Dark, strange and fantastic fiction
Well done, you found it!
Don’t tell anyone, but as well as the sale on The Phoenix and The Squared Circle, I’m also running a secret sale on The Forgotten Creatures.
$2.99, but only this weekend for my blog readers and newsletter subscribers.
If you’re quick you can grab The Forgotten Creatures for $2.99 from:
Amazon (affiliate link);
directly from me, or
Enjoy!
Hi all,
this week’s flash fiction is based on a news article. Read on after the piece for a link to the article and to find out why I needed to write a story about it.
He couldn’t choose. The machete or the brush?
Steve kept smacking his lips after every sip of coffee. It sounded like the machete slicing into skin. He chose the brush. ‘Mate!’ said Steve. ‘Not nervous, are you?’ They were in Steve’s rust-orange van. The light went off in the house they were watching. ‘This is it,’ said Steve.
They got out quietly. Walked around the back of the house. Birds were singing, drowning out the rasp of Bill’s breath. He didn’t like this. But he needed the money. They crouched at the back door and pulled stockings over their heads. The material was cool for one second, then warm. Bill was already sweating.
Steve pulled at the back door handle. It opened, and he slipped inside. Bill followed. The house smelled of air freshener and deodorant. He could hear a shower running upstairs. Steve motioned him to the living room. They sat on the leather couch.
‘You know what to say?’
Bill nodded.
‘Mate?’ Steve sounded tense.
‘I know: “You’ve been asking for this for a long time. I saw—”’
‘Seen’
‘”—seen the way you’ve been looking at me.” Et cetera.’
‘Good. Here.’ Steve went over to Bill. Tugged his stocking. ‘There was a bit sticking up, mate. Made you look like a condom.’
Bill smiled, then a laugh escaped him. ‘Well, I wanna be safe, don’t I?’
‘Yeah.’ Steve was laughing, too. ‘You don’t know where this dirty bugger’s been!’
The water stopped running and they stifled their laughter. Bill leaned back. They were being paid $1000 for a Tickle Home Invasion. Steve was to threaten the guy with the machete until he stripped. Then Bill would tie him up and tickle him with the bristles of the broom. Brand new from Bunnings.
‘He doesn’t half take his time, does he?’ said Bill.
‘He wants to look good for you.’
The bathroom door opened. Footsteps creaked across the floorboards of the Victorian building to the bedroom.
’10 minutes,’ said Steve. ‘Let him get his money’s worth of anticipation.’
‘I’d love a ciggie,’ said Bill.
‘Have one after,’ said Steve and they started giggling again.
‘Hello?’ The voice came from upstairs. ‘Is there someone there?’
They stopped laughing. Birds outside. The guy worked night-shift, was getting read for bed. Just wanted a little something to give himself sweet dreams.
Steve’s phone vibrated. The noise was immense in the strange room. ‘Mate,’ said Steve, showing Bill his phone. ‘We got you.’
Bill looked at the text: ‘Happy Birthday, Darling!’
Steve tugged the brush. Bill let it go. Over his shoulder Bill saw a figure on the stairs with another brush.
‘Strip, mate!’ said Steve.
‘No, please!’ said Bill, but he was already tugging his shirt over his head.
The BBC featured an article on two guys hired for a home invasion, which went wrong. After reading it I knew I would have to write about it. It’s not the titillating nature of the home invasion which grabbed my attention but the questions the article raised:
“He was willing to pay A$5,000 if it was ‘really good’,” – How does this work? Is there a baseline minimum for the callout and then a bonus depending on how good it is? Who decides (and what are the criteria) to fairly determine how good is good enough to get the $5K? What if the client decides it was bad and the contractor (who has a machete…) decides it was good?
“the client moved to another address 50km (30 miles) away without updating the two men” – How do you forget an appointment with a man with a machete? Which is costing you up to $5,000? How long in advance do you need to arrange this sort of thing? (#AskingForAFriend)
The 2 men therefore go into the wrong house where ” the resident … assumed it was a friend who came by daily to make morning coffee.” – At 6:15 in the morning. We lived in Australia for four years so I know that people there get up disgracefully early but still. A friend who comes by to make coffee at 6:15 every morning? Okay. Hands up everyone who has a friend who pops by to make coffee while you’re still in bed? Exactly.
“one of the pair said, “Sorry, mate”, and …[t]he two men then drove to the correct address,” – How come they now have the correct address? What’s going on?
“the client noticed one man had a “great big knife” in his trousers” – you’re expecting me to make a joke about this. No. Shame on you.
“The client then cooked bacon, eggs and noodles, and a short time later, the police arrived at the property” – ignore the second bit for now. Never mind who called the police and how they knew where to find the two men. We’re concentrating on the first part of this sentence.
Picture the scene: you’re in bed. The doorbell rings. You get up. Could it be…? Oh, shit! No, it can’t be them because you forget to tell them you’ve moved house. But it is them. They look a bit worried.
‘What’s up, guys?’ you ask.
‘We broke into the wrong house. I shook the guy’s hand but he got a bit of a fright.’
‘Right, yeah, I forgot to text you.’
‘Don’t worry about it. It is what it is.’
‘You’re probably not in the mood to tie me up and tickle me right now though?’
‘Nah, mate. Sorry. I just thought we’d sit here for a bit in case the police happen by to arrest us.’
‘Hey! How, actually, did you know where to find–‘
‘Sorry, mate. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Fair enough.’ The three men sit in silence. It’s hard to say who is most embarrassed by the mix-up. ‘Would you like some breakfast then?’
‘Oooh! Yes, please!’
So my completely fictional version of events, which contains imaginary characters (any resemblance to actual persons, whether, living, dead, tickled or otherwise is purely coincidental) was an attempt to work out a version of events which might actually make sense to me.
Actually, that’s what all my writing is about.
Hi all,
taking a little fiction break this week. See you next Thursday!
Hi!
Another piece of twenty minute fiction. This one inspired by a tweet from Mark Stay (@markstay) about “watering the chickens.” I added five random words and here we are.
As usual I corrected typos and punctuation and deleted anything bad or unnecessary otherwise it is as I originally wrote it. Enjoy!
We could never stop Grandad watering the chickens.
He started one summer. It was warm. Seemed like a good idea at the time. The chickens were at the bottom of the garden. Granny didn’t like them. She said they smelled like Grandad’s trousers when he had them on too long. So the herb garden grew to encompass tomatoes, salads, strawberries and rhubarb in beds, the herbs in hanging boxes creating a verdant backdrop when you looked out the kitchen window.
Whenever Grandad was missing we’d find him hidden behind the foliage; the hiss and platsch of water from the blue hosepipe a giveaway. He’d be standing close to the tall cage he kept the chickens in, leaning in to make sure that each got its fair share. There were three. Two auburn-coloured, one white with brown spots along her wings.
“Grandad! Granny wants you to light the fire.”
He’d give us one of his trite responses and shamble in. He’d do what was required but before you’d know it he’d be gone. Granny would purse her purple lips.
There was always some pretext: the rubbish needed to be taken out; the car should be filled up in case she wanted to use it; the jar was stiff and she wanted him to open it. We’d find him spraying water over the chickens. Leaning in, like he was listening.
Sometimes we hid in the garden, the chickens gackering. If we got too close there’d be a hush. The kind when you walk into a room and people stop talking about you. Grandad leaning in.
It did them good, too. They kept growing. First they were up to my knee. Then up to my waist. Too big for the enclosure. Granny was thankful when there was a drought one year: there was a ban on the hosepipe.
Grandad looked uncomfortable. We’d find him leaning against the backdoor to catch what the chickens might be saying.
“You talk more to the birds than you do to me!” said Granny. We offered to have her stay with us. The chickens were so big they were scary. Their orange eyes stared at us in the garden. We’d pluck herbs – Granny refused to enter the garden at all – as the chickens conferred. We’d race inside and lock the door.
One night she woke and found him watering the chickens. He leaned in, at eye level with the three ladies, one hand pushed through the chicken wire fence.
Needless to say she moved in with us after that.
Grandad insisted we call in advance before visiting. The floors were always damp when we arrived. The chickens watched us from the good couch in the sitting room.
The random words were:
verdant
trite
needless
thankful
offer
I really dislike the line “So the herb garden grew to encompass tomatoes, salads, strawberries and rhubarb in beds, the herbs in hanging boxes creating a verdant backdrop when you looked out the kitchen window. “
It needs to stop after “…hanging boxes.” but then I would lose my “verdant” prompt.
On the other hand I think “We’d find him spraying water over the chickens. Leaning in, like he was listening.” works very well.
The original was “We’d always find him spraying water over the chickens, leaning in to them, almost like he was listening.” I got rid of fill-words but making two lines out of it is the real special sauce: both lines have more room to resonate.
