cash for whatever.”

The reporter snapped shut her notebook relegating the story in her mind to spare column inches tucked away in the middle of the paper.  The camera man packed his bags, ready to chase the next vision to be broadcast on the front page.

As if on cue, the police cars and ambulance faded from view, the police tape waving like a broken hand.

The neighbours bade silent farewells, sticking closer to one another, fearful of the shadows that were suddenly darker and more menacing.

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