Edward Davies's Blog, page 3
December 6, 2015
Short Story : You’ll Always Have Paris
“So, this is it?”
Ned smiled down at Izzy. They’d been together for seventy years, but now Izzy was close to death.
Ned was a vampire, and as such was destined to live forever. He’d always wanted to call himself Edward, and he had for a number of years, but those Twilight movies had put an end to that. It was just too cliché, and he worried that if he were to run into any other vampires they would take the Mickey out of him and ask him if he sparkled.
Likewise Izzy had been called Bella, but for the same reasons as Ned she had resorted to Izzy. Those books had a lot to answer for, not least of all the bad reputation they gave to vampires and those that loved them.
In the books, Edward had been forced to turn Bella into a vampire because she was dying, but the underlying truth was that Bella was a moron. She would happily give up her life to be with a boy, something that Ned would never wish on anyone. He’d had his life stolen away from him when he was very young and, though he did manage to meet the love of his life in the form of Izzy, they’d never been able to have children together to pass on their legacy. In spite of what some writers say, vampires can’t have children.
There’s another lie from Ms Meyer.
Ned took Izzy’s hand as she lay in her bed in their hotel room. They’d planned this trip because this was where they had first met.
Paris.
Their hotel room window looked out at the Eiffel Tower, and the curtains were open so that Izzy could still see the sights, with the tower lit up for New Years Eve.
“This is it,” Ned replied to the love of his life.
“Do you think,” Izzy began, then licked her lips to try and moisten her mouth, “do you think things could have been different if we’d have met when you were still human?”
Ned smiled, “I wouldn’t have wanted anything to be different, Izzy,”
Izzy smiled, “But if we could have led a traditional life,” she continued, “a life where we could have gone out during the day, both held down jobs. Hell, a life where I could have told people about you and not have them thinking I’m some decrepit old spinster.”
Ned stroked Izzy’s hand, “It might have been nice,” he said, “but what we had together was just as good, wasn’t it?”
Izzy blinked slowly, “I’ve enjoyed our time together,” she admitted.
“But?” Ned added tentatively.
Izzy shook her head, “There’s no but.”
Ned lowered his eyes, “You mean you wouldn’t have preferred it if we never met?” he asked, “If you’d have never been stuck with a vampire for the rest of your life?”
“I was never stuck with you, Ned,” Izzy told him, “If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have had a life. I wouldn’t have lived such a rich and fulfilling existence, even though you had to watch me age over the years while you didn’t change a bit. The looks people have given us lately when we’ve gone out for dinner – they must wonder what you see in me.”
“Or they think I’m your care worker,” Ned laughed.
Izzy groaned, “Always the joker,” she said, “even when it isn’t appropriate.”
“Sorry,” Ned apologised.
“Don’t be,” Izzy said, “I’ve loved your jokes over the years.”
“Even the inappropriate ones?” Ned asked.
Izzy nodded, “Especially the inappropriate ones.”
Ned looked into the eyes of the woman he’d spent the past seventy years with, a tear welling at the corner of his own, “So how long do you think you have?” he asked.
“Not long,” said Izzy, “I can feel my chest tightening even as we speak.”
Ned wiped his sleeve across his eyes, trying not to let Izzy see the tears that were appearing. She saw them, but knew not to comment.
“Does it...” Ned began, “...does it hurt?”
“No more than you’d think,” Izzy said slowly, “no more than you’d think.”
“Do you want to go to the window?” Ned asked.
Izzy nodded, “I think I’d like that.”
Ned picked Izzy up in his arms, something that had always come easy to him but was considerably easier now that she’d lost so much weight. The cancer had seen to that. The two of them moved closer to the window, looking out at the display of lights wrapping the tower in a display of beauty.
“It’s stunning, isn’t it?” Izzy said.
Ned smiled, “It really is.”
“Do you-” Izzy coughed loudly, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, “-do you remember the first time we came here?”
Ned nodded, “It was 1958,” he remembered, “we’d been together for thirteen years.”
“I remember,” Izzy smiled, “it was just after World War II when we met. God I was so young.”
“You were seventeen,” Ned said, “and I was-“
“-Ageless,” Izzy finished. The two of them laughed.
“Do you think,” Izzy breathed deeply, “do you think I’ll make it to midnight?”
“Of course you will,” Ned stroked Izzy’s hair as he took a seat by the window, Izzy nestling in his lap, “and far beyond as well.”
“Is this some rubbish about living on in your heart,” Izzy rolled her half-blind eyes, “because you know that’s not the same as actually living on.”
“I know,” Ned paused, then asked, “do you ever think about what it would have been like if you had have changed?”
“You mean become a vampire?”
Ned nodded.
Izzy shook her head, “I know you never wanted that,” she said, “and I just wanted you to be happy.”
“Maybe I could change you now,” Ned offered.
Izzy laughed; a raucous belly-laugh Ned hadn’t heard in decades, “I don’t want that,” she said, “I just want things to be how they are. My time has come, Ned, I’m ready to meet whatever comes next.”
“What if nothing comes next?” Ned asked.
Izzy closed her eyes, then slowly opened them again, “Then I’m ready for that too.”
Ned stroked Izzy’s hair as the two of them stared out of the window at their view of Paris, waiting for the clocks to chime twelve.
They didn’t hear the clocks, but they saw the fireworks taking off into the sky, indicating what must have been the start of New Years Day. The start of a new year.
“Happy New Year, Izzy,” Ned whispered into his lover’s ear, “you’ll always have Paris.”
Izzy turned her head slightly to look up at Ned, “Don’t you mean ‘We’ll always have Paris’?” she corrected.
Ned shook his head, “Paris won’t be the same for me once you’re gone, but at least in the next life you can remember Paris with fondness.”
He looked down at Izzy, who was staring back up at him, but there was no life left in her eyes. Slowly he ran his hand over her face, her eyes closing under his palm.
And he wept.
Originally Posted 6/12/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
Ned smiled down at Izzy. They’d been together for seventy years, but now Izzy was close to death.
Ned was a vampire, and as such was destined to live forever. He’d always wanted to call himself Edward, and he had for a number of years, but those Twilight movies had put an end to that. It was just too cliché, and he worried that if he were to run into any other vampires they would take the Mickey out of him and ask him if he sparkled.
Likewise Izzy had been called Bella, but for the same reasons as Ned she had resorted to Izzy. Those books had a lot to answer for, not least of all the bad reputation they gave to vampires and those that loved them.
In the books, Edward had been forced to turn Bella into a vampire because she was dying, but the underlying truth was that Bella was a moron. She would happily give up her life to be with a boy, something that Ned would never wish on anyone. He’d had his life stolen away from him when he was very young and, though he did manage to meet the love of his life in the form of Izzy, they’d never been able to have children together to pass on their legacy. In spite of what some writers say, vampires can’t have children.
There’s another lie from Ms Meyer.
Ned took Izzy’s hand as she lay in her bed in their hotel room. They’d planned this trip because this was where they had first met.
Paris.
Their hotel room window looked out at the Eiffel Tower, and the curtains were open so that Izzy could still see the sights, with the tower lit up for New Years Eve.
“This is it,” Ned replied to the love of his life.
“Do you think,” Izzy began, then licked her lips to try and moisten her mouth, “do you think things could have been different if we’d have met when you were still human?”
Ned smiled, “I wouldn’t have wanted anything to be different, Izzy,”
Izzy smiled, “But if we could have led a traditional life,” she continued, “a life where we could have gone out during the day, both held down jobs. Hell, a life where I could have told people about you and not have them thinking I’m some decrepit old spinster.”
Ned stroked Izzy’s hand, “It might have been nice,” he said, “but what we had together was just as good, wasn’t it?”
Izzy blinked slowly, “I’ve enjoyed our time together,” she admitted.
“But?” Ned added tentatively.
Izzy shook her head, “There’s no but.”
Ned lowered his eyes, “You mean you wouldn’t have preferred it if we never met?” he asked, “If you’d have never been stuck with a vampire for the rest of your life?”
“I was never stuck with you, Ned,” Izzy told him, “If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have had a life. I wouldn’t have lived such a rich and fulfilling existence, even though you had to watch me age over the years while you didn’t change a bit. The looks people have given us lately when we’ve gone out for dinner – they must wonder what you see in me.”
“Or they think I’m your care worker,” Ned laughed.
Izzy groaned, “Always the joker,” she said, “even when it isn’t appropriate.”
“Sorry,” Ned apologised.
“Don’t be,” Izzy said, “I’ve loved your jokes over the years.”
“Even the inappropriate ones?” Ned asked.
Izzy nodded, “Especially the inappropriate ones.”
Ned looked into the eyes of the woman he’d spent the past seventy years with, a tear welling at the corner of his own, “So how long do you think you have?” he asked.
“Not long,” said Izzy, “I can feel my chest tightening even as we speak.”
Ned wiped his sleeve across his eyes, trying not to let Izzy see the tears that were appearing. She saw them, but knew not to comment.
“Does it...” Ned began, “...does it hurt?”
“No more than you’d think,” Izzy said slowly, “no more than you’d think.”
“Do you want to go to the window?” Ned asked.
Izzy nodded, “I think I’d like that.”
Ned picked Izzy up in his arms, something that had always come easy to him but was considerably easier now that she’d lost so much weight. The cancer had seen to that. The two of them moved closer to the window, looking out at the display of lights wrapping the tower in a display of beauty.
“It’s stunning, isn’t it?” Izzy said.
Ned smiled, “It really is.”
“Do you-” Izzy coughed loudly, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, “-do you remember the first time we came here?”
Ned nodded, “It was 1958,” he remembered, “we’d been together for thirteen years.”
“I remember,” Izzy smiled, “it was just after World War II when we met. God I was so young.”
“You were seventeen,” Ned said, “and I was-“
“-Ageless,” Izzy finished. The two of them laughed.
“Do you think,” Izzy breathed deeply, “do you think I’ll make it to midnight?”
“Of course you will,” Ned stroked Izzy’s hair as he took a seat by the window, Izzy nestling in his lap, “and far beyond as well.”
“Is this some rubbish about living on in your heart,” Izzy rolled her half-blind eyes, “because you know that’s not the same as actually living on.”
“I know,” Ned paused, then asked, “do you ever think about what it would have been like if you had have changed?”
“You mean become a vampire?”
Ned nodded.
Izzy shook her head, “I know you never wanted that,” she said, “and I just wanted you to be happy.”
“Maybe I could change you now,” Ned offered.
Izzy laughed; a raucous belly-laugh Ned hadn’t heard in decades, “I don’t want that,” she said, “I just want things to be how they are. My time has come, Ned, I’m ready to meet whatever comes next.”
“What if nothing comes next?” Ned asked.
Izzy closed her eyes, then slowly opened them again, “Then I’m ready for that too.”
Ned stroked Izzy’s hair as the two of them stared out of the window at their view of Paris, waiting for the clocks to chime twelve.
They didn’t hear the clocks, but they saw the fireworks taking off into the sky, indicating what must have been the start of New Years Day. The start of a new year.
“Happy New Year, Izzy,” Ned whispered into his lover’s ear, “you’ll always have Paris.”
Izzy turned her head slightly to look up at Ned, “Don’t you mean ‘We’ll always have Paris’?” she corrected.
Ned shook his head, “Paris won’t be the same for me once you’re gone, but at least in the next life you can remember Paris with fondness.”
He looked down at Izzy, who was staring back up at him, but there was no life left in her eyes. Slowly he ran his hand over her face, her eyes closing under his palm.
And he wept.
Originally Posted 6/12/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
Poem : Vive Le France
Paris is a city where
The French are often found
They look at you while judgement’s passed
Without a single sound
They may have had a history
That’s riddled with despair
A central role in two world wars
That few can quite compare
Yet they love Jerry Lewis films
Even the later ones
They call things pain au chocolate
Which we’d call choccy buns
They lead the world in fashion sense
With bizarre takes on food
But there still isn’t any polite
Reason to be rude
Originally Posted 6/12/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
The French are often found
They look at you while judgement’s passed
Without a single sound
They may have had a history
That’s riddled with despair
A central role in two world wars
That few can quite compare
Yet they love Jerry Lewis films
Even the later ones
They call things pain au chocolate
Which we’d call choccy buns
They lead the world in fashion sense
With bizarre takes on food
But there still isn’t any polite
Reason to be rude
Originally Posted 6/12/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
December 2, 2015
Short Story : Explosive Decisions
Colin hated fireworks.
Every year, from late October to early January, his world was turned upside down by the invasion of all the amateur fireworks enthusiasts in his neighbourhood. The bizarre thing was that the youngsters would set off the fireworks in the middle of the afternoon, which seemed a ridiculous waste of time and money to him. You could barely see the light show before nightfall, yet they persisted in setting them off throughout the day.
Colin sat in his living room, staring out the window at the feeble fireworks display going on across the street, He looked at his watch to see what the time was.
2.30pm.
“Bloody idiots,” he complained, looking at his garden and the mess his neighbours had made of it. There he could see the remnants of some used fireworks lying around in the grass. He was going to have to clean that up now, so he got up from his chair and headed for the door. Breathing in as he opened his front door, he could smell the propellant in the air; the sulphur that formed the black powder that launched the hated projectiles into the sky.
“I thought there was a law about this sort of thing,” he grumbled as he picked up old pieces of firework from the grass, careful not to grab any charred bits in case they burnt him. He’d burnt his palm one year on an old sparkler someone had thrown in the garden so, as the saying goes, once bitten twice shy.
As he continued to clean up the mess, the smell of sulphur in the air got stronger. He looked up into the afternoon sky where more fireworks were exploding overhead, and more rubbish rained down into his garden. Tutting, he stooped lower and continued to pick up the rubbish.
“Annoying, isn’t it?”
Colin looked up when he heard the voice, seeing a tall thin man in a raincoat leaning on his garden fence. Ordinarily he’d have been cross about someone using his fence as a leaning post, but what the man said was exactly what Colin had been thinking.
“All these fireworks,” the thin man continued, “I bet you wish you could make them all go away. That you’d never have to see or hear them again.”
“Too right,” Colin stood upright, kneading his hand into his aching back, “I spend ages cleaning up after those poxy kids. All their leftover firework bits falling in my garden? It’s a bloody nightmare, I tell you.”
The thin man smiled, “What would you say if I told you I could make all those fireworks just... disappear? For you, at least.”
Colin stared at the man. His long raincoat seemed to swim around his feet, and Colin could barely see his face under a trilby hat that Humphrey Bogart wouldn’t have looked out of place wearing. The man smiled; a smile just as thin as the rest of him, revealing rows of small, perfectly white teeth.
“How exactly would you manage that?” Colin asked, walking over to the man.
“You’d never have to hear them again,” the thin man continued, “you’d never have to see them again. It would be as if those fireworks had never existed. As if they’d never invaded your garden.”
“Do you work for the council or something?” Colin asked.
The thin man’s smile faltered, “No,” he said, “I do not work for the council.”
“Then how exactly do you propose to stop these fireworks from invading my peace and quiet?” Colin asked.
“I have my ways,” the thin man told Colin, producing what looked like a legal document from inside his raincoat, accompanied by an old fashioned quill pen, “all you have to do is sign.”
“Sign?” Colin looked at the paperwork as the thin man handed it to him, “What exactly would I be signing?”
“Just a basic disclaimer,” the thin man shrugged, “you know, confirming that you agree to all aspects of our work, that you won’t sue us if you change your mind about the fireworks, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds reasonable enough,” Colin said, taking the quill and starting to sign. As he did so, the nib of the quill pricked the tip of his finger and he winced and a tiny drop of blood squeezed out the end.
“Ouch,” he complained before finishing his signature.
“Excellent,” the thin man smiled, folding up the contract and putting it back inside his jacket.
“So, what happens now?” Colin asked, sucking at his bloody finger.
“Give it a few hours,” the thin man smiled, “I can guarantee you that today will be the last time you see or hear anymore fireworks.”
Colin smiled at the thin man as he continued to walk down the road, stopping at the next house. Colin furrowed his brow, then walked back into his own home to watch the news.
A few hours later, Colin had started to nod off in his armchair, and it was getting late. He looked at his watch, but his hazy vision couldn’t make out the time. He tutted and sat up in his seat, planning to go and make himself some tea. That was when he noticed.
He couldn’t hear any fireworks.
For the first time in over a month he actually had some peace and quiet for a change. The sound of sudden explosions were no longer flooding his ears and polluting his world. He smiled to himself.
“Brilliant,” he chuckled.
That was when he noticed he couldn’t hear his own voice.
He jumped to his feet, staring around the room. The lights weren’t on so it was pretty dark, but even so the television was on in the corner of the room.
He couldn’t hear it.
Picking up the remote control he pressed the volume button repeatedly until the thing was on full blast, but even so he could only hear a faint buzzing sound. He wiped his knuckles against his eyes in order to clear his sleepy vision, and that was when he noticed that everything was unusually hazy. As he blinked sleep out of his eyes, his vision got worse until all he could see was a pin prick of light coming from the television screen.
Panicking, Colin shambled across the room, knocking over the coffee table in his bid to get to the telephone, but in his haste he knocked it from the unit where it was kept and kicked it out of reach under the sofa. Even with perfect vision he’d have had difficulty getting that back.
He stumbled to the front door, fumbling with the lock until he got the door open and ran out into his driveway.
“Help me!” he shouted, but he couldn’t hear his own voice, and his vision had now completely gone.
He thought back to what the thin man had told him.
“You’d never have to hear them again, you’d never have to see them again.”
He’d never see anything again! He’d never hear anything again!
The thin man had made him deaf and dumb.
“Someone please help me!” Colin screamed, falling to his knees in the driveway and sobbing. As he wept, he felt someone grab onto his arm. He didn’t know who it was – he could neither hear nor see them – and he tried to pull away from them.
If he’d been able to hear, or to see, he’d have heard and seen that the person grabbing him was one of the kids from across the street, the ones who’d been setting off the fireworks for the past month.
“Are you okay, Mr Jones,” the kid asked, but Colin didn’t respond.
Another kid came over to see what was going on, “What’s happening?” he asked.
“I dunno,” the first kid said, “MR Jones just collapsed in his driveway and started screaming, “and his eyes look all funny.”
The two kids looked at Colin’s eyes, which had glazed over with a white film, “Are you okay, Mr Jones?” the first kid repeated, but Colin didn’t respond.
He was deaf, and he was blind.
I guess you could say that his wish for a quiet life, undisturbed by the noise or sight of fireworks, had come true.
Originally Posted 2/12/2015
Result - 1st Place
Every year, from late October to early January, his world was turned upside down by the invasion of all the amateur fireworks enthusiasts in his neighbourhood. The bizarre thing was that the youngsters would set off the fireworks in the middle of the afternoon, which seemed a ridiculous waste of time and money to him. You could barely see the light show before nightfall, yet they persisted in setting them off throughout the day.
Colin sat in his living room, staring out the window at the feeble fireworks display going on across the street, He looked at his watch to see what the time was.
2.30pm.
“Bloody idiots,” he complained, looking at his garden and the mess his neighbours had made of it. There he could see the remnants of some used fireworks lying around in the grass. He was going to have to clean that up now, so he got up from his chair and headed for the door. Breathing in as he opened his front door, he could smell the propellant in the air; the sulphur that formed the black powder that launched the hated projectiles into the sky.
“I thought there was a law about this sort of thing,” he grumbled as he picked up old pieces of firework from the grass, careful not to grab any charred bits in case they burnt him. He’d burnt his palm one year on an old sparkler someone had thrown in the garden so, as the saying goes, once bitten twice shy.
As he continued to clean up the mess, the smell of sulphur in the air got stronger. He looked up into the afternoon sky where more fireworks were exploding overhead, and more rubbish rained down into his garden. Tutting, he stooped lower and continued to pick up the rubbish.
“Annoying, isn’t it?”
Colin looked up when he heard the voice, seeing a tall thin man in a raincoat leaning on his garden fence. Ordinarily he’d have been cross about someone using his fence as a leaning post, but what the man said was exactly what Colin had been thinking.
“All these fireworks,” the thin man continued, “I bet you wish you could make them all go away. That you’d never have to see or hear them again.”
“Too right,” Colin stood upright, kneading his hand into his aching back, “I spend ages cleaning up after those poxy kids. All their leftover firework bits falling in my garden? It’s a bloody nightmare, I tell you.”
The thin man smiled, “What would you say if I told you I could make all those fireworks just... disappear? For you, at least.”
Colin stared at the man. His long raincoat seemed to swim around his feet, and Colin could barely see his face under a trilby hat that Humphrey Bogart wouldn’t have looked out of place wearing. The man smiled; a smile just as thin as the rest of him, revealing rows of small, perfectly white teeth.
“How exactly would you manage that?” Colin asked, walking over to the man.
“You’d never have to hear them again,” the thin man continued, “you’d never have to see them again. It would be as if those fireworks had never existed. As if they’d never invaded your garden.”
“Do you work for the council or something?” Colin asked.
The thin man’s smile faltered, “No,” he said, “I do not work for the council.”
“Then how exactly do you propose to stop these fireworks from invading my peace and quiet?” Colin asked.
“I have my ways,” the thin man told Colin, producing what looked like a legal document from inside his raincoat, accompanied by an old fashioned quill pen, “all you have to do is sign.”
“Sign?” Colin looked at the paperwork as the thin man handed it to him, “What exactly would I be signing?”
“Just a basic disclaimer,” the thin man shrugged, “you know, confirming that you agree to all aspects of our work, that you won’t sue us if you change your mind about the fireworks, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds reasonable enough,” Colin said, taking the quill and starting to sign. As he did so, the nib of the quill pricked the tip of his finger and he winced and a tiny drop of blood squeezed out the end.
“Ouch,” he complained before finishing his signature.
“Excellent,” the thin man smiled, folding up the contract and putting it back inside his jacket.
“So, what happens now?” Colin asked, sucking at his bloody finger.
“Give it a few hours,” the thin man smiled, “I can guarantee you that today will be the last time you see or hear anymore fireworks.”
Colin smiled at the thin man as he continued to walk down the road, stopping at the next house. Colin furrowed his brow, then walked back into his own home to watch the news.
A few hours later, Colin had started to nod off in his armchair, and it was getting late. He looked at his watch, but his hazy vision couldn’t make out the time. He tutted and sat up in his seat, planning to go and make himself some tea. That was when he noticed.
He couldn’t hear any fireworks.
For the first time in over a month he actually had some peace and quiet for a change. The sound of sudden explosions were no longer flooding his ears and polluting his world. He smiled to himself.
“Brilliant,” he chuckled.
That was when he noticed he couldn’t hear his own voice.
He jumped to his feet, staring around the room. The lights weren’t on so it was pretty dark, but even so the television was on in the corner of the room.
He couldn’t hear it.
Picking up the remote control he pressed the volume button repeatedly until the thing was on full blast, but even so he could only hear a faint buzzing sound. He wiped his knuckles against his eyes in order to clear his sleepy vision, and that was when he noticed that everything was unusually hazy. As he blinked sleep out of his eyes, his vision got worse until all he could see was a pin prick of light coming from the television screen.
Panicking, Colin shambled across the room, knocking over the coffee table in his bid to get to the telephone, but in his haste he knocked it from the unit where it was kept and kicked it out of reach under the sofa. Even with perfect vision he’d have had difficulty getting that back.
He stumbled to the front door, fumbling with the lock until he got the door open and ran out into his driveway.
“Help me!” he shouted, but he couldn’t hear his own voice, and his vision had now completely gone.
He thought back to what the thin man had told him.
“You’d never have to hear them again, you’d never have to see them again.”
He’d never see anything again! He’d never hear anything again!
The thin man had made him deaf and dumb.
“Someone please help me!” Colin screamed, falling to his knees in the driveway and sobbing. As he wept, he felt someone grab onto his arm. He didn’t know who it was – he could neither hear nor see them – and he tried to pull away from them.
If he’d been able to hear, or to see, he’d have heard and seen that the person grabbing him was one of the kids from across the street, the ones who’d been setting off the fireworks for the past month.
“Are you okay, Mr Jones,” the kid asked, but Colin didn’t respond.
Another kid came over to see what was going on, “What’s happening?” he asked.
“I dunno,” the first kid said, “MR Jones just collapsed in his driveway and started screaming, “and his eyes look all funny.”
The two kids looked at Colin’s eyes, which had glazed over with a white film, “Are you okay, Mr Jones?” the first kid repeated, but Colin didn’t respond.
He was deaf, and he was blind.
I guess you could say that his wish for a quiet life, undisturbed by the noise or sight of fireworks, had come true.
Originally Posted 2/12/2015
Result - 1st Place
November 30, 2015
Poem : Why Do You Have To Set Them Off At Such A Stupid Time?
You try to sleep right through the night
But something wakes you with a fright
The sound of thunder overhead
Convinces you to stay in bed
Explosions booming through the air
From folk who simply do not care
They set off rockets for a lark
Despite it being far from dark
It’s summer time for goodness sake
There must be some sort of mistake
I don’t live in the U.S.A
Or further East in old Bombay
So fireworks are for New Year
Or Guy Fawkes Night; they’re nowhere near
Yet detonations persevere
At any time of any year
There’s meant to be a strict control
On selling sparklers on the whole
With caps on what time of the year
They can be bought or swapped for beer
But now it seems this limitation’s
Suffering from fluctuations
And no matter what the date
Those fireworks make me irate!
Originally Posted 30/11/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
But something wakes you with a fright
The sound of thunder overhead
Convinces you to stay in bed
Explosions booming through the air
From folk who simply do not care
They set off rockets for a lark
Despite it being far from dark
It’s summer time for goodness sake
There must be some sort of mistake
I don’t live in the U.S.A
Or further East in old Bombay
So fireworks are for New Year
Or Guy Fawkes Night; they’re nowhere near
Yet detonations persevere
At any time of any year
There’s meant to be a strict control
On selling sparklers on the whole
With caps on what time of the year
They can be bought or swapped for beer
But now it seems this limitation’s
Suffering from fluctuations
And no matter what the date
Those fireworks make me irate!
Originally Posted 30/11/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
November 23, 2015
Short Story : Outbreak Or Breakout?
The darkness enveloped the room like some sort of a tomb, in spite of the fact that the room Simon found himself in was brightly illuminated with halogen bulbs. It was a darkness of the soul rather than an actual physical darkness, and the fear that rattled round inside Simon’s head had almost taken full hold of him.
It wasn’t as if he were alone either. There were others in the room, all of them in varying stages of decay caused by the virus that had slowly but surely begun to destroy their bodies and their minds. Simon stared at the woman closest to him; a woman who was probably pretty attractive before the infection had taken hold of her, but now she just stared blankly across the room at the bars on the windows, a trickle of drool running down her pouty lips and onto her scabby chin. She may have once been the prom queen of whatever the English equivalent might have been, but it was doubtful that anyone would want to put their crown on her head ever again, if you get my meaning.
Simon looked down into his lap, staring at his hands that were resting there. A slight crustiness had started to form on his palms and in the webbing of his fingers, but nothing compared to the other people on his ward. His hands just looked like he had a slight case of eczema, whereas the majority of the rest of the people on his ward looked like they had it on a Biblical scale; eczema by way of leprosy.
He thought back on how he’d ended up in the ward, a place he was starting to think of with full leading capital letters, as in ‘The Ward’. He’d been grabbed by a team of soldiers who had seemed to come from nowhere as he’d been heading home from school on his bicycle. The bike hadn’t made it through the attack, but somehow Simon had managed to survive.
He had no idea what might have become of his family, but he hadn’t seen any of them on The Ward. That could be considered either a good or a bad thing, depending on how you looked at it. So far Simon had considered it a good thing; even if they were dead, at least they weren’t infected.
Simon had seen one other person he’d known on The Ward; a girl from his class, Cassandra. In spite of her name, Simon guessed she hadn’t seen this day coming. He chuckled, the sound echoing throughout The Ward, but only a handful of patients so much as glanced up as the sound reverberated off the walls.
Cassandra had been a pretty girl, had being the operative word. Her hair, which had once been shiny and glossy, was now matted and layered, plastered to her skull in places where grease had accumulated over the period she’d been kept on The Ward, however long that might have been. Her eyes, which he remembered used to sparkle when she laughed, were now dull and flat, barely any life showing in them now that they had started to sink into her skull. Her lips were still full, but were now cracked and blistered from lack of water. Simon licked his own lips, which had started to feel dry since yesterday afternoon. No-one had been in to give them food or water since the previous morning, and Simon was starting to worry that no-one was going to come back for him and that he’d die of dehydration.
Deciding that sitting around doing nothing wasn’t going to get him anywhere, Simon placed his bum on the edge of his bed and scooched off the side until his bare feet were touching the cold floor. His legs felt wobbly as he used them for the first time that day, but after flexing his toes a number of times he was finally ready to walk.
It was slow going as Simon crossed The Ward to the main doors. He passed a number of patients that were a little more alert than he’d gotten used to, some of them sniffing expectantly as he passed them by. He thought back to all the horror movies he’d ever seen that involved this sort of thing, shuddering as he thought about what could have happened to him if he hadn’t been infected. It seemed that the others on The Ward could smell the infection on him, and as a result they ignored his presence, assuming he was one of them. If only they ignored him entirely and didn’t sniff for him first, Simon thought to himself, then the whole scenario wouldn’t have been quite so unnerving.
On reaching the doors to The Ward, Simon peered through the frosted glass of the wire-meshed window. There was no activity beyond the doors, literally nothing happening outside of The Ward.
So where had all the doctors and nurses gone? Why had the occupants of The Ward been left on their own, with no-one to ensure their well-being?
Simon’s heart sank.
Clearly whoever was in charge had decided they were passed caring for. Someone high up had made the decision to leave the hospital unattended and to worry about the uninfected instead of those beyond true redemption. His eyes twitched a little as he felt tears pricking their corners.
He was alone.
Alone and isolated with no-one for company other than the rest of the infected, all of whom were far further gone than he was.
Simon reached for the handle of the door, expecting to feel the resistance of a firm lock but, to his surprise, the door swung easily open as he pulled it towards him. His brow furrowed, he glanced back over his shoulder at the other patients in The Ward, but only one or two of them had even noticed what Simon was doing, while others hadn’t even realised he so much as existed. Simon took a deep breath, easing the door slightly further open, then slipped quietly into the corridor.
In all the scary movies Simon had ever seen, the hospital corridors would have been damaged, the lights would be flickering from lack of repair, but this was in many ways more terrifying. The lights were bright and steady, the corridor neat and tidy, which made its emptiness all the more nerve racking. Simon swallowed nervously before continuing down the corridor, heading to the nearest lift. It was like that scene at the beginning of Resident Evil, where you think the main woman is going to be okay, but then the inevitable happens...
Simon pressed the button to call the carriage, waiting patiently and glancing over his shoulder at The Ward he’d just vacated. He could see quite clearly through the frosted windows, where the other patients hadn’t so much as batted an eyelid at his absence. Turning back to the lift, he stared at the floor light, waiting for it to hit his floor.
Ping!
Simon’s nostrils flared as he jumped slightly at the sudden sound of the lift arriving and, as the doors opened, he stopped inside and turned to face the buttons, pressing the one for the ground floor. As the doors eased shut, Simon looked towards The Ward through the closing doorway, noticing that some of the patients had turned their heads towards the door.
Had they heard the lift arrive?
Simon didn’t have time to worry about that as the doors closed firmly shut and the lift started to descend to the ground floor.
As the pinging sound of the lift arriving at its destination echoed through Simon’s head, he cautiously watched the lift doors open onto the main reception area.
He walked into the empty reception area, the only sign of people having been there was the odd wheelchair positioned slightly out of place from where they should normally have been kept. Simon glanced from left to right, checking the coast for any sign of life, or something resembling life in any case.
There was nothing.
Taking another deep breath, fearing that the sound of his heavy sighs might attract unwanted attention, Simon continued shambling towards the main doors and headed out onto the street.
Like the hospital he’d just vacated, the streets were largely deserted. It seemed ridiculous to Simon that a practically empty hospital would keep all of its patients in a single ward, but now that he looked at the car park his fears grew even more so. Aside from three ambulances parked near the front of the building, the entire car park was deserted.
Simon shook his head, mumbling softly to himself. He was passed caring if anyone heard him, seeing as there didn’t appear to be anyone else about. The fact that it seemed that the entire population of West London had upped sticks in the night and headed who-knows where was enough to almost permanently unhinge him. What if there had been a mass exodus of the city, like during World War II? Or what if everyone was dead?
No, he told himself, if everyone was dead there’d be bodies.
Wouldn’t there?
Unless the infected had already gotten to them.
And what? Eaten them?
He’d heard rumours before he’d been quarantined about the infected attacking animals and picking them clean, but never anything about them attacking other people. Yet wouldn’t that be the next logical step? Simon chuckled; only with recent events circling in your mind could you consider cannibalism to be the next logical step for humankind.
As these thoughts ran through his mind, he heard a noise coming from the sky. He glanced up into the clouds, holding his scabby hand up to shield his eyes, and saw a number of black planes flying in formation overhead.
Was this an invasion?
Or was it a mass culling? Would the planes just start dropping bombs, carpet bombing the entire city until everything was levelled to the ground?
As he pondered what was going to happen to him, he noticed a strange silhouette floating down from the sky, a silhouette that was distinctly person shaped and entirely un-plane shaped.
As Simon saw the figure land in the car park just a few feet away from him, he decided that his mind had finally snapped. The winged figure tipped its head at him, as if doffing a hat in greeting, then started walking towards him.
“Good afternoon,” the winged figure smiled as it walked into the light and Simon could finally see its face. Oddly, though the figure was humanoid, he couldn’t tell if it was male or female as its features appeared to flicker in and out. Finally they settled, and Simon’s jaw dropped when he saw who the figure looked like.
“I know,” the figure said dryly when he saw Simon’s expression, “it’s a lot to take on board at such short notice, isn’t it?”
“What’s going on?” Simon shook his head, “Who... what are you? Why do you look like... that?”
“This face is supposed to calm people down,” the figure told him, “clearly it’s not working.”
“What’s going on?” Simon asked again.
The figure smiled, flexing its wings, “It’s a long story,” the figure told Simon, “but we have plenty of time to explain. You were part of the Zombie Apocalypse Explanation, correct?”
“Zombie Apocalypse Explanation?” Simon repeated, thinking it sounded like an episode title from ‘The Big Bang Theory’, “What are you talking about?”
“Well, we’ve tried a number of methods to explain what’s happening,” the figure explained, pointing into the sky, “that’s the Invading Hoards Explanation. That works reasonably well on small parties. For larger unrelated numbers we used the old Zombie Apocalypse routine to get you all together, but it seems to have... broken most of the others. I’m not sure if we can fix that.”
“So... what is this?” Simon asked, “What is actually happening here.”
“Come,” the figure smiled, holding out a hand to Simon, “I’ll show you.”
Simon took the figures hand and, as they touched, the two of them disappeared into a bolt of purple light and disappeared into the sky.
Originally Posted 23/11/2015
Result - 2nd Place
It wasn’t as if he were alone either. There were others in the room, all of them in varying stages of decay caused by the virus that had slowly but surely begun to destroy their bodies and their minds. Simon stared at the woman closest to him; a woman who was probably pretty attractive before the infection had taken hold of her, but now she just stared blankly across the room at the bars on the windows, a trickle of drool running down her pouty lips and onto her scabby chin. She may have once been the prom queen of whatever the English equivalent might have been, but it was doubtful that anyone would want to put their crown on her head ever again, if you get my meaning.
Simon looked down into his lap, staring at his hands that were resting there. A slight crustiness had started to form on his palms and in the webbing of his fingers, but nothing compared to the other people on his ward. His hands just looked like he had a slight case of eczema, whereas the majority of the rest of the people on his ward looked like they had it on a Biblical scale; eczema by way of leprosy.
He thought back on how he’d ended up in the ward, a place he was starting to think of with full leading capital letters, as in ‘The Ward’. He’d been grabbed by a team of soldiers who had seemed to come from nowhere as he’d been heading home from school on his bicycle. The bike hadn’t made it through the attack, but somehow Simon had managed to survive.
He had no idea what might have become of his family, but he hadn’t seen any of them on The Ward. That could be considered either a good or a bad thing, depending on how you looked at it. So far Simon had considered it a good thing; even if they were dead, at least they weren’t infected.
Simon had seen one other person he’d known on The Ward; a girl from his class, Cassandra. In spite of her name, Simon guessed she hadn’t seen this day coming. He chuckled, the sound echoing throughout The Ward, but only a handful of patients so much as glanced up as the sound reverberated off the walls.
Cassandra had been a pretty girl, had being the operative word. Her hair, which had once been shiny and glossy, was now matted and layered, plastered to her skull in places where grease had accumulated over the period she’d been kept on The Ward, however long that might have been. Her eyes, which he remembered used to sparkle when she laughed, were now dull and flat, barely any life showing in them now that they had started to sink into her skull. Her lips were still full, but were now cracked and blistered from lack of water. Simon licked his own lips, which had started to feel dry since yesterday afternoon. No-one had been in to give them food or water since the previous morning, and Simon was starting to worry that no-one was going to come back for him and that he’d die of dehydration.
Deciding that sitting around doing nothing wasn’t going to get him anywhere, Simon placed his bum on the edge of his bed and scooched off the side until his bare feet were touching the cold floor. His legs felt wobbly as he used them for the first time that day, but after flexing his toes a number of times he was finally ready to walk.
It was slow going as Simon crossed The Ward to the main doors. He passed a number of patients that were a little more alert than he’d gotten used to, some of them sniffing expectantly as he passed them by. He thought back to all the horror movies he’d ever seen that involved this sort of thing, shuddering as he thought about what could have happened to him if he hadn’t been infected. It seemed that the others on The Ward could smell the infection on him, and as a result they ignored his presence, assuming he was one of them. If only they ignored him entirely and didn’t sniff for him first, Simon thought to himself, then the whole scenario wouldn’t have been quite so unnerving.
On reaching the doors to The Ward, Simon peered through the frosted glass of the wire-meshed window. There was no activity beyond the doors, literally nothing happening outside of The Ward.
So where had all the doctors and nurses gone? Why had the occupants of The Ward been left on their own, with no-one to ensure their well-being?
Simon’s heart sank.
Clearly whoever was in charge had decided they were passed caring for. Someone high up had made the decision to leave the hospital unattended and to worry about the uninfected instead of those beyond true redemption. His eyes twitched a little as he felt tears pricking their corners.
He was alone.
Alone and isolated with no-one for company other than the rest of the infected, all of whom were far further gone than he was.
Simon reached for the handle of the door, expecting to feel the resistance of a firm lock but, to his surprise, the door swung easily open as he pulled it towards him. His brow furrowed, he glanced back over his shoulder at the other patients in The Ward, but only one or two of them had even noticed what Simon was doing, while others hadn’t even realised he so much as existed. Simon took a deep breath, easing the door slightly further open, then slipped quietly into the corridor.
In all the scary movies Simon had ever seen, the hospital corridors would have been damaged, the lights would be flickering from lack of repair, but this was in many ways more terrifying. The lights were bright and steady, the corridor neat and tidy, which made its emptiness all the more nerve racking. Simon swallowed nervously before continuing down the corridor, heading to the nearest lift. It was like that scene at the beginning of Resident Evil, where you think the main woman is going to be okay, but then the inevitable happens...
Simon pressed the button to call the carriage, waiting patiently and glancing over his shoulder at The Ward he’d just vacated. He could see quite clearly through the frosted windows, where the other patients hadn’t so much as batted an eyelid at his absence. Turning back to the lift, he stared at the floor light, waiting for it to hit his floor.
Ping!
Simon’s nostrils flared as he jumped slightly at the sudden sound of the lift arriving and, as the doors opened, he stopped inside and turned to face the buttons, pressing the one for the ground floor. As the doors eased shut, Simon looked towards The Ward through the closing doorway, noticing that some of the patients had turned their heads towards the door.
Had they heard the lift arrive?
Simon didn’t have time to worry about that as the doors closed firmly shut and the lift started to descend to the ground floor.
As the pinging sound of the lift arriving at its destination echoed through Simon’s head, he cautiously watched the lift doors open onto the main reception area.
He walked into the empty reception area, the only sign of people having been there was the odd wheelchair positioned slightly out of place from where they should normally have been kept. Simon glanced from left to right, checking the coast for any sign of life, or something resembling life in any case.
There was nothing.
Taking another deep breath, fearing that the sound of his heavy sighs might attract unwanted attention, Simon continued shambling towards the main doors and headed out onto the street.
Like the hospital he’d just vacated, the streets were largely deserted. It seemed ridiculous to Simon that a practically empty hospital would keep all of its patients in a single ward, but now that he looked at the car park his fears grew even more so. Aside from three ambulances parked near the front of the building, the entire car park was deserted.
Simon shook his head, mumbling softly to himself. He was passed caring if anyone heard him, seeing as there didn’t appear to be anyone else about. The fact that it seemed that the entire population of West London had upped sticks in the night and headed who-knows where was enough to almost permanently unhinge him. What if there had been a mass exodus of the city, like during World War II? Or what if everyone was dead?
No, he told himself, if everyone was dead there’d be bodies.
Wouldn’t there?
Unless the infected had already gotten to them.
And what? Eaten them?
He’d heard rumours before he’d been quarantined about the infected attacking animals and picking them clean, but never anything about them attacking other people. Yet wouldn’t that be the next logical step? Simon chuckled; only with recent events circling in your mind could you consider cannibalism to be the next logical step for humankind.
As these thoughts ran through his mind, he heard a noise coming from the sky. He glanced up into the clouds, holding his scabby hand up to shield his eyes, and saw a number of black planes flying in formation overhead.
Was this an invasion?
Or was it a mass culling? Would the planes just start dropping bombs, carpet bombing the entire city until everything was levelled to the ground?
As he pondered what was going to happen to him, he noticed a strange silhouette floating down from the sky, a silhouette that was distinctly person shaped and entirely un-plane shaped.
As Simon saw the figure land in the car park just a few feet away from him, he decided that his mind had finally snapped. The winged figure tipped its head at him, as if doffing a hat in greeting, then started walking towards him.
“Good afternoon,” the winged figure smiled as it walked into the light and Simon could finally see its face. Oddly, though the figure was humanoid, he couldn’t tell if it was male or female as its features appeared to flicker in and out. Finally they settled, and Simon’s jaw dropped when he saw who the figure looked like.
“I know,” the figure said dryly when he saw Simon’s expression, “it’s a lot to take on board at such short notice, isn’t it?”
“What’s going on?” Simon shook his head, “Who... what are you? Why do you look like... that?”
“This face is supposed to calm people down,” the figure told him, “clearly it’s not working.”
“What’s going on?” Simon asked again.
The figure smiled, flexing its wings, “It’s a long story,” the figure told Simon, “but we have plenty of time to explain. You were part of the Zombie Apocalypse Explanation, correct?”
“Zombie Apocalypse Explanation?” Simon repeated, thinking it sounded like an episode title from ‘The Big Bang Theory’, “What are you talking about?”
“Well, we’ve tried a number of methods to explain what’s happening,” the figure explained, pointing into the sky, “that’s the Invading Hoards Explanation. That works reasonably well on small parties. For larger unrelated numbers we used the old Zombie Apocalypse routine to get you all together, but it seems to have... broken most of the others. I’m not sure if we can fix that.”
“So... what is this?” Simon asked, “What is actually happening here.”
“Come,” the figure smiled, holding out a hand to Simon, “I’ll show you.”
Simon took the figures hand and, as they touched, the two of them disappeared into a bolt of purple light and disappeared into the sky.
Originally Posted 23/11/2015
Result - 2nd Place
November 22, 2015
Poem : Loneliness
Loneliness can be a curse
A solitary misery
Few can think of something worse
Than being left sans company
Isolated from the world
By location or by deed
Leaves the mind intense unfurled
Those that listen shall concede
Having no-one you can trust in
Nobody to hear ones woes
As the mind's collective dusting
Builds up in your eyes and nose
Loneliness can be a curse
A solitary misery
Few can think of something worse
Than being left sans company
Originally Posted 22/11/2015
Result - Didn't Place
A solitary misery
Few can think of something worse
Than being left sans company
Isolated from the world
By location or by deed
Leaves the mind intense unfurled
Those that listen shall concede
Having no-one you can trust in
Nobody to hear ones woes
As the mind's collective dusting
Builds up in your eyes and nose
Loneliness can be a curse
A solitary misery
Few can think of something worse
Than being left sans company
Originally Posted 22/11/2015
Result - Didn't Place
November 17, 2015
Short Story : Quite The Self-Fulfilling Prophecy
Ever since Michael had returned from the future, he’d tried everything he could to make his life better. In the future he’d seen himself living alone and he desperately wanted to change that. So, after a very long time trying to impress Chloe, the girl he loved, he finally decided to ask her out.
And she’d actually said yes!
Granted, he’d had to continue to pretend he loved Japanese comic books featuring effeminate men with no shirts on, but in the long run is had been worth it.
He hadn’t needed to use his wrist watch time machine since that day when he’d met his future self, and he’d been reluctant to try it again after his return trip resulted in him missing out on an entire year. And now that he was happily cohabiting with Chloe he had everything he thought he could ever want.
He sat on his sofa, watching television while munching from a bag of crisps, when he heard his cell phone ringing. Wiping crumbs from his lips, he answered the call.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Michael Jacobs?” a strangers voice asked on the other end of the line.
“It is,” Michael replied hesitantly, “who’s asking?”
“I’m calling from the County Hospital,” the stranger continued, “we have you down as the emergency contact for a Ms Chloe Birch.”
Michael instantly sat up straight in his seat, “What’s happened?” he asked, “Is she okay?”
“We need you come to the hospital, sir,” the voice said calmly, “we can give you more details once you’re here.”
Michael hung up the phone, racing out the front door and hopping into his car. Chloe had taken hers to get the shopping, and now he thought of it she should have been back long ago. If she’d been in an accident, Michael hoped it wasn’t anything too severe.
When he arrived at the hospital he was directed to a room with two beds in it. In one of them lay someone who looked absolutely terrible, almost like a mummy due to the amount of bandages wrapped around them, and Michael prayed to God that it wasn’t Chloe. Then he saw her in the other bed, unconscious.
A doctor approached him, “Are you Michael Jacobs?” he asked.
“Yes, I am.” Michael replied, “What happened?”
“Ms Birch was in a terrible car accident,” the doctor told him, “although she is unconscious, she wasn’t as badly hurt as the driver. She was thrown clear of the vehicle when the petrol tanker hit the car, but the driver has third degree burns over much of his body.”
“Driver?” Michael repeated, “Who was driving?”
“We weren’t able to officially identify him due to how terribly injured he was, but we found this driving licence on the man,” the doctor showed Michael a driving licence. It belonged to Rick Morgan, a guy from Chloe’s work. Michael had never liked him, and now he had every good reason to hate his guts.
“Is he awake?” Michael asked, glancing over at the other bed.
“Yes,” the doctor said, “but he can’t speak due to his injuries. Even though he was trapped in the car when it exploded, it’s Chloe we are more concerned about. His burns should heal, given time.”
“Why are you more worried about Chloe?” Michael asked, “She’ll wake up, right?”
The doctor sighed, “We just don’t know,” he said, “she’s been unresponsive and generally with this sort of case we don’t have very high hopes.”
Michael didn’t know whether to be upset that his girlfriend might die or angry that Rick Morgan might have killed her. As the doctor left the room, Michael looked at his girlfriend then looked at Rick.
Then he looked at his wrist watch.
“I’m going to fix this,” Michael mumbled to himself, “but first I’m going to make you pay.”
Michael lifted the pillow from under Rick’s head and placed it over his face, pressing down hard until the man started to twitch uncontrollably. His monitors started to spike and, just as he breathed his last, a number of doctors and nurses ran into the room.
But before they could stop Michael, he flicked the dial on his watch and vanished, leaving behind nothing but a subtle bamf noise.
Michael reappeared in the car park of the local supermarket, exactly where he’d wanted to be. He looked around, spying Chloe’s car, and seeing Chloe walking back towards it.
With her was Rick Morgan.
“Hey Chloe,” Michael beamed fakely when he saw his girlfriend with the man who almost killed her, “I thought I’d come and meet you. Help you get the groceries home.”
“Hey, Michael,” Rick said, just as fakely, “it’s good to see you after so long.”
“Don’t try to be nice, Rick,” Michael said, snatching Rick’s wallet out of his hands, “not after what you’re going to do.”
“What I’m going to do?” Rick repeated, confusion filling his face as Michael rifled through his wallet, “What do you mean what I’m going to do?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me,” Michael growled as he finally located Rick’s driving licence and waved it in his face, “you’re not driving anywhere today, especially with my girlfriend.”
“What’s he talking about?” Rick asked, turning to Chloe.
“I don’t know,” Chloe frowned, but I don’t like it.
She opened the boot of the car and put the groceries inside, slamming it shut. As she moved to the driver’s seat, she saw Michael had already climbed in.
“I’ll drive,” he told her, “it’s safer that way.”
Chloe sighed, “See you at work, Rick,” she said before getting into the passenger seat. Michael started the engine and drove out of the supermarket car park.
“Do you have any idea what could have happened if you’d have let Rick drive your car?” Michael said angrily as he drove towards home, glaring at his girlfriend angrily. Was she cheating on him with Rick? He had no idea.
“Rick wasn’t going to drive the car,” Chloe rolled her eyes, “we just ran into each other as I was leaving, so he helped me with my bags. He was on his way into the supermarket, he wasn’t leaving.”
Michael furrowed his brow. He must have done something to change history. Rick must have gotten into the car in the other time line; it was the only logical explanation. So had his simple intervention prevented Rick from deciding to drive the car? Maybe the weirdo had tried to abduct Chloe.
As he thought over what had happened, Michael didn’t notice the tanker heading straight towards them from an intersection. Chloe screamed, desperately trying to undo her seatbelt and open her door as the tanker crashed into the driver’s side of the car. Chloe’s door swung open and she was thrown from the vehicle, but Michael wasn’t so lucky. As the car spun end over end, the petrol tanker exploded, causing h=Chloe’s car to catch fire. Michael tried to open his door as the car ground to a halt, but it wouldn’t budge. His seatbelt was stuck, and before he could get it undone the engine of the car exploded and burst into flames. Michael screamed before losing consciousness.
*
When he awoke he was lying in a hospital bed, bandaged from head to toe. He felt incredibly numb, and could barely feel his arms and legs. He managed to turn his head, seeing Chloe lying in the bed across from him.
Nothing had changed.
Everything was the same.
As he tried to figure out what was going on, he saw someone coming into the room. He couldn’t believe it.
It was him!
The past Michael looked directly at his future self, a look of worry filling his face, then he saw Chloe in the next bed and seemed to deflate with relief. As he walked towards Chloe, a doctor entered the room behind him.
“Are you Michael Jacobs?” he asked.
“Yes, I am.” Past Michael replied, “What happened?”
“Ms Birch was in a terrible car accident,” the doctor told him, “although she is unconscious, she wasn’t as badly hurt as the driver. She was thrown clear of the vehicle when the petrol tanker hit the car, but the driver has third degree burns over much of his body.”
“Driver?” Past Michael repeated, “Who was driving?”
“We weren’t able to officially identify him due to how terribly injured he was, but we found this driving licence on the man,” the doctor showed Past Michael the driving licence Future Michael had confiscated from Rick Morgan.
Future Michael gasped.
They though he was Rick!
All Michael had managed to achieve by travelling back in time was to cause the accident that had landed Chloe in hospital in the first place.
He could never have stopped the accident. He was destined to go back in time and cause it, no matter what. A tear ran down his check, soaking into his bandages.
“Is he awake?” Past Michael asked, breaking into Future Michael’s reverie as he glanced over at him.
“Yes,” the doctor said, “but he can’t speak due to his injuries. Even though he was trapped in the car when it exploded, it’s Chloe we are more concerned about. His burns should heal, given time.”
“Why are you more worried about Chloe?” Past Michael asked, “She’ll wake up, right?”
The doctor sighed, “We just don’t know,” he said, “she’s been unresponsive and generally with this sort of case we don’t have very high hopes.”
The doctor left the room, leaving Past Michael with his thoughts. He looked at his girlfriend then looked at Future Michael, who he thought was Rick. Future Michael suddenly realised what was about to happen.
“I’m going to fix this,” Past Michael mumbled to himself after glancing furtively at his wrist watch, “but first I’m going to make you pay.”
Past Michael lifted the pillow from under Future Michael’s head and placed it over his face, pressing down hard until the man started to twitch uncontrollably. Future Michael desperately tried to scream, tried to form the words that would stop his past self from killing him, but he could already hear his heart monitor spiking in the background. The sound of footsteps racing into the room were the last thing Future Michael heard, other than the bamf sound as his Past Self disappeared into the past, once again about to fulfil his own prophecy.
Originally Posted 17/11/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
And she’d actually said yes!
Granted, he’d had to continue to pretend he loved Japanese comic books featuring effeminate men with no shirts on, but in the long run is had been worth it.
He hadn’t needed to use his wrist watch time machine since that day when he’d met his future self, and he’d been reluctant to try it again after his return trip resulted in him missing out on an entire year. And now that he was happily cohabiting with Chloe he had everything he thought he could ever want.
He sat on his sofa, watching television while munching from a bag of crisps, when he heard his cell phone ringing. Wiping crumbs from his lips, he answered the call.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Michael Jacobs?” a strangers voice asked on the other end of the line.
“It is,” Michael replied hesitantly, “who’s asking?”
“I’m calling from the County Hospital,” the stranger continued, “we have you down as the emergency contact for a Ms Chloe Birch.”
Michael instantly sat up straight in his seat, “What’s happened?” he asked, “Is she okay?”
“We need you come to the hospital, sir,” the voice said calmly, “we can give you more details once you’re here.”
Michael hung up the phone, racing out the front door and hopping into his car. Chloe had taken hers to get the shopping, and now he thought of it she should have been back long ago. If she’d been in an accident, Michael hoped it wasn’t anything too severe.
When he arrived at the hospital he was directed to a room with two beds in it. In one of them lay someone who looked absolutely terrible, almost like a mummy due to the amount of bandages wrapped around them, and Michael prayed to God that it wasn’t Chloe. Then he saw her in the other bed, unconscious.
A doctor approached him, “Are you Michael Jacobs?” he asked.
“Yes, I am.” Michael replied, “What happened?”
“Ms Birch was in a terrible car accident,” the doctor told him, “although she is unconscious, she wasn’t as badly hurt as the driver. She was thrown clear of the vehicle when the petrol tanker hit the car, but the driver has third degree burns over much of his body.”
“Driver?” Michael repeated, “Who was driving?”
“We weren’t able to officially identify him due to how terribly injured he was, but we found this driving licence on the man,” the doctor showed Michael a driving licence. It belonged to Rick Morgan, a guy from Chloe’s work. Michael had never liked him, and now he had every good reason to hate his guts.
“Is he awake?” Michael asked, glancing over at the other bed.
“Yes,” the doctor said, “but he can’t speak due to his injuries. Even though he was trapped in the car when it exploded, it’s Chloe we are more concerned about. His burns should heal, given time.”
“Why are you more worried about Chloe?” Michael asked, “She’ll wake up, right?”
The doctor sighed, “We just don’t know,” he said, “she’s been unresponsive and generally with this sort of case we don’t have very high hopes.”
Michael didn’t know whether to be upset that his girlfriend might die or angry that Rick Morgan might have killed her. As the doctor left the room, Michael looked at his girlfriend then looked at Rick.
Then he looked at his wrist watch.
“I’m going to fix this,” Michael mumbled to himself, “but first I’m going to make you pay.”
Michael lifted the pillow from under Rick’s head and placed it over his face, pressing down hard until the man started to twitch uncontrollably. His monitors started to spike and, just as he breathed his last, a number of doctors and nurses ran into the room.
But before they could stop Michael, he flicked the dial on his watch and vanished, leaving behind nothing but a subtle bamf noise.
Michael reappeared in the car park of the local supermarket, exactly where he’d wanted to be. He looked around, spying Chloe’s car, and seeing Chloe walking back towards it.
With her was Rick Morgan.
“Hey Chloe,” Michael beamed fakely when he saw his girlfriend with the man who almost killed her, “I thought I’d come and meet you. Help you get the groceries home.”
“Hey, Michael,” Rick said, just as fakely, “it’s good to see you after so long.”
“Don’t try to be nice, Rick,” Michael said, snatching Rick’s wallet out of his hands, “not after what you’re going to do.”
“What I’m going to do?” Rick repeated, confusion filling his face as Michael rifled through his wallet, “What do you mean what I’m going to do?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me,” Michael growled as he finally located Rick’s driving licence and waved it in his face, “you’re not driving anywhere today, especially with my girlfriend.”
“What’s he talking about?” Rick asked, turning to Chloe.
“I don’t know,” Chloe frowned, but I don’t like it.
She opened the boot of the car and put the groceries inside, slamming it shut. As she moved to the driver’s seat, she saw Michael had already climbed in.
“I’ll drive,” he told her, “it’s safer that way.”
Chloe sighed, “See you at work, Rick,” she said before getting into the passenger seat. Michael started the engine and drove out of the supermarket car park.
“Do you have any idea what could have happened if you’d have let Rick drive your car?” Michael said angrily as he drove towards home, glaring at his girlfriend angrily. Was she cheating on him with Rick? He had no idea.
“Rick wasn’t going to drive the car,” Chloe rolled her eyes, “we just ran into each other as I was leaving, so he helped me with my bags. He was on his way into the supermarket, he wasn’t leaving.”
Michael furrowed his brow. He must have done something to change history. Rick must have gotten into the car in the other time line; it was the only logical explanation. So had his simple intervention prevented Rick from deciding to drive the car? Maybe the weirdo had tried to abduct Chloe.
As he thought over what had happened, Michael didn’t notice the tanker heading straight towards them from an intersection. Chloe screamed, desperately trying to undo her seatbelt and open her door as the tanker crashed into the driver’s side of the car. Chloe’s door swung open and she was thrown from the vehicle, but Michael wasn’t so lucky. As the car spun end over end, the petrol tanker exploded, causing h=Chloe’s car to catch fire. Michael tried to open his door as the car ground to a halt, but it wouldn’t budge. His seatbelt was stuck, and before he could get it undone the engine of the car exploded and burst into flames. Michael screamed before losing consciousness.
*
When he awoke he was lying in a hospital bed, bandaged from head to toe. He felt incredibly numb, and could barely feel his arms and legs. He managed to turn his head, seeing Chloe lying in the bed across from him.
Nothing had changed.
Everything was the same.
As he tried to figure out what was going on, he saw someone coming into the room. He couldn’t believe it.
It was him!
The past Michael looked directly at his future self, a look of worry filling his face, then he saw Chloe in the next bed and seemed to deflate with relief. As he walked towards Chloe, a doctor entered the room behind him.
“Are you Michael Jacobs?” he asked.
“Yes, I am.” Past Michael replied, “What happened?”
“Ms Birch was in a terrible car accident,” the doctor told him, “although she is unconscious, she wasn’t as badly hurt as the driver. She was thrown clear of the vehicle when the petrol tanker hit the car, but the driver has third degree burns over much of his body.”
“Driver?” Past Michael repeated, “Who was driving?”
“We weren’t able to officially identify him due to how terribly injured he was, but we found this driving licence on the man,” the doctor showed Past Michael the driving licence Future Michael had confiscated from Rick Morgan.
Future Michael gasped.
They though he was Rick!
All Michael had managed to achieve by travelling back in time was to cause the accident that had landed Chloe in hospital in the first place.
He could never have stopped the accident. He was destined to go back in time and cause it, no matter what. A tear ran down his check, soaking into his bandages.
“Is he awake?” Past Michael asked, breaking into Future Michael’s reverie as he glanced over at him.
“Yes,” the doctor said, “but he can’t speak due to his injuries. Even though he was trapped in the car when it exploded, it’s Chloe we are more concerned about. His burns should heal, given time.”
“Why are you more worried about Chloe?” Past Michael asked, “She’ll wake up, right?”
The doctor sighed, “We just don’t know,” he said, “she’s been unresponsive and generally with this sort of case we don’t have very high hopes.”
The doctor left the room, leaving Past Michael with his thoughts. He looked at his girlfriend then looked at Future Michael, who he thought was Rick. Future Michael suddenly realised what was about to happen.
“I’m going to fix this,” Past Michael mumbled to himself after glancing furtively at his wrist watch, “but first I’m going to make you pay.”
Past Michael lifted the pillow from under Future Michael’s head and placed it over his face, pressing down hard until the man started to twitch uncontrollably. Future Michael desperately tried to scream, tried to form the words that would stop his past self from killing him, but he could already hear his heart monitor spiking in the background. The sound of footsteps racing into the room were the last thing Future Michael heard, other than the bamf sound as his Past Self disappeared into the past, once again about to fulfil his own prophecy.
Originally Posted 17/11/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
November 16, 2015
Poem : If I Could...
If I could go back in time
And change the things I’ve done
I’d study more for my classes
And earn a high 2:1
If I could go back in time
I’d get a better job
I’d say the things I want to say
And not side with the mob
If I could go back in time
I’d ask out all those birds
I didn’t have the guts to ask
And not regret my words
If I could go back in time
To the night we met
I’d impress you more than I did
So you’d never forget
But if I did go back in time
And changed my life’s direction
Improve my goals, achieve my aims
And finish with perfection
I might not end up in your life
Or with this wedding ring...
If I could go back in time
I wouldn’t change a thing
Originally Posted 16/11/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
And change the things I’ve done
I’d study more for my classes
And earn a high 2:1
If I could go back in time
I’d get a better job
I’d say the things I want to say
And not side with the mob
If I could go back in time
I’d ask out all those birds
I didn’t have the guts to ask
And not regret my words
If I could go back in time
To the night we met
I’d impress you more than I did
So you’d never forget
But if I did go back in time
And changed my life’s direction
Improve my goals, achieve my aims
And finish with perfection
I might not end up in your life
Or with this wedding ring...
If I could go back in time
I wouldn’t change a thing
Originally Posted 16/11/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
November 12, 2015
Short Story : Private Investigator
“So, what’s the deal?”
Private Detective Colin McTavish sat coolly and calmly behind his desk, addressing the Chief of Police, Montgomery Montgomery. The Chief sat uncomfortably in the overstuffed chair, wriggling slightly, McTavish noted, as if his underwear were riding up the crack of his butt. McTavish knew the feeling.
“The deal, as you so eloquently put it,” Montgomery said, lacing his fingers together, “is that someone has murdered my wife.”
McTavish leaned forward, resting his own hands on his desk and mimicking Montgomery’s actions, “Someone murdered your wife?” he repeated, “So why are you coming to me? Surely your own officers should be more than capable of investigating her death.”
“That’s the thing,” Montgomery said in a hushed tone, “I suspect someone in the precinct might be involved.”
“Really?” McTavish sat back in his chair, suddenly very interested. He hated the police, and he’d love nothing more than to be able to prove just how corrupt they really were. Especially if one of them had kiiled Montgomery’s wife.
“How did it happen?” McTavish asked.
“If you come with me,” Montgomery said, “I will show you.”
The two headed to Montgomery Montgomery’s house, where McTavish was faced with the mutilated remains of Montgomery’s wife. Not only had she been repeatedly stabbed but, as if to add insult to injury, she’d been shot through the head as well.
“And the police have just left her here?” he asked, shuddering.
“I haven’t informed them yet,” Montgomery said, “I wanted you to get a fresh, clean, undisturbed look at the crime scene before I got them involved. Not knowing who did this, I didn’t know who on the force I could trust.”
McTavish kneeled down next to Montgomery’s dead wife, trying to hold back the bile in his throat. It was a damn shame, he thought to himself, that such an attractive woman could be killed in such a horrific way. It was also a shame because he’d been secretly having an affair with her behind Montgomery’s back. In many ways that could make McTavish himself a suspect, but he didn’t need to worry about that right now.
“There appears to be some skin under her nails,” McTavish said, “she must have tried to fight off the attacker.”
“Excellent,” Montgomery half-smiled, “we should be able to get some DNA matches off that if it is a member of the force.”
McTavish frowned, glancing over his shoulder as he remembered the unbroken condition of the front door, “There doesn’t appear to be any sign of forced entry,” he added, “so Mary must have known her attacker.”
“Mary?” Montgomery pondered, “You knew my wife’s first name?”
McTavish looked up at Montgomery, “I make it a point to get to know the family members of the Chief of Police,” he smiled weakly, “I also know you have a cat named Cottontop.”
Montgomery nodded, “Is there anything else? Any other clues?”
McTavish looked around the bedroom, where Mary had been killed, “There’s a pen lying just under the bedside table,” he said, standing and moving towards it, “there’s also a piece of paper down here with some writing on it.”
“What does it say?” Montgomery asked curiously.
“It says Bus Station, 7pm.” McTavish said, “It’s almost that time now.”
“I’d better call this in,” Montgomery said, “you go and see if anyone turns up at the bus station at seven, I’ll report the murder.”
McTavish agreed, heading off on foot to the bus station. It was only a five minute walk away, so it didn’t take him long.
When he arrived he took a seat and waited, keeping an eye out for any suspicious looked figures that might show up. Just after seven, someone did.
A bike courier rode up to McTavish, stopping just in front of him and taking off his helmet.
“Wow,” he said, pulling a brown envelope from his satchel, “I didn’t believe someone would be here,” he smiled.
“Are you looking for Mary Montgomery?” McTavish asked.
“The name I have is just M. M., so I suppose it could be Mary Montgomery,” he eyed McTavish up and down, “I’m guessing you’re not her.”
Mctavish snatched the envelope from the courier, tearing open the top, “Hey!” the courier shouted, you can’t do that!”
McTavish opened his jacket to show the courier his weapon, but it wasn’t there.
“You’re very lucky I left my gun at home,” McTavish growled, “but I can still beat the crap out of you! Now scram!”
The courier, slightly scared by the crazy sounding private detective, reluctantly put his helmet back on and pedalled away.
McTavish peered inside the envelope, pulling out a collection of candid photographs, all of McTavish and Mary Montgomery. He gripped the opening of the envelope; this did not look good. From all appearances someone had been blackmailing Mary, and if Captain Montgomery found out the photos were of him and his dead wife, then McTavish was sure to become his prime suspect in her murder.
He flicked through the photographs, turning them over in his hands until he found something printed on the back of one of them. It had the name and address of the company that had printed the photos and it looked like it was another local private investigator, Edgar Curry.
McTavish bundled the photos back into the envelope and stuffed it inside his jacket before heading to the address of Edgar Curry. His offices were close by so, in about ten minutes, McTavish was anxiously banging on his office door.
After receiving no response, McTavish angrily kicked the door in and charged into the small room.
There, lying dead on the ground, lay Edgar Curry, a knife sticking out of his throat and a bullet hole burned through his forehead – just like Mary Montgomery. McTavish put his hand to his mouth, again trying not to throw up as he knelt next to the body. He recognised the knife – it was from his own kitchen. It was starting to look like someone was trying to frame him for these murders, so he hurriedly examined the crime scene to try to find any clues as to who could be behind this.
A paper bag was sat in the middle of Curry’s desk, and McTavish picked out the contents to see what it might contain. He found more photographs, a pair of Mary Montogomery’s underwear, and a pair of his own! Where they had come from was anyone’s guess, but the additional photographs spelled trouble for McTavish. If there were this many, there might be more.
Hastily he took his lighter out of his pocket and lit one of the photographs and, along with the ones in his jacket, watched them burn in the middle of Curry’s desk. At least those ones would be gone, and he’d worry about the others if they ever turned up.
Looking around Curry’s office, McTavish found a notepad sitting on the floor. He picked it up, but it was blank so, locating a pencil, he scribbled across the top to see what the last thing that had been written on it was.
It was a list of names; the first was Edgar Curry, the second was Mary Montgomery, the third...
The third name was Montgomery Montgomery!
As quick as he could McTavish raced out of the office, scramming the notepad into his pocket and not caring that he’d left the bag of photos burning, and headed back to Montgomery’s. If his guess was right, the killer was going to get Captain Montgomery next!
He burst through the front door of Montgomery’s house, breathing labouredly as he stopped inside. Montgomery was calmly standing over the dead body of his wife, a telephone still held in one hand.
“We’ve got to get you to safety,” McTavish puffed, “I found a list, and your name was on it!” McTavish reached into his pocket and pulled out the list, handing it to Montgomery.
But he didn’t take it.
He just smiled.
McTavish stared at the strange expression on Montgomery’s face, and that was when he noticed he was holding a gun.
“I’ve known for a long time that you’ve been sleeping with my wife,” Montgomery revealed, taking a few paces towards the out of breath detective, “so I hired Edgar Curry to trail you – under a false name, of course. Your name.”
McTavish stared at him.
“I booked him over the phone, so I never met him in person. Except for when I killed him, of course. I could have been anyone, but when the police check they’ll find that your name is in his calendar, and that you were having my wife followed. If I know you, and I think I do, you’ve already had the photographs destroyed.”
“You?” McTavish breathed heavily, “You killed Mary?”
“I had to,” Montgomery chuckled, “the bitch was cheating on me, and I couldn’t have that. Especially with a lowlife gum shoe like you.”
McTavish shook his head, still trying to get his breath back from all the running, “But why did you send me on this wild goose chase?” he asked, “What was the point?”
“Well,” Montgomery chuckled, “I might as well tell you. I needed you to leave a trail, so that you were present at all the crime scenes. I know how careless you are, so you no doubt left fingerprints at Curry’s office, and the courier will remember you if I’m any judge of your erratic behaviour.”
“So, this was all just to set me up for your wife’s murder?” McTavish shook his head, “and how are you going to trace the gunshot wound in her face back to me?”
Montgomery chuckled, “Haven’t you noticed, Colin? This is your gun!”
McTavish moved towards Montgomery, but only managed two steps before he was stopped by a bullet through the skull. As his body fell to the ground, Captain Montgomery cleared his throat and dialled the police.
“Hello,” he said in a croaky voice, as if he’d been crying, “I’d like to report a murder. Some maniac has killed my wife!”
Originally Posted 12/11/2015
Result - 1st Place
Private Detective Colin McTavish sat coolly and calmly behind his desk, addressing the Chief of Police, Montgomery Montgomery. The Chief sat uncomfortably in the overstuffed chair, wriggling slightly, McTavish noted, as if his underwear were riding up the crack of his butt. McTavish knew the feeling.
“The deal, as you so eloquently put it,” Montgomery said, lacing his fingers together, “is that someone has murdered my wife.”
McTavish leaned forward, resting his own hands on his desk and mimicking Montgomery’s actions, “Someone murdered your wife?” he repeated, “So why are you coming to me? Surely your own officers should be more than capable of investigating her death.”
“That’s the thing,” Montgomery said in a hushed tone, “I suspect someone in the precinct might be involved.”
“Really?” McTavish sat back in his chair, suddenly very interested. He hated the police, and he’d love nothing more than to be able to prove just how corrupt they really were. Especially if one of them had kiiled Montgomery’s wife.
“How did it happen?” McTavish asked.
“If you come with me,” Montgomery said, “I will show you.”
The two headed to Montgomery Montgomery’s house, where McTavish was faced with the mutilated remains of Montgomery’s wife. Not only had she been repeatedly stabbed but, as if to add insult to injury, she’d been shot through the head as well.
“And the police have just left her here?” he asked, shuddering.
“I haven’t informed them yet,” Montgomery said, “I wanted you to get a fresh, clean, undisturbed look at the crime scene before I got them involved. Not knowing who did this, I didn’t know who on the force I could trust.”
McTavish kneeled down next to Montgomery’s dead wife, trying to hold back the bile in his throat. It was a damn shame, he thought to himself, that such an attractive woman could be killed in such a horrific way. It was also a shame because he’d been secretly having an affair with her behind Montgomery’s back. In many ways that could make McTavish himself a suspect, but he didn’t need to worry about that right now.
“There appears to be some skin under her nails,” McTavish said, “she must have tried to fight off the attacker.”
“Excellent,” Montgomery half-smiled, “we should be able to get some DNA matches off that if it is a member of the force.”
McTavish frowned, glancing over his shoulder as he remembered the unbroken condition of the front door, “There doesn’t appear to be any sign of forced entry,” he added, “so Mary must have known her attacker.”
“Mary?” Montgomery pondered, “You knew my wife’s first name?”
McTavish looked up at Montgomery, “I make it a point to get to know the family members of the Chief of Police,” he smiled weakly, “I also know you have a cat named Cottontop.”
Montgomery nodded, “Is there anything else? Any other clues?”
McTavish looked around the bedroom, where Mary had been killed, “There’s a pen lying just under the bedside table,” he said, standing and moving towards it, “there’s also a piece of paper down here with some writing on it.”
“What does it say?” Montgomery asked curiously.
“It says Bus Station, 7pm.” McTavish said, “It’s almost that time now.”
“I’d better call this in,” Montgomery said, “you go and see if anyone turns up at the bus station at seven, I’ll report the murder.”
McTavish agreed, heading off on foot to the bus station. It was only a five minute walk away, so it didn’t take him long.
When he arrived he took a seat and waited, keeping an eye out for any suspicious looked figures that might show up. Just after seven, someone did.
A bike courier rode up to McTavish, stopping just in front of him and taking off his helmet.
“Wow,” he said, pulling a brown envelope from his satchel, “I didn’t believe someone would be here,” he smiled.
“Are you looking for Mary Montgomery?” McTavish asked.
“The name I have is just M. M., so I suppose it could be Mary Montgomery,” he eyed McTavish up and down, “I’m guessing you’re not her.”
Mctavish snatched the envelope from the courier, tearing open the top, “Hey!” the courier shouted, you can’t do that!”
McTavish opened his jacket to show the courier his weapon, but it wasn’t there.
“You’re very lucky I left my gun at home,” McTavish growled, “but I can still beat the crap out of you! Now scram!”
The courier, slightly scared by the crazy sounding private detective, reluctantly put his helmet back on and pedalled away.
McTavish peered inside the envelope, pulling out a collection of candid photographs, all of McTavish and Mary Montgomery. He gripped the opening of the envelope; this did not look good. From all appearances someone had been blackmailing Mary, and if Captain Montgomery found out the photos were of him and his dead wife, then McTavish was sure to become his prime suspect in her murder.
He flicked through the photographs, turning them over in his hands until he found something printed on the back of one of them. It had the name and address of the company that had printed the photos and it looked like it was another local private investigator, Edgar Curry.
McTavish bundled the photos back into the envelope and stuffed it inside his jacket before heading to the address of Edgar Curry. His offices were close by so, in about ten minutes, McTavish was anxiously banging on his office door.
After receiving no response, McTavish angrily kicked the door in and charged into the small room.
There, lying dead on the ground, lay Edgar Curry, a knife sticking out of his throat and a bullet hole burned through his forehead – just like Mary Montgomery. McTavish put his hand to his mouth, again trying not to throw up as he knelt next to the body. He recognised the knife – it was from his own kitchen. It was starting to look like someone was trying to frame him for these murders, so he hurriedly examined the crime scene to try to find any clues as to who could be behind this.
A paper bag was sat in the middle of Curry’s desk, and McTavish picked out the contents to see what it might contain. He found more photographs, a pair of Mary Montogomery’s underwear, and a pair of his own! Where they had come from was anyone’s guess, but the additional photographs spelled trouble for McTavish. If there were this many, there might be more.
Hastily he took his lighter out of his pocket and lit one of the photographs and, along with the ones in his jacket, watched them burn in the middle of Curry’s desk. At least those ones would be gone, and he’d worry about the others if they ever turned up.
Looking around Curry’s office, McTavish found a notepad sitting on the floor. He picked it up, but it was blank so, locating a pencil, he scribbled across the top to see what the last thing that had been written on it was.
It was a list of names; the first was Edgar Curry, the second was Mary Montgomery, the third...
The third name was Montgomery Montgomery!
As quick as he could McTavish raced out of the office, scramming the notepad into his pocket and not caring that he’d left the bag of photos burning, and headed back to Montgomery’s. If his guess was right, the killer was going to get Captain Montgomery next!
He burst through the front door of Montgomery’s house, breathing labouredly as he stopped inside. Montgomery was calmly standing over the dead body of his wife, a telephone still held in one hand.
“We’ve got to get you to safety,” McTavish puffed, “I found a list, and your name was on it!” McTavish reached into his pocket and pulled out the list, handing it to Montgomery.
But he didn’t take it.
He just smiled.
McTavish stared at the strange expression on Montgomery’s face, and that was when he noticed he was holding a gun.
“I’ve known for a long time that you’ve been sleeping with my wife,” Montgomery revealed, taking a few paces towards the out of breath detective, “so I hired Edgar Curry to trail you – under a false name, of course. Your name.”
McTavish stared at him.
“I booked him over the phone, so I never met him in person. Except for when I killed him, of course. I could have been anyone, but when the police check they’ll find that your name is in his calendar, and that you were having my wife followed. If I know you, and I think I do, you’ve already had the photographs destroyed.”
“You?” McTavish breathed heavily, “You killed Mary?”
“I had to,” Montgomery chuckled, “the bitch was cheating on me, and I couldn’t have that. Especially with a lowlife gum shoe like you.”
McTavish shook his head, still trying to get his breath back from all the running, “But why did you send me on this wild goose chase?” he asked, “What was the point?”
“Well,” Montgomery chuckled, “I might as well tell you. I needed you to leave a trail, so that you were present at all the crime scenes. I know how careless you are, so you no doubt left fingerprints at Curry’s office, and the courier will remember you if I’m any judge of your erratic behaviour.”
“So, this was all just to set me up for your wife’s murder?” McTavish shook his head, “and how are you going to trace the gunshot wound in her face back to me?”
Montgomery chuckled, “Haven’t you noticed, Colin? This is your gun!”
McTavish moved towards Montgomery, but only managed two steps before he was stopped by a bullet through the skull. As his body fell to the ground, Captain Montgomery cleared his throat and dialled the police.
“Hello,” he said in a croaky voice, as if he’d been crying, “I’d like to report a murder. Some maniac has killed my wife!”
Originally Posted 12/11/2015
Result - 1st Place
November 11, 2015
Poem : Going Round The Houses
People that just waste my time
Severely get my goat
They send me round the houses
So I rip open their throat
They want me to do this and that
In order to progress
Then say I really shouldn’t have
Bothered, but I digress.
When people tell you to do things,
To go to dumb extents,
Then decide not to help you out
They’re really not your friends
You ask them where to get some help
They send us on goose chases
Then tell us it’s a waste of time,
Directly, to our faces!
If people want to act this way
Then that’s just fine by me,
So long as they don’t expect thanks
For being contrary.
If they think what they’re doing is
In any way assistance
I’ll clean their ears with needle points
Far past meeting resistance;
If they think saying one thing first
Then, later, changing tune,
Will make us not want to gouge out
Their eyeballs with a spoon,
Then they are sorely mistaken
And need to sort their lives
Before I stab them in the face
With rusty old bread knives.
Originally Posted 11/11/2015
Result - Joint 1st Place
Severely get my goat
They send me round the houses
So I rip open their throat
They want me to do this and that
In order to progress
Then say I really shouldn’t have
Bothered, but I digress.
When people tell you to do things,
To go to dumb extents,
Then decide not to help you out
They’re really not your friends
You ask them where to get some help
They send us on goose chases
Then tell us it’s a waste of time,
Directly, to our faces!
If people want to act this way
Then that’s just fine by me,
So long as they don’t expect thanks
For being contrary.
If they think what they’re doing is
In any way assistance
I’ll clean their ears with needle points
Far past meeting resistance;
If they think saying one thing first
Then, later, changing tune,
Will make us not want to gouge out
Their eyeballs with a spoon,
Then they are sorely mistaken
And need to sort their lives
Before I stab them in the face
With rusty old bread knives.
Originally Posted 11/11/2015
Result - Joint 1st Place
