Bite-sized fiction

Succulent chunks of fresh fiction, cooked at your table and served sizzling hot, with our special spicy sauce

Over the last few months I’ve posted bits of flash fiction on the blog. They’re usually about 500-1,500 words, and are a challenge to write; as there is little space for context, it must be presented by implication. Flash fiction has a long history, but has become more popular in recent years, driven in part by the Internet – to which it is well suited. It’s a form that I’ve got into since joining a writing group, as when we meet each member presents a piece on a theme set at the previous meeting.

A fun feature of our meetings is the 5-minute writing exercise. Someone throws out a title (we don’t know it in advance) and we each prepare a story in that time. The result is, I suppose, what is now known as micro-fiction; a purist might say that this should be exactly 100 words, but these are pieces of about 150-250 words. I set the first title (The Night of my Downfall), but the others came out of the blue. There is no time to think; one starts writing straightaway. I rather enjoy it.

I’ve been through my notebook from the meetings and deciphered my handwriting (no easy task, I tell you), and hereby present these seven succulent, bite-sized fiction chunks. I have not edited them; they’re as I wrote them, served fresh and, I hope, piquant.

The Night of my Downfall

At about 1AM, I saw Mr Smithers waddle between the tables in my direction. His chain of office glittered in the harsh fluorescent strip lights. The other four were in train behind him. Why are provincial aldermen so fat and pompous, I thought.

“I think we should declare shortly," he said. "Perhaps you might mount the platform.”

I followed the others. A hush descended on the hall, the tellers exhausted, the scrutineers too. I had watched the piles of votes as they mounted up through the night and I knew.

I knew.

Smithers sidled up to the mic and tapped it twice.

“Being the returning officer for the constituency of Much Cursing and Little Gibbon, I declare the votes cast as follows.”

I listened, numb; 20 years as an MP were at an end.

I would have to find a job.

 

Can We Skip Winter?

“Can we skip winter?” she said.

I had been about to load the dishwasher. To do this I had had to lift the cat from the back of the machine. She sneaks in there when I’m not looking; her other favourite is the washer-dryer.

“I want to skip winter,” she repeated. “Let’s go to Greece. Or Italy. Or we could go and see Uncle Sidney in Sydney.”

She was always like that. She never thought of the money.

“We have to have those roof tiles done,” I said. “And I must get Thing over to clean the patio, and there’s the boiler, we’ll have to replace it in the spring. Where is the money coming from?”

She looked up at the skylight over the kitchen; a steady rain was falling.

I looked away to grab the cat, which was trying to get back into the dishwasher.

“I want to skip winter,” she said again, and I remember now – I didn’t notice it then – that she had a faraway look in her eyes. She looked away from the rain-spattered roof and went back to scrubbing the frying-pan. I thought no more of what she had said.

“Let’s watch telly,” she said. “It’s nearly time for the news.”

And yet I know, now, that that was the moment my marriage started to end.

 

The Elephant in the Room

We didn’t discuss it at the Board meeting in January. Or February. By March my patience was exhausted, not least because I arrived late.

“Ah, Sir John,” said the Chairman. “How nice of you to put in an appearance.”

“My apologies,” I snapped. “I was delayed by an elephant.”

“A what?”

“Perhaps he was on a trunk route,” said Peters. Everyone tittered.

“An elephant,” I said, “that has been in the room at every meeting of the Board for the last year.”

I reached into my briefcase and brought forth copies of Autocar, Motor and Motoring Which. I had marked the pages. I began to read.

“The Forsyte 100 2-Litre is a fine car in many ways,” said Autocar. “But every test car we have had has had a faulty gearchange. Do Forsyte Motors not realise that their reputation rests on…”

Peters interrupted me. “As Chief Engineer I am well aware that there is a minor matter concerning our gearbox…”

“Minor!” I spluttered. “I am a Director of Forsyte Motors. I do not expect to call the AA on my way to Board meetings.”

“Peters had assured us that this is under investigation,” said the Chairman. “I propose that we proceed to Item 1 on the agenda, which is Directors’ Emoluments.”

I slumped back in my seat. “Gentlemen,” I said, “our gearbox is the elephant in the room. And we are discussing our emoluments!”

“Of course, Smithson,” said the Chairman smoothly. “Everything is under control. We are a great British car company.”

 

What Was Here Before?

During the morning session, my wife called.

I was quite glad. I offered the facilitator an apologetic shrug and slipped out.

“Darling, thank you so much,” I said. “You’ve rescued me from Advanced Diversity Training Module Seven.”

She chuckled. “What’s the Wilford Conference Centre like?”

“The usual. No smoking, digital keys, a gym and overcooked breakfasts.”

She hung up, and I decided I needed a cigarette. It had been raining, but the clouds were clearing and patches of pale blue spring sky appeared.

“Wilford,” I said out loud.

“I beg your pardon?”

I looked behind me. A pleasant middle-aged lady in an overall held mountains of washing.

“Wilford,” I said. “I am sure I heard the name when I was younger. The conference centre is quite new though. What was here before?”

Roger Cornfoot/Wikimedia Commons

“Not much in my time,” she replied. ”But in the war. I know what was here them.”

It clicked. The areas of broken concrete at the back, the remains of an old Quonsett hut.

“Of course. This is the aerodrome the secret agents flew from.”

“Yes, that’s right.” She nodded. “That’s what was here then. What are you doing here?”

“Diversity training,” I said.

She smiled, and bustled on her way.

 

Stuck

We got stuck. I knew we would. Woldejesus was good, but the Chief Driver had given me Salim for the day. Salim was OK provided A) he was sober and B) it was the dry season. Today there was a faint whiff of araki on his breath. As for B), it was in the middle of the rains, and the road to Atbara was like the Somme.

The Land Cruiser made a satisfying splat as the right side bogged down in a rut the size of the Marianas Trench. Salim tried to power out of it. This just made the car dig itself in like a terrified vole that has seen a sparrowhawk.

I left Salim to it and squelched away through the black cottonsoil. I lit a cigarette. All around me the baked-earth plain, so arid and brown, had burst into life with the rain. Green shoots were everywhere. The sky, usually an empty pale blue or white, had taken on a richer blue and the white clouds billowed across the landscape. I almost felt I was in Norfolk.

“Do you know,” I said to no-one in particular, “I’m glad we got stuck.”

 

Fun

I had my usual meeting with P.J. at 10 on Tuesday. As always, I reported the receipts and outgoings for the previous week, gave the running totals for the month and summarised the liabilities.

Meetings with P.J. were at least safe. I could walk in there in a micro-skirt and leather boots if I wanted, and he wouldn’t notice. Other men were different and I had learned not to go into the office kitchen with more than one of them.

Today was as normal. He sat there in his dark suit and subdued tie. I was answering a question on our ground rent for the next financial year when the devil took me, and I said:

“P.J., have you ever had any fun?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mick Garratt/Wikimedia Commons

“I mean, have you ever gone on a fairground ride and enjoyed it more than the kids? Or run naked through a wood in spring, loving the bluebells?”

“Why on earth would I do that?” he asked.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry. The ground rent…”

“No, I haven’t really,” he said. “Had fun, I mean.”

He had turned away and was staring out of the window. It had been raining, but the sun had come out and the leaves, bright green, glistened against the blue sky.

“No,” he said. “No, I never really have.”

 

Heartstopping

“Well now, what happens when you call the IT helpdesk?” she asked.

“I guess they usually say, have you tried switching it off and switching it on again?” I replied.

“OK. Well, that’s pretty much what we’re gonna do to your heart,” she said.

I gulped.

“Er, what if it won’t reboot?” I blinked.

“It’ll reboot,” she said. “Like, your heart, it ain’t still running on Windows 7, is it?”

“I think it’s an Apple Mac,” I said.

“Then it’s been downloading patches for the last 60 years.” She grinned. “Relax, OK? You’re gonna be just fine.”

I recounted this conversation to my wife over dinner.

“Knowing you, your heart’s probably full of viruses from porn sites,” she said. She giggled.

“Hey, give me some support here,” I said. I’m frightened.”

She stopped smiling.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’ll be there. I love you.”

More flash fiction:

Rhodri Hactonby's Maps
A matter of human geography

Hiraeth
A yearning

Strange Places
A spirit in the sky 

A Sideways Journey
Things might have been different

Displaced
Encounter on E94th Street

Belonging
Do you? Where?

Leaving Home
A house has memories

Mike Robbins’s latest book, On the Rim of the Sea, is now 

available as a paperback or ebook. More details here.

 

Flash fiction: Strange Places

Strange places. High places.

It was after six and the winter daylight had gone. I dropped the others and drove home. The pavements had that clear, sharp look that heralds a frost. I was happy, but weary; I’d left the house at half-past five, for we’d wanted to use every minute of the short day.

Mike Robbins

At home I left the car in the drive. I did not empty the boot of gear, but I'd do it first thing in the morning. My Great-Uncle Geoff said always to take care of it well. Every rope, he said; every karabiner; any one could save you or kill you and it’s not by chance.  

“You taken your boots off?” That was Mum, from the kitchen.

“Yes, I left them in the garage.” I often did, so I kept a pair of slippers there. “I could murder a tea.”

“I’m making one for Uncle Geoff,” she said. “He’ll be awake soon. You can take it up. He’ll want to know about your day.”

He often did. He would lie there in bed listening, smiling; now and then he would ask about the rock faces, or how technical it had been, or how my new boots were breaking in. But he didn’t say much. He never did. Even when I was very young. Mum says he did when he was younger. “Quite chatty he was really, they say. Then he went all quiet,” she said once. “When he came back from the climb – you know, the big one. Not that I remember much. I was only ten. It was on the telly and everything. We all went to the Palace with him for the medal. But he never did say much after he came home.”

I took the tray with my mug and Great-Uncle George’s and went up to his room. The bedside light was on and cast a soft light on the pictures on the dresser. The newspaper shot taken at London Airport, with the sleek BOAC VC10 in the background. The headline: ASCENT OF K3! PLUCKY BRITISH TEAM TAME KILLER MOUNTAIN AT LAST. The picture with the Queen, both looking so young; I suppose she herself was still in her 30s.

I pushed the door open with a soft touch, but he opened his eyes as I came in. His eyes look large now, his face is so much thinner. Mum frets that he’ll soon need care she can’t provide. I think he knows that. But he’s all right with it.

He smiled. “A good day? Where did you go, son?”

“Grey Crags,” I said.

“I learned to climb on Grey Crags,” he said. “That was nearly 70 years ago, you know.”

I did know. He often said it.

“It was a long day,” I told him. ”But a good one. Sharp and clear, very calm, a bit of colour in the sky today. Went with Gordon and Dave and Ella. We were talking on the way back, about going to the Dolomites this summer. Ella really fancies it.”

“Good,” he said. “Get out there and stretch yourself a bit.”

“But I know what I want to do,” I went on, then hesitated for a moment. I’d never said this before. “Uncle Geoff, I think I want to go to the Karakoram. Like you.”

He looked at me for several seconds; he seemed to be thinking, then:

Mike Robbins

“Strange places,” he said. “High places. The sky is different, you know. The air is thin but you know that. But the sky…. And there is a presence there. You feel it. It is beyond understanding. But you feel it. Especially at dusk. The sky turns a darker blue and the peaks are this white crystal against it and you know you are being watched by something. Someone.”

My mum called up the stairs. ”Did you want to watch the Milwall game? Your Dad’s just turning it on.”

“If we beat Millwall we’ll be in the playoffs,” I said. “So it’s a big day.”

Uncle Geoff seemed to snap out of his reverie. “Get down there then.”

I turned through the door but I heard him mumble something. “What?” I asked.

“Lonely.” He looked at me across the pillow and for a moment I thought he wanted me to stay, but he went on: “That’s what you’ll feel. If you go up there. Into the thin high air. You’ll feel its presence and you’ll come down and you’ll need to go back and one day when you get older you will understand that it is the last time, that you won’t go up there again, and you will miss it. An you’ll feel lonely for the rest of your life.”

I didn’t know what to say to this.

He closed his eyes. “Go on then,” he said, but now he was smiling a little. “Bugger off and watch Millwall. Someone has to.”

I chuckled and went downstairs. I wish I’d sat with him longer now. We lost to Millwall anyway. I mean, who loses to Millwall. And then he died in the night. First I knew of it, I was listening to Radio Five Live and just thinking about getting up, then I heard this sort of strangled cry and a crash as Mum dropped his breakfast tray. “He must have died in his sleep because he looked quite peaceful,” she said later. “But dead.”

Ella and I are thinking now. The Karakoram. Or the Khumbu Glacier. We want to go high. I wonder if we’ll go quiet when we do.

More flash fiction:

Rhodri Hactonby's Maps
On human geography

Hiraeth
A yearning... 

A Sideways Journey
Things might have been different

Displaced
Encounter on E94th Street

Belonging
Do you? Where?

Leaving Home
A house has memories

Mike Robbins’s latest book, On the Rim of the Sea, is now 

available as a paperback or ebook. More details here.

Flash fiction: A sideways journey

A little flash fiction...

“We’ll go to Nidden for the summer,” my wife told me. “You can write your paper there. We can swim in the Baltic and you can draw inspiration from the artist’s colony.”

My paper is important. I am a metaphysicist and believe I have intuited an important facet of time: that it is not a single continuum but a series of parallel progressions between which, in theory at least, one might cross, by accident or design, to enter a reality that may be radically estranged from one’s own; or much the same, but rendered subtly different by some slight accident of history; a battle lost, instead of won; a weapon that wasn’t forged, a prince who lived when he had died.

A.Savin/Wikipedia

“I suppose we might,” I conceded. I do like the Curonian Spit with its light and air; it is conducive to one's intellectual process. Before I could change my mind, she had opened her computer and booked our tickets online. 

So now we sat in the departure lounge. We became aware of an elderly man, dressed in a suit but without a tie; he looked quite distinguished. He was staring at his ticket and at the signs over the gates. He seemed confused.

My wife stood up. “Are you looking for your gate?” she asked politely.

He looked at her. “Yes,” he said. “I thought it was announced. I am on the Easyjet flight to Bratislava.”

Now my wife looked confused. “Easyjet?” she said, “I do not know them. Where is Bratislava?”

“Bratislava. In Slovakia,” he said. “I am going to attend a conference. I am giving a paper. On philosophy.” He laughed nervously. “I am a logical positivist. But it seems one must use intuition to find one’s gate.” He pointed at the gate sign for our own flight. “Surely that sign is a joke.”

My wife frowned. “Might I see your ticket?” she asked. She studied it, then nodded briskly. ”Ah. Look, that is this gate, here.”

“You are sure?”

She nodded, and took his arm and guided him to his gate. He thanked her, but seemed uncertain. Beyond the window I could see the tail-fin of his jet, with the big red-and-white flag, the familiar crest offset a little to the left of centre. She walked back to me.

“What on earth is logical positivism?” I asked. “I suppose it may be one of these wretched modernist movements that question the use of intuition. And where is Bratislava?  It sounds vaguely Bohemian.”

“I really don’t know, dear,” she said. “But his ticket was for Austro-Hungarian Airlines Flight 470, Pressburg via Lemberg.” She glanced at me a little mischievously. “I wonder,” she said, “perhaps he has strayed, by accident or design…”

“Oh, do stop,” I said. Ahead lay the Baltic, sun, sea and the warm sand of the Curonian Spit. 

I smiled; she smiled back.

“Last call,” said the Tannoy. “Last call for Imperial German Airways Flight 1918, Königsberg via Breslau and Danzig.”

Rhodri Hactonby's Maps
A question of human geography

Hiraeth
A yearning…

Strange Places
A spirit in the sky 

Displaced
Encounter on E94th Street

Belonging
Do you? Where?

Leaving Home
A house has memories

Mike Robbins’s latest book, On the Rim of the Sea, is now 

available as a paperback or ebook. More details here.