Friday

The Last Jamboree (196 Words)


For fifty years they had met up, as regular as clockwork. The last Fridays in May and November. Soon  it had become a ritual, something to look forward to, an excuse to catch up, go out get drunk and have a laugh.

The venues had changed over the years, fights were had, relationships started, new people came and went but the core few who had been there since day one, they hung onto the tradition for as long as possible.
 
In the last few years the jamboree has changed, what was once a celebration of ale, music and friendship has become an act of remembrance as old age and mortality slowly caught up with us all.
Alan's funeral wasn't the first he had been to but it'll be the last one for his drinking buddies. They're all gone now, he's the last man standing.

He keeps his end of the bargain, come the end of November he goes out as if he is still twenty-one
Sitting alone in the corner with his pint, a solitary tears rolls from his one good eye.
He raises his glass, mumbles a toast to his comrades, gone but never forgotten.

Thursday

A Brief Affair by Miss Mac (500 words)

It's said "music tames the savage beast" , music can soothe, give confidence, bring a tear to your eye, but what about people who make music, does it effect them the way it effects me? 

The sensuality of music first struck me as I watched the school band play, the saxophone player, his mouth teasing the chords, his fingers caressing  the tune, I wondered what those hands would feel like on me, could he play me like an instrument?

From that moment I was hooked, watching live music whenever I could, when my husband was working  I'd to go to a Bar that showcased new musicians, that's where I met Declan.

6'1 with piercing green eyes, dark closely cropped hair, he has the kind of  look that makes you itch to touch him, the kind of sparkle that makes a girl melt, and not so much a come to bed smile, more come fuck me now. 

It was almost the end of the night before Declan sat at the piano and started to play. The air of confidence that surrounded him as he played was intoxicating, I drew my gaze from the keyboard, let my eyes slide over his face and blushed as I realised  he was watching me as intently as I was him. His eyes smiled at me, he continued to play. 

Glancing around the club I realised that there were only a few people left, most involved in their own  conversations, the staff chatted quietly, no one really aware of him 

Looking towards him again, he nodded his head, he continued to play. 

"I want you," he mouthed.

When he had finished, Declan came to my table.

"That was  fantastic"  I said 
 He placed his hand on my thigh, running his thumb in circles against the exposed flesh.  His breath quickened as his hands found their way under my skirt, "Where can we go?" 

I gasped at his boldness, whispered, "My car's outside." 

"Good," he said,grabbing my hand and led me across the bar, out the door.
 "Where's your car?" 

I pointed out my car, I grabbed the keys, opened the car, Declan walked round to the passenger side, climbed in "Let's go."

The tension between us as we drove was electric, he settled his hand on my thigh, slowly began to creep upwards, I tightened my grip on the steering wheel as he began to tease  me.
Within seconds of stopping we were wrapped in each other, kissing furiously. "I want you," I groaned. "I need you." 

His eyes glittered.

Climbing out, he led me to the front of the car, lifted me up onto the bonnet. 

I gasped as my flesh met cold metal I  tilied back offering myself to him.

"Please," I whispered.

We drove back to the bar car park in silence. I pulled into the space that I had left earlier, Declan leaned across and kissed me

Glancing down  I admired our matching wedding bands.

Wednesday

The Fear (362 Words)


He wakes with a start, fear sitting heavy on his chest, cold sweat on his brow. He is close to tears but doesn't really know why. Gently he climbs out of bed so he doesn't wake his still sleeping wife, he pads to the bathroom, closes the door, turns the light on and looks at himself in the mirror.

He hardly recognises the person staring back at him anymore, the bags under the eyes, the weeks worth of stubble, the hints of grey coming in at his temples.
He looks pale and weary.

This has been going on for almost a month now, waking up in the middle of the night, panic eating away at his very being.Nothing keeps this unrelenting fear away, its always at the edge of his thoughts, casting doubt over every little decision he makes.

He has tried drinking himself into a stupor, sleeping pills, even masturbation and still he wakes up at 03:00 feeling like his world is about to end.
"Enough is enough" he says to the stranger staring back at himself.
He switches the light off and goes back to the bedroom, as quietly as possible he pulls a pair of tracksuit bottoms and an old t-shirt on.

He looks longingly at his wife, whispers "I love you" more for himself than her and creeps out.

Downstairs in the kitchen he takes off his wedding ring, his watch and the i.d bracelet he had for his birthday last year. He puts them next to his mobile phone, keys and wallet. On top of this little pile he places the note, the note he has agonised over for days now, all it says is "I'm sorry" 
Two words that say so much yet so little.

He pulls on a pair of running shoes and an old coat. Gives it all a second thought, then feels the snake of fear writhe in his belly again. He opens the front door, steps out into the night and pulls it gently, quietly behind him.
He takes one last look at the house and the life he is leaving behind, wipes the tears from his eyes and walks away.

Tuesday

T-Minus 4 Minutes by The Chimping Dandy (496 words)



"WARNING! Atmospheric insertion failure – automatic attitude correction system unable to deploy"


I hit the button to mute the alarm and checked the tell-tales.  It looked like one of the steering fins had only half extended.  I cursed my maintenance guy, promising that I would knock it free with his face if I ever made it back into orbit.  As I switched to manual, the tiny thumb-stick appeared from the console just underneath my hand.  Grabbing it gingerly like a fountain pen made of thin glass, I made small, delicate movements trying to correct the long, looping spin that the slightly out of balance pod had dropped into.


"Stop fighting me you bitch, we've done this a thousand times"


The creaking from the armourglass windows told me that the air was starting to get thicker.  I chanced a look at the instruments. 100,000 meters up, losing altitude at 400Mps, that gave me a little over 4 minutes before I became a little red smear in an interestingly shaped crater.  Options flew through my head and were rejected one by one like marbles going down a drain, until;


"Hippolyta, retract ACS fins!"


"WARNING! Retracting ACS fins will result in total attitude control loss"


"Over-ride and retract!"


I could only just hear the motors retracting the fins over the howling roar of the atmosphere rushing by, but finally the whining stopped and the indicators went out.  Almost instantly the looping roll started to gain speed and the ground below moved in ever increasing circles past the viewport.

You know those times when you wish you hadn't had a cooked breakfast? Well this was one of those times and I tried desperately to keep hold of my scrambled eggs and sausage.  70,000 meters, 380Mps, the combination of the thickening atmosphere was starting to slow the descent, but not by anywhere near enough.


"Mayday, Mayday, this is Drop-pod Zero One Niner requesting immediate SAR intervention"


The radio crackled, but there was no reply – Damn these colonies with heavily ionised atmospheres!


As the horizon passed by the viewscreen, I realised that my plan was working; with every rotation there was less ground and more sky visible.


"Hippolyta, on my mark, deploy all external fins, extend airbrakes to maximum and fire main thrusters at 110%"


"WARN..."


"Over-ride and confirm!"


"Confirmed"


The external view was now all sky, little by little the roll was slowing, but the spin was getting worse.


"In 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… MARK!"


The deceleration was intense, my vision started to fade as my eyeballs tried to flatten themselves to the back of my skull.  300Mps, 250… 200… 140… 80… 30… 10… 5…


"Landing systems engaged, touchdown in 5 seconds"


As the dust settled and the hull cooled, I looked out of the viewscreen at the dome of the terraformers hut and checked its ID number.


"Drop-pod Zero One Niner to Amazon Delivery Cruiser Jeff Bezos, address confirmed, final stage of same day delivery in progress, over and out"

Monday

An Episode of Violence (487 Words)


Holding the phone to the side of my head, the newest, biggest, best model out, I slur loudly. "I would get a Taxi but I don't know where I am ... no don't worry I've got a hundred and fifty quid on me."

Taking the bait they follow me down the alley, where I mime taking a piss.
The big one, its always the big one, grabs me, spins me around, slams me into the wall.

"Give us your phone and cash and maybe, maybe we won't hurt you .... that much"

This makes the other two laugh.

Dropping the slur from my voice I say " There is three of you, why is there always three of you?"

This throws the big one off and he loosens his grip on me. Seeing my chance I lunge forward, bite and clamp and tear. The sound of bone and cartilage crunching and breaking fills my ears, blood rushes into my mouth.
I push him off me, all of his fight is gone and his hands rush to where his nose used to me and sinks to his knees, screaming.

I turn my attention to the other two, spitting the lump of big one in my mouth at the smallest, it hits him in the face. He turns and runs wanting no part of this madness.

One on one now, we stare at each other in the dim alley, his mate still screaming and throwing the occasional sob in for good measure.

For a second or two I think he is going to run as well leaving me to play with the nose-less wonder.
He obviously fancies his chances and pulls a knife out of his back pocket, gives me the classic 'come on then' gesture.

I Take a step back and drive my boot as hard as I can into the bloody mess of old nose-less' face.
This does two things, it shuts him up and distracts the knife wielding idiot  long enough for me to get his attention with a nice sweeping kick to the back of his knees.

He falls to the floor, the knife skitters off into the darkness and I pounce on him, pinning him with my knees on his shoulders.  Bless him he starts sobbing, begging me to leave him alone, I give him a few slaps around the face, tell him to man up and accept his fate.

I press my thumbs into his eyes sockets until I feel that satisfying pop.
The noise he makes is quite impressive its not quite a scream, not quite a gargle.
I get off him, kick him in the stomach, tell him to pipe down as I have a phonecall to make.

"Yeah can I book a taxi please? I'm on the corner of Rotherwas street and Broad street ..... ten minutes? Oh that's plenty of time."

I cut the call off and go and look for the knife.


Friday

Dr. Jay (500 Words)



I know the topiramate is kicking in as everything goes blurry, I close one eye to bring her into focus, concentrate on what she is saying.
"I'm a few weeks late ..."

She must be talking to me, I don't think there is anyone else in the room.
Better give her an examination, people seem to like that.

I give her my best doctor voice "Ok if you just jump onto the bed we'll have a quick look" 

She hops up, shuffles down until her legs are dangling off the edge and hitches her skirt up and her panties down.
Oh this isn't good, I'll have to bluff my way out of this now.

I snap some gloves on, the second best part of my day is putting the gloves on.
I'm sure I've got a speculum here somewhere …
"Right I'll be as gentle as I can …"

I gently insert the business end into her nether regions and open her up.
My vision is really starting to fade now so I lean in closer than the board would deem acceptable.

"Well, yes, that all looks very nice, Well done you!"

She takes this as a compliment "Thanks doctor… am I pregnant?"

I had totally forgot what I was meant to be pretending to look for, in a moment of blind panic I cup my hands and shout into her vagina

"Hello is there anyone in there?"

I wait as if someone will answer me back.

"Well its hard to say, looks like we'll have to do a test after all" I say with what I hope is an air of disappointment.

I close her back up, toss the speculum into the sink and sadly ball my gloves off, I love wearing the gloves, I like how everything feels clean with them on.

I rummage around on my desk for a sample bottle and find some Lorazepam so gobble a few down to try and take the edge off the mania that is setting in, finally I find one and toss it to her.
She is still pulling her knickers up so it hits her on the top of her head.
This threatens to set the giggles off but I get myself under control.

"Right Miss Kenzie, if you could just go and tinkle in there for me please!"

She trundles off  and I take the opportunity to have a bit of a lie down. I'm listening to my heart beat with my stethoscope when she comes back in with her little bottle of warm pee.

I take the lid off and sniff it as if it was a fine wine, take a sip and swill it round my mouth.

Its only the horrified look on her face that brings me back to earth and makes me realise I have a mouth full of piss. 

I swallow it and say "Well that seems fine but I'll do a test as well, just to make sure"

It's going to be a long day.

Thursday

Inquisition by Thom J. Wallace (372 Words)

Don’t get caught. DON’T GET CAUGHT. It was a simple mantra I’d repeated time and time again since I’d started on the operation, but here I was. Busted.

The room was maybe eight feet by six, about the size of a prison cell. In the middle of it was a table which I was now leaning on, trying to remain casual, trying to remain calm. The room was dark except for a single solitary lamp that was shining down on the table and I had trouble to keep my eyes open due to the incandescence of the bulb and the reflection off the shiny surface off the table. But I wasn’t calm. I was anything but calm. I could feel the pulse in my neck as my blood pressure rose and I could feel the first beads of sweat starting to form in my eyebrows.

Think Martin. THINK! There has to be a way out of this situation. But my mind was blank. I’m an intelligent man and I just couldn’t gather my thoughts long enough to pull together a coherent plan. Something, anything I could say that might get me out of this situation.

There was a click behind me and the door open and in she walked. She was a tall woman and in another light she would have been very attractive, but right at this moment she scared me. Her short, dark bobbed hair looked severe and her fine features were cold and devoid of emotion. She smoothed her skirt and slid silently into the chair opposite me and stared, her eyes boring into me and exacerbating the shame I had already felt.

“Hello there Martin. I think it’s time you and I had a little discussion, don’t you?”

I hesitated. I knew I’d been caught and there was no way out of it.

“Y-y-yes. I suppose we should. But I can expl-“

She cut me off.

“Silence, I don’t want to hear some fabrication to get you out of the situation. What I want to know,” she paused “What I want to know is, how did you think you could get away with eating my last Rolo.”

Wednesday

O'Hannigan P.I (500 words)

I told her to meet me on the corner of 32nd and 4th.
My office is downtown. I say office, its a room with a desk, two chairs , a telephone and a hat-stand.
I don't trust any man who doesn't wear a hat.

I'm not one for talking but she asks how she'll recognise me, I say I'll be the one wearing a hat.
I always wear a hat.

I told her to meet me noon but didn't turn up until half past.
If she really wanted to see me, she would wait was how I figured it.
I get there and this broad is nowhere to be seen. I've never set eyes on her but I knew I would know when I saw her.
Sure enough twenty minutes later her limo pulls up, she looks a million dollars.
I look about a buck fifty.

She spies me spying her, walks over, bold as brass, offers me a gloved hand and says
 "O'Hannigan?"
I say "That's me" Because it is.

She says "I'm Melissa but everyone calls me Misty "

I say " O'Hannigan everyone calls me O'Hannigan "
Because they do.

She doesn't know how to take that, few people can handle the cold, hard truth.
So I say "Come on you're buying me breakfast, I know a place that does eggs"

She says "Its almost one in the afternoon, breakfast was hours ago"

I say " Look lady I've just got up, it's breakfast time by my watch"

So we go to Katz, I have the eggs, she has a look of disgust and a coffee.

"Tell me about it then" I say through a mouthful of eggs.

She grimaces, maybe at me, maybe at the story she is about to spin.
I already know this broad is lying, I just need to find out what about.
She doesn't know I know.
She thinks I'm some schlub with three days worth of stubble and bloodshot eyes.

She says how she hasn't seen her husband in days, last she heard he was going to an all night card game at O'Rourkes.
I know O'Rourkes, I know all the slum bars this city has to offer.

I lean back in my chair, not easy when you have a booth, look her in the eyes and say  "He's down in the docks, maybe in a sack maybe with just pocketfuls of rocks but he isn't swimming I can tell you that much."

She looks shocked and stammers "Wha-wha-How?"

So I give it her both barrels.

"You've got oil on your gloves, same oil that made the hand-print on the trunk of the car you came in.
Your driver wasn't wearing a hat and I don't trust men who don't wear hats.
You think you  get O'Hannigan on the case, make it look like you want him found and maybe the cops won't come knocking.
Maybe they will maybe they won't.
Its not my concern.
Now get out of here lady I'm trying to have breakfast."

Tuesday

Football Crazy by Vincent Furnier (437 Words)


He's football mad that Pete. Everyone at work knows that. Plays every weekend without fail. Sometimes a weekday kick-about too.

I hear he had a trial with The City when he was younger. The boy's fearless. Always first into a tackle, takes no prisoners.

Never backs down from a ruck either. Few weeks back he played against the estate boys & it all kicked off. Turned up Monday looking like Simon Weston!
Stood his ground though.  Top boy!

His missus works here too. You know Karen? Works evenings?  Dainty ginger lass with the perky tits? Cute little thing.

They're a nice couple, seem really good together. I've heard he was a bit of a lad till they got together. Seems to have settled with her though. Good
for them. (Good for him anyway!)



There they are now "hey Pete, stop the ball with your face again? Cracking black eye mate! What's he like! Is he always coming home to you like this
Kar?"

Karen rolls her eyes and gives Pete a look. A look that to anyone else conveys chagrin and exasperation , with a touch of sympathy and concern. A look that says "yes, but he's my Pete & I love him"

Pete knows different

Pete knows that look. That look says "go on, tell them what really happened, go on, I fucking dare you"

Truth is. Pete hates football. Has no interest in it. certainly can't play it. last time Pete kicked a ball was junior school and that wasn't through
choice.

It started with one little lie.

"I got it playing football"

it seemed a lot more plausible than

"I walked into a door"

Which in turn was preferable to

"One night, after 3 litres of cider, Karen smashed a plate into my face because she'd seen me talking to a woman in the canteen"

She loves him. She doesn't want to lose him. He's got to be shown how much she cares. As often as it takes.

True, the woman he was talking to was Dorothy, AKA "old Dot" so called because she's worked on the canteen since the year dot, but still, best not to take chances. Given his reputation she can't afford to give him any slack, she couldn't stand to lose him

 She's not sure why he stays. Last season he was out of action for 4 weeks with a sprained ankle. Truth was, he was pissing blood for a week after she caught him talking to a shop assistant in Asda.

He knows why he stays.
He knows how hard she hits.
He won't take the chance another girl might hit that bit harder.

Monday

Facebook Friends (488 Words)

It's a dreary Monday morning when it happens. 
After months of desperate attention seeking status updates, Smiths Lyrics, declarations of undying love. He finally posted it "Robert Taylor changed his relationship to single"

My heart skips a beat, I feel giddy and a little sick.
It is hard to take in, after all these years he would finally be mine.
 
There is much to do first though.
First things first and I ring work, say I'm sick. 
How it must be this 24 hour flu going round, how hopefully I'll be in tomorrow, how I'm so sorry, you know how much I hate letting people down.

I think they buy it, in the three years I've been there I haven't had a single sick day.
If they don't I'm past caring I have waited too long for this moment to arrive and I'm not missing it now.
 
I throw some clothes into an overnight bag and check the route, I know it like the back of my hand. One hundred and Eight miles, two hours and thirty five minutes.
I've planned this trip for years, dreamed of driving across country to see him.
To tell him how I feel after all these years.

Before I leave I double check the update, make sure it definitely says what I think it says, I'd hate to drive all the way there and find out he is still married.

Judging by the amount of sympathy pouring onto his page, all the offers of shoulders to cry on, of nights out promised. Declarations of how he is better off without her, how she isn't worth it M8. 
Its not only true but I better get a move on if I want to get in first.

I jump in the car and get on my way, driving a little too fast across the country roads trying to trim a few precious minutes off, eat the miles between us up.
My mind is racing, I can't concentrate properly, can't settle on a radio station, aren't comfortable in my seat, in my clothes, in my skin.

As I get nearer and nearer the doubt starts to eat away at me, is this the right thing to do? Will he even remember me?

I find his house easily, park the car up and take a few minutes to try and stop my hands from shaking, to build up the courage to actually do this.

I take a deep breath, get out of the car and march to his door.
 
I ring the bell, hammer on the door, desperation is starting to kick in.

After what feels like an eternity he answers, he has obviously been crying and looks a shell of the person I knew. He looks at me his eyes not quite believing what stands before him, all he can muster is a pathetic "Hello?"
And I say it.

"Robert, I fucking hated you at school"

Friday

Mundane of the Dead (485 Words)

When the dead rose, everyone panicked, well almost everyone.
Not us, we had waited for this, we were prepared.

All those weekends of camping,  the survival manuals, the episodes of Bear Grylls. We knew how to survive in the wild anywhere in the world for months at a time.

As soon as they confirmed the first case, some chump in Chicago who had a heart attack then spent three days in the morgue before he was found still "alive".

We knew the end of the world was nigh and survival of the fittest was the order of the day.
We packed up the truck and headed to hills.
And there we stayed, living off the land, sleeping under the stars.

And then it all went wrong.

We were out, miles away from camp, in a field digging some potatoes when we saw our first ever Zed.
Shambling along after some poor old sap. We did the decent thing and ran to help, putting our own lives in jeopardy to save a fellow human being.

As soon as we were in range Darth drew his bow and lined up a shot. The arrow sailed through the air and sank into its throat. It fell to its knees, claret spraying like a fountain from where Darth tagged it.
A head shot would have been better but after six months of shooting rabbits, sheep and Deer he did alright.
I sprinted to where it was thrashing about on the floor to finish it off with my trusty crow bar.

It was then the farmer started screaming, what the hell we were doing to his wife? What we were doing on his land? Was it us who had been killing his sheep?

It was then I stopped hitting his wife and he filled us in on what we had missed.
How the end of the world hadn't quite panned out how we thought it would, how people aren't really dying any more but life is carrying on.

He's telling us all this while what's left of his wife is trying to get to her feet, the arrow sticking out of her neck,  trying to pick up what's left of her head, trying to put humpty together again.

I'm trying not to stare, trying not to heave when the farmer tells us to leave him be, to get back home, that the world hasn't ended after all.

He turns his back on us, takes hold of his wife's hand, tells her everything is going to be alright and leads her back off the way they came, away from us and the mess we have made.

Me and Darth just sort of look at each other, neither of us knowing what to say.

We trudge back to camp, pack up what we have called home for the last six months and head back to civilisation.

Back to normality.
Back to mundanity.

Thursday

Drought Relieved By Judith Joubert (431 Words)



Drought Relieved

Damned sun. The man threw his faded and frayed hat in the dust, having nothing else to throw, nowhere else to throw it. He squinted up at the sun and stooped to pick up his hat, hitting it against his leg. The man stuck it on his head.

Sparing the scorched crops one more disgusted grunt, he stomped home angrily. In the hallway, the man avoided looking at his wife’s portrait. That’s why she died; Elizabeth died because of the drought. Two years ago. Only two? It seems as if it was a different life, altogether. 

There was no sign from the sky about its being relieved soon. Soon and not a month later. Not only could Frank not stand it anymore, he was on the brink of financial ruin – now more than ever. He went into the tiny kitchen and sat down heavily in a wooden chair. Oh to hell with it all! There was half a bottle of brandy on the table. He reached for it, consolation. 

Much later in the afternoon, he staggered outside, with the now empty bottle in his hand.
“What do you want from me?!” he called to the sun. “You’ve taken my wife, my money, my stock and more than once my crops!” He smashed the bottle against a rock. The glass
shattered and landed in the dust, some fragments planted themselves and prepared to wait an eternity.
The man passed out, in the dust and glass, spent after his sudden burst of anger.
 
The sun set bathing the sky with the most beautiful colours. Purple, pink, yellow, orange and red streaks filled the heavens. The earth looked very gentle in a last departing glow from the setting sun...
But the man lay in deep slumber, unconscious of the world passing him by.

And the moon rose and everything was beautiful again, though it was bathed in a different light – for a while. Huge black clouds appeared and blocked out the silver majesty of the moon. Every nocturnal insect that had been singing its lament became quiet before the mighty promise of relief. Drops of rain fell to the seemingly unfertile earth.

Thunder rolled, the man awoke. “What the hell is this?” A fragile raindrop burst on the tip of his nose. Reality dawned on him – it was raining! He looked up but was blinded by the falling rain. He bowed his head.
The crops were dead, the cattle were dead, Elizabeth was dead. And now – the God who had been punishing him for so long has sent forgiveness in abundance!

Wednesday

Mr. Jenkins. (496 Words)

" Make sure you clean up after that bloody disgusting hound!"

That's Mr. Jenkins, he lives down the road from me, loves his lawn, hates animals.
He has lived here all his life, a retired civil servant and head of the neighbourhood watch, a voluntary committee he runs with an iron fist.

This one time, I was banging a lot of hours in at work and by the time I got home I was way too tired to cook, so I ordered take out a few nights in a row.
Ok so it was like a week, ten days straight.

Jenkins sees the same car rocking up to my house night after night, making a delivery then driving off in a hurry. He phones the cops, says I'm a drugs dealer.
True story by the way.

So now you have the cut of Jenkins' jib its only fair to introduce myself.

I'm Lloyd, in my mid thirties and work in tech support for a  major supermarket chain. I was head hunted by my current employers two years back and had to relocate to the big bad city.
So I packed up my life, bought the house a few doors down from old Jenkins and me and Digby hit the road.

Oh yeah Digby, he's the star of this tale and the love of my life.
One hundred pounds of old English sheepdog slobber, fur and shit.
He's amazing, he's the smartest dog I know and a really good listener.

I'm the only one on the street who owns a dog, its not so much Jenkins has banned them but he has made his views on "dog dirt" well and truly known.

Digby is a massive hound, on his hind legs he is taller than me so his dog eggs are immense. I'm a responsible owner and would never leave a turd lying on the path.
Sure you need a snow shovel and a sack to pick them up but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

This doesn't stop Jenkins, I swear the dude has a vendetta against me and Digby. Every time he sees us out he "reminds" me to pick up any offending items.

So that's how we ended up here.

My alarm went off at 02:00 I'm dressed all in black, the balaclava was an inspired ebay purchase and really sets off my costume.
I've snuck out of the house and up the street like a ninja, if Jenkins wants something to moan about I'll give him something to moan about.

I haven't been to the toilet since the day before yesterday, my stomach is killing me.
A few times I have doubted I would make it all the way here.

I double check to make sure no one is around.
The street is deathly silent.

I hop over Jenkins' white picket fence.
Onto his lawn, his pride and joy .
I drop my trousers, crouch down and let out a sigh of relief.

Monday

The Dead Rise (448 words)

When there is no more room in hell the dead shall walk the earth.
That's what the film said, that's what we were promised, an all out zombie apocalypse. A plague of the dead laying waste to civilisation as we know it.
What we got was something a bit different.

The Methuselah project was where it all started, where the end of the world began. They had grand dreams of extending life for the greater good. Making old age and suffering a thing of the past. Making the universe that little bit smaller, the stars that little bit closer.
They extended life all right, just not in the way they wanted to.

The initial results were amazing, cancer patients given days to live still alive months later. Awards and honours were dished out, countless words were written about them in scientific journals.

And then it started.

It wasn't such much that people stopped dying it was more they didn't stop dead when they did.

The first confirmed case was at the county general hospital in Chicago Illinois , sixty three year old Vic Gregory had a heart attack and was pronounced dead, three days later come his autopsy the pathologist unzipped the body bag and promptly announced him alive again.
After that the cases mushroomed nationwide, it took a while, too long really, for anyone to notice the link between the recently not so deceased and the wonder drug vitaediebusamin or VitD as most users called it.

It was as the cases got more widespread, and the un-deaths got more gruesome that panic spread and emergency measures were put into place
Corpses dragging themselves out of car wrecks looking for their heads. Soldiers torn apart by landmine's groping for their weapons.

What can only be described as a puddle of gore, the ever living, bubbling, remains of farmer Si Palmer were found the messy end of an industrial shredder, oozing towards the optimistic suicide note that sat on his carefully folded clothes at the business end.

After several disturbed services, burials were banned and cremations became mandatory.
No one officially ever admitted it but even that didn't do the trick, urns danced and jumped off shelves, spilling clouds of sentient ashes trying to find their way home.

Soon the law was that the still warm ashes were interned under concrete as soon as possible and never mentioned again.
Mourning is a thing of the past, people dream about death the same way folks used to think about winning the lotto.

No one knows just how many people are  infected, that's what they call it, an infection .
The worlds first disease that won't kill you.
A global pandemic of life.

Saturday

TJJFP ...

Hello and welcome to the James Josiah Flash Project or as no one will call it TJJFP.

My name isn't really James Josiah but it is the one I opt to write under. And this is my Flash Project.

What is a Flash Project? I hear no one cry!

Flash fiction is a type of short story, really short short stories. There are no defined limits but I will work under a self imposed limit of 500 words.
500 words no more, normally less.

And that is the only limit I am setting myself in terms to content. So don't be surprised if one day I'm writing about dinosaurs and then the next entry is about what ever the opposite of a dinosaur is.
A creationist?

 I will be publishing every Monday, Wednesday and Friday normally around dinnertime and then spamming them on twitter using the catchy hashtag  #TJJFP using the name @donttelltales

I have the attention span of a gnat, this is why flash seems to click with me and that is why there will the occasional typo / jumbling of words.
Point one out to me and I shall send you a shiny penny!

This first entry is exactly 200 words long