After taking time out to write a new play (There's More Where That Came From), a few short stories for competition entry and a couple of new strips for PJANG, I've gone back to my latest novel, which is cheerfully titled I Wish, Wish, Wish You Were Dead, Dead, Dead. It's a love story. I'm about three quarters of the way through, but it's a long, soul-destroying process full of dread, self-doubt and disillusionment ("it's all SHIT!"), and apart from my weekly Thoughtballoons script I've not got anything else to keep the evil thoughts at bay.
So I thought I'd try my hand at some Flash Fiction. My old mate Dan Powell is always banging on about #fridayflash, a meme wherein writers post a short story of 1000 words or less on a Friday then promote the hell out of it via Twitter and sundry other locales on what Vicus calls the electric interweb. So I set myself a challenge - and challenge it is, because word limits are always a problem - to start writing my own #fridayflash stories, the first of which can be read below. I'm worried that in doing so I might have channelled my inner fascist, middle-class, Daily Mail reading, scumbag Hyde-self... but I prefer to think there's more going on in this story than just reactionary zeal. See what you think...
He's Just A Lickle Kid
In the summer of 1949, a farmer by the name of Hedgemoor caught seven year old Tommy Marshall running through his fields, stamping and trampling his crop to the ground. Hedgemoor grabbed Tommy by the wrist, lifted him up so his feet were swinging over the broken corn, then whipped him to within an inch of his life with a riding crop he wore clipped to his belt.
When Tommy returned home for tea his mother asked him why he’d been crying. He told her the full story, because he knew never to lie to his mum, then took a second beating for his trouble with a carpet slipper. He never trampled corn again, but he carried a lingering resentment against all farmers for the rest of his days.
In the autumn of 1977, 35 year old Thomas Marshall caught a kid from his local estate, Carl Shutterman, pulling the petals off the prize roses in his garden. He chased the little bastard with a garden hoe, screaming how he’d report him to the police for vandalism and destruction of private property. Carl escaped, but not without running through a patch of nettles that left him itching painfully.
“So how did this happen then?” his mum asked when he got home, and though Carl tried his best to tell the story without getting into trouble, she soon wheedled the truth out of him. “Sounds like it serves you right, young man. You should count yourself lucky you got away with just a few nettle stings – now go to your room and think on. No TV for you tonight.”
In the winter of 2009, Carl Shutterman, now in his 42nd year, was walking home from work in the snow. He stopped to admire a snowman in a neighbour’s garden - a carrot for its nose, pebbles for a smile and cool dude sunglasses. That’s when a hard-packed iceball hit him straight in the eye. Blinking, holding a palm to his swollen face, Carl spotted the culprit, Danny Harris, a kid he recognised from three doors down, laughing on the corner. “You little fucker,” Carl screamed, “when I get my hands on you, I’ll rip your fucking head off and shit down your neck!” Danny ran away, ha-has echoing between the frozen terraces.
That night, Carl opened his front door to a furious Michael and Fiona Harris. They told him in no uncertain terms that if he ever threatened their son again, or came anywhere near the boy, they’d report Carl to the police, the social services, and the Child Offenders’ Registry. When Carl explained that he wasn’t the sort of man to ever hurt a child, but that he felt perfectly within his rights to at least give Danny a blasting, considering the black eye he was now sporting, Fiona Harris told Carl to grow up. “He’s just a lickle kid – didn’t you ever do nothing wrong when you were a lickle kid?”
In the spring of 2050, Danny Harris, 49 and not long out of prison for GBH and assaulting a policewoman with a Becks bottle, was attacked on his way home from an appointment with his parole officer. Eight year old Ewan Turner tripped him up then set about beating him repeatedly on the back of his head with a golf club he’d stolen from his great uncle Eddie. When Danny finally managed to wrestle the weapon away from the boy, a passing pensioner who’d only seen the tail end of the altercation pulled over to the side of the road and shot Danny with a 5000 volt taser. “You all right, lad?” 83 year old Carl Shutterman asked the boy. “Did he hurt you?”
“Fuck you, grampa,” said Ewan Turner, knocking the taser out of Carl’s liver-spotted hand and making off with it down the road. When he finally arrived home after midnight, Ewan’s parents didn’t ask where he’d been. They were too busy playing Hostile-WOW-3D and acting out cyber-rape fantasies with a 16 year-old in Brazil. Not yet ready for bed, Ewan went into the kitchen and started testing his new toy out on the dog.
So I thought I'd try my hand at some Flash Fiction. My old mate Dan Powell is always banging on about #fridayflash, a meme wherein writers post a short story of 1000 words or less on a Friday then promote the hell out of it via Twitter and sundry other locales on what Vicus calls the electric interweb. So I set myself a challenge - and challenge it is, because word limits are always a problem - to start writing my own #fridayflash stories, the first of which can be read below. I'm worried that in doing so I might have channelled my inner fascist, middle-class, Daily Mail reading, scumbag Hyde-self... but I prefer to think there's more going on in this story than just reactionary zeal. See what you think...
In the summer of 1949, a farmer by the name of Hedgemoor caught seven year old Tommy Marshall running through his fields, stamping and trampling his crop to the ground. Hedgemoor grabbed Tommy by the wrist, lifted him up so his feet were swinging over the broken corn, then whipped him to within an inch of his life with a riding crop he wore clipped to his belt.
When Tommy returned home for tea his mother asked him why he’d been crying. He told her the full story, because he knew never to lie to his mum, then took a second beating for his trouble with a carpet slipper. He never trampled corn again, but he carried a lingering resentment against all farmers for the rest of his days.
In the autumn of 1977, 35 year old Thomas Marshall caught a kid from his local estate, Carl Shutterman, pulling the petals off the prize roses in his garden. He chased the little bastard with a garden hoe, screaming how he’d report him to the police for vandalism and destruction of private property. Carl escaped, but not without running through a patch of nettles that left him itching painfully.
“So how did this happen then?” his mum asked when he got home, and though Carl tried his best to tell the story without getting into trouble, she soon wheedled the truth out of him. “Sounds like it serves you right, young man. You should count yourself lucky you got away with just a few nettle stings – now go to your room and think on. No TV for you tonight.”
In the winter of 2009, Carl Shutterman, now in his 42nd year, was walking home from work in the snow. He stopped to admire a snowman in a neighbour’s garden - a carrot for its nose, pebbles for a smile and cool dude sunglasses. That’s when a hard-packed iceball hit him straight in the eye. Blinking, holding a palm to his swollen face, Carl spotted the culprit, Danny Harris, a kid he recognised from three doors down, laughing on the corner. “You little fucker,” Carl screamed, “when I get my hands on you, I’ll rip your fucking head off and shit down your neck!” Danny ran away, ha-has echoing between the frozen terraces.
That night, Carl opened his front door to a furious Michael and Fiona Harris. They told him in no uncertain terms that if he ever threatened their son again, or came anywhere near the boy, they’d report Carl to the police, the social services, and the Child Offenders’ Registry. When Carl explained that he wasn’t the sort of man to ever hurt a child, but that he felt perfectly within his rights to at least give Danny a blasting, considering the black eye he was now sporting, Fiona Harris told Carl to grow up. “He’s just a lickle kid – didn’t you ever do nothing wrong when you were a lickle kid?”
In the spring of 2050, Danny Harris, 49 and not long out of prison for GBH and assaulting a policewoman with a Becks bottle, was attacked on his way home from an appointment with his parole officer. Eight year old Ewan Turner tripped him up then set about beating him repeatedly on the back of his head with a golf club he’d stolen from his great uncle Eddie. When Danny finally managed to wrestle the weapon away from the boy, a passing pensioner who’d only seen the tail end of the altercation pulled over to the side of the road and shot Danny with a 5000 volt taser. “You all right, lad?” 83 year old Carl Shutterman asked the boy. “Did he hurt you?”
“Fuck you, grampa,” said Ewan Turner, knocking the taser out of Carl’s liver-spotted hand and making off with it down the road. When he finally arrived home after midnight, Ewan’s parents didn’t ask where he’d been. They were too busy playing Hostile-WOW-3D and acting out cyber-rape fantasies with a 16 year-old in Brazil. Not yet ready for bed, Ewan went into the kitchen and started testing his new toy out on the dog.
