flash365 by Calum Kerr

Burning Twilight by Sonney Stelling

2012-02-29T23:55:00.000Z

When Jimmy told Sarah they needed a holiday, he was thinking of sipping cocktails in a luxury poolside bar somewhere exotic. Sarah had other ideas. Since reading ‘Twilight’ she had become obsessed with vampires, so subsequently she booked them into a hotel in Romania, and a tour of the alleged Dracula Castle.

The tour began with the guide introducing himself as Jan Van Helsing; he informed them that he was the descendant of an actual Dr. Van Helsing, though Jimmy did not really believe him. He turned to the guy next to him, whom looked equally bored.

“Crock of shit this ain’t it?”

“Yeh, I’m only here cuz the missus dragged me”.

“She into that Twilight bollocks is she?”

“Hmm, what I would give for five minutes alone with Meyer. Buffy was so much better”.

Having bonded over their mutual plight Jimmy and his new friend Gary (who was here with his fiancée Rachel) quietly went about making sarcastic comments whenever when of the tour groups females made a reference to their favourite vampire romance trash. From what they could tell they were the only two English couples there. The rest of the tour, roughly fifteen people, were made up of mostly American’s.

The tour ventured down into the basement crypt. Van Helsing stopped the group just in front of a large stone coffin.

“Legend has it; this coffin is the final resting place of Dracula himself. Of course it is just a legend. We will now move back upstairs where the tour will end at the gift shop”.

Due to boredom or possibly anger Jimmy started to push at the coffin’s lid. For amusement or also boredom Gary started to help, they had pushed the lid far enough to see a tiny slit inside. Suddenly the lid flew off and crashed into the wall. The rest of the group turned around and stared at Gary and Jimmy as they tried their best to look innocent. They turned to look in the coffin; a cloaked figure rose from the coffin and began floating above the coffin. The group stood staring too shocked/scared to run or scream.

“I the Great Count Dracula have finally been released from my prison”.

Dracula swooped at the group grabbing one of the American women and flying out of the crypt.

“Now the stupidly high ceiling’s make sense”, Gary exclaimed.

The group turned to the tour guide.

“Can’t you do something?” Sarah asked.

“Just because I am Van Helsing does not mean I can slay vampires, that bastard Hugh Jackman has a lot to answer for.”

“Well where do you think he went?” Jimmy asked.

“He will want to make a new bride, so my guess is the master bedroom”. Van Helsing said.

“Fine, we freed him, we will kill him”.

Gary and Jimmy snapped two chair legs for stakes and went off to slay Dracula. For some reason, Sarah and Rachel also took stakes and insisted on coming along. As did a man named Ray (his wife Toyah was the one Dracula had grabbed).

As they slowly entered the master bedroom they found Dracula on top of Toyah on the four-post bed. Dracula looked up at them, blood dripping from his fangs. All but Jimmy walked towards Dracula; he stood at the end of bed waiting. One by one they lunged at the vampire and one by one they were easily brushed aside. As Ray lunged again Dracula threw him into the wall like a child tossing a rag doll. As this was happening Jimmy had snuck to the window and drew back the curtains. As the light-struck Dracula he turned to face Jimmy. He tried to move towards him, but fell to his knees, crippled with pain. His skin started to glow orange then red then black before finally white. Then his skin, bones and insides began turning to ash, within a minute all that was left of the Great Count Dracula was a pile of ashes.

“He burned up in sunlight”, Sarah exclaimed.

“Well yeh, what did you think would happen? He might turn sparkly?”

Comeuppance by Davis Withnall

2012-02-29T23:50:00.000Z

There was a disconcerting chill in the air when Emma’s six year relationship drew to its end. The chill followed her throughout the day, despite the fact that it was mid April and everybody was wearing their summer attire. It was so hot that she let the kids in her English class simply sit and talk for the last twenty minutes of the lesson. It was too warm for them, too cold for her, and the noise of chattering children distracted her from the lying and cheating, both on her part, that had led to the split.

She stayed in a hotel that night, since she couldn’t face Sam and they had a shared flat. She emptied the hold all’s contents out onto the bed, and for a while she stood and stared. Sprawled on the bed were her pyjamas, a change of clothes for the next day, along with makeup, a sparkly dress and heels for that night; Becky’s hen night. A week ago, when she was still with Sam, she had resolved to behave herself on what was doubtless to be an interesting night. Now though, things were different.

“Forget them,” Lizzie yelled down her ear, barely audible over the rented bar’s music. Emma had explained her version of events; the politician’s version, an utter fabrication.

“I know, but it’s hard,” she replied, “my boyfriend, one of my best friends.....”

“You’re here to have fun, and.....” Lizzie trailed off for a moment, and grinned. “Talking of fun, here it comes.”

An oversized cake, made mostly of wrapping paper, was being wheeled into the venue. The DJ cranked down the volume and the girls gathered round the cake, cheering and hooting and wolf-whistling. A figure burst through the top of the cake, and the girls and music fell silent.

The man in the suit was disoriented for a moment. He spun around and spied the bride to be.

“Ah, Becky!” he exclaimed. “Congratulations on your soon to be marriage! However,” he spun to face Emma, “that’s not what I’m here for.”

“I told them what you did,” she said to him.

“And what might that be?” he asked, unable to remove the smile from his face. “That I’m trying to sabotage your relationship? Destroy it, even?” He looked around. The nodding heads and foul faces aimed at him seemed to back up his summations.

“You should go,” Emma said, doing her best to hide the fear in her voice.

“Truth is,” the man began “I’m the one who sent the photo to Sam proving that SHE!” - he aimed a dooming finger at Emma – “is a liar and a cheat. We all knew it, but I made the decision to act because nobody else could.” One by one, Emma’s friends turned to face her, their faces contorted in judgement. She tried to speak but no words came; she was ousted.

Nobody saw the man in the suit leap out of the cake and leave. A false policeman sauntered in, but nobody in the room had need of his services.

Miscalculation by Joseph J. Wood

2012-02-29T23:45:00.000Z

A lot of people tried working out how they got it wrong. They thought maybe it was the time difference, but the government wouldn’t overlook something as obvious as that. Others thought maybe it was a drill, but no government is so stupid to tell their people that nukes are going to be dropping when they’re not.

Mark was sat alone in his flat with the radio on. Every station was playing the national anthem so that’s what he was listening to. He didn’t know if he expected it to just stop. Or did he expect everything to just stop? He never thought they could have got it wrong. When the radio went quiet he thought he was dead. Then, from behind the speaker, he heard shuffling and muffled voices. And then a clear voice.

A woman who introduced herself as a spokesperson for the government. He though he recognised her as the same woman who announced a week ago that the bombs were being launched, but he couldn’t tell from just her voice. She said that errors were inevitable in such a situation. She said that the hour predicted was correct, it was just the day that was wrong. It would happen tomorrow.

The pharmacies were forced to open. No one turned up for work so they stayed shut and all the people that thought they would open stood in line all day waiting to get opiates and sleeping pills. Everyone was encouraged to get opiates and sleeping pills.

Mark waited in line and looked around him. There was a strange stillness to the day, that three in the morning kind of stillness. He noticed people were moving out of the queue and drifting away the way leaves float on a pond, aimlessly, just to kill time. Just for something to do while they waited. Most of them with their heads hanging low, taking their hand out of their pocket to check the time. To see how much longer was left to wait out.

This Extra Day by Angi Holden

2012-02-29T23:15:00.000Z

Jo had been waiting for this chance for weeks. It seemed appropriate that this extra day, unexpected, unlooked for, should present her with the ideal opportunity. Feigning sleep she listened to the sounds of Alec getting up (the buzz and grizzle of razor and electric toothbrush), having breakfast (the pop of the toaster, the rattle of spoon against mug) and gathering his things (laptop, keys, coat) together for his day at head office.

‘I’m off now,’ he said, dropping a kiss onto her forehead. ‘I’ll probably be quite late; might stop for a drink with Callaghan.’

‘No problem. See you later.’ The lie came easily, slipping into the half-light of the curtained room. ‘I’ll do a casserole. It’ll keep.’

The moment she heard the scrunch of the tyres on the drive, Jo was out of bed. She peered between the curtains, down the avenue. Already she felt furtive. The road was quiet, as though the well-appointed houses, with their landscaped gardens and the block-paved and gravelled drives, were holding their collective breath. It was early, barely morning and she had all day, but there was much to do.

As soon as she’d showered she went out to the Corsa for the pile of cardboard and the roll of parcel tape hidden in the boot. She sat on the living room floor, drinking the first of a series of coffees as she reconstructed the flat-packed boxes. A rough calculation, and she estimated that she could take most of her books and cds. She hadn’t the time to sort through the dvds, though she grabbed a few feelgood favourites – When Harry Met Sally, The English Patient and a couple of Disney movies. Frankly she wasn’t bothered about the rest.

The clothes she took barely filled one box: jeans, t-shirts, jumpers, a couple of extra pairs of shoes. She pulled one dress from the wardrobe, a slinky scarlet number that had once clung to her curves, making her look a million dollars. She discarded it on the end of the bed, knowing she’d lost far too much weight over the last year. She tossed the contents of her underwear drawer into an overnight bag, along with her washbag, her journal, her passport and the jewellery she’d had before she met Alec. She shook the remaining tablets from the bottle into the toilet bowl and flushed them away.

That was enough, she decided. She had everything she needed. She’d stay in Maria’s flat for the summer; it would give her enough time to decide what to do next, where to go.

In the end, even with the catbox strapped into the front seat, the boxes hardly filled the car. She drove across town her pulse hammering in her throat. The flat had only been empty a month, but it already smelt stale and musty. She dumped the boxes on the floor, put her Aunt’s aspidistra on the table and flung the windows open, letting in the afternoon breeze and suddenly feeling hungry. The cat trailed around after her, mewing.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ she said, rubbing Moggley gently under his chin as she reached for her keys. ‘Cat food, milk, bread, cheese…..’ She was still adding to the list as parked at the supermarket. ‘Rice, pasta, loo-rolls…..’ She paid in cash. Alec wouldn’t miss the money, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of complaining that she’d used his credit card.

As she took the change from the cashier, her diamond solitaire caught the light. She withdrew her hand sharply, as if scalded, spilling coins across the till.

‘Sorry,’ she said, twisting the ring on her finger. At the car, she unloaded the trolley and glanced at her watch. Half-four, just turned. If she cut across Victoria Park and took the footpath beside the athletics track she could be back at the house in twenty minutes, no problem. Easier than driving round the ringroad, and she would be able to see Alec’s car in the drive if he was unexpectedly early.

Breathing deeply – the walk had been further than she remembered, and there was no shade on the path – she reached the avenue. The coast was clear; too late for the school run, too early for the returning office workers, and as fortune would have it no dog-watchers or gardeners to engage her in conversation. She felt in her pocket for the house key. It was still there, slightly warm from her body heat. She opened the door, smelt the rich aroma of the casserole she had left in the oven for Alec. As she stepped into the hall, Moggley appeared from the living room, mewing his welcome. Puzzled, she bent down to stroke him. The postman had been; a couple of letters and a bill lay on the doormat. She took the post through to the kitchen.

She was looking for a box to put the cat in when she heard Alec’s key in the lock. He had stepped into the hall and draped his suit jacket over the newel post before he saw Jo standing by the kitchen door.

‘Hello darling,’ he said. ‘The meeting finished early; I caught the three-fifteen. I thought you were out when I saw your car wasn’t there.’ He glanced at her; her eyes were glassy and wide, her hand lingered around her lips, her chin quivered.

‘Oh no, not again,’ he said, reaching out for her and gathering her into his embrace. He breathed in the apple-scent of her hair, shielding her from his disappointment. He took her through to the living room and sat her down on the settee. She stared at the familiar spines on the bookshelves, the racks full of favourite cds, her Aunt’s aspidistra by the television and she began to cry.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Alec, wiping the fat, salty tears from her cheeks. ‘We’ll find it. You’ve got your keys at least. Let’s see, where might you have been? The library? The supermarket?’

Method by Cathy Bryant

2012-02-29T22:45:00.000Z

"Mbloooaaarrrgghhh," siad the gnu, in a cross between a moo and a bray."It's no good," wept Michael. "There's no point to my life. I'm the worst proofreaderin the world. I miss the typos, I correct the correct parts, and even my corrections havetypos. It's all over for me, and life holds nothing."And then he picked up the gnu and shot himself.

An Extra Day by Miriam Coley

2012-02-29T22:15:00.001Z

An extra day. An extra day to do- what? It would be a waiting day as all the others had been. The hospital coffee bar so full that, in the waiting for a cappuccino (the word being impossible for mother to say with half frozen face and dribbly jaw) Jo felt that she was getting plenty of ther things thrown in for free. Entertainment- “So, I said if he needed a wheel chair he’d have to move out.” Despair- “We can get a second opinion, I knew we should have kept the BUPA”, and Gossip- “Yes! The baby was latched on, feeding away, and they didn’t even check its wrist band till it was being burped in the nursery.” “OMG.”

Jo reached the front of the queue. “A cappuccino and an expresso. To take out.” Out, Jo would have snorted, but her form tutor had ridiculed that particular vocal habit out of her when she was twelve. ‘Out’ in this case was up in the lift, through the corridor with its wooden bar along it- wobbly legged patients grasping, trollies to negotiate and into mother’s side room.

The paper lay on the table next to the jug of water and some tired looking flowers. “29th Feb”,
mother smiled her lop faced grin.

“You can please yourself today, darling,” she meant to say. Jo smiled and nodded back.

Really she could think of nothing she would rather do, than sit by the side of her mother’s bed, she’d give herself some extra days later on. Today this day would be just enough.

Hyperbole by David Hartley

2012-02-29T21:45:00.002Z

The city of Hyperbole is an amazingly brilliant place. It is astoundingly good. If you liked Paris and New York, you will love Hyperbole. You must go there, now. It’s astonishing. It’s outstanding. It’s a five star vacation, a top-prize holiday. It is an area of outstanding natural beauty and all the Hyperbolians spend their time out-standing in various fields. It’s a perfect place. There is nowhere in the world quite like Hyperbole.

There’s been a murder in Hyperbole. It has been an excellent murder. The best you can hope for in a slaughtering. The scene is splattered with excessive gore, the victim is a hated citizen of a foreign town and no-one has any idea who killed him. Totally brilliant.

His intestines were removed and one end was tied to the underside of Triumph Arch in the city centre. The killer then tied his head, spine, limbs and all his vital organs at equal intervals along the dangling intestine. All the blood was cleaned up and a bucket placed underneath the display to catch any further falling fluid.

In chalk, on the ground, a message was left.

‘Just to let you know,’ it read, ‘this was definitely a murder.’

Underneath the message was a smiley face.

Closed by Christopher Walsh

2012-02-29T21:15:00.003Z

It’s always a disappointment when you go to throw yourself of the observation deck of your city’s tallest building only to find the floor is closed. The portly man on reception in his dark blue trousers, white shirt and black tie tells you that you can’t go up there till tomorrow. So you turn around and leave. Briefly the thought of jumping off another building would be the best option, but you really wanted it to be this one. How hard can it be to live one more day?

It turns out very. I’ve done nothing except watch day time television and eat tortilla chips. I’m glad this is my last day on earth. I won’t have to put up with more boring shit like this. I’ll finally be free of the dead end job, the lack of friends, the lack of girlfriend. Just have to wait one more hour and the tower opens. One more hour and I can throw myself off it.

The security man on reception nods his head at me as I walk in. “You’re really keen to see this view aren’t ya?” “You have no idea” I mutter under my breath. I stand in the lift ready to face my destiny when an arm comes through the door. “Sorry, I hear the view is amazing from up here.” This new face. She is beautiful. I ride the lift up towards my doom happily chatting away to this girl.

We reach the observation deck and she runs straight for the barrier. “Wow, would you look at that. Really takes your breath away doesn’t it.” I nod, for the first time in my life I take a plunge. “Do you wanna go get a drink?” Another pointless day made unpointless by this one moment. “Sure” I can’t contain my smile.

After enjoying the view, we rode down the elevator together. We talked about our families, jobs, lives and all the while I became happier and happier. On the sidewalk we decided what bar to meet at and what time. She walked away and I turned to cross the street. Then the bus came.

Death doesn’t like losing a victim apparently.

Leap of Faith by Kath Lloyd

2012-02-29T20:45:00.001Z

Usually my quadrennial quantum leap hour went pretty well. February 29th of 2008, I breathed 'Happy Birthday Mr President' across America. In 2004 I stood astride a grill as hot air blew white silk up around my thighs. I married Arthur Miller in 2000. Born to be Marilyn, me.

The time before that I was under-age so could only gape at leapers leaving booths, other people's special times vicariously enjoyed, tucked away into their own memories perhaps even for future leaps to explore. Meta quantum leaping isn't yet popular.

This year my Uncle Stanley set up a knock off quantum leap stall at the end of the pier. Mother insisted I went along there. He's got that one you really wanted, she said. So I went. Cross-gender leaping is really rare, incredibly dangerous and usually under-the-counter.

– Is it really him? I asked.

– Yep, he said. The wordy one, posh and a bit camp, like. Off that quiz show.

– Go on, then. I’ll do it.

(As long as he’s in the A Bit of period, not the Kingdom period.)

I stepped into the booth and everything went completely black. When I opened my eyes I was seeing through someone else’s. A television studio panel game with 2 teams, but I’m sat in a captain’s seat not the host. A bell sounds and JIRBLE clicks into view on the board. It’s my turn to define it first. “A jiwble is a lie, owiginating in the Gweek tradition of...” I say.

Idiot uncle. Frank Muir is not a national treasure.

Just Call Me Stan, He Said by Jonathan Pinnock

2012-02-29T20:15:00.000Z

The Devil joined our tennis club last year. At least we were pretty certain it was him – he looked like the guy you see in the pictures anyway. And Maureen reckoned he had a demon second serve, although she never said that to his face. Obviously.

Only stayed for a season – said he had to go away. Work move apparently, somewhere overseas. Shame. Seemed a nice enough guy.

Wish I had a job that took me away from here.

Oceans of Stories by Zoe Lambert

2012-02-29T19:45:00.000Z

The term used to describe the egg clusters of a new breed of *cuttlefish*called the *penfish*. These molluscs were genetically engineered by *Borwal* from the marine animals of the order *Sepiida* from the Cephalopoda class. Like the common cuttlefish, the penfish is a mollusc with an internal shell, W shaped eyes, a short body with a large head, eight arms and two tentacles furnished with denticulated suckers. Likewise, they camouflage themselves and squirt sepia ink to escape from predators by propelling away during the confusion.

The primary development engineered by Borwal was the fish’s capacity for language, which is expressed during mating rituals. Rather than changing to bright colours, the males squirt out inky words in mucous bound squirls, boasting about the length of their tentacles and the power of their syphon, which attracts the females. However, it is the ‘writing’ of the females that has caused recent controversy. Rather than laying eggs individually, the female penfish lays a flat, parchment-like membrane resembling a piece of paper, from which the eggs are attached. The ends of the eggs join on the membrane to form writing. For up to a week after being laid, the pattern of eggs appears to be a kind of story, after which the eggs grow and obscure the words. Though the exact mechanisms of how the penfish produces these stories are still uncertain, Borwal maintains that these membranes transmit the stories and myths of molluscs down through the generations, rather like instincts. Miller’s recent study claims that these stories conform to the Aristotelian notion of narrative’s beginning, middle and end. *The Mulloscs’ Curse* and *The Lonely Penfish* are the most famous examples, now exhibited in The British Museum.

Borwal has illegally bred and engineered these molluscs in a secret Liverpool laboratory for over twenty years. In 2006 he submitted a story to the Premier short story competition. His story won, but the prize was withheld due to disputes over whether he or the penfish owned the copyright. Meanwhile, he auctioned over 100 pairs of penfish on eBay to budding writers and academics. The use of ‘oceans of stories’ in publishing was made illegal in the 2007 *Animal Writes Act* after an erotic short fiction publisher tried to sell the membranes as aphrodisiac edible fiction, which resulted in an epidemic of poisoning. A culling was demanded by corporate publishers and arts organisations, but unpublished writers and animal rights campaigners set many fish free in the Hebrides and the North Atlantic. These ‘oceans of stories’ cluster in shallow off shore reefs. They are being collected by both scientists and leading literature academics and giving new insights into aquamarine life and the sociality of fish, (Miller 2008) as well as the imperial nature of genetic engineering, due to the fact that penfish write in English (Hussein 2008). Borwal, also known as the science fiction writer *J.G. Borwal,* was jailed for illegal genetic engineering and breaking copyright laws.

Extra Time by Valerie O’Riordan

2012-02-29T19:15:00.002Z

Seventeen minutes.

Nicola’s looking at the control-top pants that Graham had sent up with the hotel porter. Jen comes out of the walk-in wardrobe, dress borne high over outstretched arms.

“Mate,” she’s saying, “this is lush. Where’s yer veil?”

“Here, Jen,” says Nicola, “do yeh think I’m slack? Me belly, like.”

“Do I think yer wha’?”

“Slack. Yeh know. Fat.” She opens the dressing-gown, takes hold of her belly with both hands and pinches. “Graham says I’m gone flaccid.”

“Ah, God,” says Jen, “fuck Graham.” She lays the dress out on top of the duvet. “Lookit yer beadin’ here. Classic, tha’ is. He’ll die when he sees yeh come up the aisle. An’ him wi’ tha’ big baldy head.”

Nicola nods. She runs a finger along the layered white frills. Fourteen minutes. She picks up the bedside alarm clock and holds it to her lips. There’s a taste like picnic cutlery. Wet Sundays in a mouldy tent. Graham’s waders. The tick-tick-tick-tick jars like toothache.

Jen says, “Spit tha’ ou’, yeh mad bitch – the hotel does breakfast an’ all.”

Nicola says, clock-muffled, “We can’t – I’ll only be late.”

Jen tuts. “Has he sent yeh anorexic, now? Is tha’ it? It’s yer weddin’ mornin’, not the Last Supper. A quick bite a toast an’ we’ll be off.”

“It’s a ten minute drive, Jen. I can’t be late.”

“Give us tha’.” Jen inspects the clock. “Yer an hour out, yeh daft cow.”

“Wha’?”

“The clocks went back, didn’t they? Yeh’ve, whatsit, seventy-five minutes. Time for a game a hurlin’ and a cup a tea an’ all.”

“Are yeh serious?”

Jen looks at her with the hands on her hips. “I’ll tell yeh wha’, Nic – yer lucky yer gettin’ married. Even to him. Wha’ would yeh do on yer own? If I wasn’t here, yeh’d have only stood outside the church for an hour like a prize tool, thinkin’ he’d stood yeh up! Though he might, an’ all,” she adds. “A prick like tha’. Sorry, pet. But – yeh know.”

“Yeah,” says Nicola. “Haha. Imagine tha’.”

She stands up.

Jen says, “Here, now – where are yeh off to? I’ll call room service. Last time you’ll be getting’ breakfast in bed.”

“Yer a star, Jen,” says Nicola. “Yeh really are. An’ thanks. For everything. Just – get us the veil, will yeh? It’s in the bog, hangin’ up behind the door.”

Jen’s already moving. “Chief Bridesmaid, at yer service.”

“Lovely,” says Nicola. “Try it on if yeh like.” She’s moving, too. The dressing-gown drops and she pulls on yesterday’s tracksuit, t-shirt, hairband.

Jen says, out of sight, “Ah, God, Nic, this is pure gorgeous. He’ll hardly know yeh!”

Nicola says nothing. She double-knots laces and drops Graham’s ring in the hotel ashtray. The dress, headless, misses her exit. The corridor’s empty: the clock ticks loud in her fist.

Seventy-two.

She starts to run.

Disappearing Day by Sara Crowley

2012-02-29T18:45:00.001Z

In the week after Kyle’s disappearance, time became one mass. Light was followed by dark, of course, and Gemma followed the clock and reacted accordingly; the girls up at 7, off to school at 8.30, picked up at 3.30, dinner ready for 6ish. She went through the motions and tried to keep some semblance of normality. But time was a continuous, worrying, panic. Then after a week it sped up so that Gem couldn’t catch it, blurring days and smashing normality. She would find herself looking blankly at the oven clock, trying to translate its luminous green digits. Her children would appear with their Aunt, “School was crap. I hate Mrs Button.” And Gem would not have noticed it was afternoon. Everything divided into before and after.

Before, tiny things loomed large. The phone bill needed paying, the car was due an MOT and she wasn’t sure how they’d afford it, Lottie needed a dental appointment.

Kyle was airy in his dismissals.

“You worry too much. I’ll sort it.”

She did worry too much, that was true. She was the type of woman to lay in bed churning through the minutiae of each day: fretting over a look in the playground from one of the other mums, or a grazed knee on Sofia in case it got infected. Worrying that she’d put on a pound or two. Maybe she believed if she thought of the big bad thing it wouldn’t happen. She’d forgotten to worry that Kyle might disappear.

“See you later, love. Be late tonight.”

Is that what he’d said? A kiss on her cheek, a faint waft of shampoo, toothpaste. Then out the door, to work with that look in his eyes, the one that said he was already in office mode.

Gem had taken Sofia and Lottie to school, hung around outside the gates gossiping, and then returned home. The washing up done she’d made herself a cup of tea. Did a bit of housework, watched some telly. Time moved slow back then. She had hours to fill. Empty hours hanging, mocking her for not doing something productive, for not being something more.

After school they’d stopped at the shops. Gem was going to get mince for a Bolognese but changed her mind and got steak that was on special offer instead. Giant chocolate chip cookies for the girls. Home again, radio on. Fish-fingers and beans for Sofia and Lottie, a slight guilt knowing she and Ky would indulge in steak. That’s the before. If Gemma could live that day over she’d pay such attention to the small detail of it and look for a clue. If she could just un-pick it all and start over, she’d never let it happen.

Time had slid by, anxious prickles began when she saw how late it was getting. She’d tried Kyle’s mobile but it went straight to answer phone. Later she knew that he’d left work at 5.15, got in his car and driven in the opposite direction to home. He’d parked in a station car park and vanished. CCTV couldn’t locate him on the station platform, or anywhere else.

“Had you had a row?”

“Did you notice anything different in his behaviour?”

“Can you think of any reason he had to leave?”

The following days were full of questions; various officials repeating themselves, and time skittered and jumped between possible sightings and fleeting hope. A woman from a Missing Persons phone hotline spoke with a soothing voice and reassured her the likelihood was he’d turn up soon enough. He didn’t.

Now, a year on, there are gaps where Kyle used to be. Time ticks over in its regular way. The ache is huge and the wanting remains although her hope is tiny. At night Gem replays that last day and looks at it, wondering. She thinks about the preceding days and weeks. There are no clues. She’d like to mark the anniversary of his disappearance but even the day has gone and the calendar switches from the twenty-eighth of February to the first of March with no trace of either Kyle or the twenty-ninth.

How to Meet People by Daniel Carpenter

2012-02-29T18:15:00.000Z

She never considered herself to have qualities that would make her stand out. She was only out because they’d convinced her that not leaving the house in three days meant that something was intrinsically wrong. She was wearing a top that she had not worn in almost a year. She couldn’t feel comfortable in it, and when she looked in the mirror in the toilet she couldn’t help but think, ‘liar’.

He wasn’t in the right mood to leave the house. Too cold, too sober. When he got to the club he resigned himself to the bar and leant against a wall with his drink trying desperately hard to just vanish.

They met at 4:35 in the morning when the DJ forgot to change records and let songs spill together. They did not dance.

The way they should have met: He was supposed to have been on the evening train to Southport and she had a seat booked that would have sat her next to him. She’d have taken notice in the book he was reading and made a comment about it, inadvertently spoiling the ending for him. He wouldn’t have cared and they’d have chatted the whole journey. They would have exchanged numbers and met again a week later for drinks.

What happened instead: There was a late bus by 4 minutes 35 seconds.

They met at school in French class. He wouldn’t be able to tell you anything about the class now. Just about her. He could tell you how she wore her hair every single day. He could tell you about the moments she leant forwards to write something down or how she’d reach under her jumper to readjust a bra strap and he’d catch just a glimpse of something. She never noticed his advances. It was only when her friends told her he liked her that she herself took an interest.

The first time they kissed was at 4:35 after school in the park and it was almost entirely her who initiated it. He would dispute this fact for years and the story still incurs a debate around the subject even today.

You were the girl in the red sweater who was sitting in the window seat on the number 52 bus at 4:35pm last Wednesday who had the jute bag with the broken handle. I was the fellow opposite who couldn’t take his eyes off you. You may have looked at me once. I don’t know if you noticed me. I was wearing a dark green tank top, the colour of army uniforms, not camouflage ones of course, the other kind. I had my glasses on so you probably couldn’t see my eyes, but they were green too. You didn’t seem to be with anyone and you wiped the window to look out onto the street so I guess you didn’t really know the neighbourhood at all. Are you lonely? My phone number is below so if you read this paper and look at this section and want to call me, please do.

At a roleplay convention. She was a dark elf. He was an orc. Her heart gained 5xp. His stamina rose by 10. They embraced, locking plastic broadswords on the scuffed high school gymnasium. The scoreboard was broken and frozen at 4 to 35.

They are both eighty-five years old. The retirement home they are in serves a late afternoon tea and they sit opposite each other, talking about their whole lives. Every day at 4:35am he wakes up and pisses the bed. Sometimes she hears him and comes in from the next room. Those are his favourite mornings.

They are the Sam and Diane and Ross and Rachel of their friendship group. They are not together. They hate each other. He told her once that her lipstick made her legs look fat. She thinks his nose is too shit. They are badgered into misinterpreting these as feelings. They spend 4 years 35 days together. It does not end well.

Lonewolf: Hey

MissSexxx: Hi

Lonewolf: asl?

MissSexxx: 18 F California, u?

Lonewolf: 22 M sunny ca 2.

MissSexxx: ooooh, where r u?

Lonewolf: wat RU in2?

MissSexxx: all kinds. U?

Lonewolf: Want 2 meet up?

MissSexxx: Yes.

Lonewolf: U know the car park on corner of 43^rd + 5^th St?

He saved her from muggers. That was how it started. Perhaps saved is a strong term. He approached them as they were in the process of mugging her, and his approach was enough and they ran off. She was shaken up, but mostly ok. They’d taken her handbag and he considered for a moment running after them to get it back. But she said it was alright, all they’d taken was about 4 dollars and 35 cents in change, and the rest was all cards that she could cancel. He offered to walk her home, she accepted. He wasn’t particularly interesting and he knew it. He knew that the only leverage he had if this was to be a relationship was the initial saving from muggers angle. It wouldn’t be enough to keep it going for too long. He decided he would see it through to whatever end.

They still tell that story. He has exaggerated it somewhat.

10.

You listen to the songs of Bonnie Tyler, Elton John, Maroon 5 and Take That. You go out drinking on a Friday night at places where it costs £4.35 for a glass of wine and when a song you like comes on you feel like someone did it just for you.

So you don’t notice that he starts putting those songs on for you and you alone.

He’d tell you it’s because they’re his favourites too but they’re not.

He does it just to watch you dance.

One More Day by Brendan Way

2012-02-29T17:45:00.000Z

'Morning Dad!'

Sam, unfathomably chipper and perky as usual, bounds into the kitchen as I'm enduring a bowl of Special K. I try to ignore him and concentrate on forcing down this fibre.

'Do you know what day it is today, Dad?'

This seemed to be one of his easier queries, so I decided to take a risk with it.

'It's Wednesday, Sam. Middle of the working week.'

'Wrong!’ he said, in that mocking sing-song voice that only children can get away with. Now, having checked my watch, calendar, and phone only moments ago, I was pretty sure that I had ascertained correctly that it was Wednesday, so his answer puzzled me. Eventually, I gave into his little game and knowing grin.

'Go on then, enlighten me. What day is it?'

'The 29th, stupid.'

'Oi, we'll have none of that name-calling young man. No one likes a smart-arse. Besides, why should I care that it's the 29th?'

'Cos it's a special day, of course. It only happens every two years.'

'Four years.'

'Yeah, four years.'

'So?'

'Well, aren't you going to do anything special for it? You could have a party.'

'A party? It's the middle of the working - look, February 29th is nothing special, Sam. It's just a bizarre calendar abnormality that means we have one more day. It's not like a Christmas or Easter, where we get the day off, or like Valentine's or your birthday, when we have to buy presents. Today is simply another Wednesday. I will do with it what I would if it had been a Tuesday or a Monday or a Friday or a Thursday; I would work. Nothing stops because it's February 29th, Sam. The world stays the same.'

He takes this all in. A worrying thought evidently occurs.

'Does this mean I still have to go to school?'

'Yes, it does son, yes it does...'

'Brendan Way is part of The Flashnificent 7.(http://flashnificent7.blogspot.com/)

Burgundy, Bolero and Chicken Supreme by Alison Wells

2012-02-29T17:15:00.000Z

Miranda had agreed to come round to Declan’s for dinner because she couldn’t think of anything better to do. Miranda and Declan worked at the same school: she taught French and Home Economics, he taught Science and P.E. The staff room rap was that Declan was a bit of a sleaze: that he tried to seduce women with Burgundy, Bolero and badly cooked chicken. By all accounts he assumed that both he and the chicken were Supreme. Miranda wanted to be the judge of his culinary skills and whatever else was on offer. She was bored, she supposed, like her teenage students. Whatever.

Miranda had a pile of French comprehension marking to get through. She pictured herself at a table with a conciliatory desk lamp at 3am making furious red pen markings after extricating herself from….well all was still imagination… but some late night liaison with a man with all the necessary parts in working order. She had appetites. She would come out from a day of teaching sewing, one carefully arranged hand stitch after another and feel the urge to rip her clothes at the seams and roll naked over the bonnet of the headmaster’s car. Or after a period of pummelling and kneading dough she would imagine the meat of a man’s solid flesh under her fingers or between her… well you couldn’t think about that on the way back to the staff room, as you went down the corridor with lines of transitory school kids keeping left by the wall. It was all she could do not to leg it past them and give a whoop, fist thrust into the air. But she put her passion into French class, in the intense articulation of those rolling rs, in the low round baritone of her accent, an echo of a Seine-side stroll or the dark cavern of the Moulin Rouge.

Declan’s flat was dim when she arrived. The Bolero on a scratchy 45.

The only bolero she understood was a short jacket with long sleeves that went over the top of other things. Also known as a shrug. And a shrug was an indispensable part of her non-verbal wardrobe. She used it when he asked if she liked his flat, although she nodded when he offered wine.

The decor had an 80′s theme, predominantly black and white with red splashes. His was a world of dimmer switches and frothy cappuccino makers. She expected to find a Knight Rider poster on the back of the bathroom door when she popped in. When she re-emerged he perpetuated rumours of Baked Alaska for later so that was the melting taken care of. Now it was time for dripping and dipping with skewers, there were some assorted raw vegetables and a gloopy cheese sauce. Cheesy. He grinned and raised the Burgundy. Miranda feared for the evening. She didn’t like the way he fondled his fondue.

Later he modelled himself on that experimental chef Heston Blumenthal and blew up a quails egg by torching it en situ. She gave him marks for inventiveness but none for technique.

The egg reminded her by association of ‘Bird’s nest soup’, a Chinese delicacy she’d seen a programme on recently. It was made out of nests that were built out of saliva by cave swiftlet’s during the breeding season.

The soup was said to be an aid to digestion.

Bird’s nests were also beneficial to the libido.

They ate the Chicken Supreme, more gloop this time flavoured with tarragon. He knew his herbs.

He played the Bolero again. She told him it was by a French composer, Ravel. ‘I know’ he said and his irises displayed a flicker of wit.

Two bottles of Burgundy later they sat on the floor in front of the sofa. He confided his desires. ‘I always wanted to be a Home Economics teacher’ he said, ‘But I didn’t have the nerve, so I ended up in Chemistry and Physical Education’.

‘Mmmm’ she said, tracing his hairy wrists. ‘Have you ever tried bird’s nest soup?’

They could never afford it on a teacher’s salary.

They talked into the night and the pile of marking at home on Miranda’s desk, shifted and settled. Declan and Miranda discovered a shared admiration of Christopher Reeve and a pathos for the irony of his demise against the glory of Superman. They had both enjoyed Somewhere in Time, his gentle time travel movie with Jane Seymour, although the theme tune was Rachmaninov rather than Ravel. Miranda rolled the ‘r’s on her tongue. And when she was done, Declan kissed her and it was very good. She put her hand on his shoulder; he placed his on the small of her back. They ate the baked Alaska in bed.

They might build a nest yet and feather it with staff room anecdotes and culinary conundrums. In her back garden she’d seen a nest torn apart in the night by ravens. But Declan tasted of Burgundy and the Bolero on perpetual replay in the sitting room was heading to a crescendo. He stopped kissing, leaned back a little, looked into her face and smiled. Gosh, Miranda thought, there’s just one thing, chicken shouldn’t go with Burgundy. She opened her mouth to tell him but he sealed her gastronomic quibbles with the most ravenous of kisses. Did it really matter? If she could convince him to forgo the fondue, anything was possible.

Falling by Benjamin Judge

2012-02-29T16:45:00.000Z

Awake with the remnants of Sunday, I switch the television on to find my landlady standing in a queue of pensioners, clutching an ice cream tub. Its bright blue plastic compliments the outsized turquoise ring on her index finger and the thick veins that sit at the top of her papery skin.

The camera pans across to a Victorian church and then to a grey-haired presenter who says something vaguely arresting about the influence of the Methodist community on the town’s architecture before welcoming me, to tonight’s edition of The Antique’s Roadshow.

The opening credits roll; a segue of fading market towns, gaudy tat, and old people being pleasantly surprised; and then we are back with my landlady who is now standing next to a man in a tweed suit. They are surrounded by a small crowd; gawping, clucking, chicken-necked harpies with green eyes and claws for hands. My landlady pops the tub open and takes out a lump of greying meat. The man in the tweed suit raises one eyebrow behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

“And what do we have here then?”

“This Andrew, is my tenants conscience.”

“Well Agnes! Well I never! Isn’t it a big one!”

I look around my bedsit: at the pile of washing up; at the paperback Good News bible propped open by the sofa with its spine cracking; at the direct debit form, for some children’s charity or other, half filled in and now decorated with rings of coffee. I look at these things and I realise that I don’t care about any of them. I don’t care about anything. The guilt that has plagued my every thought for twenty six years has lifted. I look at my landlady on the television screen. For somebody with a free bus pass, she has got a pretty good figure.

I pour myself a whiskey. A large one. I wonder what crack cocaine is like, and where I would get some. I think about prostitutes, and how if I paid one to visit the flat she would almost certainly know where to get drugs. She would probably bring them with her if I asked.

I look at the television again. My landlady is gone but some other old dear is showing an expert in porcelain a pair of pottery birds that he has incorrectly identified as being quail. I start ringing people on my phones ‘contacts’ list and telling them how stupid I think they are, or how much I would like to see them naked, or both. Most of them hang up quickly, disgusted by this new me, but my landlady doesn’t. She arranges a time to come round to cook dinner for me. She asks me what I would like. Veal, I say, or something endangered.

At midnight I wake up to find my landlady, naked and ghostly, knelt over me. She is crying. In her hands, and over my chest, are the squashed remains of my conscience.

“I tried to put it back in. I... I think it is dead.”

We stare at each other in the dim light of the bedroom. Neither of us has planned this far ahead.

Job Security by Helen Dring

2012-02-29T16:15:00.000Z

Forty years and the shop still looks much the same. Early morning, they get up, before the sun rises, before the newspapers are shoved through letterboxes, and drive. Their brother stays in bed, won't raise for hours yet. Mom gives them lunch bags: sandwiches, coke. They work in a shop. They have everything they need there but, still, the little bags, the head kisses. Have a good day.

Maria remembers that she used to have ideas, other ideas about what to do, about leaving. Then Shayla got them this job, secured their future. She can't leave, now. Even if she wanted to, they come as a pair and Shayla is married to that shop, stuck with it.

And where could she go, now? She's sixty. Shayla sixty three. Their whole lives in a shop, ringing up cereal and milk and cigarettes. Service with a snarl. If they got fired, Maria used to think, there'd be an escape, an exit. But they come with the shop now, like fixtures. Twenty bosses in that time and none of them has managed to get rid of them. They dig in, like dry rot.

Five minutes drive to work, keys, alarm code. Always the same. Just once, it would be nice if someone broke in, if there was something else to do.

Maria stocks the cigarettes. Shayla sets out newspapers. The way things are, the way it stays.

She waits until the true dead of night, leaves when Shayla is still asleep. She drives to the store, parks two blocks away and walks the rest. Pockets heavy, she reaches in, pulls out the half-brick.

The window shatters. Maria walks away, slowly. A tiny sense of satisfaction.

The Line by Fat Roland

2012-02-29T15:45:00.001Z

She was scrubbed with angel dust; she sparkled behind the ears. Stanley waited for her outside the shop that sold the stick insects. He peeled the paint from the window frame with bitten finger nails.

There she was, Susie, floating down the pavement towards him. What a great way to avoid the cracks, he thought as he wiped back his hair. Her dress was like clouds or something. Sexy clouds.

He reckoned she had forgotten how skinny he was. He looked like half-eaten Twiglets. Wisps of hair clung to his chin like mould.

“Will you go out with me?” he said, trying not to show his teeth.

“Of course I’ll go out with you,” she said. Susie walked on, glid.

(Sorry, I missed a line.)

“Will you go out with me?” he said, trying not to show his teeth.

“You look like a drowned twat. Of course I’ll go out with you,” she said. Susie walked on, glid.

Her sarcasm left in her trail an acid he misunderstood as hormones. He used his shirt to dry his sweaty hands.

Hanging out. Just hanging out. Stanley held a twig between fingers darkened from fiddling with his keys too much. This was where the smokers hung out. The twig between his lips tasted like ammonia.

Her solo walk home was predictable. She hesitated when she saw him again.

He clicked his jaw, tried a smile. “Hey Susie, look what I done.”

Her eyes fell to the floor: she looked at nothing, shuffled away. Bashful, he thought. She’s bashful.

(Sorry, I missed a line.)

He clicked his jaw, tried a smile. “Hey Susie, look what I done. I wrote your name in piss on the concrete.”

Her eyes fell to the floor: she looked at nothing, shuffled away. Bashful, he thought. She’s bashful.

“It’s evaporated. It’s meant to say Susie.” He lost her again. He did up his zip.

He read mysterious words under bed sheets at night, dust playful in the little light there was. Books scattered across his bedroom. He sang the words of the great poets, sang of mist-drops, of fragrant trees. In his world, this was his world and the other world was nothing.

Stanley began to write.

Mushy peas cooled in the harsh light of the canteen. A photo of the school cricket team lay on the floor, broken from spoon-catapult target practice. He was aware of his armpits and held his arms in.

She sat blankly on a table in the corner, rolling a cold sausage with her fork.

“I made this,” he said. “I wrote your name on my skin.”

Her body was a living warmth against him. He fell asleep to the rhythm of her breath.

(Sorry, I missed a line.)

She sat blankly on a table in the corner, rolling a cold sausage with her fork.

Stanley staggered on his feet in the middle of the canteen, the knitting needle in his hand dripping blood onto his discarded clothes.

“I made this,” he said. “I wrote your name on my skin.”

Her body was a living warmth against him. He fell asleep to the rhythm of her breath.

The paramedics took over. An infection sent his body into shock, the doctors said. A lack of hygiene, horrendous lacerations. She’d done well to control the bleeding for so long. “I’m so sorry,” said the doctor as he handed her Stanley’s things. A watch. A tissue. A twig.

Susie opened her mouth, let it hang there stupidly. She wanted to tell the doctor that Stanley was the closest to a real friend she’d had. Even though he was weird. Sexy weird.

“Sorry, did you say something?” said the doctor.

-----------------

That Odd Feeling by Ian Hawley

2012-02-29T15:15:00.001Z

“Say that again will ya, Paul.”

“Say watt again?”

“You sounded odd, sort of different but right at the same time.” Brain held his nose and tried to pop his ears. “It just didn’t feel right, doesn’t sound right in my head.”

“Ewe awl write? Ewe luck… ”

“Ahh, stop it!” Brian felt the pain in his head explode as Paul spoke.

“Aye don’t no watt ewe’r on about.” Paul looked at his friend with concern. “Ewe luck very pale.”

“My head really hurts. Stop it, please.” Brian held his hands to his eyes as he tried to control the pain throbbing behind them.

“Eye can weight until the panes past if ewe like.”

“Just…Just stop!” He held up his hand. “Okay. Please, just stop, be quite for a moment.”

“It’s knot something I’m doing.” Paul looked angry at the accusation. “Let me sea ewe, luck at me. I’m doing nothing, I’m no lyre. It’s knot fair two accuse me.” Brian fell to his knees, the pressure behind his eyes made him feel as though they were going to pop out.

“Just stop. I’m begging you, Paul. I can’t take much more.” It was really hard to talk now.

“Are ewe inn pane? Do ewe want me two call ewe a Doctor?” Brian was on his side now, cradling his head in his hands.

“Ewe can’t lye there, Brian, someone could Steel from ewe. Sit up, let the heir get two ewe. If you lye on the floor, yule end up with a brews, and your knows is running.” Paul bent down next to him. “Luck. Weight here four a moment, Yule bee all write soon. I sore a police man over their, I’ll go and get hymn. You luck fowl. How did ewe feel this mourning, please don’t dye on me.” Brian didn’t answer, the pain in his head was excruciating now, but no matter what he did, he didn’t seem to be able to stop his friend talking and he felt better as Paul ran for help, but eventually he returned.

“Hear he is officer. Eye told him two sit hear and wrest, but he’s inn sew much pane he just..”

“It’s okay, sun, just step back and let me gays at hymn for a second, have a torque to him, it’s a bit of a storey this Eye can tell ewe.” The police man knelt by Brian’s side, resting his hand on his forehead.

“Can ewe here me sun?” He ask. “Ewe can’t lye on the flaw, sun. Ewe don’t luck that grate I can tell ewe, knot four this our of the day. Butt I kneed to ask ewe two move. Come hear, let me help ewe up before it reigns.” As the office pulled him, a load sound escaped from Brian’s back passage and the pressure lifted. “Sorry, Officer” Brian apologised, as the pain vanishing as quickly as it came. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s perfectly alright, Sir.” the officer nodded. “I’ve seen it before. You might want to see a doctor though, it sounds like you might be suffering from a bad case of Homophonics.”

Elsewhere by Carole Burns

2012-02-29T14:45:00.001Z

Where you are is where she’ll wake. The tweet of an alarm, the rising light, a knock at the door, your movement -- no matter how the world pulls her from sleep she will become aware first of you, know where she is when she senses your presence, your smell or weight or voice or body simmering with heat. The two of you will linger as long as you can before the day demands your notice and someone, usually you, finally rises. She’ll lie longer in the half-light, the places she’ll go today, the people she’ll see, forming in the shadows, calling to her, opening up a space for her to leap into.

She leaps, first going home, one of her other homes, the sun bright through the endless tall windows, friends around a wooden table, talking, listening, interrupting, the conversation like another being encompassing them all, understanding them all, understanding her. Never enough time, yet she is always there, the voices, the gestures, the words, so much her that like her skin she cannot feel them as separate. Outside, a tufted titmouse, a black chickadee, and she wisps away to the home where she was taught their names, and now her parents are pointing out the pileated woodpecker at their feeder, its red tufted head, Look quick, Mariella, there he is again, Mariella, her adult, clipped Mare elongated into childhood. She should take care of them but they still take care of her—pick her up, drop her off, ask her, ten minutes before leaving, if she’s okay. Once she arrived with a trunk full of luggage and they waited for her to tell them why. She wishes they’d just asked, relieved her of her burden the way her father relieved the car of her bags, and now she goes to that moment again, its pain, its rising-up glory – she was leaping then – to feel their care. Further back she’ll travel, poor tourist that she is, thinking one can know a place in less than a day, a week, a month, a year, a life, to her grandmother, her silky hands polishing Mariella’s nails, her silvery laugh, and she will see her through a child’s eyes, beautiful and glamorous, without the knowledge of someone loved as ordinary (the only person she would ever know without flaws).

Elsewhere now she’ll go with her new knowledge, backward in order to forge ahead, make amends, the boy-man she could have loved, the moment she was under his hand (I love to see you enjoying yourself) then stopped, not able yet to become the person she would be. Now she will submit, let go, let him know what she now knows: what could have been can be. Each place traveled is not left behind, and she remains, both lingering like unremembered memories. And she’s off again to places she hasn’t been, people she doesn’t yet know, longing to leap over her own limits, hear others’ stories, make other faces dear, touched as lightly as a leaf imprints a fossil, allow their mark on her.

Where you are is where she’ll pause, flutter, land, and stay. Your face across a table laid with wine glasses and small blue bowls for olives, a divide so easily crossed when your chin, rougher at the end of another day, falls under her lips, the scent of your skin in her breath. It’s where she’s been all along, elsewhere with you.

Carole Burns is editor of Off the Page: Writers Talk About Beginnings, Endings, and Everything in Between (Norton 2008), and programme leader for the MA in Creative and Critical Writing at the University of Winchester. She’s completing her novel.

Time Keeping by Antosh Wojcik

2012-02-29T14:15:00.001Z

Cassey had heard about The Hourglass. Many of her friends had been there and said the most wonderful things about it; how it could make things easier for you, how magical it made everyday life and how it had 24 hour service! She thought it was a good idea, probably fantastic when in a tight spot, but she prided herself on her time keeping.

Then there was the week when it all went wrong. Several incidents occurred during the beginning of her week, involving her frail but aggressive mother being incarcerated, bolognese stains on the carpet, bullying of one of her kids at school, finding out her husband was sleeping with someone else and an intense yoga session. Cassey spent the week's entirety cleaning up these messes and as she sat down at her computer and glanced over the letters piled in her metaphysical mailbox, tension seized her shoulders. The report that she had delayed doing, was due on Friday, a day earlier than expected, due to meeting adjustments. It was now very late on the Wednesday. She smacked her head on the desk. HOW could you miss the memo, the memo, the MEMO! The repercussions unfolded before her; her angry boss, her loss on that new promotion, her potential sacking. She gritted her teeth. She needed a Time-loan.

Her car halted with a jolt in The Hourglass parking area. It was mostly empty, for it was three in morning. She sprinted in through the doors, ignoring the marvellous futuristic interior and marched to the desk. A bored man in a suit sat, twiddling his thumbs.

“How can I help you?” He spoke through tight lips.

“I need... a... Time-loan...please,” Cassey said, catching her nervous breath.

“Excellent, now what will you be doing with your extra...”

“Day! I just need a day.”

“OK.” He punches some buttons on an interface. “What will be using your time for?”

“Business, strictly business.” She clicked her fingers.

“OK, here's your prescription, you need to go Room 109.”

“Thank you,” she smiled and hurried off, leaving the bored man and his next customer, a scraggy student.

She opened the door to 109 to see a very similar, bored man in a suit, sat behind a desk, twiddling his thumbs. She slammed the prescription in front of him and blurted: “I need a Time-loan, quick!”

The man glanced at the paper. “OK... One day of time for business, strictly business. Let me just get that for you.”

He stood and retrieved a small hourglass from a cabinet.

“Sign here.”

Cassey squiggled the pen.

“Flip this when you need your extra day. Don't interrupt it or you'll be in a lag for a while. All the other precautions are on your prescription.” He smiled weakly, then sat back in his chair.

Cassey felt her shoulders relax a little. “Thank you ever so much. How much to pay for it?”

“Oh, you don't pay. We just take a day off of your life.”

“What?!” Cassey was taken back.

“Well time isn't free is it?”

“But... but, I have friends who have taken weeks, months, even a year of time!”

“And they will be charged.” He shrugged.

“Don't you ever warn them?” Her horror was increasing.

“It's all in the small print.” He brought his hands together. “That's the price of time keeping.”

Cassey didn't have the time to argue any more, but felt that he had a point. As she left the building and drove home, mind set on the report, her thoughts did occasionally wonder what she would have done with that extra day, had her time keeping been more... undisrupted.

Antosh Wojcik is part of The Flashnificent 7.(http://flashnificent7.blogspot.com/)

2.4 Children by Mark Wilkinson

2012-02-29T13:45:00.001Z

If I’d had an extra day, I would have liked to spend it here on this hill. Alone, or with you.

I would have watched the light being reflected up from the wheat fields, and the light that got lost in the woods. I would have watched our dog, absorbed by the ever-changing scent of the outdoors, no longer aware of his own existence.

And I would have watched our two children, young again, unsteady on their feet, crashing clumsily after the dog. Wanting to participate in his excitement, laughing at the speed and erratic nature of his movement.

Until he began digging in earnest, our children helping him, and inevitably unearthed what there was of our third child. The one that didn’t make it. And now the dog is barking madly at me, his ears flattened back against his head and his eyes wild, while our children hold the sad and tiny remains aloft and ask ‘Why Daddy?’

A question to which I have no answer.

Mark Wilkinson is part of The Flashnificent 7 (http://flashnificent7.blogspot.com/)

This is Love by Emma Jane Unsworth

2012-02-29T13:15:00.002Z

This shower is not my shower – it sprays at different angles and takes me a long time to rinse my hair and then I feel guilty I might have used too much hot water. I turban up and sneak into the bedroom, extracting my clothes from my bag with the stealth of a night worker or adulterer. It is 7am, Saturday. My younger sister has slept in two-hour stints, me next to her waking and falling and some awareness of not my bed and the 24-hour news and her boyfriend away for the weekend with work. Downstairs, I boil a different kettle and guess for the spoons. Scattered around the living room are objects from our childhood – a sleeve of mini screwdrivers, a pensive putto sweet tin, often-dusted candles – things I might have sold her for coppers, things she couldn’t bear to. At this point I lived with my sister for half of my life; every year that passes now will change that. But all this is nothing, nothing, to three weeks ago when there was blood and snow and rushing and worry on top of worry and then eight pounds four ounces and a date in early February highlighted forever. I sit with my tea and the middle cat, my secret favourite – the other cats out because I discovered how to open the patio door. My sister comes down at nine, biblical with the basket, her hair long and unbleached, her clothes loose and travelled. She sits and I pick him up, this beautiful baton, this creature from the past and the future, from inside and outside, this epic sci-fi dream incarnate, and he blinks and focuses – a nebulae of synapses booming just beyond the blue. We fend the cats off the washing and we open cinema snacks: popcorn, nachos, pouches of chocolate. I change a nappy and it looks appropriately (nostalgically) like Colman’s mustard. When we are not watching telly we watch the baby, who nods off with a furrowed brow and a forefinger extended, like a little dictator who keeps forgetting his point in the middle of speeches.

In the silences, nothing has changed. These early vigils. This time out of time. The weekend: you and me creeping to the living room carpet, nauseous with holiday feelings, eating crisps and watching films: eighties kids with no fear of junk food or screens. Now your baby sleeps beside us, lost in his basket, and you lie on your side with your feet up, re-sculpted – and I feel like I felt when you started studying Classics. Out of the corner of my eye the sofa-back is spiky with the limbs of yogic cats. Through the archway the gentle chaos of the kitchen waits for our mugs and glasses. I have my squash weaker now, my tea stronger, and you are apologising for how low the volume is and I hadn’t noticed. The baby cries out once every so often in his sleep, a thin quiet single wail, nothingnothingfinejustdreaming but what of? I don’t know, and we laugh at how much it sounds like someone half-heartedly playing the trumpet.

Names Have Been Changed by Sarah-Clare Conlon

2012-02-29T12:45:00.000Z

We used to be called External Affairs. From today, we’re to be known as Intelligence & Engagement.

I’m not sure which is worse. One oozes escort agencies and strip joints, maybe even whips and paddles and glory holes. The other is all spy rings and hidden bugs, torture chambers and hand-to-hand combat.

“I always fancied her off of Spooks,” says Bob, who’s been itching to spill since we escaped the boardroom. “All that blonde hair and black leather gets me proper worked up.”

I sit back down at my desk and put the long-arm stapler where I can see it.

Rebranding is all the rage round here. I just hope the staff training doesn’t get as out of hand as last time we changed our name. Then, the boss was straight on Outlook amending his email signature and pinging off a request for equipment to use in the role-playing exercises. I’ve not been able to look at bubblewrap and parcel tape in the same way since.

Right now I’ve got to block book the video conferencing suite for the next month and code up a requisition for extra bulldog clips and screen wipes. The order arrives tomorrow. Tomorrow I’m phoning in sick.

Day. 2013 by Rachel Carter

2012-02-29T12:15:00.001Z

Bright sunlight.

There was no alarm but he’s wide awake. He squints at his phone screen.

“7.15am” - time to get up - but why isn’t the alarm going off? It’s not the weekend, is it? No – surely it was Thursday yesterday?

Entering the bathroom he looks at his phone again with one eye, while rubbing the other. “Day. 2013,” the screen informs him. Now both eyes: “Day. 2013,” still. He pees, shaves, slaps his face and checks again. He’s clearly not asleep. Where’s the “Fri…” and the “1 March” bit?

He switches on the TV and fiddles with the volume while he waits for voices.

‘Good Day, Tom’ says actor Joss Ackland, grinning through the screen at him.

‘Oh yeah!’ Tom laughs. ‘I always forget. Especially after the two year break.’

‘Me too,’ says Joss. ‘Happy Day, I hope it’s a good one.’ He winks.

‘And to you!’

Tom dresses and heads out. It’s sunny, of course. It’s always sunny. There is no other person anywhere but he knows there will be a bus. There it is now.

‘Mornin’, Tom!’

‘Mornin’ Trev’!’

The bus slows down. ‘Happy Day to you, my friend. You getting on?’

‘Happy Day to you too. I won’t say no.’

And Emma’s there too. He grins with relief and heads to the seat in front of her as the bus pulls away. ‘Boy. Am I glad to see you. I’m sorry about yesterday. I wish I could remember but I never do.’

‘Same.’ She grins. ‘It’s not a problem. But, yeah… I wish that too…’

They hold each other’s gaze for a second.

‘Do you remember how many times you had to wish before it came true?’

‘Four, I think. I made a wish on four, eight, twelve, and sixteen candles.’

‘Me too. Any plans?’

‘Nope. Same as ever.’

‘You know…’ Trevor begins to tell them, shouting above the sound of the engine as he changes gear. ‘There’s only one other bus driver in the whole country with a leap year birth…’

‘Yes. We know!’ Emma and Tom yell back, laughing.

‘Oh. I’ve told you?’

‘Every year, Trev’… Well… you know… except the year when we don’t…’

‘Two years, hey? Did you do anything nice to celebrate in 2012?’

‘My family always hold a huge party for me,’ replies Emma. ‘I’m a bit of a novelty. How about you?’

‘Nothing quite like the one in 2008 when I was still married. No. Just a piss-up with a few mates.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. What about the kids?’

Tom shakes his head. ‘Eighty miles away, she took them… And no visit this week either - “Other plans,” apparently. That’s why I was so rude yesterday when you knocked my arm with your bag.’

‘Oh look! We’ve got a new one!’ Emma shouts.

Trevor stops the bus and the three of them jump out and run towards a flower shop on the silent high street. Every other shop front is closed, dark and shuttered, and the only sounds are their echoing footsteps and some excited squeaks escaping from Emma.

A middle-aged woman looks up from a tub of tulips she is tending and throws her arms wide. ‘Oh, how lovely! Happy Day!’ she exclaims, stepping towards them.

They all hug, grin and touch her in wonderment.

‘I’m Margaret. I was hoping there’d be some others here and I wouldn’t have to do this alone,’ she beams, bringing heavy buckets from the rear of the shop. They all peer in.

‘Guerrilla gardening? Marvellous,’ whispers Emma.

‘And you know the funniest thing?’ Margaret tells them as they head out, scattering seed into every scrap of waste ground. ‘When I used to do this in South London before I moved here, I would look out on the results growing all around every summer and think, “What a wonderful thing to do. I wish I’d thought of that.” And yet I had! You don’t remember a thing about The Day, do you?’

Far away in the distance another leap-yearer can be heard driving somewhere but otherwise the city air is tickled with birdsong and skittering scraps of paper. In the early spring sunshine, Tom clunks his empty bucket down on a concrete step, leans heavily against iron railings and grins at the others. ‘Happy Birthday, us. There’s something truly special about having a birthday on a day that doesn’t exist, don’t you think?’

Five Word Story by Emma Lannie

2012-02-29T11:45:00.001Z

He was moaning about toothbrushes. He could only use the softest ones, the ones meant for babies, and they lasted about week before the bristles splayed out and the thing was unusable. The treatment turns your gums to marshmallow. If you used a normal toothbrush you would brush right down to the bone. So I made him the promise there and then; I made it my mission to make sure he had a new toothbrush whenever he needed one. And I went to town with it. I’d scan the aisles of every shop, hunting for the brightest, the silliest, the most magnificent toothbrush. Each time I had to outdo my last effort. I made it an art.

I couldn’t help in any other way. I couldn’t fix it, couldn’t come out of the shower and have it all be a bad dream. So toothbrushes became the focus of all my energies. I bought them like they were water in the run-up to Armageddon.

He hated the Barbie one. He did see the funny side. Eventually. But he was stuck with it anyway until I brought my next delivery, which, to make up for it, was a dinosaur-shaped marvel that changed colour with the heat from your hands. They were buy one get one free. And so I bought two and decided I would hold one back, intersperse the dinosaurs with other toothbrushes in the meantime.

I put it into a bag with stuff for the charity shop. I can’t bring myself to throw it away. I doubt they’ll be able to sell it. One dinosaur toothbrush: never used. But at least I can believe it’s going somewhere it might be of value. If I have to think of the one difference I ever made in my life, it’s only the toothbrush thing. And it’s not a big deal, it’s not life or death. It changed nothing. It was just a thing, a silly, funny thing between two people who were still trying to figure each other out. And who never did.

Behind The Glass by Dan Holloway

2012-02-29T11:15:00.002Z

I have this recurring story.

I am in a gallery. The room is square with black walls and a pale wood floor and the only thing in it is a screen.

And sometimes there is a young woman.

I have learned that if I look at her she vanishes.

Or appears inside the screen.

So I always look ahead, at the screen, or rather through the screen, because if I look at its surface I might notice her reflection, just before it disappears. She is never in the screen when I look through the glass, but it never saddens me that I can’t see her because sometimes there is a disturbance on my skin and this is a room with no air conditioning, no doors, no sunlight making thermals, so it can only be her.

I am in a gallery, staring through the screen.

What is behind the glass is the only story I will ever write.

Otherwise by Robert Graham

2012-02-29T10:45:00.000Z

It may have been during freshers’ week. I saw one of my new friends, went over to speak to him and when I got closer I saw her there beside him, nodding and listening to whatever he was saying. She was tall, which never hurts, and had a good figure, which of course I noticed. While I greeted my friend, she hovered behind him, giving me a bemused look.

Before many moments had passed, he stood aside and said, ‘Charlie, this is Lindy Martin.’

Her impish smile appealed to me. It adorned her porcelain face when she told me what she was studying, (French), or accepted my offer of a drink, or agreed to go out on a date. We were to meet for a drink in the bar of the Sun Hotel in town and go on to Pizza Marguerita.

That first time we spoke, although the jukebox was playing Cornershop and Pulp, we clicked over jazz. She told me the thing she was looking forward to the most that term was seeing the Stan Tracey Quintet at the Dukes’ Playhouse.

‘You like jazz?’ I said.

‘You’re a fan then?’

‘Oh yeah.’

In the Sun Hotel, she looked lovely. Her long flaxen hair was swept over the shoulders of a custard yellow dress and she wore black leather pumps. I rose and asked her what she would like to drink.

In Pizza Marguerita, before our waiter had finished twisting the tall wooden pepper mill over our pizzas, Lindy was issuing her challenge to me.

‘I’m going out with someone.’ Her large blue eyes twinkled. ‘He’s spending the year in France.’

‘He must be a fool – leaving you behind for all that time.’

‘You think?’ she said with that impish smile.

After the restaurant, I walked her home and on the way she patted the small of my back, and linked arms with me. We were walking back to a house, I remember now, and if she lived in a shared house, this must have been in our second year. First years all lived in halls. Maybe I was wrong about meeting her in freshers’ week.

‘This is it,’ she said, stopping at a rusted wrought-iron gate. ‘Want to come up for a nightcap?’

I studied her face in the moonlight. ‘What are we doing here, then?’

I could tell she got my drift, but she said, ‘Having a nightcap.’

Recently, I went back to Lancaster, to see a reading in the Literature Festival. It was in the Duke’s Playhouse, actually. Afterwards, a woman came up to me and said, ‘Hello.’

I looked at her for a moment. ‘Lindy Martin!’

‘Hello, Charlie.’ Same blue eyes; same full, fair hair.

‘It’s great to see you. I’ve often thought of you, down the years.’ I pictured the last time we spent any time together, maybe a year after the night we went to Pizza Marguerita. We had lunch in a bistro.

‘You have?’

‘Yeah. Why not?’ I said and laughed.

There really was a nightcap when I went in and up the stairs to her room. In the soft light of her bedside lamp, I hesitated before taking the one seat, a small armchair.

‘Sit on the bed,’ she said, peering at a row of CDs.

She selected a jewel case and inserted the disc in her player. Moments later, with a Beethoven piano sonata playing in the background, she flopped on the bed beside me, a bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. The mattress was soft so that she bounced up from it and collided with my shoulder. The glasses chinked and we laughed.

As we kissed, her eyes were swerving around and regarding me still with amusement. I wrapped my hand round her breast and the lambs’ wool sweater she was wearing felt soft against my palm when. We kissed in a lovely way for some time, but when I went to unfasten her skirt, she stopped me.

‘And what about your man in France?’ I said, after a pause. ‘Did you make that up?’

‘No. He’s real enough.’

‘Couldn’t we pretend you made him up?’

After the LitFest reading, I suggested going for a drink. Lindy said a drink would be lovely.

‘Still listening to jazz?’ I said as we raised our glasses and chinked them together.

‘Yes.’

I asked her if she remembered that lunch in the bistro.

‘But we never had lunch together,’ she said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘What else do you remember about me?’ She laughed. ‘I feel like I need to defrag your memory.’

I told her about the drink at the Sun Hotel, the meal at Pizza Marguerita, the nightcap back at her place, and the boyfriend in France.

She shook her head. ‘But it was you, Charlie! You were the one with the girlfriend in France! That’s why we only went out once.’

‘Really?’

Well. She’s entitled to her memories, but I’m entitled to mine.

The last time I saw Lindy Martin back in our student days was across a lecture theatre. She was back at Lancaster after her own year in France, so for a long time our paths had not crossed. I didn’t see her at first and climbed halfway up the steps on the side aisle before selecting a row to sit in. As I turned to take my seat I saw her there below, maybe twenty feet away, and she smiled. It was a fond look, an exquisite moment that has lived with me ever since. There wasn’t anything to be done about it: by now, I was with somebody else and who knows, she may still have been with her boyfriend. Maybe it was the fact that there was nothing to be done about it that made this look something I have cherished ever since. Even if it never really happened.

[For more about Robert and his work, go to http://robertgrahamwriting.weebly.com/]

The Window by Vanessa Gebbie

2012-02-29T10:15:00.003Z

I had this room in my house. It was very dark in there and the floor was
covered in spent matches. But without lighting another match it was too
dark to see to clear them up.

I saw an advertisement in the newspaper. New Windows, it said. Three for
the price of two.

I rang the number and it was engaged. After many tries I got through and a
woman said Can I help you?

Yes, I said.

There was a silence. Then she said How may I help you, Sir?

I said I was not used to being called Sir and found it disturbing as the
word held echoes of unhappy schooldays when I was at the mercy of a Mr
Atkins and used to hide under the desk.

After a while, the conversation came round to windows. We have an offer on
windows, she said. Three for the price of two.

I know, I said. But I do not need two or even three. May I have just the
one?

What size, she said.

It doesnt maatter, I said.

You mean you just want any window, she said.

So I bought a window. The price, which was not insubstantial, included
delivery.

Three days later a lorry arrived. Where do you want it? they said.

Where do I want what? I said.

Your window they replied.

I told them to put it round the back, against the wall. That was the
outside wall of the room with no windows. The one with the spent matches on
the floor.

It took four men to carry my new window round the back. It was a large
window. It was the same size, more or less, as the wall of the room.

Starting in the middle, I removed some bricks from the wall. I could see to
pick up the matches now, and there were three thousand four hundred and
twenty six of them.

After a while I needed to prop up the house, as cracks were appearing, but
the room was nice and light. And I fitted the window. It filled the whole
wall. I bought some paint samples, and began to paint the walls. Green,
mostly.

I met a neighbour in the street who said, Don't use the shade on the left,
use the one on the right, it is much kinder on the eye. I said Whose eye?
But thinking about it later, I realised she had been looking in. I did not
like that.

I took a chair and sat in the room, watching out of the window. And true
enough, the neighbour could see in. Not just that neighbour but several
others. I did not like this very much either.

The next day I went out and bought some more green paint, and I painted the
window so the neighbours could no longer see in. Trouble was, soon, it was
very dark in there, and I had to start striking matches again.

As I write, I am knee deep in spent matches.

Flash 366

2012-02-29T09:46:00.002Z

Dear Readers,

Yes, it's me again, butting in.

Today is a special day here on flash365. You see, when I set this project up, I didn't notice that it was going to be a leap year and that there would be 366 days rather than 365. I thought about just doing today anyway, and then I thought... no. It's an extra day, and I deserve a day off.

So I have turned the blog over to some friends of mine, all wonderful writers. So sit back and prepare to be bombarded by post after post.

From 10.15 today a new story will appear every half hour until late into the night. 25 writers (so far) will be bringing you wordy joy, including: Vanessa Gebbie, Robert Graham, Jonathan Pinnock, Alison Wells, Valerie O'Riordan, Zoe Lambert and many more.

So, stay tuned and enjoy as I give you... (drum roll)... Flash 366!!

304: Fat City

2012-02-28T22:35:00.001Z

If an idea’s worth having, it’s worth copying. That was Donald’s credo.

So he had saved all the money he could, borrowed from his father and his uncle, sold his car and taken out a loan. Finally he had what he needed.

And all through the early months of the harsh arctic winter, he worked. Occasionally he would make the two hundred mile journey to gaze at his rival and inspiration, the Ice Hotel. But then it would be back to work, shaping and building and crafting.

His material was, he felt, easier to work with and more durable, if not as abundant.

He used crisp, white lard for the streets and pavements, carving the lines of cobbles and slabs into them to give them the right effect. He crafted the buildings from grittier fats, small flecks of burned meat providing a rich, speckled texture that reminded Donald of marble. It also helped bind the walls together and provide enough strength to support the roofs.

He didn’t build above one storey though, that would have been too much.

After the first two cross streets were finished, he crafted a park area, with a bench and a river of cloudy, jellified olive oil. When it was complete he sat and admired his work.

His dream had finally turned into reality.

Now he just had to wait for the visitors to arrive.

But their arrival was accompanied by the arrival of a thaw.

Through the layers of clothing which Donald needed to keep him warm, he hadn’t noticed the rise in temperature, but as the first visiting 4x4 dug channels into the road, spraying liquefied lard behind it, he suddenly realised that the skin of his face was not as sore as it had been.

His brain scrambled for a solution, but there was nothing he could do. He just had to watch as walls bowed and roofs collapsed. The smell of cooked bacon filled the air, and the river started to flow greasily forward.

Slowly, the whole town melted around him and mixed with the snow.

Donald stood, ankle deep, in a lake of liquefied fat, and watched his dream sink into the ground. The arriving visitors didn’t even stop to ask what had happened, they just turned and left.

Eventually, he climbed into his van and followed them. In his deepest heart, despite how hard it was going to be to pay the money back, he was pleased. It hadn’t turned out quite as nice as he’d hoped. And he really needed a shower.

303: The Bicycle Thief

2012-02-27T22:06:00.001Z

The staff uniform helped Mal to blend in. It meant that nobody even looked at him as he knelt down between the bike racks and started poking at the lock with his pick.

Not that he worked at the hospital. Not any more. But they’d never asked for the spare one back and he’d found it had come in handy over the years.

Someone walked past, and even tossed a pleasant “ ‘Night!” into the air. Mal returned it with one of his own and carried on feeling for the tumblers.

A few seconds more poking and … oh… there you go. It was always nice to get the lock off in one piece. You could get a nice few quid for a lock.

He slid it into his backpack, then stood up, wheeled the bike out of its stand and swung his leg over the saddle.

Hmmm, nice and comfy. Good suspension. Nice tension in the brakes. This was a good choice.

He paused for a moment, applying slow pressure to the pedal, waiting for that moment of balance to slip into motion. And then he was off.

He passed a group of people on his way out of the car park and threw them a wave. Who knew, maybe one of them was even the bike’s owner. Mal grinned, then increased his pace and leant round onto the main road.

Traffic was heavy, but it didn’t matter to Mal, and anyway, he hadn’t far to go.

A mile down the road he was off to the left, then right, then left again, and finally into a concrete yard bordered on all sides by large sheds and lock-up garages.

He pulled on the brakes and left a satisfying band of rubber in front of number 14, then dismounted. His hair was blown back, his face red, and his cheeks coated in sweat.

Ah, that felt good.

He leant the bike against 13 and unlocked 14. Inside was a stack of metal tubes and rubber hoops. Bike upon bike upon bike climbed up to the ceiling.

He pulled the lock out and slung it into the barrel with the others, then lifted the new bike up and fitted it gently into place in the growing sculpture. He nodded. Coming along nicely. Then he locked the door, walked from the yard, climbed into his car and drove home.

302: No Man’s Land

2012-02-26T21:50:00.000Z

The gate closed behind her but she didn’t hear it. She stood on the pavement and felt the heat of the sun through her black suit jacket. She felt she should let out a deep sigh, but she couldn’t.

Instead she walked across the road – no need to check for traffic, not here – and stepped onto the scrub land opposite. It was scabbed and weed-ridden, but in between these scars were patches of lush green grass, unmarred by burning or litter.

She walked to one of these and stepped out of her shoes.

The grass was cool and damp under her soles. It felt clean and fresh, and she felt something, some dirt, washed from by the touch. It felt a little like freedom.

But as her weight crushed the blades, the rough stones that formed the topsoil started to push dents in her feet, causing small stabs of pain.

She thought of her house. It was still there, still waiting for her, after all these months. But what did it have for her but empty rooms, ghosts of blood, and newly reopened questions?

Finally the tears came. Through all this time, through the accusations and the trial, she had not cried once. It had been cited against her in court. But finally she allowed herself to feel all that had been lost.

When the governor told her of her release, he told her how lucky she was.

Her tears fall onto her bare feet and she let the stones dig deep into her skin.

301: Secrets and Lies

2012-02-25T20:35:00.001Z

He stood in the doorway and watched her sweating face sheer backwards her eyes squeezed closed in ecstasy as her fingers clawed his brother’s back. He turned away from the tangle of limbs and the thrusting hips. He shut his ears to the cries and grunts of orgasm, and shut the door too.

He didn’t tell her that he knew. He told her he was working late, or off on a business trip.

He didn’t tell her he was watching the house, watching her greet his brother on the doorstep, watching the light go on in their bedroom. He told her he was tired. He told her he was not in the mood. He told her it was stress from work and that he’d cheer up soon.

He didn’t tell her how much he hurt. He told her that he had to attend the conferences. He told her that his phone had been on silent so he hadn’t known she’d rung. He told her that his computer had broken so he hadn’t seen her emails.

He didn’t tell her he couldn’t stand to be near her. He told that it wasn’t her, it was him. He told her that he had met someone else. He told her that they’d always be friends.

He didn’t tell her he had kept a copy of the key. He told them that if they were quiet and told him the truth about it all, that he wouldn’t hurt them.

300: Heavenly Creatures

2012-02-24T22:05:00.000Z

It was a cafeteria like any other. The lino was scuffed by the transit of thousands of shoes and none of the table sat quite flat. An occasional folded napkin helped.

Empty trays were stacked by the food with smears of water drying in their layers. Used trays were stacked in ranks in shelved trolleys, with mugs and stained plates piled on them. Trays in use lay in ranks on the tables, and the Muses sat before them.

They had started as a club of nine: enough to bring art and beauty to the world. Now they were more than could be counted, working their daily rounds in shifts to cover the hours of the globe.

Caliopiea, Eroticatato and Hermahymnia sat at one table, nursing an empty space which was eventually filled when a fourth Muse slid her tray into the space and completed the square. She slumped into her chair and let out a sigh.

“Fuck me!” she said.

“Myrtle! Language!” replied Cally, her voice loud enough to turn heads.

“Well, really. I’m absolutely shagged out!” Myrtle bent her head and started to shovel pasta into her mouth. The spirals were covered in some kind of pale sauce, but she didn’t take time to taste it. This was a woman intent on loading up with carbs.

“He’s still at it, then?” asked Etta, taking a bite from a peach and using the back of her hand to wipe the juice from her chin.

Myrtle nodded and spoke as she chewed. “Yep, every bloody day, rain or shine, work or play, happy or sad. Three hundred days now!”

“Oh Myrtle.” Hermy reached over to take her colleague’s hand, but Myrtle shook it off and carried on shovelling. “I thought you said he had a cold.”

Myrtle nodded, small pieces of pasta falling from her lips as she munched. “He did. He does. Not bloody stopping him though. Something new, every day, he says. Every fucking day!”

Hermy wiped pasta spittle from her cheek and nodded her sympathy.

Cally’s face bore a look which was part disgust and part outrage. “Something should be done. We’re not meant to work in these conditions!”

“I know. I mean, there are some things which are for every day, but some which are meant to come as the mood takes you.” Etta giggled.

“It’s unnatural!” wailed Hermy, reaching for Myrtle’s hand again, but missing as the over-worked Muse loaded the last of the pasta into her mouth and reached for a can of drink. She popped the top and downed the contents in one long gurgle which ended with a loud belch.

Myrtle replaced the can on the tray and looked at the others. “Can you clear this for me? I have to get back.”

“Back?” asked Hermy. “Are you not done for the day?”

Myrtle shook her head as she rose and readjusted her dress. “Am I bugger. He’s planning a novel now.”

299: Closely Watched Trains

2012-02-23T22:29:00.000Z

When the announcement comes, and the lights flash in the distance, I step over the yellow line and steady my feet. I don’t want to stay back from the edge. I don’t want to take care. I want to stand as close as I can, so that the passing cars or wagons all but graze my nose and the tips of my shoes. I want to feel the wind sting my eyes with thrown grains of dust picked up from far flung fields. I want to smell the tang of cities and towns and villages. I want to feel the drag of death as it tries to pull me along with it.

And then as it recedes, I step back and let out the breath I’ve been holding, releasing to air of home and work, the exhalations of family and friends, to mingle with the wash of air, to be lifted and carried by the next train along.

That was where I met him. As I stepped up he grabbed me by the elbow, told me not to do it. Told me it wasn’t worth it. Told me there was plenty to live for.

I laughed in surprise, and explained.

He looked at me as though I was mad, and then he looked intrigued.

So the next through train that came, I reached down and took his hand and we stepped up together.

The wind rose and lifted our hair from our foreheads. I felt his fingers tighten on mine as the gale threatened to carry us away to Kansas He let out a sound – a whine – which rose into a howl. I could feel the broken sound waves reflecting back against me as his howl grew louder. I joined him, our voices rising in harmony above the clatter of the wagons.

As the last one passed, the howl turned into a laugh, and we collapsed into each others’ arms. Our laughter evolved tears and then broke down into giggles.

“I should have asked,” I said, when we’d recovered enough “were you meant to be catching a train?”

He looked at me and I saw the tears of laughter had cut clear tracks through the dust which covered his face. I knew I looked the same.

“Not any more,” he said.

298: Hoop Dreams

2012-02-22T20:27:00.001Z

“I had the strangest dream last night, father. I dreamed it was the nineteenth century and we lived in a large house. It had two long storeys and lay in its own grounds. The grass was carefully manicured and the hedges were small and grown from a plant called ‘box’ which had been trimmed into intricate patterns.

“I would spend the afternoons walking in the gardens in a huge dress which was held out from my legs by large rings. Sometimes I walked on my own and sometimes with a woman who I only knew as ‘my governess’. This was the woman who would teach me in the mornings and show me the ways to sit and stand and walk and talk. She taught me reading and numbers. It was so exciting.

“I never saw you, though, father, nor any other men apart from the gardener. He was rough and had coarse hands. He would look at me in a way which made my skin tingle and my breath quicken. It was like nothing I had ever known.

“Eventually a man came to the house, and Mother introduced me to him. He was the man to whom I was going to be married. But I didn’t want to. He scared me. I wanted the gardener, even though the way he made me feel was far more frightening than the way my intended –”

Puella’s father walked across the kitchen and looked at her. “What are you talking about, girl? You need to fill the amphorae with wine and move them into the atrium before the master returns. Now, get it done and stop with your daydreams or we will all be whipped.”

297: Slacker

2012-02-21T21:42:00.002Z

The dull-grey safe plummeted from out of the clear sky and straight towards his head. Slacker took a super-fast step to the side and let it crash into the paving slabs where he had been standing. Chips of cement cut holes in his already ragged jeans and battered leather jacket, but bounced from his impervious skin.

As the dust settled he used his super-vision to focus on the top of the building, and saw the face of The Giggler disappear back over a ledge.

Slacker shrugged and walked on.

And anvil fell towards him, but it was badly timed and Slacker just kept on walking as it impacted behind him.

He paused to light a cigarette and tilted his head back to blow out the smoke. A piano? Really? His exhale turned into a sigh and a shake of the head, and he reached out one hand to catch the falling instrument. It wasn’t that it was a threat, but he had a hangover and didn’t think he could bear the noise.

He lowered it to the pavement, took a long drag on his cigarette and then let it drop. His smoky breath was another sigh as he bent his legs and then leapt up the eight stories to the roof of the building.

The Giggler was waiting for him in his ridiculous spandex suit: black with white rictus grins sprinkled over it. He spread his legs and struck a pose, giving Slacker a far more graphic idea of what the spandex concealed than he would have wished. “You’ll never stop me, Slacker!” he cackled.

Slacker shrugged and reached into his pocket for another cigarette, wishing he hadn’t dropped the last one. It was a waste really. He should do something about that. One day.

“I don’t want to stop you, moron,” he mumbled around the end of the filter as he lit the cigarette. “I just want you to stop trying drop things on me all the time. They won’t kill me, you know. But some of them really give me a headache.”

“Eventually I will find a way to penetrate your impenetrable skin, Slacker!”

“Yeah, well, until then, give it a rest, eh?”

Slacker turned to leave, but stopped as the first of the shots hit his back. He faced The Giggler again to find the man shooting him with an automatic pistol. The bullets were flattening on Slacker’s skin and falling to the ground. One slid down inside his t-shirt and dug into his skin under his waistband. It was uncomfortable.

He wedged his cigarette between his lips and used both hands to dig around until he pulled the mangled slug free. The Giggler was reloading.

Slacker flicked the bullet at the villain, punching a hole through his upper-arm and knocking him flat on his back, screaming.

Slacker nodded, took a draw on his cigarette and jumped over the edge and back down to the ground. He was just in time to meet the police as they started to run in through the main door to arrest The Giggler. Slacker thought about telling them where to find him, but didn’t bother.

However, Inspector Crumm stepped in front of him and he stopped. “Did you capture him, Slacker?”

A shrug and a puff of smoke accompanied the mumbled, “Yeah, suppose so.”

“Thanks, Slacker. We can always rely on you.”

Slacker shrugged and walked away, checking his watch to see if the pub was open yet. As he walked he remembered what his uncle had told him: with great power comes no responsibility at all. It was a lifestyle, he thought, and pushed his way into the lounge bar of The Red Lion.