## She stared anxiously at the crossword puzzle, “Bone from a fish found in tin?”.

It didn’t make much sense. She tried to focus on just parts of the clue.

“Bone from a fish.”

What kind of fish? she thought. Does it matter? Is a shark a fish? Whales aren’t - she knew that. Dolphins? Were they fish or mammals? Killer whales? Maybe a killer whale wasn’t a whale. Was that a fact? It seems like a good “common misconception”, she thought. She imagined herself at a party, talking to a tall, bearded fellow with strong hands, proclaiming “Killer whales? Not a whale. Actually a type of-“

In her imagination, her pride evaporated as she floundered, trying to imagine what type of animal a killer whale actually was. The imaginary chap smiled, turned, and disappeared off to the imaginary buffet table, which also disappeared.

Ok. That was a dead-end, she thought. I wouldn’t be carping on about fish to a practical, well-dressed man at a party, anyway. I’ll come back to it. Wait… carp? Flounder? No. Let’s move on, best foot forward, be optimistic. Got to be optimistic. No point dwelling on the past, whatever she finds out.

She paused. A fog drifted across her mind, an insubstantial sense of some important truth which burned off as she inadvertently focussed on it. She realised she wasn’t looking at the clue any more. She shook her head and looked down at the paper.

“...found in tin.”

I, she thought. ‘I’ is found in tin. I *am* found in tin, she corrected herself. Me. I’m in this clue. This clue is about me. Maybe I am the fish? Focus, she chided. We’re not looking at the fish part. Tin. Tin. Found in tin. Tin is a metal. What else is found in tin? Pilchards? Herrings? Spam? Beans? People.

People? she asked. Yes - another factoid. People are now buried in metal coffins. Not sure why you’d want to be. Probably won’t break down. Might provide an interesting afternoon to some future archaeologist. How does that fit with ecclesiastical teaching? Hardly ‘dust to dust’ is it, if you don’t break down. You’d just turn into preserved sludge. Some kind of human jam.

If ‘I’ am in that tin, then I am in that coffin.

The fog again. Something too close to see, too loud to hear, too rough to feel. She closed her eyes and tried to hear something else. The low hum of the air conditioning. The ticking of the wall clock. The occasional creak of the faux leather coverings of the waiting room chairs and the squeak of crocs on the vinyl composition tile.

When she opened her eyes again, the room was bright, and she realised she couldn’t tell what time it was without looking at the clock. There were no windows, as the room was buried deep within the building and the lighting was harsh.

Despite not knowing the time, she was acutely aware of how long she’d been waiting. She had arrived early, of course, but now thought it was stupidly early. There were so many other things she ought to be doing with her time, what there was of it, and here she was, forced to occupy herself with someone else’s half-finished crossword.

Someone had accidentally crossed out the length after the clue, and half the crossword was missing, torn off for some unknown reason, so she didn’t know how long the solution was. Not that it mattered.

She looked at the clue as a whole again: “Bone from a fish found in tin?”

And there was that anxiety. She knew where it was coming from, and felt bad for letting it back in. She was disappointed for being unable to avoid something she had completely anticipated. Maybe it wasn’t bad to be anxious. Maybe it was fine? Expected, even? Human?

Was it stronger to overcome the anxiety, or to embrace it? Strong. Be strong. She didn’t really want to be strong. She didn’t want to have to be strong.

Her sister had wanted to come with her, obviously. Equally obviously, she hadn’t wanted her to. Obviously to her, anyway. This was so personal, so selfish, she hadn’t wanted to share it with anyone, regardless of the outcome.

Which, she reminded herself, had already been decided. The answers, for what it was worth, were already known. She would have to make some decisions. Might. Might have to make some decisions. She didn’t want to. That’s what the anxiety was about. Being presented choices without understanding. Without understanding.

“Bone from a fish found in tin?”

Without understanding.

Fin? Is the fin a bone? Fin. Found in tin. Fin. End. The end. That fog.

There was a question mark. That meant something, she thought. Bone. Sometimes these clues weren’t that cryptic after all. Just needed to understand the language. The structure.

There was an assumption, of course, that the clue was fair. An unfair clue didn’t make you feel good if you solved it. It just left you with a feeling of resentment. Although, she thought, life wasn’t fair. If it was, she wouldn’t be here. Someone else would, though. If not her, then who? It did help, slightly, for her to think that she was ‘taking one for the team’. She imagined she’d cope better than most. Everyone said she was strong. Wilful. She didn’t feel strong.

Maybe her sister should have come. She could have helped. Supported. Understood. She’d know lots of fish.

She didn’t know how she was going to feel in 5 minutes time. She couldn’t see past the choices. That was the fog. How can you make a decision if you don’t understand the consequences?

“A fish found in tin.”

A fish out of water. Pilchards. Tin. Tun. Tuna. Was there a bone that looked like a tuning fork? Wishbone. Wishes. Wish. I wish.

It took her a second to realise that she was now softly crying. Silly, she thought as she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. You don’t know anything yet. It could still be nothing. And even if it’s something, it could be relatively nothing.

There was the click of a latch, and she looked up towards her consultant’s office. The consultant emerged from her office with a kind yet untelling smile, and beckoned her in. Placing the torn crossword puzzle absently into her bag, she mustered up a smile of her own and made her way into the office.

“Nice to see you again, thank you for coming in. We’ve got the results of the test, but first I just wanted to talk you through -” the consultant began.

“Before we start,” she interrupted the consultant. “Are you any good at crosswords?”


A 1,000 word (ish) short story from a seed sentence given by my sister, Kate. This was tricky, both writing from the perspective of a woman, but also as someone in a situation that I've never found myself in. I'm hoping I've struck the right tone, but I wanted to be sensitive and mindful to the subject.

The Puzzle


## Douglas sighed to himself and muttered “That’s definitely the last time I trust a badger sommelier.”

Which seemed a shame, he thought, as it had also been the first time. With hindsight, it seemed obvious that his expectations should have been lower; however his marinated var salmon with lemon and vodka jelly, prepared by the racoon chef de partie, had been delicious. It just didn’t pair well with the South Island Viognier that had been recommended.

This was ridiculous. It was ridiculous that he chided himself as the badger (sommelier) trundled away with her head hanging low, having heard Douglas’ muttering. It was ridiculous that his hors-d’oeuvre had been perfect. It was ridiculous that the maître d’ was a marsupial, who was now approaching his table.

“Is everything alright, sir?” it said. It spoke perfect English (at least, to Douglas’ ears) with just the hint of a French laminate; a softened ‘sing’ rather than a harsh ‘thing’. This was, of course, completely ridiculous.

Douglas was let down by his brain’s attention, which was now dedicated to the task of working out exactly which type of marsupial was addressing him; and to a lesser degree, how on earth it had tied it’s shoelaces.

“I’m sorry, yes. It’s all fine.” He lied. Then, in attempt to make it feel more authentic, he added a smile which he quickly realised was having the opposite effect, so he stopped.

The undetermined marsupial smiled, nodded politely, and turned away. Douglas took a long sip of water, and gazed around the room. Most of the tables were occupied. A wide variety of animals were enjoying various stages of their haute-cuisine dinners. Each time Douglas had tried to focus on one specific detail, for example how a hippopotamus could use a soup-spoon so delicately, it became fuzzy and difficult to concentrate upon. The harder he focussed, the hard it was to understand what he was seeing, so eventually he gave up and ate some more salmon.

This made him think. Picking up the menu, he scanned it to see if there were any dishes that he recognised, and any that jumped out at him. Sure enough, half-way down the list of main courses, was a roast saddle of rabbit with crispy potatoes and parmesan. He looked up towards a table in the centre of the large dining room where a trilby-wearing chameleon was dining with a chestnut-furred lop-eared rabbit.

“How does that even work?” He said, before realising he’d said it out loud, and had accidentally summoned the maître d’ back to the table.

“How does what work, sir?” Said the large-eared marsupial, looking over Douglas’ shoulder at the menu.

“Oh,  I was just wondering,” he started, inadvertently gesturing to the rabbit’s dining table. “Er… how that…” he tailed off, struggling to think fast enough. The kind pity in the large eyes of the Maître d’ was distracting.

“Er, about the- the- chameleon’s hat.” There, thought Douglas. That’s fine.

The Maître d’ followed Douglas’ gaze to the table in the centre of the room, and sighed before turning back to Douglas.

“Chameleon, sir?”

The Maitre d’ gave an almost imperceptible chuckle.

“That’s Mr Luca de Vries, one of the co-owners of this establishment. I’m not sure where his hat is from, but I can put in an enquiry for you, if you like?”

“Well, yes, thank you. If you think, they’ll…” Douglas tailed off again. He had no interest in the hat, or where it was from. He had even less interest in obtaining one for himself, but the hole he was digging for himself was beginning to feel like home.

“Think what, sir?”

“Well.” Douglas stopped somewhat finally, feeling that he’d already successfully conveyed his meaning. On second thought, he realised he was far from it. “I mean, do they do hats…” he struggled to find the words that wouldn’t make him sound like an idiot. “Hats… for people like me?”

“People like you, sir?”

“Yes.”

The Maître d’ looked like someone who prided themselves in maintaining composure at all times, but the smile was straining now and cracks appearing. She left a pause, and Douglas was under no illusion that he was meant to fill it.

“Human.”

The Maître d’ visibly relaxed, and was overcome with the feeling he gets when finding out that a terrible accident wasn’t his fault after all. On seeing this reaction, Douglas instantly felt like an idiot.

“I’ll get you some more water, sir.” Said the Maître d’ as she scurried away.

Douglas finished his salmon and wondered if there were any salmon patrons of the restaurant, and again wondered how that would work. Looking at his glass, he realised he’d also finished the wine, and rather fancied another. He looked around for the sommelier before remembering that he couldn’t trust his opinion, so looked instead for the wine list. He was disappointed to find out that the sommelier had taken this with him.

‘Do you know where you are?’ a thought wandered through the back of his mind. He tried to dismiss it, shaking his head. ‘Look around you. These are animals.’ the thought continued. He tried to remember what he’d ordered for his main course, and wondered if the coq au van would be served by an actual chicken.

He realised he’d distracted himself again, and tried once more to remember what he’d ordered for his main course. When that memory wasn’t forthcoming, he tried to remember how he’d arrived at the restaurant. Nothing. Further back, then. What time was it? Was he here for lunch or dinner? What had he eaten for breakfast? Had he brushed his teeth?

There were no windows in the dining room, and the main doors opened into a wider foyer from where you couldn’t see the front door. The lighting was universal, and rather too bright, so there were no clues for Douglas to tell him what time it was.

Douglas began to realise that the first thing, almost the only thing, he could remember, was ordering wine from a sommelier who also happened to be a badger.

A 1,000 word (ish) short story from a seed sentence given by my friend Dave. The goal isn't to finish a story, but to start one, and see where it takes you.

The Sommelier


## The lemurs still hadn’t forgiven Nilroy for losing his bagpipes at last year’s lemur parade in Hemel Hempstead, hoping no one would notice that he had sewn together five ducks instead

This, of course, came as no great surprise to anyone who knew the lemurs (or for that matter, Nilroy). What was more surprising, perhaps, was that Mortimer hadn’t noticed five of his missing ducks for well over two weeks.

The bagpipes never did show up. However, when Mrs Ablesnatch was recovering from her “business”, the few visitors she received all commented on her lovely new tartan hot-water bottle. “A gift from a distant relative.” she had explained, although it wasn’t clear if the distance was literal or figurative. Mrs Ablesnatch rarely spoke of her relatives.

The lemurs’ capacity for holding grudges was legend, and most of the townsfolk avoided them for this reason. No one could be certain, but it was widely believed that the lemur parade was an idea of their own, carefully seeded within the council and nurtured until it had become an annual tradition.

What only became apparent later, in the same way a boiling lobster doesn’t realise until far too late, was that all the other parades and festivals had been slowly being downsized, postponed and eventually cancelled, until only the lemur parade remained.

As no-one had taken much notice, rather than become suspicious, most of the organisers had rallied around in growing support for the remaining parade, fearful that this too would fall by the wayside, a victim of the mysterious plague which had ended the other festivities.

The lemurs, of course, were quite proud of this, and rightly so.

However, the lingering disappointment over what was to be the crowning glory of the parade had festered at the back of their minds, and thoughts of revenge had started to take root.

Nilroy had been inconsolable. Oh how he’d loved that set of bag-pipes, and love make you do crazy things. No-one would believe him that he’d found the ducks, already dead, earlier that morning. Equally unbelievable was finding a length of hose, four narrow PVC pipes and an old dog-eared photocopy of a set of instructions on how to put them all together to make a rudimentary set of pipes.

The précis was very convincing, and spoke of the rich history that preceded the modern pipes, where Scots would create legendary instruments out of whatever they could find. Including ducks.

And, as in love as Nilroy was with his own tartan octopus, the incredibly unlikely fortune of finding these key ingredients along with this set of instructions had never occurred to him as anything other than an answer to an unsung prayer.

With hindsight it was obvious it wasn’t going to work. The ducks just weren’t as inflatable as they needed to be, and Nilroy’s needlework wasn’t as precise.

Later, several of the onlookers during the parade had time to reflect on the exact moment everything had gone tits-up. Most agreed that it was difficult to recover once the bag of sewn-together duck carcasses had reached pressure saturation and forcibly exploded. The final indignity was Nilroy recovering a parson’s nose from inside Mr Abernathy (who later made a full recovery but still avoids ponds and farms.)

Nilroy’s apology had been received, and it was mutually agreed that he wouldn’t take part in future parades. Nilroy was comfortable with this, particularly after he had worked out where the ducks had come from. Fortunately (or not, depending on your perspective) he had worked it out before Mortimer, which gave him a difficult few days wondering how he would explain it before Mortimer finally worked it out.

He had realised by now that no-one would believe the truth, and he wasn’t creative enough to come up with a convincing lie, so he decided to simply let Mortimer believe whatever Mortimer wanted to believe.

The lemurs, meanwhile, plotted on. One of their number, a more moderate lemur by the name of Glovis, had suggested that the real target of their ire and wrath should be the individual (or individuals) who had stolen Nilroy’s bag-pipes. Most of the other lemurs didn’t subscribe to Glovis’ idea that the pipes had been stolen, merely believing that Nilroy had left them outside a pub, unsecured, as he often tended to do.

Lemurs are not known for their democratic style of decision making, so Glovis was left to believe whatever he chose. Glovis had chosen to follow the evidence.

He’d tried to gain access to Mrs Ablesnatch’s cottage, in the hope of seeing the fabled hot-water bottle, but Mrs Ablesnatch was no-longer unwell and had stopped receiving visitors.  He’d thought about reaching out to Nilroy, but realised there might be more questions than answers from Nilroy, and wasn’t sure how he would answer them.

Glovis was concerned that there were dark forces at work in the heart of Hemel Hempstead; forces greater than the lemurs. He had realised he was on his own.

Mortimer was the obvious choice as a starting point. Having lost half his ducks, he was by his own admission half the man he once was. Even several months after the fateful parade he was having difficulty looking after himself. Glovis observed him through the dirty windows of the old vicarage which served as Mortimer’s home. Mortimer shuffled between his gas-fired range and the large wooden table in the middle of his kitchen, and then back; each time boiling an old iron kettle and then bringing it to the teapot on the table. Back and forth, back and forth he shuffled, a broken man.

Glovis nosed around the pond with the remaining ducks, who were understandably nonchalant. They were ducks, after all. He examined the small shed with the hatch that Mortimer had built in his yard. He explored the chicken-wire run that extended a few feet from the back of the shed. He then found something.

Caught on a rough splinter on one of the posts was a dark, oily feather. Glovis knew at once that this was not a duck feather. His mandatory ornithology training had started to kick-in. Examining it further, a chill went down his spine as he realised what had been happening, as he began to understand the darkness at the heart of Hemel Hempstead.

The penguins. The penguins had returned.

A 1,000 word (ish) short story from a seed sentence given by my friend Ian. The goal isn't to finish a story, but to start one, and see where it takes you.

Hemel Hempstead


## When the fog had lifted and he’d swung his flashlight in the direction of the mountains, it was only too clear to the commander and his quaking men that that was no ordinary moose blocking their path

The first giveaway was the blue cap bearing an embroidered image of a bulldog. The fit was surprisingly good for such a large moose, whose antlers emerged from two seemly deliberate holes either side of the cap.

The moose also had, hanging around its thick furry neck, a book with a blue cover and a red motif on the front. The book was secured around its neck by a bright red lanyard attached to the book’s spine.

“What the-“

“Shut up, Jones.” said Darmian, sharply.

Jones blinked hard, and snapped his rifle back onto the moose, but took an involuntary half-step backwards.

“Darmian. What do we do?” whispered Prince, not taking his eyes off the moose.

“I’m thinking.” he replied, irritated. Realising this wasn’t helpful, he added “Stay sharp and quiet.”

The moose had slowed to a stop and regarded the 7 men with some apprehension.  The mercenaries had formed a shallow semi-circle in front of the creature, automatic weapons raised. The moose’s head was illuminated by Darmian’s flashlight, a clear nine feet from the ground. It swung slowly around the arc, moving slightly as the moose shifted its weight between its legs. It let out a low, anxious groan.

Darmian began to move forward, slowly. He kept the flashlight trained on the moose, aware that his field of vision was narrowing as he approached. He tried to see what his men were doing out of the corner of his eyes. None of them moved, except Prince who now anxiously watched the approach and made small, interrupted noises of protest which were not heard by the commander.

When he was within 6 ft, he stopped. By now, the moose had relaxed enough to take in more of its surroundings, and wasn’t looking directly at Darmian. It had started to look beyond the men, almost as if it was trying to understand where it was, and how it had got here.  Darmian craned his neck forward, trying to get a better view of the book around the moose’s neck.

“Tremblay,” said Darmian, slightly too loudly. He silently cursed himself as the moose was briefly startled and swung its head back towards him, narrowly missing his head with its antlers. The moose took a step backwards, now intently staring at Darmian again.

“Sir?”

With Tremblay’s attention, Darmian lowered his voice. “You’re a canuck, right?”

“Yessir.”

Tremblay waited for the follow-up question, but it didn't immediately come. Darmian had lowered and angled his head further, shuffling forward. The moose raised its head proudly, and the front of the book swung round into a clear view.

Around the moose's neck, hung a 1961 original copy of Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, the blue cover clashing with the bright orange of the lanyard, the red outline of a man clearly visible above the author’s name.

“What’s that book you’ve got?”

“Sorry, sir?”

“What book are you reading?”

“Uh, it’s a book about war-“

“What’s it called?”

“Catch-22, sir.”

Darmian straightened up and relaxed slightly. “This one’s yours, Tremblay.” he said as he turned back to his men. Tremblay looked down at a keychain hanging from his belt. On the keychain was a small metal disc which bore the mascot of his Quebec hockey team, the Bulldogs. He raised his own flashlight to the cap on the moose, which bore the same image.

“Fuck.”

The other men lowered their guns. “Fuck,” echoed Prince. “So this shit is real?”

Tremblay was still staring at his keychain. “Fuck.” he repeated.

“It’s too late to go on. There’s a little clearing here, let’s set up here until light.” commanded Darmian, and apart from Tremblay, the other men began to shed themselves of their large back-packs. “Robbin, get a fire going, will ya?”

The small clearing became busy with activity, as tents were put up, bushes and small trees were cut back, and equipment was stowed away. The moose watched on with indifference, occasionally stooping to chew on some long grass.

Jones carried some wood up to the still-frozen Tremblay. “You just going to stand there?” he asked.

“I mean... fuck.” muttered Tremblay in response, as he shouldered his rifle and took the wood.

Calm had settled on the makeshift camp, and the only sound for a long time was the occasional spit from the crackling camp fire.  Tremblay had suspended a hammock between two trees and recovered the book from around the moose’s neck, and was reading it. Jones and Prince were warming some rations over the fire. Robbin was fixing a large tarp that he’d secured over a clearing, beneath which were six rollout mats and the majority of the back packs. Only Stevens and DaCosta looked outward, keeping watch along the makeshift road that had brought them up. The moose wandered aimlessly, occasionally grazing on grass, and sometimes being shooed when it tried to chew on a backpack. Darmian took a sip of coffee from his tin cup.

Jones looked up from the fire towards Darmian. “What do you think’s going on?” he asked.

“Well, you heard the rumours back in town.”

“Yes, but they were nothing like this. I mean, mind-reading is one thing, but a real fucking moose-”

Prince put a hand on Jones’ arm. “That’s enough.” he interrupted. Jones shot him a glance.

Darmian stood, and raised his hand. “It’s ok, it’s ok.” he said, and looked around the other mercenaries.

“Here’s what I know. The rumours we heard, it’s likely they’re all true.”

This caused an uncomfortable shift in the men around the fire. Several cleared their throats, but Darmian continued over the distraction.

“We pretty much had it confirmed by Tremblay’s moose.”

“Hey!” Tremblay said, raising his head from the hammock.

“It’s ok, you couldn’t help it. It seems that the closer we get to the crater, the more elaborate the effects. As you know, people back in town had reported seeing things, like ghosts or something. Other things started appearing, but they were small. Distant.”

Robbins agreed. “Yeah, this one woman I was talking to in the bar-“

“Quelle surprise...” interrupted Tremblay, with a wide cheeky grin. Robbins ignored him.

“-in the bar said she’d lost an old radio for weeks or something. Then it showed up, looking good as new. Then she found the old one. Now she’s got two radios.”

“Oh yes. Two radios. Spooky twilight-zone stuff, that.” said Jones. “Let me guess, she wanted you to buy one of them.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the point.”

“The point is,” said Darmian, loudly. “All this started happening after that meteor hit the mountain, and the effect is stronger the closer we get.”

Robbins was agitated. “How do you know so much about it?”

Prince looked up from his rations. “Because he\’s been up there before.”



A 1,000 word (ish) short story from a seed sentence given to me by my friend Al. The goal isn't to finish a story, but to start one, and see where it takes you.

Contact


## I went into the hut and waited for the Armenian

I began to realise that I didn’t know what to expect. I hadn’t really thought about it. I’d been operating on autopilot, and some kind, thoughtful part of my brain had protected me from thinking, REALLY thinking about what might happen next.

The hut wasn’t what I’d expected either, but as I wasn’t sure what to expect, I’m not even certain how I knew that. When you have no expectations, either everything is a surprise, or nothing is. There’s no cognitive dissonance. Everything is just the way that it is.

This realisation did give me some comfort, and I decided to just roll with it. The hut had been nestled at the end of the long garden, with trees behind and a small porch protected by an awning. There were several pots of herbs placed deliberately on the wooden porch, and a watering can hung empty above them, as if being poured by an absent-minded ghost.

In the hut there was a table with a wooden chair either side, a sofa and an armchair. The sofa and armchair seemed almost embarrassed to be in the room, as if they had accidentally wandered into a strange religious ceremony but leaving would now draw too much attention. They sat in the corner, trying to simultaneously fit in and disappear.

The walls of the hut were adorned with various photographs on two themes; the first were pictures of a large, imposing man, standing with other men, holding fish. The fish were varied in size and shape, and the backgrounds vistas for each photograph were also different.

Curiously, all the men captured in each photograph were smiling bar one, and it was a different man each time. Closer inspection revealed to me that this rule was universal and unbroken. I moved slowly around the room examining each fishing photograph in detail, expecting an “aha!” and “there you see!” as I found the one photo that either showed two unsmiling men, or the one that showed smiles upon them all.

Discovering this strange rule took my mind briefly away from the second thoughts I’d been having  about meeting with The Armenian.

The other theme was historical in nature. There were twenty or thirty photographs of people in elaborate costume. The photos ranged in age, but most seemed to be from before people truly understood photography. They were mostly portraits of people in military uniform and national costume, although it took a few seconds for me to make the link between the costume and who I was about to meet.

I wasn’t sure if they were relatives, or just a case of national pride, but it made me uncomfortable to think I was being watched by so many of his fellow countrymen. I took a step back into the centre of the room, as though this was somehow more respectful. I looked out of a small window by the door, and wondered where my host was.

I hadn’t even notice him come into the room.

One minute the chair in front of the table was empty; the next, The Armenian was standing in-front of it with his hand extended.

I shook his hand firmly, and warmly, taking his hand in both of mine. His hand was warm and strong. The thick covering of hair was unexpectedly soft. I didn’t want to let go. However, when his arm failed move, I realised that he was simply gesturing for me to take a seat. I released his hand slowly, making a slight bow to give the outward appearance that my actions had been entirely deliberate. I retreated, shuffling back in the direction of the sofa, before my shins bumped against it, and I could shuffle no more. I sank down meekly.

The Armenian sat upon one of the small wooden chairs. This was an awkward distance from the sofa: too far to speak softly, but too near to shout. It felt like the perfect distance to sit from someone else who was already in a dentist’s waiting room.

“You know who I am?” he asked.

“I... er, you're the Armenian.” I said, edging forward on the sofa with some difficulty. I was aware that this motion now looked like I was satisfying an itch precisely between my buttocks, so I stopped. Then realised that I was still in the no-mans-land of sofa comfort, so I nudged forward again, and again stopped too soon. This forward-stop-forward action now removed any doubt in anyone’s mind that I was wiping my arse on the sofa.

The Armenian didn’t seem to notice; or maybe he didn’t care. It wasn’t as if it was a particularly nice sofa, and given how out of place it seemed, I wondered if this wasn’t even the worst the sofa had experienced.

“You know what I do?” he asked, more deliberately. I leant forward intently, and cleared my throat.

“I do.”

The Armenian relaxed back into the wooden chair in a way that seemed impossible. The straining creak of the chair was a protest that would go unanswered, and the chair settled into a resigned silence.

“What can I do for you, then?” he intoned. This didn’t seem like a question, rather a declaration that whatever I asked, so long as I had the means to pay for it, would be done as certainly as the sun rises.I’d practiced this in front of the mirror many times. Each time I went further with the request. I ran through the rehearsals in my mind one last time: “I want... I want you... I want you to kill...”

I looked out of the open door to the house beyond. I thought I could make out the owner standing in the window of the orangery, and wondered how many times he’d sent people down to the Armenian’s hut. I wondered about their relationship. I wondered how many people had been here, lost on the sofa, about to ask something terrible.

“I want you to kill me.”


A 1,000 word (ish) short story from a seed sentence given to me by my friend Rob. The goal isn't to finish a story, but to start one, and see where it takes you.

The Armenian


## Every night, with my face pressed close to the damp, grubby window panes, I would watch the eyes that watched me back from the tree line

I knew they were there. They were like distant stars; you couldn't see them if you looked directly at them, but out of the corner of your eyes, in the periphery of your vision, you could make them out, unblinking. If you looked away, and then looked back, they would seem to have shifted. I would stare intently at the tallest, darkest tree, and then I would see them. Just to the side. Just where they thought they were hidden.

I could see them. Papa couldn't, though. At least, he said he couldn't see them. Papa was strong, but quiet. People in the town looked up to him, and were always very kind, but none ever seemed to talk to him for very long. I wasn't sure why.

I would point out the eyes, becoming frustrated in trying to single out one pair, and describe their location in the gloaming darkness. He would seem to try, but would always tell me my eyesight must be better than his, and kiss me on my head before returning to stoke the fire. He never said they weren't there; only that he couldn't see them.

Mama was different. I had stopped telling her about them, as it upset her. She would tell me that I was seeing things. She wouldn't ever even try to look, just tell me I was a silly little girl, and then go and talk to Papa. Sometimes she would then return with a camomile tea for me. Other times, she would go up to her room, and I wouldn't see her until morning. On those occasions, Papa would always stay up until I went to bed, reading an old book.

I wasn't scared by the eyes; they didn't seem to convey malice, merely an embarrassed curiosity. I wondered at their knowledge of me, of their intentions. I wondered if they could see me looking back.

As dusk fell, Papa would lock the front door and place the key in an old jar above the fireplace. The jar had a picture of a dragon on it, and had been a gift from Grandmama. Papa only put important things into it, but it was too high for me to reach. One night, after Mama had gone to bed, Papa fell asleep in front of the fire. This was unusual, and I had briefly thought of waking him. However, that night he hadn't replaced the jar on the mantle piece. It sat invitingly on a small side table next to his armchair. I had taken the key from it, and gently unlocked the front door.

Across the other side of the field, past our modest wooden fence, and past the old wheat grinder covered in moss, and past the small overgrown pond where Father Jackson had drowned, was the forest.

There had been a damp stillness in the air, but I hadn't recalled it raining. The tree line seemed more indistinct outside than from behind the flimsy protection of the glass window in the drawing room. I took a few steps forward, the lace hem of my linen skirt collecting the early dew from the grass. I stared towards the tree line. Nothing stared back.

I shifted my gaze upwards slightly, searching for the tallest tree, trying to watch from out of the corner of my eyes, closing one, then the other, but I could make out nothing other than empty shadows. Something seemed to move from right to left, just in the undergrowth at the foot of the trees, but then a gust of wind came towards me, brushing the grass down as it advanced. It had dissipated moments before reaching me, leaving me with a gentle kiss of air which carried the faint scent of cherry blossom. Then all fell quiet again.

I had returned to the house, disappointed. Papa hadn't stirred, so I returned the key where I found it and went back to the window for one last look before bed. Sure enough, the eyes had returned, seeming to burn with increased intensity, somehow conveying urgency.

That had been weeks ago, though. Mama had not said anything about that night, and Papa had been quieter than usual. The skirt I had worn had been collected while I slept, and cleaned, removing all stains from the hem and traces of evidence that I had been outside. It was curious, though; each morning I would forget about the eyes, and go to school, or in to town with Mama, and I wouldn't spare a glance towards the forest, even as our carriage passed by the field away from our house. I'm sure that if someone had asked me during the day I would have recalled the eyes clearly, but without the reminder I remained temporary blinded about them. I would quietly chastise myself for forgetting, having promised myself on any number of occasions to explore the trees during the day. However, As each day waned, and the light retreated behind the horizon, I would begin to feel them. We had never returned home after dark - that rule was sacrosanct - but as the feeling grew I would pull the soft, padded stool up to the window in the drawing room, and stare out, locked in silent conversation with what I had started to think of as my guardians.

It was a warm clear night when cautiousness finally succumbed to curiosity. Mama had not been well, and Papa had taken to going up to their bedroom with her, early each night. He still remembered to lock the door before going upstairs, but he had allowed me to stay up later and read until the fire had died down. I waited until I could hear no more noise coming from the old floorboards upstairs. I had earlier brought down and concealed some additional outdoor clothing. I pulled a cardigan on, and a pair of thick black stockings to protect my legs from the thorn bushes which littered the field between my home and the forest. Over these, I put a pair of Papa's thick socks, and donned my walking boots. With the addition of the stockings and woollen socks, the boots were very tight, but warm and sturdy. I quietly put on my coat and gloves, and sat for a while staring at the dragon jar which contained the keys.


A 1,000 word (ish) short story from a seed sentence. The goal isn't to finish a story, but to start one, and see where it takes you.

The Eyes


## The dream had left him breathless and terrified. There was no other way to describe it but as a prophecy, given to him by the only girl who had ever loved him, which he knew was impossible

It had seemed so real, he could still smell the blossom that had surrounded her in his dream. The sweet succinct aroma clung to the old jacket he had rolled up into a makeshift pillow. Most of the buttons had come off it now - a small mercy, as the rough stitching of the occasional patch rubbing against his cheek prevented him from sleeping as soundly as he wished.

He opened his eyes slightly. Sharp beams of sunlight crossed the heavy air of the shop; the floor strewn with detritus, only a handful of shelves remained upright. The atmosphere was thick with dust, revealed by shafts of light which pierced their way though the thin gaps between the boarding, hastily mounted the night before; a flimsy defense against the outside world.

He didn’t know what time it was. He didn’t much care. He knew he would have to get moving again soon, but the image of her, his vision, his Mercurial messenger incarnate, still persisted as an after image in front of him; burned in by the light of a thousand candles.

He looked up at the clock above the counter, its cracked face staring back at him forlornly. He couldn’t work out if it was working.  The second hand seemed frozen, until after what seemed like an age, it obligingly moved and then continued its revolution, as if spurred into motion by the simple guilt of being observed. The clock read almost quarter past eight.

He lay still, concentrating hard on lowering his heart-rate. He could feel the adrenaline coursing its way around his body. He felt something in his hand, something rough and frayed. He pulled his hand, reluctantly heavy, up to his face, and held the cloth against a sunbeam. On the cloth, in rough capital letters, was written a single word.

“WATERLOO”.

He frowned, and winced as he pulled himself up to a seated position upon the floor. It was something she had told him in the vision. He closed his eyes. Dream, he tried to convince himself. It was a dream.

Opening his eyes, he looked again at the word. He didn’t remember writing it last night, but it was his handwriting. Looking to his right, he found a pen divested of its lid. He tried the pen on the cloth, which eventually started to write, the same ink that the word had been written in. Testing himself, beneath the first word, he again wrote “WATERLOO”. It was an exact match.

His heart-rate jumped as he suddenly remembered his bag. Where was his bag? He scrambled around himself for a few seconds, before eventually his hands fell upon it, lying beneath a pile of discarded magazines. His relief was only momentary, as once again his dream pervaded his thoughts. He panicked, staring around himself in a frenzied attempt to find some solace, some distraction. The golden razor light from the cracks in the windows resembled in tone and hue the burst which had emanated from behind her in his dream.  Black bin-liners, lying discarded on the floor, billowed and rustled in the draught from beneath the shop entrance, rudely mimicking the movements of the obsidian satin nightdress she had been wearing.

He had almost become used to the panic attacks that now featured every morning. He hated them, but he had started to understand them, and he felt he was better equipped to deal with them now. But this one was different.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had dreamt; it was certainly before The Chaos, he certainly hadn’t dreamt since then. But again, he thought, this one was different.

He looked again at the clock, which seemed to still read quarter past. Had no time passed since the last time he looked? The second hand was still progressing, the clock hadn’t frozen. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, counting. After a while, he opened his eyes and fixed a stare upon the clock. Seventeen minutes past. His heart started to calm.

Breaking into the store last night, he hadn’t had much of a chance to take stock of his surroundings. He had boarded up the doors and windows in a hurry, using some of the shelving as makeshift planks. The shelves contents now lay strewn across the floor, creating a carpet of kitchen cleaner, tissue paper and other assorted homeware items. At the back of the shop, the till lay on its side upon the counter, empty.

Someone had already been here, but they had long gone, he hoped. Standing awkwardly, he stretched and was sharply reminded of the pain in his ribs. There was a large tear that reached through his shirt and his t-shirt, and his chest bore a large, bloody graze. The blood had clotted overnight, but some of the wound was still weeping.
Behind the counter, he found some gauze and some vodka. The first swig of alcohol went down his throat easily, the second made him light-headed, and he stopped himself. The third went over his wound, and he winced. He strapped the gauze down with tape, and put the remainder of the vodka into his bag.

Most of the food had gone. A few boxes of biscuits remained, some crisps and a couple of chocolate bars, along with the ice-cream that had melted when the power had been cut off. The ice-cream tasted sour and sickly, and he didn’t feel like eating the biscuits until he could find some water to wash them down with. He packed up the food, and moved to the back of the store.

On one of the shelves by the back door, he found a pile of cheap maps of London. He picked one of them up, and turned it thoughtfully in his hands, flicking through the pages. There was movement out of the corner of his eye, and he froze. The beams of sunlight were being broken outside the store, as someone moved around to the barricaded front door.

Not now, he thought. The points of light danced around, and settled around the door to the shop, creating a dark silhouette. There were voices, three or four, one of them female. The voices were muffled, almost confused. An argument seemed to start, before the deepest voice spoke, and silenced the others.

Someone slammed against the door with a loud bang, the frame shuddering against the impact. The barricade held, but some of the boards creaked against the force, and a few of the nails loosened. He waited still, hoping that the intruders were looking for an easy target. One of them hurled themselves against the door again.

This time he didn’t hesitate. Without another glance at the room he bolted for the back door, and the stairs beside. He knew the back door was secure, so didn’t try it, and took the stairs two at a time, as he heard the deep voice become more urgent, more insistent. There was a third crash against the door, and the sound of splintering wood.

“Got it!” one of the voices shouted.

“Must be something in here!”

“Hit it again!”

The Vision & The Chaos


## She sat and stared. Hours passed before she moved. As she stood up and approached the 13 inch dildo she knew it was now or never

Or later? She thought. I could wait. What's the harm in waiting to see what happens? Fools rush in, and all that. What was it her grandfather used to say? Fortune favours the something. Brave? Well, that wasn't helpful. Hesitant. Fortune favours the hesitant. That sounded better. And something about a rabbit and a turtle, but in her current mindset she couldn't remember what, although she thought it might be pertinent. And anyway, she continued, which one was the turtle again? Is that the one that lives in water? Or was that a tortoise? In that case, what the hell is a terrapin?

She had started to mentally babble like an infinitely flushing toilet. Which, she accepted, wasn't entirely surprising, and more than a little understandable. She looked at her watch. She was briefly confused, as she found her wrist staring back up at her, and tried to remember how to tell the time according to the two moles she was familiar with, before realising she wasn't wearing a watch. Or indeed own one any more. I must get a new watch, she thought. She checked herself.

"Babbling!" she chided, aloud.

A hand suddenly clasped itself over her mouth, shocking her for as long as it took her to recognise it was her own hand, in an attempt at self preservation. Quiet! she thought. There was an alarm clock on the table beside her bed. Minutes had passed, not hours. Since she heard the intruder in her kitchen, and found the dildo as the only viable weapon to hand, she had succeeded in procrastinating for mere minutes. Minutes, if left to their own devices would turn naturally to hours, thought her inner coward, helpfully. Hours in which you could sleep, they added.

No! she thought, with resolve she didn't know she had. In fact, the vehemence with which she denied herself surprised her. She found that the timidity with which she had initially approached the noises she heard emanating from her kitchen below had now been replaced with anger, and dare she say it, even excitement. She lunged forward, took the dildo in both hands, and strode to her bedroom door. With her grandfathers words about discretion being the better part of something, she quietly opened the door, and tip-toed out onto the landing.

She made the mistake of looking down at her feet. No shoes, she thought. I can't do this without shoes. What if I have to chase him? What if there is broken glass? What if the floor is cold? Do I want dirty feet?

She slowly reversed into her room, and shut the door. Her shoes lay in a confused muddle at the bottom of the largest wardrobe in her room. She had shoes for every occasion. Almost every occasion, she reminded herself, thinking about the intruder downstairs.

Slippers? Not practical. Her bad week evening party black strappy sandals with diamanté butterflies? Not practical enough. Sure she could dance in them, and she liked they way they made her feel, but they had started to rub recently, and she resented them for it. Cowboy boots? They were too small, so took her an age to get on and off. Mid-beach-holiday early evening sangria party mules? Cute, but off message. Rummaging around, she found one half of the pair that, while not perfect, would do nicely.

 She opened the door again, and stepped out onto the landing in her brown ruched suede calf boots with a kitten heel. Being relatively practical, she could just about run in them (but no great distance) and were smart while saying to the observer "I have more important things to do than to be with you, but here I am so be grateful". She had initially only bought them to go to a cheese tasting with an old school friend of hers, who she remembers fancying at school, but couldn't remember why they never got it on. The shoes had been perfect then, and were a close fit now.

Moving gingerly over the landing, she peered over the bannister railing. At the foot of the stairs, the door to the kitchen was open, and an ethereal glow emanated from within.

Bugger, she thought. I've got a burglar AND I left the fridge door open. A few rational neurones politely cleared their throats. Unless... Oh! Unless HE opened the fridge. Stupid, stupid, stupid! The neurones considered this. But why would a burglar raid the fridge...? I suppose burglars must get hungry too... Well, if you're hungry, you're hungry... The only thing of value was some rather nice cheese she had picked up from Borough Market, and a half-finished (half-started, she corrected herself) bottle of Musquadet. Thank god I didn't put my jewellery in the meats drawer, she thought.

Enough! the most rational neuron said. She shook her head and tried to think clearly. It doesn't matter, she thought, that someone is in my fridge. The important factor is that he shouldn't be there. She crept down the stairs, trying to remember which stairs creaked, and which were safe, a task at which she succeeded in achieving a 100% failure rate. Each reluctant groan, every crack, seemed to her a traitor in her own home; a huge klaxon warning the intruder of his impending discovery.

Or her, she supposed to herself. She paused on the third step from the bottom. She hadn't considered the possibility that the burglar might be a woman. She looked at the rubber phallus in her hands. Was it right to hit a girl with this? Maybe she should find something else. She was getting distracted, and shook her head again. She moved down a step.

The fridge was still open. How long had it been so? Did the guy have no sense for the environment? The milk bottles clinked together guiltily. The expensive cheese was behind the milk bottles! The bastard! She moved down another step.

She was now at the last location she could conceivably argue as still being upstairs, albeit only up one stair. She could turn around now, feign ignorance and let the interloper consume her Stilchester cheese, waste her electricity, and never see her flattering footwear. She could, but didn't. The shoes propelled her forwards. She took the last step, and leaned cautiously round the corner, the bendy dildo leading the way as she peered into the kitchen.

There was a man, with his head in her vegetable basket. She considered this, and gave a childish and inappropriate grin at the image. If only, she thought. He was wearing a dark green, heavy knit sweater, blue jeans and a baseball cap. However, it was his smart burnt oak semi-brogue shoes that caught her eye. She was quietly impressed and confused in equal measure. With renewed courage that any man with those shoes couldn't mean her much harm, she stepped determinedly into the kitchen, raised the dildo, and screamed.

The shock to the man was profound. He quite forgot his head, or specifically where it was, and raised it at great speed. The fridge was not forgiving, and the sickening clunk-crack of his skull against the roof of the appliance caused her to wince. He rallied briefly, and managed to retract his bonce, kneeling woozily from the impact. He turned, swaying, on the brink of unconsciousness, just in time to see all 13inches of the flesh coloured love toy collide with his terrified face with all the strength she could muster. For the second time that evening, his head wished it was somewhere it wasn't, and he collapsed to the floor, out cold.


1,000 words of a short story from a seed sentence given to me by my friend Sam.

The Intruder


## This was it. The life-defining decision one cautiously hopes for. For me it was a choice between an avocado and a chicken

On the face of it, the importance of the choice doesn’t leap out at you. It doesn’t seem to be one of those, “ooh! proposal! yes or no?” quandries. It doesn’t have the depth of a decision to sit at the front or back of a bus that is subsequently involved in an accident. It’s not even a “red or blue tie” choice.

On the face of it. However, those who heard about what happened later on can appreciate how apprehensive I was, and how it took me a while to realise the total error of my choice. After all, being marooned on a small island with a girl you only know as “Alice” tends to lend a certain perspective as to what might be considered “important”.

We had only been on the island since last night, having arrived (I assume) at some point during the previous afternoon. The cruise we had been on previously had been largely uneventful. The previous night there had been a party on the deck of the ship, but as the weather had been somewhat inclement, everyone had repaired to the spacious dining room. The tables and chairs had all been removed, and for a time I couldn’t work out where they had been removed to. It wasn’t what you would call a large ship, and I imagine storage space was at a premium.

Whether it was a search for the furniture driven by that curiosity, or the desire for some solitude driven by a crowd that seemed to be heavily weighted at the lighter end of the 18-30 age group, I had wondered on deck into the rain. It wasn’t heavy rain, and much of it intermingled with the salty ocean spray being whipped into the air as the ship powered through the swell.

Some of the aerosol had been stinging my eyes, causing them to water. Looking back, I guess pretending that I had been crying had also been a poor choice, but when this girl had appeared next to me through the mist, her short hair invitingly messed by the wind, holding her high-heeled shoes over the railing, asking me if I was alright... I had decided to play the sensitive, emotional poet card.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m... I’m fine.” I had said, wiping the tears dramatically from one of my eyes.

She had gently rubbed arm. “What are you doing out here?” she had asked.

I had started my spiel, about the raw power of the sea, about feeling alive and yet so alone, and I could tell that she was interested. I decided to come across as the broken individual, in desperate need of fixing emotionally. It’s not a great way to start a long relationship, but that wasn’t exactly why I was on this cruise in the first place. I was disembarking at the next port, and I fancied that even a pity fuck was better than nothing. I had seen the girl a few times, flirting outrageously with anyone who would pay her the attention she craved. It’s a funny thing when two people are deceiving each other about themselves - sometimes their connection is actually more truthful than either would admit.

The rain had become heavier, and had turned from a romantic contrivance into a downright inconvenience, threatening to turn this dalliance into a literally damp squib. I hadn’t wanted to go back inside, as the whole group scene didn’t fit with the persona I had constructed. I had to pretend that I didn’t mind the rain, a task that was becoming increasingly difficult. The ship had started to pitch more, and the noise was causing me to shout my deep and meaningful whispers. I had been genuinely surprised when she suggested we get out of the rain, and rather than leading me back indoors, lead me to a  lifeboat. As she had held the canvas top open for me, she showed me a flash of something in her eyes, that I can only describe as incredibly naughty, and I began to wonder if I wasn’t out of my depth with her.

Crouched in the lifeboat, my projected identity started to slip a little. This wasn’t what I had in mind, and my heart started to race with the rapping of the rain on the tarpaulin. I couldn’t think of anything to say, but I’m not sure that words were on the forefront of her mind either, as she started to take her cardigan off. The rain had caused some of her eye- makeup to run, almost seductively, down her cheeks. We moved our heads closer to each other, waiting for the other to make the first definitive move.

As it turned out, we hadn’t needed to worry about that, as a massive swell caused the ship to pitch forward violently, and I head-butted her directly on the bridge of her nose, knocking her out instantly. As the ship climbed out of the swell, I fell back, and struck my head sharply on the side of the lifeboat filling my vision with a galaxy of stars, overcome with stillness, silence and finally oblivion.

When I came to, I was lying next to the boat which was about 30 yards up the beach away from the softly breaking waves. The shadow the boat cast was protecting me from what looked like the late afternoon sun. Of the girl, there was no sign. I don’t remember getting out of the boat, or indeed pulling the boat up the beach, but circumstances don’t lie. Looking into the boat under the torn canvas, I saw a small pool of blood mixing into the seawater that had collected in the footwells. There wasn’t enough blood to worry about the girl, but I desperately tried to remember even the slightest detail about the previous night.

I had examined the boat. One of the rigging harnesses at the bow had splintered and broken, which explained how the lifeboat had become separated from the ship. I had waded down the beach to waist height, to see around a promontory that had sheltered the natural harbour the lifeboat had drifted into. There was no sign of the ship. I didn’t know if it was just the lifeboat that had broken free, or whether the whole ship had gone down, but I reckoned it shouldn’t be long before they realise what had happened, and they sent out word for help.

I went back to the lifeboat, and had been delighted to find a flare gun with a couple of flares, and a first-aid kit. The kit had already been raided for some gauze and taping, but it was difficult to say when this had happened. I decided to fire of one of the flares once it was dark.

Wandering to the top of the shoreline, I found the girl, lying on her side beneath one of the handful of palm trees which populated the boundary where the sandy beach gave way to a field of tall grasses. The sand her face rested on was stained with a surprising amount of blood, but her nose appeared to have been cleaned and taped. I rolled her onto her back, and she suddenly breathed deeply. Squinted her eyes, and I blocked the sun from them with one of my hands. She had taken an age to open them, and when she did, she had looked at me, confused. I didn’t know what to say to her.

“Alice.” she said, and winced.

“Sorry?”

“My name. I’m Alice.” she had explained. “And I am really hungry.”


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