Short Story: Return

Didn't feel much like writing today, but I got my story done. Eventually.

Sometimes all you can do is show up. Even if you don't feel like it.

Return

“Hi.”

His voice was quiet, tentative. Familiar.

I looked up from the cupcakes I was decorating and my gaze met a pair of blue eyes I knew so well.

“I came back,” he said. “Took me a while to find you, but you named this place what you always said you would so…” he trailed off with a shrug.

Words wouldn’t come to me. He looked good, in his scruffy t shirt and jeans. His hair was longer than I remembered, and there was a soft growth of beard on his chin.

My heart ached, but I remembered the hurt in my chest the day he’d walked away. For good, I’d thought.

“I can see that,” I said, and I tried to keep my voice level. Tried to keep the blame and anger inside. He flinched and I assumed I wasn’t doing a very good job.

“I’m sorr–” he said, before I interrupted him,

“Save it,” I said, and this time I sounded tired. I was too goddamn old to be dealing with his dramatic bullshit. God knows I still loved him, and probably always would, but a heart can only take so many hurts before it stops trying. I was long past that point with James. “What do you want?” I said, my words short and sharp and unforgiving.

“I wanted to apologise,” he said. “But since you don’t seem to want me to…”

I closed my eyes. I couldn’t look at those soulful baby blues any more. He’d always been able to get what he wanted just by fluttering his pretty eyelashes at me. The man was far too good looking for his own good, and I could feel the resolve I’d built myself over the last two years slip away.

“You hurt me,” I said, and I couldn’t keep my emotions under control. They spilled out into my voice, choking up in my throat. The corners of my eyes burned and I knew I was a few heartbeats away from tears. “You left.”

“David,” he whispered, taking a step closer to the counter. I wiped at my traitorous eyes and stepped back, not ready for him to be so close.

“I’m covered in flour,” I protested, though it sounded like a flimsy excuse even to me.

“I don’t care,” he said. “I fucked up David. I never should have left you.” He sounded utterly wretched and my stomach twisted.

“But you did,” I pointed out. “You left me and I moved on.”
“I haven’t,” he said, and he sounded so thoroughly miserable my heart ached. “I thought… I thought I wanted adventure, to see the world, but I was wrong. All I want is you.”

I felt my resolve crumbling. How many nights had I cried over this man that had broken my heart? How many times had I told myself I wouldn’t take him back no matter what? I should have known better.

I loved him. No amount of hurt could change that.

Something about my body language must have changed, must have tipped him off because he looked at me through his fringe, looking young and mischievous. He bit his lip, and I probably shouldn’t have found it as adorable as I did. “Can we start over?”

I should say no. I knew that. But for all I’d tried to pretend otherwise, the last two years had been miserable without him. Sure I’d moved cities and started my own business but success had been hollow without him beside me.

It wasn’t that I needed to be with someone in order to be happy. It was just that, when you love someone, you don’t feel right when you’re not with them.

I imagined Sunday mornings in my bakery, both of us covered in flour and grinning wildly at each other. I imagined him in an apron, tongue sticking out a little bit as he put the finishing touches to a customer’s cake. I imagined sitting in the café watching the rain together, hands wrapped around hot mugs of tea.

That sounded so much better than a future spent alone.

I felt a grin steal over my face. “I think we can work something out,” I said.

He smiled and I felt breathless and giddy. Alive, like I hadn’t quite managed since he’d left. “Yeah? Cool.” James looked as giddy as I felt.

“If you’re staying, you can make yourself useful,” I said, aiming for stern but coming out more lovestruck and ridiculous. I nodded at the peg with the spare aprons. “These cupcakes all need icing before tonight.”

He scurried to grab an apron—a ridiculous pink one that said “kiss the chef”—and came round the counter. “I think I just about remember how to ice cupcakes,” he said. “You need anything special doing with them.”

I shook my head and handed him a piping bag, our fingers brushing as he took it from me. We shared a small, silly grin and I couldn’t resist; I leaned over and did exactly what his apron told me to.


“Welcome home,” I whispered against his mouth. “Welcome home.”

---

If you enjoyed this story feel free to purchase one of my books either here, or here. Or you can buy me a coffee here.

Short Story: Buzz

Today's story may or may not have been inspired by me finding about fig wasps. Slight body horror to follow.

Buzz

It was the buzzing that first attracted my attention. An angry vibration that should have served as a warning to stay away. Instead, like a fool, I sought out the source of the noise.

I crashed through the woods, pushing foliage aside as I went. The noise grew louder. I followed my ears, and then my nose as I picked up a sickly sweet stench.

When I found the source of the buzzing I wish I hadn’t.

It was a corpse, all bloated and green. The scent I’d picked up was that of decay as the poor soul’s insides rotted and turned to slime. I was almost sick.

Insects were crawling all over the body, strange wasp-like things I’d never seen before. They were everywhere, crawling in and out of the dead person’s nose, ears and eye sockets. Every orifice that I could see was filled with a mass of angry buzzing creatures, bright yellow and glistening in the dappled sunlight.

Whether they were coming or going I couldn’t tell, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

My instincts screamed at me to get out of there, to call someone, anyone, so they could do something. But there was part of me, the part concerned with morbid curiosity, that told me to stay put. To drink my fill of the macabre sight, to memorise the sickening sounds and smells and the taste of decay on my tongue. I couldn’t move.

The pitch of the buzzing changed, and knew the insects were aware of me.

Bile rose in the back of my throat and a voice in my mind screamed at me to run.

The first insect lifted off from the corpse and flew towards me. My paralysis broke.

I ran.

The swarm came after me, a malevolent cloud of hatred and buzzing chasing me through the woods.

Suddenly I knew the sick truth; the wasps had been leaving the bloated corpse that had been their incubator. And now they were searching for a new victim, a home for their own eggs.

Me.

The first sting felt like I’d been hit in the back of the neck by a golf ball. My neck immediately went numb and I stumbled in surprise. The second sting felt exactly the same, and the third.

I couldn’t keep running.

I crashed to the forest floor, unable to keep up with the number of stings. The pain was immense, intense, followed by a seductive cool numbness that called to me. I fought it as long as I could but the will of the swarm was inevitable.

I could feel the wasps crawling over my skin but I couldn’t move my limbs to do anything about it. I wanted—needed—to scream but nothing would come out. I couldn’t open my mouth.

Panic blossomed in my chest like bile as a single wasp crawled over my chin. It was soon followed by another, and another, the delicate whisper of their legs like the rush of water.

Something nipped at my lips, sharp and bright and painful. I choked back vomit as a realised what was happening; they were chewing their way inside me.

Perhaps choking to death on my own sick wasn’t such a terrible fate after all.

I watched in growing horror as a single wasp crested my cheek and looked me in the eye. Unbidden the ruined eye sockets of the other corpse sprang to mind and I knew what was to come.

I slammed my eyes shut. My fate might be an inevitability but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to fight it with every breath I had left.

The pressure of an unvoiced scream grew inside my chest until I thought I would explode. They were inside my nose now, my ears. Crawling around like my insides were home. My lips tasted of blood as they buzzed against my teeth. I couldn’t breathe.

The last thing I felt before I passed out was the first nip of insect jaws at my eyelids. After that the darkness was a mercy.

---

If you enjoyed this story feel free to purchase one of my books either here, or here. Or you can buy me a coffee here.

Short Story: A Day in the Life

I started this story with the idea of writing something with a different perspective on yesterday's story, that of the person receiving the fifteen pairs of underpants, assorted. It ended up being something of a tirade about working in customer service.

Oh well


A Day in the Life

The day had start off so well.

I’d managed to climb out of bed the first time my alarm went off, there was the perfect amount of hot water for my shower and I got a free cookie from the barista I like when I went to pick up my morning coffee. For a Monday that’s practically perfect.

Of course it all went down hill the moment I got to work.

There had been a massive system malfunction over the weekend and the staff were still struggling to keep up. Hundreds of completed quests hadn’t been processed properly and a good dozen or so had simply disappeared off the system. Wonderful. I told my boss I’d do an extra hour to help sort things out and then settled into my booth.

The first adventurer dropped off the items from their completed quest and went of their merry way after accepting the reward. Another happy customer and, more importantly one that hadn’t shouted at me. If only the rest of my customers had been like that first one.

By lunchtime the queue outside my booth was twenty or so people deep and I was starting to get a headache from all the people who had shouted at me for things that weren’t my fault. It was a relief to slip out of my booth for lunch.

Or it would have been if someone hadn’t nicked my sandwiches. I had to run out to the shop to grab something and by the time I got back to the quest submission centre I was well and truly late.

Over the course of the afternoon I had people drop the following items on my desk: four dead rats, three kilograms of mud, fifteen pairs of underwear (and I wasn’t convinced they were all clean) and a small pile of assorted bones. By the time six o’clock rolled around I was hip deep in an argument with an adventurer over whether he had actually fulfilled the requirements of the quest.

“The quest clearly states that you need ten old dollars in pennies and you only have nine dollars ninety-nine.”

“Yes I can see you’ve checked the quest as complete on your HUD but that doesn’t change the fact the quest is, in fact, incomplete.”

“If you have another penny on you I can process this quest now, otherwise you will have to come back tomorrow.”

“I am aware that’s an inconvenience but there’s nothing I can do.”

“Sir if you don’t lower your voice I will have to call security.”

“Sir? Sir! Security!”

By the time I’d managed to drag my carcass home it was cold, dark and raining, and I had lost all faith in humanity. Not a day went by at the processing centre when I didn’t wish I was on the other side of the counter. Sure the people I dealt with day in day out had to collect some weird shit in exchange for their rewards, but at least they weren’t stuck in a booth getting shouted at all day. Maybe one day I’d be able to quit my job, buy a HUD and start adventuring.

It was nice to have dreams.

In the meantime I shoved a ready meal in he microwave and ate my tub of boiling hot cheese in front of some crap TV. I climbed into bed long before my usual time, exhausted. I hoped everything would seem better after a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow was another day.

I hoped the douchebag with the pennies didn’t come back.

---

If you enjoyed this story feel free to purchase one of my books either here, or here. Or you can buy me a coffee here.

Short Story: Quest

Today's story pokes fun at some of the weird shopping list, "collect twenty of this" type quests you get in RPGs. Don't get me wrong I love those games, and have sunk hundreds of hours into them (hello there Skyrim and Dragon Age: Inquisition) but these quests can get a bit... weird.

Just like today's story.


Quest

A new quest popped up on my heads up display. I opened it, excited to head out into the world on an adventure once more.

“They want me to collect what?” I said to myself in utter disbelief.

Fifteen pairs of underpants, assorted.

“What the actual fuck?” I muttered. Was the quest giver some kind of pervert or something? What the hell did they want with that many pairs of pants? I could understand it if they just wanted me to get fifteen pairs of pants in their size and preferred style but no. I didn’t even want to think what the quest setter wanted with that many pairs of random pants.

Still… the reward was pretty good. Enough credits to buy that new weapon I’d been after.

I accepted.

Now I just had to work out where to find the requisite number of knickers. I figured I could always go buy them for my employer, but I got the distinct impression that wasn’t what they were after. I checked the quest specification again; it just said “underpants, various”. Helpful.

I sat down for a moment, thinking. What sorts of places might I find stray underwear. The ad didn’t specify but my personal preference was for them to be clean when I picked them up.

My first stop was a launderette. There were always odd bits of clothes being left in the dryers.

I was in luck: the first laundrette I visited yielded three of the fifteen pairs I needed. I updated the quest progress meter and felt the first flicker of excitement over the reward. I was twenty percent of the way there. And I’d only received a few odd looks for picking pairs of knickers out of the lint trap.

By the time I had check all the launderettes within walking distance I was almost half way to my goal.

I was pretty happy with how far I’d gotten with the quest so far, because the next thing I planned on doing was checking the laundry people had put out on their washing lines. The weather wasn’t terribly great today which meant fewer people were likely to have their washing out.

I dived into the first garden I saw with washing in and started pulling pants off the line.

Three hours later I had fourteen out of my fifteen pairs of pants and a dog bite on my arse for my troubles. It didn’t matter though, I was so close to my goal. So close. I could almost taste the reward.

Which was good because I wasn’t looking forward to my next port of call: the leisure centre changing rooms.

Oh they would almost certainly have what I needed, but there was no telling what sort of state they’d be in. I’d seen discarded knickers in all sorts of predicaments before. I prayed I would find a pair completely soaked in chlorinated water. That was better than some of the alternatives.

I paid my way into the leisure centre, a small price considering the magnitude of the reward, and methodically searched the changing rooms. Every nook, every cranny, every empty locker. Nothing.

I left the leisure centre disappointed.

All I needed was one more pair of pants and that new weapon would be mine.

Just one more.

A thought occurred to me. I knew exactly where I could find a single pair of pants.

It was awkward getting the rest of my armour and clothes off but soon enough I was down to my underwear. I had my last pair of panties.

I scrabbled to put my clothes back on, feeling a little bit conscious of the fact I was now going commando, and ran to the quest marker to submit my items. The queue at quest submission was interminable, but at last I was rid of the fifteen sets of underwear. I asked no questions and refused to look the attendant in the eye as they passed me my reward.

As I headed to the store to exchange my hard-earned credits for loot, another quest marker popped up on the HUD. I hesitated a moment—thoughts of underpants, various still fresh in my mind—before clicking open.

---

If you enjoyed this story feel free to purchase one of my books either here, or here. Or you can buy me a coffee here.

Short Story: Keeping Promises

I ended up writing a much happier story today. Probably because it's Saturday.

Day two of the challenge is in the bag.


Keeping Promises

It had been many years since she’d last seen the gleaming spires of her homeland. Too many. Her heart ached at the sight, so familiar and yet, not the same. The unmistakeable mark of progress was evident in the new towers and buildings. No doubt time had wrought changes on the people too.

Was she still the same? Would she still remember her?

Doubt swirled in Fliss’s mind but she had to try. She’d promised.

She made her way down in to the city, the steps still so familiar after so long away. The smells and sounds of the marketplace were unchanged, all cinnamon and coffee and people arguing over price. She breathed deep of the scent of home.

There was a rhythm to the chaos, an almost predictable ebb and flow. Almost, because as soon as you figured out the pattern it changed again, and you had to either stand your ground or change with it, being swept along with the crowd. Fliss was out of practice at this dance but she remembered the steps well enough; her instincts were still sound.

She left the market behind and made her way down into the Old Town. Here too time had wrought its changes. Someone in their wisdom had evidently decided on some sort of regeneration scheme; many of the buildings sported new timber and a fresh lick of paint. But there was a certain timelessness to the dusty cobble streets and Fliss’s feet found their way sure enough.

The house was at the other end of Old Town, tucked up against the city wall. When Fliss had last been here the roof had been riddled with holes but now it sported a fresh thatch. A small boy was playing with a squirming pile of kittens in the yard, his knees and elbows and face all dirty. He looked up as Fliss passed and there was something familiar about the keen flash of his blue eyes, the precise brown of his skin under all the dirt. A faint thrum of possibility shuddered in Fliss’s chest. She tamped it down ruthlessly.

This was about keeping a promise, fulfilling an oath, not mending the things she’d broken so long ago. She held no hope for a future here. Life had long since beaten hopefulness out of her.

She hesitated before knocking and chided herself for it. She had brought empires to their knees, stared down philosophers and kings, steadfast and resolute. And yet when it came to knocking on the door of a simple hovel she was laid low.

The boy looked up at her. There was no judgement in his eyes, just a kindliness that made Fliss’s heart ache and her stomach wish she hadn’t had any lunch. The boy scrambled to his feet, kittens flying every which way with irritated yowls, stumbled over and knocked for her. He nodded once and returned to placate the kittens, his job done.

A short, middle-aged woman answered the door, wiping her hands on a kitchen cloth. Her hair was grey and her skin was wrinkled and worn, like cracked brown leather, comfortable and safe. Familiar. Almost painfully so.

“Can I help you?” said the woman. Her tone was as kind as her face, warm and soft. The voice conjured up memories of tea and fresh baked bread and hugs that were strong enough to break bones.

Fliss smiled. “I promised I’d come back, and I’m here. Hello Cait.”

The woman’s icicle eyes went wide with shock and then disbelief. “Fliss? Is that really you?” She choked a little on the words, emotion threatening to rise up her throat and spill out.

“It’s me,” she said. “I’ve come home.”

Cait pulled Fliss into one of the bone-crushing hugs she remembered so well. Hot, wet tears soaked into her travelling cloak, and she wasn’t sure whether they belonged to her or Cait. The woman pulled back, her eyes wet but full of warmth.

“Let me look at you,” Cait said, and Fliss felt naked under her penetrating glare. “You look good,” she said with a broad grin that showed off a handful of scraggly teeth. “A sight for sore eyes indeed. I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I told you when I left that I’d come back to you one day,” Fliss said quietly. “I promised, and I never break my promises.”

“I know,” Cait said. “But the years have a habit of making us forget. I almost couldn’t remember your face.” There was sadness in her voice at that, and Fliss understood. How often over the years had she struggled to recall memories of the home she’d left to see the world? How many times had she questioned whether it was worth it, when she could remember oaths of fealty and names of nobility more easily than the faces of those she loved best?

“Well, it’s here now.”

“Yes, and you’ve barely aged a day,” Cait said, sounding astonished. “You look just like I remember you the day you left. And I–”

“You’re perfect,” Fliss interrupted, wrapping her arms around Cait. “You’re everything I ever dreamed about for years.” They were silent for a while then, just enjoying the feel of each other in their arms, the sound of their mingled breaths. “I’m here to stay you know?” Fliss murmured after a while. “My adventures are over.”

“You’re sure,” Cait said sharply, and Fliss couldn’t begrudge her the suspicion. “You won’t run off in the middle of the night to go see the world some more?”

Fliss shook her head. “I’m done. I’m sorry it took me so long to realise but… my home is here, like my heart.”

Cait’s gaze was soft as Fliss said the words. “What will you do?”

“Tell stories. Write about the things I’ve done and seen. Love you like I should have done all along. Let life just happen for once, instead of running at it head on. I made you a promise when I left that I would come back, and I have. Now I promise that the only way I’m leaving you is when Death himself comes for me.”

Cait nodded. “I believe you,” she said, and pulled Fliss in for another hug. This one lasted a long, long time.

“Who’s the boy in the yard?” Fliss asked when they parted. “He knocked on the door for me.” She ducked her head, suddenly embarrassed, heat flooding her cheeks. “I wasn’t quite brave enough.”

“That’s Jon, my son. He’s good at recognising what people need, even when they don’t know it themselves.” Cait’s smile was soft and fond.

“Your son?” Fliss was surprised at that.

“You have your stories and I have mine. Tell me one of yours and you’ll get the truth from me.”

“Deal,” Fliss said with a grin.

“Come on. It’s nearly time for dinner, and you should be introduced to Jon properly.” Cait stuck her head out the door and called the boy in, warning him to make sure he washed his hands first.

Fliss sighed and sat at the table. The house smelled of bread and stew, rich and homely. The cadence of Cait’s voice as she chided Jon was familiar, comforting. She knew without a doubt she’d made the right decision. She’d kept her promise.

She’d come home.

---

If you enjoyed this story feel free to purchase one of my books either here, or here. Or you can buy me a coffee here.

Short Story: Escaping the City

Here we are. Day one of trying to write and publish a short story every day.

This one ended up a little Philip K Dick and as a result is not that happy.  Never mind.

One down, 364 to go.


Escaping the City

It was always raining in the city.

The clouds, grey and malevolent, hung in the sky like the shadows of spaceships come to invade. The rain pelted the concrete relentlessly, turning the streets to rivers and ensuring even the most sure-footed person had to struggle to stay upright. The city’s drains and sewage systems were at capacity from the unseasonally heavy deluge. Which was saying something considering this city was built to essentially float.

If even the drains couldn’t cope with the amount of water falling there was no point it putting a coat on or using an umbrella. Nature won out in the end, and the result was damp, sticky skin and the uncomfortable smell of wet dog following you around all day.

We were all used to it, but that didn’t mean we had to like it.

My preferred method of dealing with the constant, depressing rain was chemical distraction. It was no surprise that in the city, which was dark even at midday, a thriving underground pharmaceutical industry had grown. Cut with who only knew what and completely unregulated, these chemical treats were the only thing that kept me going in a city that wanted to eat my soul.

The dealer looked at me with shifty eyes, only one question relevant to him; did I have enough money to purchase his goods? None of the dealers were ever particularly concerned with getting sold out to law enforcement, certainly not in this part of town. Darker, damper and more run down than the rest of the city, it was as corrupt as it was possible to get. The local cops were all in the dealer’s pockets and those that weren’t were using. Looking the other way was the national sport in the city.

I thrust my last few credits at the dealer and was handed my precious prize; a small bag of near luminescent blue crystals. Kandy. The only thing that made my life worth living in this soggy hell scape.

The walk back to my dilapidated apartment was short and, as ever, damp. My home, such as it was, consisted of a flea-ridden mattress, a gas camping stove and, luxury of luxuries, an actual flushing toilet. The stench of death and decay and shit that permeated the whole building was, thankfully, not my fault, but decades of abuse and neglect had taken its toll on the very walls.

I shook the bag gently, watching the crystals dance. This was my salvation. My only reason. I lived for the warm embrace of the Kandy when I could afford it, subsisting on shadows between hits.

I licked my finger and dug into the bag, bringing a fair amount to my lips. The Kandy dissolved on my gums with a comforting fizz; an effervescence that told me absolution was within my grasp once more. Warmth buzzed in my veins as an unfamiliar feeling crept over my skin. I dug out some more.

The hallucinations kicked in as I lay back down on my mattress with a goofy smile on my face. I wasn’t in the city any more, with its dark dankness and crime-ridden streets. I was somewhere else, somewhere happier. Somewhere I’d been in a previous life.

The warmth of a summer evening settled into my bones and I inhaled the scent of honeysuckle. There was laughter on the breeze, inviting me to come play despite the sting of grass stains on my knees. I was happy here. Whole.

Sleepy.

There was no reason I shouldn’t sleep. It was summer. There was no school, no parents to chide me for being late to dinner. My friends were all nearby, I could feel their presence. I felt safe. There was no reason not to.

I curled up in the grass, breathing in the familiar smell of green. I missed the green. My eyelids fluttered and I let them close, the last few rays of the sun dancing on my skin and warming it gently.

I could just sleep for a few minutes. There was no harm in that.

Sleep.

***

Victim: unknown male, age undetermined.

Body found in a tenement in the old town. The landlord confirmed the victim had lived in the apartment for five years or so but couldn’t give us a name.

Victim was found face down on a mattress in the apartment’s single room, having drowned in their own vomit. A part bag of Kandy was discovered nearby.

Conclusion: Kandy overdose. Fifteenth case this month.

Fuck this city.

---

If you enjoyed this story feel free to purchase one of my books either here, or here. Or you can buy me a coffee here.

On Daily Writing and a New Challenge

I spent most of my day at a careers workshop. You know the sort of thing. A couple of awkward ice breakers, some tips on how to write a better CV and a bunch of the latest recruiting mumbo jumbo. Some bits were interesting, some of it less so. I mostly went because I thought there might be some useful tidings I could apply to expanding my freelancing. And you can never rule out having a day job.

So I was in the sort of mood to be thinking seriously about where I can go from here, and how I can make sure the the trajectory is always upwards. Thinking about my writing. I put on a podcast talking about writing every day.

The idea of developing a daily writing habit isn't something that's new to me. I've been working on that very thing and I'm just about hitting that at the moment. Not quite every day, but most days. And it's done wonders for my word count.

What was new was the idea of publishing every day. Putting the words out there keeps you accountable and it's easy to see when a day has been missed.

The advice was geared up towards bloggers (which I guess I am the technically but shush) but then I thought, what if I wrote a story every day and published it on my blog? There are lots of options for selling the rights afterwards. Or for bundling it with others as ebooks.

If I put a story on my blog every day for a year then at the end of the year I'll have 365 stories at the very least. With a bit of luck I'll have an excellent writing habit and the will have improved by leaps and bounds. Really there's nothing to lose my trying.

So I will try. Starting tomorrow the first thing I'll do every day is write a short flash story and then I'll put it up here. And then I'll send it out and see if I can get it published elsewhere too. And when I've done that I can get on with the rest of my day; freelance jobs, other writing projects,  editing. I'll have started my day right.

And in the end that's all I can do.