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Daily Archives: May 18, 2012

Flash Fiction Friday 035: ‘Revenge is a dish best served…alive’ by Christopher Farley

Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday and the thirty-fifth piece of flash fiction in this series. This week’s is a 701-worder by Christopher Farley.

Revenge is a dish best served… alive

Brian saw the legs first. Two of them. Then there followed another, then another.  He counted eight. He was unsure as to why it had come out from behind the wardrobe only to sit on the floor and gaze at him; at least he believed it was gazing at him.

He heard a crash downstairs, Margie was cooking and swearing all at once, he chuckled to himself as a list of expletives, possibly borrowed from the army parade ground, turned the air blue.  It still looked at him.  Frowning, he reached for the remote control and turned on the news.  News?  Death, starvation, natural disaster, murder.  No news there, he thought.

The spider had moved.  He didn’t know where but it had gone, disappeared, hopefully back to the hole it had crawled out from.  He gave a final sweep of the room and turned over the TV.  More rubbish.  He was convinced that evening’s viewing was programmed by people who do anything but stay at home in the evening. After rigorous use of the remote he found a motoring channel and let the host guide his way through the intricacies of some flash sports car.

“Margie”, he shouted, “bring us up a beer love would you?”  He heard the voice below in the kitchen, mutter something or other, muffled by the distance and the walls.  A few minutes passed and still no ale.  The spider was back.

“Margie!” Louder this time. “Get us that beer love”.  It wasn’t a request.

Again a minute or two passed.

“Margie!!!”

The spider disappeared.  30 seconds later the door opened, two hands holding a can and a glass arrived and handed both to him.

“You took your time love”.  Not even thanks.

Margie looked briefly into his face as she turned and walked from the room, closing the door behind her.

“Did you just look at me?” he called after her.  He heard her footsteps on the landing then the top of the stairs, the way the floorboard creaked between the banister and the bathroom door was a giveaway.  Then she was back in the kitchen.

He poured the beer from the can and let it settle, continuing to top up the glass slowly.  Raising it to his lips he let the first mouthful wash down his throat.  The spider was back.  “What an ugly brute” he thought.  He considered calling Margie to bring the fly-swatter hanging up in the kitchen.  “No,” he said to himself, “let’s see what it does next”.

After a further 5 minutes of motoring TV he realised he was hungry. “Margie,” he yelled, “bring me a sandwich love.” The spider regarded him.  For a second or two Brian considered throwing something at it but the only things to hand were his beer and the remote control, both necessities and not available for launch.  The spider turned and disappeared.  A short while later the sandwich appeared. “Cheese?  “You know I don’t like cheese in a sandwich.”

“It’s all I got in the fridge,” came the reply.

“Where does my housekeeping money go?”

“I haven’t been to the shop, I haven’t felt well, remember?”

“You won’t be feeling well if you talk to me like that again. I’m the man of the house.”

Margie went downstairs.  The spider appeared. Brian heard sobs from the kitchen. “Bloody woman,” he said.

As if in response, the spider raised itself up on the back two sets of legs, looking at him.  It charged, racing across the room.  Brian watched fascinated, even when the spider struck, biting his foot.  He didn’t feel anything, just a strange numbness; which then started up his left leg, reached his thigh then started down the right one.  Brian sat following the spider with his eyes as the strange sensation crept into his abdomen, then his arms. Finally he could no longer move his head.

The spider returned to the wardrobe, going backwards under the door, studying the man in the chair.  It disappeared.

Five minutes later Margie came through the door with an assortment of cutlery.  She closed the door behind her.  Looking at her husband she sat down and took the knife and fork in her hands… and waited.

Wow. I loved that, thank you, Chris.

Christopher Farley.  He lived a sheltered life in the wilds of Kent from where he was saved by the written word.  So much so that he still corresponds with certain people with A PEN AND PAPER!!

Upon moving to London, a bit like Dick Whittington, searching for streets of gold, he happened upon a beautiful Italian lady who later decided to take him to the sunny realm of southern Switzerland, where he can still be found, smiling inanely, continuously in search of Weissbier.

When he is not working or drinking he sits in front of the computer, searching for fictional inspiration. You can find Chris via his blog http://talkingtosh.wordpress.com where he says he longs to make a living writing but…

I know that feeling :) As Chris pointed out when he emailed me his photo, doesn’t his picture (the background anyway) look like Edvard Munch’s The Scream (which I wrote about recently).

If you’d like to submit your 1,000-word max. stories for consideration for Flash Fiction Friday take a look here.

The blog interviews will return as normal tomorrow with historical / romance author Kristy K James – the three hundred and seventy-fourth of my blog interviews with novelists, poets, short story authors, bloggers, biographers, agents, publishers and more. A list of interviewees (blogged and scheduled) can be found here. If you like what you read, please do go and investigate further. And I enjoy hearing from readers of my blog; do either leave a comment on the relevant interview (the interviewees love to hear from you too!) and / or email me.

You can sign up to receive these blog posts daily or weekly so you don’t miss anything… and follow me on Twitter where each new posting is automatically announced. You can also read / download my eBooks and free eShorts at SmashwordsSony Reader StoreBarnes & NobleiTunes BookstoreKobo and Amazon, with more to follow. I have a new forum and you can follow me on Twitter, friend me on Facebook, like me on Facebook, connect with me on LinkedIn, find me on Tumblr, complete my website’s Contact me page or plain and simple, email me.  I also now have a new blog creation service especially for, but not limited to, writers.

Unfortunately, as I post an interview a day (amongst other things) I can’t review books but I have a feature called ‘Short Story Saturdays’ where I review stories of up to 2,500 words. Alternatively if you have a short story or self-contained novel extract / short chapter (ideally up to 1000 words) that you’d like critiqued and don’t mind me reading it / talking about and critiquing it (I send you the transcription afterwards so you can use the comments or ignore them) :)  on my ‘Bailey’s Writing Tips’ podcast, then do email me. They are weekly episodes, usually released Monday mornings UK time, interweaving the recordings between the red pen sessions with the hints & tips episodes. I am now also looking for poetry for Post-weekend Poetry.

 
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Posted by on May 18, 2012 in short stories

 

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Story A Day May 2012: May 18th – Bill the Bag Man

Late April 2011 I discovered http://StoryADay.org and the project that is to write 31 stories in 31 days. Anyone who knows me or follows this blog, knows how passionate I am about short stories so my clichéd eyes lit up at this new marvel. And just a few days later there I was, breathing life into new characters. This went on to become (with some editing of course) my 31-story collection eBook Story A Day May 2011.

And here we are a year later doing it all over again. Today’s prompt was to write a story featuring a loner, so here is my 726-worder. And it’s another sad one, sorry about that.

Bill the Bag Man

They say everyone has someone, but there are those few who slip the radar, made someone their everything then lost them, moved area for a fresh start.

Bill’s wife Laura had been the one interested in shopping, he’d just sit reading the sports section until she either bought (usually) or moved on to another shop (or both).

She’d been the one with the good job. He’d never understood what a gorgeous sales executive had seen in a bin man like Bill but he made her laugh, they made each other laugh and when they were told they couldn’t have children it didn’t seem to matter. They used the money a buggy would have cost to go away for the weekend, a cot bought them a London show.

Whenever she bought a new suit she’d call it an investment but to Bill it looked the same as the one she’d been wearing the day before. “Quality over quantity,” she’d say and she seemed to have both but it was her money and it made her happy, so Bill had no complaints.

“We should do a car boot sale,” he’d suggested but then agreed when she’d said they’d only get a fraction of the money back and that she still wore or used everything she’d bought and he’d nodded again.

But then she started buying smaller sizes, seemed paler each shopping trip and when she’d collapsed he’d wanted to cry at how light she felt lifting her in the car.

As she got thinner the trips increased; she’d wanted to explore while she could, then her mode of transport changed from the London Underground to a wheelchair by the sea front. Finally shopping was all she enjoyed but she’d buy things for him, saying she had more than enough to last a lifetime. Bill knew she meant hers.

He’d not wanted all the clutter around the house before but when she’d died he began to see its attraction; it kept him company. Inanimate objects they may have been, but every now and then he’d get out a bag and look at the contents; smiling if it was something he’d bought, crying if it was hers. So he kept up the tradition, went in every shop with a ‘sale’ sign then bought regardless of whether reduced or not, adding it to the pile when he got home.

He started having to step over things, cupboard space a premium but it felt like exercise. He’d become practiced at making mounds that stayed upright despite resembling the leaning Tower of Pisa. They incorporate tunnels and he felt like his childhood guinea pigs nestling through straw. He’d even chirruped and laughed. He wasn’t sure how Laura would have felt about his existence but he knew she wouldn’t have wanted him mourning and having all her things around him grew soothing.

Routines kept him sane; Tesco Monday afternoons, picking a different assistant each time, the library Wednesday mornings where self-service meant he could be a no-one. Friday lunchtimes were foil-wrapped sandwiches in the park with a bottle of orange juice on a warm day or flask of tea when cold.

He began thinking that retirement wasn’t as bad as people made out and he’d pop into the pound shop on the way home, filling a couple of carrier bags with anything bright and cheerful; toys for grandchildren he’d never have, squeaky bones for a dog long gone, short date shortbread from a Scottish loch. He’d have them with his cup of tea so he treated himself to the local paper from Mr Patel’s.

Pulling out the shortbread, he started a new layer of bags in one corner of the lounge. He’d put the kettle on and stretch his legs in the garden then work his way back to his favourite chair to see what the outside world had been up to, according to the Holford Gazette.

The kettle was boiling when he remembered he’d left his mug by the chair and nestled his way knowing every square inch of carpet. He’d just turned round, mug in hand, when his foot kicked a bag and he heard plastic shifting. It was his back that felt the blow first, then a hip, a shoulder, his head.

As Bill took his last breath he saw Laura’s face and he knew everything was going to be OK.

If you like working from prompts you might be interested in my 365-Day Writer’s Block Workbook (Vol 1).

You can sign up to receive these blog posts daily or weekly so you don’t miss anything… and follow me on Twitter where each new posting is automatically announced. You can also read / download my eBooks and free eShorts at SmashwordsSony Reader StoreBarnes & NobleiTunes BookstoreKobo and Amazon, with more to follow. I have a new forum and you can follow me on Twitter, friend me on Facebook, like me on Facebook, connect with me on LinkedIn, find me on Tumblr, complete my website’s Contact me page or plain and simple, email me.  I also now have a new blog creation service especially for, but not limited to, writers.

Unfortunately, as I post an interview a day (amongst other things) I can’t review books but I have a feature called ‘Short Story Saturdays’ where I review stories of up to 2,500 words. Alternatively if you have a short story or self-contained novel extract / short chapter (ideally up to 1000 words) that you’d like critiqued and don’t mind me reading it / talking about and critiquing it (I send you the transcription afterwards so you can use the comments or ignore them) :)  on my ‘Bailey’s Writing Tips’ podcast, then do email me. They are weekly episodes, usually released Monday mornings UK time, interweaving the recordings between the red pen sessions with the hints & tips episodes. I am now also looking for flash fiction (<1000 words) for Flash Fiction Fridays and poetry for Post-weekend Poetry.

 
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Posted by on May 18, 2012 in ebooks, short stories, writing

 

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