All stories

some books

by James

There’d been no time for roses, but could he count this as a date? Maggie had winked at him, and then in a pirate voice had said, ‘Arrr matey, it’s a date,’ so maybe. Johnny grinned about that; and could he count it as date number two? Man, because what people always said about the third date, what people in this modern world got up to. He grinned like a Cheshire cat at that thought, because when was the last time he crossed over the final frontier? When did he last wake up one morning to a lovely bacon sarnie and a cuppa?

As soon as he saw Maggie walk into the library he knew he had miscalculated – should have sat at the wood tables, not on the comfy chairs, because then he wouldn’t have had to make a frantic grab for a book from the display rack to position strategically across his lap before she joined him. What was wrong with him? He could hear the voice of any number of guys in his head – not a looker, is she – but man, that smile of hers, how she waved at him. She had the look to her, didn’t take no shit, and that’s what was turning him on, the confidence, the swagger, and who cared if her hair was frizzy wild or her teeth weren’t cover model straight. Johnny and Maggie. Oh man, the ring to that.

Maggie had a tall stack of books with her that she set down on the sofa, but did it so that the books were between the two of them when she sat. He smiled, and then she smiled, and then she picked up one of her books and started to read the back cover.

‘What are the odds?’ Johnny said. ‘I’m not long in town and the two women I know both have red hair.’

‘You don’t know me,’ Maggie said.

‘Isn’t that what this is?’

She wrinkled her face derisively. ‘I’m here to bring a book back. Just my tough luck you’re here too.’

‘I told you I’d be here. And, anyway. You sat down opposite me.’

Her shrug was dismissive. ‘I want to sit down, pick my books. You don’t own these chairs, do you?’

‘Actually, my dad’s a philanthropist chair donator, so…’

‘Cool. He single?’

‘Nah, and he prefers blondes.’

‘I can be blonde, for a man giving away chairs like these.’

‘You’re not a natural redhead?’

She twisted a lock of her vibrant cherry red hair between her fingers. She looked at him, her eyes wide. ‘You’re really asking me that question?’

‘I’m trying to be delicate about it. What I really want to know - why someone would choose that colour.’

She didn’t mind him saying that. She was trying her best to look insulted, but she couldn’t hide the smile. ‘I went to a fabulous party.’

‘Fancy dress, was it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What you go as?’

‘I went as a horny girl with fucking amazing red hair, who thought it might help her pull, but it turns out, all it does is intimidate guys.’

‘It must have been a party full of blind guys,’ Johnny said. ‘Because…even with that hair, no way should you not have pulled.’

Maggie nodded as she thought about it, and Johnny began to nod along in time. Killer line.

Maggie said, ‘So…what you’re saying. I went to a party where it didn’t matter what I looked like, but not one of the dudes liked my personality?’

Astral Voyager

by Dan

“No, The one before, before The Final Frontier, Season 4 episide 6! Space Pirates of Vorgon you fucking imbecile” Clive was incredulous. “That was where they really jumped the shark in Astral Voyager”.

Eilidh could not remember / had not really been watching.

“We watched it four days ago. How could you forget the most important event ever in the history in the world.”

“Oh yes” Eilidh replied. “Space Pirates of Vorgon. That was it.” She got up.

“Where are you going now?” asked Clive.

“To the toilet” said Eilidh, though in truth she didn’t need the loo at all.

The toilet had become her private lockdown place, her place to reflect on the mistake she was beginning to realise she’d made. The one place he couldn’t follow her.

God damn her she deserved this. Her need to be admired and different when she was really just the same as everyone else had got her in trouble again.

It had been readable all along, from day 1 in their relationship, when Clive had shyly engineered her into helping him with some dysfunctioning tech at a talk he was giving. Eilidh, frustrated by her her unexceptional career as a conference organiser was flattered that the great podcaster seemed interested in her.

He’d taken her to podcast of the year 2018 awards, which he’d won and they’ed then embarked on a whirlwind romance resulting in marriage and now pregnancy. He was a wry, clever investigative journalist and cultural commentator, who could be funny and sweet but only rarely. 90% of the time he was entirely without empathy.

She was pretty at least a 7 compared to Clive’s rather hopeless 4. Balancing career and intellectual ability with physical attractiveness made each of them about 14 of 20, Clive thought. And because he was so much cleverer and more famous, she allowed this denigration.

Now she had ended up as his mother, his lover, his nursemaid and everything else he expected of the intellectually unworthy.

She’d slowly realised that he needed rather than loved her and that she didn’t love or need him at all (that the glittery thing his celebrity bestowed upon her was worthless, especially in lockdown). She’d also realised that she hated sci-fi boxsets, board games, film criticism and ephemeral cultural knowledge.

She flushed the toilet she hadn’t used and went downstairs.

Clive was gone. This was most unlike him. Ah well, she turned on the radio, which he hated, just to hear a voice other than her own, Clive’s or that of Captain Sxczyr- Space Pirate.

A few minutes later he returned. He was carrying a limp bunch of red roses he’d bought in Tesco’s he turned the radio off and handed them to her.

“I know I’m difficult” he said “You’ve had the patience of a saint sitting through this lockdown with me. You know when I say things, it’s cos I’m terrified you’ll leave me.”

These 10% times meant more with someone like him. She shelved her mean thoughts, at least for now and looked tenderly at Clive who was readying another episode of Astral Voyager on the I-player.

She smiled at him and touched his shoulder and wondered how many more uninspiring episodes they might go through before they actually arrived at the final frontier.

Monsters

by Jenny

Every year it defeated them, squatting up on the hill like a great beast, waiting to gobble you up. A terrifying, hulking mass of bricks and windows; of crooked turrets and thick, forbidding forest encircling its haunches.

At Halloween dares were issued, bets were placed, challenges cried, but no-one ever did it, no-one even came close. All the children were frightened and fascinated by the place, telling stories of monsters and witches and spirits.

But Sam was the class adventurer, the daredevil. He never said no to a challenge and never, ever backed down from a dare. So when Sarah-Jayne Reynolds from Year 6 dared him to go trick or treating to the house on the hill, there was never any doubt that he’d accept.

Besides, he’d always wanted to meet a monster in real life.

His party was carefully selected for their bravery, their tenacity. They worked the street extorting chocolate, sweets and coins from indulgent adults. Jack was a skeleton, Ben a pirate. Jessica dressed as bacon and Sam? Well Sam was a cowboy, of course.

The last house on the brightly lit, pretty little street was Ben’s house. Last stop here, a final bastion between them and the long, dark trudge up the hill into the unknown.

“Trick or treat!”

“You all look wonderful - you’re a very scary skeleton Jack. Sam what a brave cowboy you are.”

Their buckets rattled with handfuls of Cadbury’s roses, wrappers glinting colourful in the streetlight.

And to their left the house on the hill loomed high, a black, crooked shadow in the silver moonlight. Sam paled, then his expression grew determined. He led his little party back onto the street. They were ready.

“Where do you think you lot are going?”

The party didn’t look around.

“There’s one more house to go,” said Sam stubbornly, pointing at the house on the hill.

“You don’t want to go up there, Sam. It’s dangerous. Come back inside.”

Sam stuck out his chin defiantly “I’m not afraid of monsters.”

“There are no monsters up there, Sammy. Just drunks and druggies and very bad men. You stay away. Besides, I have treats for you all - what do you say to some hot blackcurrant and a toffee apple each?”

The group paused.

It was Ben who broke first. Just a tiny step towards the front door, but it was enough. A second later Jessica joined him and the pair hurried inside. With an apologetic look back, Jack was next.

Sam looked up the hill. He never, ever backed down on a dare.

But it was cold out here and the house looked darker than ever. Ben’s mum was probably right. There were no monsters. It would be a wasted journey and he’d miss out on his toffee apple. He wasn’t sure Sarah-Jayne from year 6 was worth that.

With a sigh of regret, Sam turned towards warmth and safety.

And as the children trooped back into the rosy glow of Ben’s mum’s house, their courage defeated, their dares undone, a tall shadowy figure gazed sadly down from the house on the hill. Peering out through a jagged, broken window. It picked up its prepared basket of treats and toys in one clawed, hairy hand, untouched again for another year.

One For the Road

by Russ

Paul sat at the end of the bar and looked along the wall of faces, each portrait neatly framed in alternating blue and red; Pantones 286 and 185 to be exact. The first couple were recognisable the world over; less so those who followed. As he scanned across he saw a second flare of famous faces, though more so from his teenage bedroom than the press. After that it tailed into strangers, each identically uniformed and equally obscure. Paul let himself tip a nod to the last two frames, Nick and Jane from his academy group, one of them still alive.

The waitress, barmaid, hostess... Paul still hadn’t got his head round who was called what in this country; whatever her job title, she shuffled over, having decided the arbitrary amount of waiting time had passed. Cheryl, it said on her name-tag; Paul decided he’d probably just call her that.

‘Six chicken, corn, fries, bacon-slaw, and three Bud; one now, one with the food…’

‘...and one to come after.’

Cheryl had started the order, but they’d finished it together. Paul felt a flush of embarrassment. What sort of geek goes, alone, to the same bar, and makes the same order as Neil Armstrong did, the night before he flew.

‘You get this a lot?’ Paul sought redemption.

‘You moon boys are such nerds,’ was the condemnation he received.

‘Boys?’

‘Mainly,’ Cheryl knew the implication. ‘The girls sometimes call in, but they don’t replicate the order. Classier, y’know?’ It was said with a smile. ‘Except that one,’ she cocked a thumb at the picture of Jane. ‘She came in the same outfit and got the timings right too. She even left the same tip.’

Paul instinctively raised his freshly opened first bottle to the picture of Jane, she was brilliant. It was such a shame what… he stopped and shook the thought from his head. He moved his focus back to Cheryl.

‘So, I suppose I wouldn’t be the first to ask you…’

‘For one last fumble before you rumble?’ she raised an eyebrow and pulled a wry smile. ‘You think Neil chanced his arm that night?’

‘Probably not,’ Paul had to concede.

Cheryl leant on the counter in front of Paul, and helped herself to a couple of his fries before looking at him coquettishly.

‘Well, if you believe my grandma, he actually did,’ the chip-stealing server rolled the bait off her tongue. ‘And he got the same answer you will.’

Paul saw the trap, but he was committed now.

‘And that is…?’

‘Not tonight, sport,’ Cheryl laughed as she pushed herself back from the counter. ‘You come back from playing space-pirate, with roses and a proper invitation, and maybe we’ll talk.’

As rejections went, Paul had been stung worse.

With that the atmosphere changed, as a herd of freshmen from UCF pushed their way into the bar, taking the moment, and Cheryl’s attention, as they did.

Paul took a lonely swig of his beer as he looked up once more at the pictures on the walls. It was probably better he got an early night anyway, after all, he was going to the moon in the morning.