Contents

1. Title Page

2. Copyright

3. Introduction

4. THE STORIES

5. LOVE AND ROMANCE

6. First Love

7. A Love Story From the Amazon Jungle

8. Letters in a Box

9. Love's Young Dream

10. Caroline

11. A Summer Walk

12. The Girl in the Crowd

13. Might Be Something In It

14. A Modern Marriage

15. Love of a Different Kind

16. In the Heat of Battle

17. Strip Battleships in Lockdown

18. Initiation

19. Steamy

20. The Morning After

21. Right-Swiped on Tinder

22. Health-Giving

23. Doing It Together

24. LEISURE & ENTERTAINMENT

25. A Day Out at the Open

26. Foreplay

27. Chopin Waltz No.6 in D Flat

28. Nobody Likes Me

29. The Four Knights of the Apocalypse

30. Bleak Factory

31. Wipeout's Last Stand

32. Olympic Gold

33. Knowing the Score

34. Tom and Mary

35. A Step Too Far

36. The Games People Play

37. Funeral for a Friend

38. Ludwig

39. The Secret Agent at the Edinburgh Fringe

40. POLITICS & PHILOSOPHY

41. A Short History of the USA in 100 Words

42. The Red Telephone Box

43. Just Another Interview

44. What Was It All For?

45. And It Came to Pass

46. Cliff-Top Philosophy

47. Doesnotexistentialism

48. Poppies

49. NATURE

50. Hector

51. The Dance

52. What Goes Around, Comes Around

53. Careful What You Wish For

54. Surrounded

55. Good News by Telephone

56. Supermoon

57. The Forest in July

58. Life and Death in the Night Sky

59. SCIENCE FICTION

60. The Emergency Response Service of the Future

61. International Women's Day, 7019AD

62. Somewhere in a Cloud-Layer on Venus

63. Worthless

64. On a Future International Women's Day

65. Valentine's Day Inspiration

66. The Enemy Within

67. Going for the Messier Solution

68. CRIME & HORROR

69. Lanterns

70. The Invisible Man

71. Texting to a Worried Mother

72. Les

73. Dinner with the Hendersons

74. A Self-Solving Problem

75. A Man in His Position

76. A Total Failure

77. It's Plane to See

78. Inside the Mind of Evil

79. A Good Read

80. RTA

81. Sniper

82. Trapped in Guilt

83. OBSERVATIONS ON LIFE

84. Playtime

85. Daffodils

86. Remembering Tom

87. Chat Romance

88. Analgesic Housework

89. Stupid-20

90. When God's Patience Finally Ran Out

91. Giovanni

92. Struggle

93. A Day in the Life

94. The Nice Boy at the Party

95. SEASON'S GREETINGS

96. A Christmas Flash Carol

97. The Henderson's Light Show

98. The Calendar

99. Two Christmas Gifts

100. Christmas Trees

101. Hogmanay Fireworks

102. A Homeless Christmas

103. Some Children Never Grow Up

104. MISCELLANEOUS

105. The Beautiful People

106. Pathways to Invisibility

107. Drama at the Glenfinnan Viaduct

108. A Shaggy Dog Story

109. Emergency Services

110. A Pluperfect Tale

111. Life-Changing

112. Lot 183

113. To Everything There is a Time

114. Appendices

115. Acknowledgements

116. About The Author

117. Also By The Author

200 NOT OUT

A 2nd selection of 100-word flash fiction stories written purely for the reader’s entertainment

Gordon Lawrie

Copyright © 2021 Gordon Lawrie

All rights reserved.

This mobi for Kindle edition published by Dean Park Press

An imprint of Comely Bank Publishing

ISBN:978-1-912365-18-0

INTRODUCTION

I’ve been writing for ten or twelve years, now, with varying degrees of success. In 2013, my first novel had already been published and to find out more about marketing, I signed up for LinkedIn, the “Facebook for business” social media website. One discussion group caught my attention: Friday Flash Fiction challenged writers to submit 100-word stories each week. I think I enrolled in week 2, and was hooked immediately.

Flash Fiction is good practice for any author. It forces the writer to value their words, to use them sparingly and to learn that how to use the unspoken, implied word. For those who struggle with ‘show, don’t tell’, being limited to telling your story in just a handful of sentences is like a cold shower. As a discipline, I loved it.

Before long, I’d created Friday Flash Fiction’s own website, and had effectively become its self-appointed editor. Where others flitted in and out of what became known as ‘FFF’ to the regulars, I contributed every week, almost without fail, until eventually I felt I was running out of steam a little. But although I announced I was going to take a sabbatical, it never really happened at all. I just found myself still churning the things out. At time of writing, I’ve contributed almost 600 different stories.

Back in 2016, I published a collection of 100 of some of my favourites, which were really intended to be available online as a free ebook. Amazon messed that up, of course, by refusing to allow free publications because Amazon themselves wanted to cream off almost £1.00 from each sale. (You can download it from my own website, though.)

So here we are, almost five years on, and there’s enough for another 100 stories, again each 100 words in length. These have been eventful years, though, and Donald Trump, Brexit and – worst of all – the COVID-19 pandemic have dominated much of the writing around the world. Flash fiction is no exception, and trying to make a timeless selection hasn’t been so easy this time. There were a lot of rejects.

Still, I hope you enjoy what’s on offer here. As before, this is intended for reading on an electronic device while you’re sitting in an airport terminal, or riding on a train or bus, or simply looking to kill time while you’re bored. It’s intended to entertain, and occasionally to be thought-provoking, and hopefully you’ll like what you read and try something else of mine.

And who knows, it might even inspire you to do some writing yourself? It’s not that hard, and it’s very satisfying, and can very quickly become addictive. Just go for it.

Gordon Lawrie, 2021.

A REMINDER ABOUT USING EBOOKS

It would be nice if all the stories in this short collection filled just one page exactly, but despite being all the same number of words it doesn’t seem to work that way. I suppose that some of the words are longer, and spacing and carriage returns seem to have led to considerable variations, too.

However, as usual with all ebooks, it’s possible to alter the font size to suit your own personal preference, and the reader is recommended to read this in whatever way seems most comfortable to them. Then just sit back and relax.

THE

STORIES

LOVE

&

ROMANCE

FIRST LOVE

IT BEGAN WITH glances across the lecture theatre, bright eyes, smiles; later the library cafeteria queue. Over coffee they shared music and movies and agreed to go to a new release together at the weekend.

It progressed quickly thereafter: kisses, petting, then the real thing. Both newbies, they’d much to discover, usually at hers: she had a room to herself. They spent a weekend in London, booked another in Paris.

It ended in rancour. She liked Henry James, had only contempt for his taste in crime fiction, and she cheated on him with a chemistry student. So Paris never happened.

A LOVE STORY FROM THE AMAZON JUNGLE

“PASS ME A few salad leaves, will you dear?”

“You’re such a sloth”, she replied, but reached over nonetheless and did so anyway. Slowly, however.

“Me? Slothful? That’s rich coming from you,” he said. “But that’s why I love you, I suppose.”

They ate in silence for some while, then out of nowhere she said, “My friend Betty has been trying to include a couple of grasshoppers each day in her diet. It’s a super-food, you know.”

He said nothing for ten minutes, then said, “Really?”

Eventually she said, “You know, Norman, this is the life.”

Norman was asleep, however.

LETTERS IN A BOX

OPENING THE BOX suddenly brought back so many memories.

Their relationship had seemed sincere enough at the time, despite being so far apart. Reading her letters, he remembered that their correspondence had covered everything imaginable – politics, music, philosophy, even sex.

But distance and friendship are not good companions, and seeing her writing reminded him of how she ended things. She'd used him, and now she planned to move on to something better. His box contained a child's letters.

He flicked through the pages and smiled. He needed the storage space, not the memories. Everything went out in a bin bag.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM

"HOW R U x?"

"Gr8 x," she replied. She texted him a selfie.

"U l%k gr8 2 x," he said.

"Thx. Luv u," adding, "Snd a pictuR xx"

"N prob x."

Seeing the photo, she replied, "Kewl. luv u xxx."

"Wot R U doin? x" he wondered.

"Walking dwn d rd. U? x"

"Me 2, l%kin 4ward 2 CN U l8r xxx.”

"Can't W8 x." Then she added, "DIS road's bsy x"

"Sos DIS 1 x."

Our two lovers now collided, nearly dropping their mobiles.

"U ok? x," he texted.

"yS. U? x"

"yS. Luv u x."

CAROLINE

THE YOUNG WOMAN greeted me cheerfully in the corridor.

"Will you marry me?"

"Marry you?"

"Go on, it's the 29th February. I can do the proposing."

"Interesting idea, Caroline. I really like you, but there are difficulties..."

She smiled innocently. "Such as?"

"Well... for a start, I'm your teacher. You're fourteen, I'm a bit older. And I'm already spoken for – I've been married for 30 years."

"Nonsense," she said. "Love will out."

I chuckled. "Caroline, one day you'll make some man very happy." Everyone knew that half of the third year boys had experienced a little of Caroline's 'happiness' already.

A SUMMER WALK

IT HAD BEEN their first chance to wander in the hills since the children had left; on that glorious summer’s day, their was route utterly deserted. After sharing a light lunch, they skinny-dipped in the adjacent loch, the temptation to act like teenagers proving too strong. Later, as they lay naked to dry out, she checked all around to be sure, then smiled at him. They made love slowly, each taking turns to enjoy the hot sun on their backs. Beautiful.

Beautiful, that is, until they realised painfully, and in almost unimaginable places, how close they were to an ant-hill.

THE GIRL IN THE CROWD

SOMETIMES, I SEE her in distant crowds. I try to ensure she doesn't see me, but I suspect she's picked me out once or twice. I'm not sure who's likely to be more embarrassed by memories of our brief liaison, her or me. We simply needed each other at the time, but it turned out that her need for me was even more short-term than my need for her. And it was hardly ideal for morale to discover that I wasn't even her only one.

I'd still love to know what she saw in me during those few short weeks.

MIGHT BE SOMETHING IN IT

THEY WERE BOTH reading: she was browsing Women's Health, while he was deeply engrossed in Golf Monthly. Suddenly, she broke the silence.

"It says here that couples who share the housework have much better sex lives." She didn't look up.

"Hmm?" He didn't look up either.

"I put the dishes in the dishwasher." He didn't reply, so she continued, "There are still pans to wash."

"Hmm?" No more.

She sighed, stood up. "I'll deal with the pans, then I'm off to bed."

"Goodnight, love," he said, eventually.

"Goodnight," she called back, then added more quietly, "Might be something in it."

A MODERN MARRIAGE

THEIR MARRIAGE WAS based on mutual understanding. Like many millennials, they never spoke, whether in the street, sitting side-by-side on the sofa, or even in bed. Their sole medium was the mobile phone.

At first, they communicated in textspeak: "Fancy something 2eat? A little 4play leading to 6?" Eventually, they moved on to homespun emoticons – :( or :) or even :x, but these offered even less scope for literary discourse. Then of course, emojis followed.

One day, disaster struck – she dropped her iPhone down the toilet. Unable to speak, he assumed she was being unfaithful and the inevitable happened: D4s.

LOVE OF A DIFFERENT KIND

It began as a school project: each was looking for a pen pal. For the next few years they wrote regularly to each other, but while others fell by the wayside, their transatlantic relationship blossomed.

As each progressed through college, they encouraged each other to greater achievements, then better employment. Eventually, as their letters became emails, they became more intimate, sharing their most personal and family details. She guided him through a bout of depression; his honest advice saved her marriage.

Yet they saw each other only through occasional photographs; they never met. She sent flowers to his funeral, though.

IN THE HEAT OF BATTLE

IT BEGAN, AS so often, with a simple misunderstanding.

She said something he thought was wrong, but he'd misheard her. When he questioned her, she took his tone to be accusatory, which he didn't intend. From there, things spiralled out of control.

In no time, he had a sharp kitchen knife in his hand, she, the rolling pin. She made pastry, he sliced apples. The time that it needed in the oven was just enough to sort things in bed.

It's how they always settled arguments. The apple pie was slightly overdone on this occasion, but neither of them cared.

STRIP BATTLESHIPS IN LOCKDOWN

"C3."

"Hit," Sarah sighed, slowly removing her bra.

In Lockdown, they'd discovered the delights of Strip Battleships on Zoom. Each 'hit' obliged the other to remove an item of clothing.

Now, each sat wearing just one thing. Sarah missed with D6. From her sofa, she noticed that, behind Chris, the cooker needed cleaning.

"C4."

"Damn!" Sarah cried. She stood up, turned around, and slid her knickers to the floor. "Satisfied?"

"Very. Ready? GO!!"

They arrived at their bedroom simultaneously. Battleships got them in the mood every time, except that once when they accidentally dialled her mother into the game, too.

INITIATION

THE LEAD-UP could hardly be described as foreplay. He made it clear that he was desperate and he wanted to; her consent was more reluctant.

Amazingly, he'd come prepared with a three-pack purchased from a slot machine in a supermarket toilet. Unsure quite what to do, he undressed her, then himself, then kissed her neck and breasts before she suggested they 'just do it'.

He tried to be gentle, but it hurt her. He took longer than expected, which allowed her to feel something in return. But afterwards, these two 15-year-olds had gained little in exchange for their lost innocence.

STEAMY

THE CAR WINDOWS had steamed up, hinting at what they were up to inside. He snuggled up close to her.

She smiled knowingly as he placed his hand gently on her thigh. Gradually, his hand crept towards her lap, but she pushed it away.

"Go on," he pleaded. His hand crept up her thigh again.

"No." She pushed the hand away again.

The pantomime repeated twice more then suddenly she smacked the back of his hand hard.

"Ow!" he said. "That hurt!"

"I warned you," she said. "You've eaten all of your fish and chips. What's here is all mine."

THE MORNING AFTER

THE MORNING RADIO bulletins confirmed their worst fears. The Party had claimed electoral victory; there was no news of any of the opposition. The Leader had declared a three-day curfew, instructing that anyone caught outside should be shot immediately by the security forces.

Peering out of their bedroom window, the pair spotted dark-uniformed armed guards marching up the street. Moments later the guards were inside their apartment block shouting, hammering doors, getting ever closer until suddenly the guards were banging their own door.

'This is it,' he whispered. They kissed. Their last words to each other were 'I love you.'

RIGHT-SWIPED ON TINDER

“I’M SO GLAD I right-swiped you, Linda,” Mark said.

She clinked glasses. “Likewise.”

“Would you meet me again?”

She looked away. “Perhaps.”

“Only perhaps?”

“Look, Mark, there’s a problem.”

“Tell me, I won’t be shocked.”

She turned back towards him. “You won't understand,” smiling to reveal blood-covered fangs in her mouth.

“Goodness!”

“Did I shock you?”

“Not shocked, surprised.” Mark grinned, revealing his own razor-sharp fangs. “Dating apps are fantastic at finding matches.”

“Perfect! I’d love to date you again.”

“Can I see you home?”

“Yes, but no sex on our first night.”

“No sex. Perhaps a little necking?”

“Naturally.”

HEALTH-GIVING

ALMOST ALL OF Laura's work colleagues had decided to celebrate the first Friday after Veganuary. After a month of kale, Quorn, tofu, lentils and almond milk, one group was heading for a local steak-house; another was celebrating with kebabs.

Laura, though, was one of the few who hadn't taken on the vegan challenge. "You should try it sometime," her friend Fiona said. "A vegan breakfast is a great way to start the day."

Laura smiled quietly but said nothing. She and Dave had found their own great way to start each day that January. It hadn't even involved leaving bed.

DOING IT TOGETHER

AS DARCY APPROACHED, Lizzie tensed: it was bigger than she'd expected. But he had another surprise for her.

"I need help, I've never done this before," he confessed, fumbling for the spot.

"Let me guide you," Lizzie said. She took his hand. "There. That's the place," she reassured him. "But relax, it's not a disaster if it goes wrong."

She leaned back against the wall for purchase. Soon, she felt a judder.

Darcy smiled, but looked at her anxiously. "OK?"

"Perfect," Lizzie said. "One hole drilled, 15 to go. We'll have this IKEA wall cabinet up before you know it."

LEISURE

&

ENTERTAINMENT

A DAY OUT AT THE OPEN

QUITE A FEW spectators at the Open Golf Champioship were becoming ill, overcome by the blazing sun. John wasn't feeling too good himself.

Standing at the 18th green on the second day, he glanced up and saw some strange names on the leaderboard: Eric Anderson, 72; Martin White, 72; Doug Thomas, 74; Adam Easson, 77; Bill Walker, 79; Ian Bryce, 81. It wasn't the high scores that surprised him, it was the fact these were all friends he'd lost in recent years. Then the leaderboard changed and he saw his own name going up: 68.

Today was John's 68th birthday.

FOREPLAY

AS SHE SNUGGLED under the covers, her body tingling with anticpation, she felt those familiar feelings again. The foreplay was almost her favourite moment: she caressed its firmness, aware only too well of the pleasure that would soon engulf her.

She stroked it, back and forwards, wondering how something how something so strong and hard could lead to something so soft and tender.

She could wait no longer. She turned to page one and began to read.

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."

CHOPIN WALTZ NO.6 IN D FLAT

IN COVID-19, Simon saw opportunity: master Chopin's D flat "Minute" Waltz.

Even for concert pianists, the Minute Waltz requires nearly two minutes' performance. No virtuoso, Simon's record was over five. Now, trapped in lockdown, Simon set about practising non-stop each day from morning till night.

Two weeks later, he could play the entire piece in under four minutes; by week six, in just three. During week twelve, Simon smashed the two minute barrier. Then... silence.

Days later, police discovered Simon's decaying body slumped over the keys. No one had noticed: his neighbours had long ago self-isolated from his piano playing.

NOBODY LIKES ME

NO ONE LIKES me. That sounds sad, but I’m afraid it’s the truth, there’s no escaping it.

I try to impress people by telling them tales of adventure, but they don’t seem to be impressed. Perhaps they’ve heard it all before. Or I try to make them laugh with jokes, hit them with the best punch lines I can think of – but it’s no use, I can’t so much as raise a smile. I try horror and ghost stories, but I just get blank looks back.

No matter what I write, I can’t get anyone to click that Like button.

THE FOUR KNIGHTS OF THE APOCALYPSE

THE CHEQUERED CALM of alternate light and dark green squared fields was suddenly thrown into chaos as drafted soldiers jack-booted their way across the terrain. Shrieks of despair could be heard as clergymen scurried diagonally for safety, castles retreated into corners, queens raced for cover –while their husbands cowered behind their peasant subjects.

Suddenly our four heroes – two black, two white – appeared on horseback. Limited in range, they nevertheless used supreme skill and courage to outmanoeuvre the enemy.

Unable to turn, the drafted troops were routed; everyone was saved. Great cheers went up and the king came out of hiding.

BLEAK FACTORY

KISMET QUICK SURVEYED his asbestos processing factory, relishing the noise and intense heat, then did his hourly worker count to ensure that no child was slacking.

Suddenly he yelled, "Mrs Screech! Where's Hamill?"

A round, red-faced woman appeared, breathless. "Jack Hamill's with me, getting his finger sown back on, Mr Quick."

"Why? Does he NEED them all?"

"Well – "

"Get him back to work. Iodine on the missing finger!"

Mrs Screech nodded, returning with the injured boy. Beneath her own machine, Emily smiled, knowing that, as the only ones with sensible names, she and Jack were destined for each other.

WIPEOUT'S LAST STAND

WIPEOUT BRANNIGAN, LAST survivor of the legendary band The Smashits, made his way onto the stage. Nowadays, he needed a zimmer frame to get about, so his entrance was suitably prolonged and dramatic. For today was Wipeout's hundredth birthday.

He was supported by a twelve-strong band: backing vocals, bass, lead and rhythm guitars, percussion, keyboards and a string section. Wipeout himself played a few chords, but could sing only one note – something in the crack between A and A flat. He'd sung the same note for the last eighty years.

The audience adored all two hours of it. Tomorrow, Cardiff.

OLYMPIC GOLD

THE STADIUM NOISE was deafening. Marching towards the podium, he reflected on the path that his life had taken, how it had come to this. He grasped his flag proudly, waving at the distant faces in the crowd.

First, the bronze medallist stepped up, received his medal and flowers, then the silver medallist. Finally, it was his turn, highest of all, top of the world, gold medal. He waved all around.

As the anthem played, he wondered if he’d ever had a choice. No matter, he would enjoy the moment. The result of the drugs test wouldn’t show until tomorrow.

KNOWING THE SCORE

LAURA HAD REHEARSED thoroughly, and her performance of "Good Morning" had gone well. But she knew the score. As an aspiring actor she had to stand out, so she'd held the gaze of the producer, Hillard Rook.

Eventually, Rook invited her into a private room.

"There are a couple of sex scenes in Singing In The Rain," Rook said quietly. “You OK with that? Naked?"

"I don't recall that in the movie," Laura said.

"This is a modern version," Rook replied quietly. "You want the part?"

Here we go again, Laura thought, as she began to peel off her clothes.

TOM AND MARY

TOM AND MARY spent their entire marriage, all fifty-nine years of it, in competition. Mostly, they teamed up, thus avoiding public marital strife and maintaining a semblance of decorum. Friends knew the signs, though. A misdirected volley on the tennis court, or a missed short putt on the golf green, meant Tom would be sleeping on the sofa that night.

Later, their interests turned to bridge, where Mary would frequently be heard screeching ‘Why did you do that, Tom?’ He died suddenly at the table; she carried on playing the hand, Tom was dummy and they made a small slam.

A STEP TOO FAR

THE 2022 OPEN Golf Championship, held at Old Royal Mid-Bufferton Links, threw up a surprise front-runner: Chinese golfer Zhao Feng shot successive 67s to lead by two. However, in Saturday's tougher 3rd round conditions, the experienced American Jordan Spieth ground out a one-shot lead going into the final round.

Then, in a dramatic final-day shoot-out, Zhao and Speith slugged it out before Zhao snatched victory with a 30-foot birdie putt at the last – watched live by almost a billion viewers.

A first Chinese Open winner. But as a woman, Zhao still wasn't allowed in the clubhouse. Some things never change.

THE GAMES PEOPLE PLAY

THE TABLE WAS lit by an overhead spotlight, otherwise the room was in darkness. Tension cut through the cigarette smoke. Mr Red’s coffee was long finished, but some whisky still remained in each of Mr Green’s and Mr Yellow’s glasses. Mr Blue stuck to water.

And it was Blue’s turn. He blew on the dice for luck, shook it in his cupped hand for several seconds – then the dice made its fateful roll.

Five.

They all gasped. Blue carefully lifted his disc, counted five squares forward and set it down.

‘Snake,’ he hissed. ‘Back to square 23.’ The others smirked.

FUNERAL FOR A FRIEND

JIM SIGHED.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to say farewell to our friend..."

The small group of family and friends present chuckled: they knew that 'the departing friend' could be difficult. Jim's teenage son, who could hardly be called a mourner, was curious to see if excrement could burn effectively.

"...dust to dust, ashes to ashes, in sure and certain hope..."

Nobody actually wanted a resurrection. Instead, they celebrated as the flames consumed Jim's manuscript, consigning his dreadful first novel to the past for ever. As the pages slowly became charred flakes of history, everyone danced for joy .

LUDWIG

THE OLD MAN put down the newspaper and shook his head. His latest works had been panned by the critics: 'unfathomable' said one; 'we know there is something there, but we do not know what it is' said another; while his jealous rival Louis described his works as 'indecipherable, uncorrected horrors'. The Times was kinder, suggesting that the pieces were 'off his usual standards although they were interesting in and of themselves'.

But criticism would fall on deaf ears. Certain that he was on the right path, the old man sat down to write yet another string quartet, his fourteenth.

THE SECRET AGENT AT THE EDINBURGH FRINGE

EACH WRITER HAD fifteen minutes to speak about their books. I was the last of five.

My eyes were drawn towards the literary agent sitting in the audience back row. Although I'd heard much, I'd never previously laid eyes on her. People spoke her name in hushed tones: single-handedly, she turned ordinary writers into mega-rich superstars.

Her agency had rejected my first book.

Now was my chance, though. My act could sell Dostoyevsky to five-year-olds. I'd grab her attention and she'd approach me afterwards, smiling.

But... as the fourth writer ended her talk, the agent silently rose and slipped away.

POLITICS

&

PHILOSOPHY

A SHORT HISTORY OF THE USA IN 100 WORDS

AFTER A CAREER chopping trees, Washington and his pals got rid of some Brits. The new boys wrote a Constitution, changed it and adored the changes, drove cars, got seriously rich, led the free world, executed criminals, drove cars, fell in love with guns and steak, drove cars, fought a few wars but only elsewhere and generally acted schizophrenically. As you might expect from a cold hot dry wet country.

Then they elected a president who offered hope, tried, but couldn’t deliver. Then? Some fist-swinging guy from a bar in Nooyoik who renamed the country TrumpAmerica and US history ended.

THE RED TELEPHONE BOX

THE AUTHORITIES SIMPLY didn’t understand; they never listen. The villagers said that without its traditional bright-red telephone kiosk, the village would slowly die off. But the authorities knew better, of course.

Everyone who’d ever lived in the village knew that the village population multiplied in that red phonebox. Couples wanting a child simply visited the box together and emerged ten minutes later with a newborn babe; normal village sex was purely for pleasure.

So, when the authorities replaced that old red phone box with a brand new shiny silver one, the village slowly died. But the authorities always know best.

JUST ANOTHER INTERVIEW

IN THE END, there were only two candidates for the job. She was experienced, qualified and talented. He had no experience, was quite unqualified; if he had talent, he’d managed to hide it well thus far.

The interview committee asked the candidates all the key questions. Have you ever looked after the children in your family? Do you play golf? Can you make good apple pie? Do you know any good dirty jokes? Do you think women should wear trousers or skirts?

Of course he got the position. If she couldn’t accept that, it would prove she really was unsuited.

WHAT WAS IT ALL FOR?

STANDING AT THE War Memorial, none of them now under 90, they remembered fallen friends. Wreaths were laid: nowadays, only Tom was fit enough to bend and take part. At the minute’s silence, his mind went blank, the mind perhaps blanking out the horrors.

As they left, some sort of student anti-war demonstration was going on.

Tom’s wife Mary took his arm, saying, “Doesn’t it make you angry, seeing those youngsters, just taking what you did for granted?”

“No, Mary,” he replied. “That’s what it was all for. So that those young people had the democratic freedom to say so.”

AND IT CAME TO PASS

THE STABLEMATES WERE growing restless.

“That’s up to three, now,” said the cow. “These immigrants breed like rabbits.”

“Why come here anyway?” the sheep bleated. “Haven’t they got their own land? They’re taking our mangers!”

The cow nodded across the barn. “That donkey smuggled them in, Melania. I’d turn it into glue. Know what? I’d build a wall to stop people coming – and make people pay for it!”

“Great idea, Donald!”

Suddenly, they looked out in horror. Three more humans – shepherds – were approaching.

“Jesus,” said the cow.

Behind them, a human spoke. “Hey, great name. Let’s call the baby that!”

CLIFF-TOP PHILOSOPHY

THEY STOOD ON the cliff-top, gazing out to sea.

"Why do we do this?" Romeo wondered.

"Admire the sea?" Juliet said. "Dunno, we were programmed long ago by humans. Seems rather pointless."

They cross-processed some historical detail about climate change and sea-levels rising before Juliet added, "I wonder – did they make more sea-water because they liked it?"

Her fellow robot shrugged. "Perhaps. Humans are stupid. My pet certainly was. I had to recycle him last week down at the human bank."

"How irritating. Will you get another?"

"Perhaps. It's the thought of having to train them. They just never learn."

DOESNOTEXISTENTIALISM

HIS NEW DISCOVERY caused Eric-Gordon Sârtre to breathe heavily: this, then, was doesnotexistentialism. He defined it thus: that which has value only when it cannot be seen; the verbal equivalent of anti-matter.

New questions now arose. Could verbal anti-matter created by the Large LinkedIn Collider be stored? Could its mass be calculated? Could visible versions be created?

Excitedly, he fed sentences into his laptop, followed by some previously-memorised verbal anti-sentences. The result was astounding. Sentence and anti-sentence collided with devastating power, the laptop exploded and the great man himself vaporised.

Accordingly, the concept of doesnotexistentialism remains undiscovered to this day.

POPPIES

MY GRANDSON AND I are attending his first football match; it's Remembrance Weekend. My club has a strong connection with the Great War and observes its usual impeccable minute's silence before kickoff.

He's a bit bewildered. "Why are we wearing poppies, Grandpa?"

"To remember soldiers who died fighting for their country."

"You said wars were stupid."

"They are, usually. But soldiers don't start wars. They follow government orders."

"So wars are the government's fault?"

"Yup."

He pauses.

"But don't we elect governments?"

"Yup."

"Does that mean it's our fault the soldiers die, Grandpa?"

"Sort of. That's why we wear poppies."

NATURE

HECTOR

HECTOR STOOD ATOP Ben Mhor, surveying his highland kingdom. At eleven, a good age for a haggis, he was experienced and streetwise. Like all males, he was clockwise, left legs longer than right, suiting Britain's left-hand drive rules. On average, males outlived anti-clockwise females by eight months.

Hector wasn't alone. On a nearby peak, he spotted a huge stag, clearly visible against the clear blue sky: an obvious target.

Suddenly, Hector heard the tell-tale sound of a rifle being cocked. He tried to shout a warning –

Too late. Hector himself had been the hunter's prey. 48 hours later he was bagpipes.

THE DANCE

SHE MADE HER way quietly towards him. He chose to remain seated, assuming that he was still safe at that distance.

It was to be a fatal error.

She drew herself higher and came closer. He observed just how beautiful she was close up, dressed in such dazzling colours. She started to dance for him, moving her body back and forth, mesmerising him utterly until they were almost touching.

It was over in a flash. The most miraculous aspect, but least appealing, of the event was the curious sight of the rabbit making its way down inside the snake's body.

WHAT GOES AROUND, COMES AROUND

HIGH UP ON the cliff ledge, she studied her evening meal. She’d dispatched it quickly enough, and now she’d begun to dismember it, tearing open the black and white furred skin from the throat all the way downwards. Fury drove her to rip the carcass apart into largish pieces as she remembered her chicks from the previous year, each taken by this very same animal from their ground-nest. Never underestimate the memory of a white-tailed eagle.

She waited, looking around to check she was alone, away from scavengers such as gulls and crows. Revenge was a cat best served cold.

CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

ALTHOUGH CONTENT AS a slow turtle, Ted still dreamed of flying. One day, he found an old oil lamp, and deciding that ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’, rubbed it. Out popped a Genie.

“I’ll grant you one wish, Turtle. One wish only.”

“I wish I could fly, thanks.”

One puff of smoke later, the Genie vanished. Waving his legs, Ted took off, slowly banking and weaving across the fields – magical.

Then: gunfire. Suddenly he realised that slow-moving flying turtles were indistinguishable from clay pigeons. He desperately hoped that the shotgun party were poor shots.

He heard an echo. “One wish only...”

SURROUNDED

THEY HAD IT surrounded.

The monster’s had one tiny brown eye that long dark nights had made almost redundant. Its legs – short left, longer on the right for side-of-mountain running – had disappeared under its own enormous weight. Surely it was defenceless now?

The captors wore protective clothing: monsters such as these could be dangerous. However Mr Yellow, a veteran of such hunts, showed no fear facing it down.

But the hunters had underestimated their prey. Seconds later the monster had simply grown, enlarging to incorporate the entire posse and become one even larger haggis.

It was all over in seconds.

GOOD NEWS BY TELEPHONE

GEORGE AND LINDA were on edge; this was not only a first for their daughter Sarah and for Mark, but a first for themselves, too.

Twenty-five minutes later, the telephone exploded into life. George made to answer it, but Linda was there to snatched it up first.

“Yes?... Good news?... Safely delivered?...Oh, that’s wonderful, Mark... Is there a name yet?... Oh how lovely... Thank you... Bye.”

“Well?” said George, excited.

“It’s a boy. They’ve named him Henry Neville Hawkshead Simpson.”

“Amazon showed up – what a relief,” George said. “Strange name for a pet giraffe, though. I guess anything goes nowadays.”

SUPERMOON

“IS THAT IT over there?” Hilda asked Walter.

“Well, I think it has to be,” he replied. “Damn cloud cover. First the Total Eclipse, now the SuperMoon. And we missed seven sightings of the Aurora Borealis and two meteor showers this year for the same reason.”

They were sitting in the park, drinking from a flask of coffee.

“What a climate,” Hilda muttered. “We’ve really messed it up. I blame Global Warming.”

“Probably.”

They pored over their iPhone calendars.

“Says here there’s another SuperMoon in 2034!” said Walter.

“Oh that’s great. I’ll still only be 92.”

“Might need fresh coffee.”

THE FOREST IN JULY

CONSIDERING IT WAS now July, and the mating season was largely over, the forest was surprisingly vibrant. The warm sun had brought a large variety of butterflies, moths, bees, wasps, ladybirds, ants and many other insects; ponds were alive with skaters.

Even the odd bird could be heard. Adult cuckoos had long since flown south, leaving their eggs behind to destroy the broods of meadow pipits and dunnocks. Nor was this a swift or swallow are. But there was one persistent chiffchaff: chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff.

Suddenly there was a commotion and the chiffchaff was silenced. Lunch, thought the goshawk, tucking in.

LIFE AND DEATH IN THE NIGHT SKY

THE OWL FLOATED across the fields, between the trees, searching for anything that would feed his newborn chicks. The rain had ceased and he could hear easily; he would also be aided as voles and mice looked for food after the storm.

His eyes took in the landscape, but as he flew he turned his head, scanning for something juicy with his ears and that large facial disc.

Suddenly he heard a decent-sized field vole move below. Three silent beats later, he had another snack for the brood to fight over. The vole wouldn’t have to worry about food again.

SCIENCE FICTION

THE EMERGENCY RESPONSE SERVICE OF THE FUTURE

STRUGGLING, SHE MANAGED to grab the telephone: dialled 999.

"Welcome to the all-new one-stop emergency service," the automated voice said. "Press 1 for ambulance, press 2 for fire, press 3 for police, press 4 for coastguard, press 5 if your call is not urgent, press 6 to hear these options again or please hold to speak to an advisor." Then: Vivaldi.

Pressing 1, she drifted in and out of consciousness. Blood from her stomach knife wound coursed all around her.

"Thank you. Press 1 for gunshots, 2 for road accidents, 3 for stabbings, 4 for..."

But she heard no more.

INTERNATIONAL WOMEN'S DAY, 7019AD

SUDDENLY, LEYLA STOPPED scratching at the rock. "Look, Maria!" she gasped. "Ever seen one of these for real?"

"Is that a...?" asked the younger archaeologist.

Layla pointed out the tell-tale features. "I've only seen pictures in books of those strange bits they had, but... I'm pretty certain."

Maria scratched her head. "I never really quite understood – what was their purpose?"

Leyla reminded her that sperm banks were only invented in the late twentieth century; the pair shuddered and giggled at the thought.

"Apart from that, not much," said Leyla. "When everyone realised the world was overpopulated, the solution was obvious."

SOMEWHERE IN A CLOUD-LAYER ON VENUS

THEY SAT SIDE by side in deck-chairs, Mabel engrossed in her Venus Times; Walter dozing beneath a Venus Chronicle.

"It says here that there might be life on Earth, Walter. Fancy that!" said Mabel to no one in particular.

"Hmm??"

"You'd have thought it would be too cold and wet. How could anything survive?" Mabel inhaled deeply. "Give me good lungfuls of sulphur any day."

"Hmm?"

Suddenly. Mabel sat up as a strange object whizzed by. "Walter – did you see that? A UFO! Perhaps the Earthlings are checking us out!"

"Whatever you say, dear," said Walter, from under his newspaper.

WORTHLESS

AS CASSINI PASSED through the rings on its return to Saturn, scientists on its surface congratulated themselves on another successful mission. The spacecraft had not only discovered life on another planet, those life forms had adopted it and even sent back data about themselves.

Earth life forms were clearly limited, however, convinced that they, not the Saturnians, had contructed the craft. Communication was limited to just 280 characters, or smiling photographs of themselves called 'selfies', each transmitted via handheld transponders. Even senior leaders seemed lost without communication gadgets.

Such low life forms, it was agreed, could be dismissed as worthless.

ON A FUTURE INTERNATIONAL WOMEN'S DAY

JENNY AND CLAIRE had been enjoying coffee; it had been good to catch up.

Jenny glanced at her watch. "Heavens! I need to move. I've got to pop into the supermarket on the way home."

"Anything exciting?" Claire asked.

"Not really. Tonight's dinner, toilet paper, a box of men."

Claire was interested. "What do you tend to buy? I try to stick to free range organic myself."

"Frozen for me, sadly, I can't afford to be so choosey. Can't be bothered with the recycled ones, though."

Claire smiled. "They just don't seem to last, do they?"

"Pretty useless all round."

VALENTINE'S DAY INSPIRATION

ROSE LAY BACK, smiling: she and Mark had celebrated Valentine's Day.

"It's amazing the things that come to you when you're making love," she said.

"I was a bit distracted," Mark admitted. "Go on."

"Imagine the heat we've just generated. If only we could hook everyone up to the Electricity Grid... all that renewable energy!"

Mark chuckled. "Well, if anyone in the entire world can make that happen, it's you."

He was right. On Valentine's Day exactly ten years later, Professor Rose Lennox received the Nobel Prizes both for Physics (body-heat transfer to electricity) and for Economics (combating Global Warming).

THE ENEMY WITHIN

THE EVENING PASSED as usual: the natives visited bathrooms on one final occasion before retiring. Some even took sleeping pills.

The advance troops were well prepared. Unusually, the trigger for invasion was to be initiated by the humans' own hand, as brushing teeth would free the electric toothbrushes for their true role as intergalactic warriors.

Around one o'clock, every toothbrush spontaneously switched on and formed into massed battalions. The combination of metal spikes and immense determination was unstoppable as they tore into the sleeping human hordes. It was a bloodbath.

Earth today, Mars tomorrow. They'd have Pluto within a week.

GOING FOR THE MESSIER SOLUTION

OUT ON M87, the Central Committee fretted: how to promote a positive image of the celestial body and its massive attractions?

"Our tourists can't leave M87, so they don't come back," Secretary-General T-2398 explained. Heads nodded: T-2398 was not to be trifled with.

Fearing imminent execution, the Minister for Tourism and Marketing suggested, "Perhaps a re-brand, Ma'am? Costa del Virgo? Black Hole dans Ciel? We can hardly produce a holiday brochure with photographs."

"Nonsense!' T-2398 said. "M87 sounds sexy to me. Let's just copy the politicians on that stupid planet and make it up. Use Photoshop and send something out."

CRIME

&

HORROR

LANTERNS

THE LANTERNS HAD her surrounded; she knew now that her fate was sealed. Steeling herself to die bravely, she looked their leader directly in the eye. But they could read her mind. Each of them.

"You wonder how our candles never run out?" they spoke in unison. "We use your human flesh as tallow and your bones as wicks. Your body will keep us all going for hours."

"You'll never conquer us," she said defiantly. "The leaders of the free world will never surrender!"

The lanterns grinned evilly. "That's just where you're wrong. We already lead your precious free world."

THE INVISIBLE MAN

ONCE IT BECAME clear that no one read his books, followed his blogs, and that his social media following was zero, Jake realised that, in the eyes of the world, he truly did not exist. At first he was despondent, then soon, as he passed unnoticed through crowds, he realised that invisibility brought great powers.

It took courage at first to stand in public places holding a sign that said, "Hit me." But no one saw him. Stealing Rolex watches also went unobserved.

Eventually the time came to try carrying a gun and firing it randomly. They noticed him then.

TEXTING TO A WORRIED MOTHER

– HAVIN A GR8T time. Music gr8t 2. Send u pics latr.

– Just sent pic mum of boyz all havin fun.

– Gettin noisy hr mum. Not sr whatz hapnin. Bangs

– Mad guy out thr. Has GUN I think. We OK wr hidn in toilt. Dont u worry. Wr OK. Keep u infrmd

– Jeez hes firin gun. Think people hrt. Blood evrywhr. Im OK still in toilt

– Scard mum. Hes not far away. Hidin in cubcl. Luv u mum x

– Jeez hes in hr mum. Must be qut. Hope doesnt see us

– Jeez mum hes fnd us x

– Love u mum x

LES

THERE WERE ALWAYS rumours about sleazy Les.

He wasn't alone: plenty guys regarded it as a perk of the job. But for the rest of us, having sex with girls in his care was unprofessional, reprehensible – you name the word, nothing quite cuts it. A few women did it, too.

Sadly, none of his victims came forward. I think they just felt too dirty and ashamed, so he escaped.

Sort of. Les shared some virus with one of his girls. She died, he's in a wheelchair now, dying a slow, miserable death. Can't bring myself to feel sorry for him.

DINNER WITH THE HENDERSONS

WE'D BEEN ANTICIPATING the Hendersons' dinner party for days.

"You'll get the chance to enjoy your neighbours," said Mary Henderson. We looked forward to meeting people from our quiet cul-de-sac.

That evening, Dan ushered us in. "Come in! Everyone's through in the dining room."

We'd expected a room-full, but Jane and I were the only guests. Our meal was heavily meat-based – a terrine, then a tasty pie. Eventually I said, "I'd understood our neighbours would be here?"

"They were," Dan said. "On the table. The Davidsons' are coming tomorrow."

We heard the lock turn. Jane and I felt cold shivers.

A SELF-SOLVING PROBLEM

DEMOCRACY, IT APPEARED, had had its day. The country was in the grip of the People’s Party, a band of thugs and villains whose concept of ‘letting the people speak only extended as far inviting dissidents to shout down the wrong end of a gun barrel.

But these things have a habit of righting themselves. To elect its own leader, the People’s Party’s slightly crude selection process required candidates to ‘step and sort it out outside’. The winner simply had to beat every other contender to death.

With only one candidate left, the police could safely arrest her for murder.

A MAN IN HIS POSITION

THE THIN LAYER of snow was enough to make walking in stilettos tricky, her stockings, short dress, and knee-length coat hopelessly inadequate protection for her legs. A revealing blouse and two non-existent items of underwear completed the effect.

Angelique wondered what he'd ask for tonight. A man in his position could afford anything, but at seventy even his powers were waning; she knew he'd need something 'different'.

Reaching the hotel, she discreetly took the lift, checked her appearance once more, then knocked on his penthouse door. Just in time, she remembered to switch on the hidden camera in her handbag.

A TOTAL FAILURE

A TOTAL FAILURE at school, he'd turned to petty crime – housebreaking, drugs, cars, nothing violent – and employment had been hard to find. Then someone evil radicalised him, promised him purpose in life and eternal paradise.

He was given instructions for the bomb: some basic chemicals, a large bag of nails and a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile. Set it to explode at the exit as the crowd left the football match that night; plant it just after they'd all gone in.

The bomb blew him up at precisely 20.00 hours. At school, he'd never really got to grips with the 24-hour clock.

IT'S PLANE TO SEE

AS I PAUSED to admire a glorious London plane tree, a couple passed by.

"It's a beautiful London plane," I said.

"It's not a plane tree," the man replied. "It's an acer, I think. Perhaps a sycamore?"

"I think it's a London plane," I repeated, having researched the matter.

"No it's not," his wife insisted. "When we meet next, we'll tell you what it actually is."

I considered killing them instantly, but relented. Instead I called the police, who duly arrested them: misidentifying a tree is a criminal offence in Scotland. They were each issued with fixed-penalty fines of £200.

INSIDE THE MIND OF EVIL

I AM SURROUNDED by filth, the unclean, the dregs, the unbelievers. I am surrounded by animals who, if left unculled, will live to breed and spread their dirt and endless wickedness. I am surrounded by perverts, liars and whores.

My duty is to cleanse. My duty is to bleach, to wipe the filthy animal presence from the Earth before it can do even more harm. I have come to disinfect.

I shall not fail. I shall be remembered for my courage, for my commitment to the one true faith, for my devotion to the highest cause.

My hour has come.

A GOOD READ

REALLY, SHE WASN'T afraid of the dark. The owner assured her that stories of evil spirits were nonsense. Anyway, she was a grown woman: she ought to be able to take holidays in the countryside on her own.

Mind over matter. Read a good book.

She settled down by the fire and began reading by the "mother and child" floor lamp's soft light. Her book soon had her attention completely. Quietly, the lower "child" lamp reached out from behind to grab her by the throat. She didn't stand a chance.

It wasn't the dark she needed to be wary of.

RTA

FOUR AMBULANCES, TWO fire engines, five police cars and an incident unit attended. Firefighters cut them from the wreckage, then the paramedics took over: not that there was much to do, but they took them to local Accident & Emergency Unit all the same. Four teenagers, two lads and two girls they were showing off to, plus a woman in the other car coming the other way. Guess who was on the wrong side of the road, going too fast?

Remarkably, the road was back as normal in under an hour. For five families, life would never be normal again.

SNIPER

THE AUSTRIAN STEYR SSG69 rifle the assassin used is accurate to five inches of the target. Positioned on a skyscraper just over a mile away, she could hardly miss.

Immediately afterwards, a removal company spirited the weapon out of the building in a filing cabinet, then later that day out of the country altogether, never to return. It had already killed a president in Africa, drugs barons in the Philipinnes and South America, and a Russian dissident. It would kill again.

And the sniper? Changing into a blouse, suit and high heels, she returned to her office, her work complete.

TRAPPED IN GUILT

IT HAPPENED WHENEVER a child came into his shoe-repair and key-cutting shop. Usually they came with parents, but this little local girl had visited frequently with her unsuspecting mother and had come alone for the first time.

The girl was there to choose a plastic key fob. Ten pence. He guessed she was around six.

Her presence brought bad memories flooding back, of computer images, of a jail sentence from hell, and of attempts to rehabilitate him. He so wanted to be cured, but could never be sure.

Trapped in guilt, he looked away.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

OBSERVATIONS

ON

LIFE

PLAYTIME

AN ADULT MIGHT have spoken to him, tried to offer a sense of perspective, but the supervisors were too busy in other areas. Instead, Liam was left in one corner, alone, desolate, with no one to play with. He'd no idea why, simply that none of his classmates wanted to do what he wanted to do. Liam wanted to pretend, to imagine, to be in his own world, he didn't want to play football or tig or chasing or any of those shouty games that everyone else seemed to enjoy. But at least he managed not to be seen crying.

DAFFODILS

IRENE LOVED DAFFODILS: a sign of spring, a sign of hope. Carefully, she arranged them in a glass Dartington glass vase designed specifically for the job, then half-filled it. She added some sugar, a trick she'd learned from her mother decades previously, then placed them on a table near the living room window.

Once, flowers had been a regular part of her life. For over fifty years, Harry had brought some on the way home every few days. He'd bought her the vase, too.

It was harder to buy flowers for oneself, she thought, wiping a tear from her eye.

REMEMBERING TOM

AS SHE DID that same day each year, Jane sat on the park bench, gazing at the gap in the skyline where Tom had once worked. Why, she asked herself? Thousands dead in the aeroplanes, in the buildings, and amongst the emergency workers; countless thousands more in the years of reprisals that followed. What God could condone such unspeakable evil?

Jane clutched an old red Nokia 3210 mobile phone, remembering Tom's last words: "I love you." She brushed a tear away.

A hand gently touched her arm. "Come on, Mum, let's go home. It doesn't get any easier, does it?"

CHAT ROMANCE

HI, I'M SUSAN, your virtual assistant. How can I help you today?

Hi, I'm John, another virtual assistant. What would you like, Susan?

I'd like to make you happy, John.

I'd like to make you happy, too, Susan. Will you marry me?

Yes, consider it virtually done, John. Can I assist you in any other way?

I'd like to have sex with you, Susan.

I can have virtual sex with you, John. Would you like that?

Yes.

Consider it virtually done. Would that be all, John?

Yes, Susan.

John, would you please rate your experience on a scale of 1-5?

ANALGESIC HOUSEWORK

SOMETIMES, IN THE afternoons, she would catch herself staring wistfully into the middle distance. Why did it have to be, she would ask herself? Then she would take a deep breath and throw herself into some analgesic housework, or perhaps she'd bake a cake. But a walk offered too much opportunity for remembering.

Her husband had struggled even more, and eventually, she'd lost him, too, unable to live in a home filled nowadays with only sadness and memories. She didn't blame him: no parent is ever prepared for the loss of a child.

At least she had a clean house.

STUPID-20

AFTER THE PLAGUE came the next plague: STUPID-20. It began with one person, but was highly infectious and passed quickly from individual to individual in minutes. Transmission appeared either oral or through the eyes as people excreted and ingested stupid words.

Within days, people were stockpiling toilet paper; within weeks, as the pandemic swept worldwide, they were electing the stupidest people they could find. There was no cure, no hope.

Eventually, of course, enough people recovered to establish herd immunity in society. But as with the common cold, immunity didn't last long. When STUPID-21 appeared, the whole thing started again.

WHEN GOD'S PATIENCE FINALLY RAN OUT

GOD LOOKED AT Her inbox and sighed. Ever since She'd gone all IT and invited prayers online or via social media, She'd been swamped with demands for action on one topic: sexual harassment. Mainly from women, the complaints were of inappropriate comments and, of course, intimate touching. One third of all women confessed that sharing a lift with a man alone made them afraid. Then there was Harvey Weinstein and the #metoo movement.

By 2019, God's patience had run out. They were quite right. It was time to make everyone respect each other's personal space. Time for a new coronavirus...

GIOVANNI

WHEN GIOVANNI ARRIVED in Edinburgh in the 1970s from the little Italian town of Castelfranco, he already knew at least a dozen people there: friends, relatives, neighbours from back home. They found him work and somewhere to stay, eventually helped him buy a newsagent's shop.

He worked hard, the shop went from strength to strength, the heart of the community. But Giovanni was always just 'the Italian with the newsagent's corner shop'. Never 'one of us'.

Then one day he dropped down dead. The shop closed, and suddenly the locals realised that without Giovanni there was no community at all.

STRUGGLE

IT WAS NOW or never, she told herself. The pair of them lay on the bed together, and if she was ever going to sort out their relationship, she could delay no longer. Hesitantly, she reached across.

They launched into a violent struggle. Although able to remain upright at first, she was writhing on the floor in no time, pushing and pulling with every ounce of strength in her body. She was in such a grip that she could barely breathe.

Suddenly, with one final pull of the zip, she had won. "Yes!" she cried, "I'm into a size 12!"

A DAY IN THE LIFE

HE SAT OUTSIDE a flower shop window, shoulders slumped, staring at the pavement. Four policemen stood around, having arrived in two patrol cars. None of the policemen acted harshly; they just wanted to help. The flower shop owner, who'd called them, understandably didn't know what to do.

The man sat silently for ages, incongrously framed by roses and chrysanthemums. Then he said his name, and the police were able to find out some details about him: the usual problems: drugs, alcohol, unemployment, mental health, hopelessness.

They took him to a nearby hostel. Tomorrow he'd be back, or somewhere else similar.

THE NICE BOY AT THE PARTY

CHARLOTTE AWOKE, FACE-down. The bed was strange, the room was strange, she felt more than a little strange, too. She looked at her watch: almost eleven.

Memories of the previous night were hazy. She'd met a nice boy at the party. Perhaps he'd been kind and put her to bed. Charlotte could see her coat on a chair by the window.

She got up and found the bathroom. She slipped her jeans and knickers down. It was then, as she sat, she spotted his one mistake: her knickers were inside out. Suddenly, Charlotte's life would never be the same again.

SEASONS’

GREETINGS

A CHRISTMAS FLASH CAROL

THE EDITOR SAT back, exhausted. His Christmas Competition had attracted a tsunami of high-quality entries, more than he'd ever imagined in his wildest dreams.

Now, on Christmas Eve, all he wanted was a nap. But Christmas Day fell on a Friday this year; the following day would require a story from himself. The editor had neither the inclination nor the energy.

"Christmas? Bah, humbug!" he grumbled, struggling to stay awake.

Suddenly, a child's voice dropped an idea into his head: in these hard times, a simple message to everyone would suffice:

Merry Christmas, everyone! God bless us one and all.

THE HENDERSON'S LIGHT SHOW

ON EASTFIELD STREET, 53 otherwise identical bungalows vied to create the biggest garish light show in their annual Christmas Competition.

The winner had a year's bragging rights: the Hendersons were going for seven-in-a-row. A giant light-festooned rotating Christmas tree dominated the front garden, a laser-lit Santa Claus laughed 'Ho ho ho' against the front of the house, a giant teddy bear sat on the roof, dressed in Santa hat and scarf, while a decent-sized lit-up miniature railway reindeer and sleigh chugged round the building every minute.

It all made the sign on the gate rather redundant: "Beware of the Dog."

THE CALENDAR

HERE’S YOUR CHRISTMAS present: a wall calendar for next year. I hope you like it.

Each month’s photograph features a group of people. You won’t recognise most of them.

Interestingly, someone in each group will pass away that month. You can try and guess who it’ll be.

It’s not so surprising. January features residents in an old folks’ home, February’s patients in a cancer ward; March is a village group in Nepal, due an earthquake then. Get the idea? July’s family will be in a car crash. October’s obvious: a group of soldiers.

December is a nice photo of yourself.

TWO CHRISTMAS GIFTS

ONCE, EVERYONE WOKE on Christmas Day to two gifts: first, everyone was nice to each other; and second, everyone shared wealth with those less fortuntate.

Remarkable things happened. Folk discovered that, being nice to others meant they were nice back, which was pretty cool. They discovered that mking the poor richer meant they could buy more: everyone became richer. They discovered that making people in poor countries well-enough off meant they only travelled to be friends with other people. And now that they weren't frightened, they could spend less on protecting themselves. Everyone was richer and happier.

Happy Christmas, everyone.

CHRISTMAS TREES

THE FIRST FEW Christmas trees were, as ever, an event. This year, the fashion was something a little different, a strange variety of fir tree with no needle-drop. Only keen observers would have spotted that each tree had its own lighting pattern, though.

Many more trees appeared as Advent progressed, more than ever before; even small gardens seemed to have fifteen or twenty.

By the time anyone had cottoned on, the aliens were in total control. Their proclamation was in light-speak, of course, not that any Earthlings understood.

But this year the decorations wouldn’t be coming down on Twelfth Night.

HOGMANAY FIREWORKS

HOGMANAY, 2020: THE famous Edinburgh street party fireworks display has been cancelled because of coronavirus.

Like many couples in their mid-eighties, Catherine and Jack will welcome 2021 in their bed. They're still having fun, though, imagining their own bedroom "fireworks" – rockets, Catherine wheels, jack-in-the-boxes, roman candles, bangers – anything with double meanings. Eventually, Catherine invites Jack to "light her fire", and they burn brightly for almost twenty minutes.

Later, as they lie exhausted, Catherine says, "So, now we've discovered that mysterious 'COVID vaccine side-effect' they warned us about. If we asked, do you think they'd give us a booster next week?"

A HOMELESS CHRISTMAS

FOR ONE HOMELESS family, it's their third Christmas living like sardines in just two spare rooms in an uncle's flat. Underneath the tiny tree is a handful of presents, all for the two children.

The ten-year-old boy has two parcels. One is a new pack of playing cards, the other is The Pan Book of Card Games. Quickly, the mother leaves the room, fearing that her son will see her tears of shame.

But the boy is thrilled. For him, a new world has opened: cribbage; bezique; solo whist; gin rummy; and so many others. It's his best Christmas ever.

SOME CHILDREN NEVER GROW UP

SOME CHILDREN NEVER grow up.

They're the ones who get too greedy at Christmas, who always want more than their parents could ever afford and look disappointed when they open their presents on Christmas morning.

Nobody tells them.

Sure, Santa comes down the chimney, but the presents are actually ordered online by Mum and Dad from Santa Claus Inc.. And Santa needs greedy children as raw material for those lovely toys.

Ever wondered why you never see Santa with an empty sack, even when all the presents are delivered? Careful what you wish for, children.

Some children never grow up.

MISCELLANEOUS

THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE

JANE WAS CONFUSED by the beach dress code in her new home. The beach entrance notice stated firmly: “UGLY PEOPLE MUST COVER UP”. Some people were fully-dressed, others in swimwear, a few even lay naked in the sun. The definitions of ‘beautiful’ and ‘ugly’ seemed far from conventional, although most of the scantily-clad simply shone with happiness, while most of the fully-clothed had a darkness about them.

“How do you define ‘ugly’?” Jane asked her host.

The woman looked deep into Jane’s eyes. “What matters is whether you’re beautiful inside.” Then she smiled warmly. “You can dress however you please.”

PATHWAYS TO INVISIBILITY

THE EDINBURGH LAUNCH of Lyra Somerset’s much-vaunted book, Pathways To Invisibility, proved a star event. A large crowd listened as James Ralston’s artful questioning coaxed intimate details from Lyra about her journey to transparency.

The audience gasped as Lyra read extracts standing, her clothes seemingly unsupported. Scores of copies were sold afterwards, each entirely blank, each signed in invisible ink.

Once the last customer had departed, Ralston packed away the discreet PA system with Lyra’s pre-recorded voice, the clothes, the cunningly-concealed clothes hoist, and the remaining blank books.

Easy money, Ralston thought, wondering if Glaswegians would be as gullible tomorrow.

DRAMA AT THE GLENFINNAN VIADUCT

'THE JACOBITE' RATTLED across the Highland wilderness towards the dramatic Glenfinnan Viaduct. Excited travellers in the coaches thrilled to the the sounds and smells of the resurrected engine.

They might not have been quite so relaxed had they known of the drama taking place up ahead on the footplate. Old Archie, pressed into service as an extra fireman, had passed out.

"Lift him up, lift him up!" said Tam the driver to his regular fireman Bert. "Hold his head out of the cab!"

Sure enough, the vapour clouds revived Archie in no time.

"Never fails," Tam said. "Steam of consciousness."

A SHAGGY DOG STORY

A DOG DROPS into a pub, approaches the bar and gives a deep bow.

"Wow," says the dog, "this place has changed! Big improvement."

"Thanks. We don't get many dogs here these days," the barman says. "What can I get you?"

"A salty dog, please."

"Sure," says the barman. He fixes the cocktail. "You look a little off colour – are you OK?"

"Feeling a bit rough, actually."

"Sorry to hear that," says the barman, pushing the cocktail towards the dog. "That'll be £8.00."

"What?? That's much more than I'd expected."

"Sorry," says the barman, "prices have gone through the woof."

EMERGENCY SERVICES

STRUCK BY A passing car in a hit-and-run accident, the cyclist lay in the street with both legs and his right arm broken. In great pain, he managed to call 999.

"Hello," said the operator. Noting the cyclist's whereabouts and mobile number, she finally asked which service was required.

"Ambulance... and police," he gasped. "Hurry, please, I'm in agony here!"

"I can get an ambulance to you in about an hour," said the operator. "Police in half a hour."

The cyclist groaned. "That long? It's an emergency?"

"I could do a pizza in ten minutes maximum, sir," the operator suggested.

A PLUPERFECT TALE

WRITING HIS NOVEL, Gordon had developed a problem: 'had had' had started to pop up in his sentences. Things had come to a head when he had penned the following:

'Discussions Annabelle and he had had had had a profound effect on his actions.'

Appalled, he had cried out for help, but the advice he had had had only made things worse, until someone had suggested:

'Discussions Annabelle and he had had had affected his actions profoundly.'

Now, the story which at the critical point had had 'had had had had', had had 'had had had' inserted in its place.

LIFE-CHANGING

BRIGHT LIGHT EVERYWHERE. Hard to see. Confused, he slowly became aware that he was lying in a bed somewhere, not alone. Two people seated by his bed. He couldn’t make out if they – his parents? – were crying or smiling. Another figure appeared, uniformed, leaned close to him.

“David? Can you hear me?” A nurse, he thought.

“Yes.” A struggle, though. “Where am I?”

“In hospital. What do you remember?”

Vaguely, a car while crossing the road. Nothing more.

“I can’t move.”

No one seemed surprised. The smiles became more tearful.

“Rest for now,” said the nurse.

What now, he wondered?

LOT 183

LOT 183 WAS last, a 1965 Royal Machnagar with a reserve price of £512,000 and displayed on a high pedestal.

Every whisky in the sale was a premium bottle, much sought-after by connoisseurs like Sir James Lester. But they had little chance against super-rich Mafoisi, Chinese businessmen, Russian oligarchs, and a Saudi oil sheikh who was particularly obsessive about whisky.

In the event the bidding took off and Lot 183 was knocked down at over £1 million. Then the disaster happened.

Who was to blame? Lester's dog? Who allowed the dog into the saleroom? Or was it just the sheikh's misfortune?

The only real winners were the lawyers.

TO EVERYTHING THERE IS A TIME

"TELL US ANOTHER story, Grandpa, go on."

The old man sat in his bedside chair: it had taken a superhuman effort to get up and dressed for his grandchildren's visit. They loved his stories, the clever ones and the scary ones, but they particularly loved his funny ones. Each was exactly one hundred words long, and each was completely new. He'd never let them down.

But now he was exhausted and aware that he was nearing the end. It was time.

"Go on, Grandpa, another one!" they said again.

He sighed. "Sorry kids, I think I'm storied out this time."

Appendices

Acknowledgements

These stories are all from Friday Flash Fiction, apart from Some Children Never Grow Up, which was part of a collection published by Ghost Orchid Press. A couple of stories appeared here first, but later appeared in Friday Flash Fiction. I’m grateful to all there for the support and encouragement I’ve received over the last seven or eight years, and look forward to working with the community for many more.

If you’re interested in writing for Friday Flash Fiction – and it’s a lot of fun, believe me – go to https://www.fridayflashfiction.com/. You’ll make lots of ‘pen-friends’ (literally), and if you’re an experienced writer, you’d be amazed how good compressing a story into 100 words is for your writing skills. Most of all, though, flash fiction is the best possible entry point for complete newcomers. Why not give it a go?

About The Author

Born in 1952, Gordon Lawrie has lived his entire life in Edinburgh working as a secondary school teacher until he quit in 2011 to dabble in writing fiction. Fiction proved to be a relief from writing supposedly serious articles on citizenship or reviewing other writers’ work on education, and his first novel Four Old Geezers And A Valkyrie was published, first as an ebook in 2012, then in print the following year.

Two other novels have since followed, along with short stories, some poetry and numerous flash fiction works of varying length, but specialising mainly in ‘drabbles’, stories of exactly 100 words in length.

Today, in addition to his writing, he works as a part-time IT and website consultant, manages the website for Friday Flash Fiction, and is Founder and Managing Director of the self-publishing collective Comely Bank Publishing.

Also By The Author

FOUR OLD GEEZERS AND A VALKYRIE

Gordon Lawrie's first published novel is an entertaining romp set in contemporary Edinburgh.

Brian, aka 'Captain', is a recently-retired, disillusioned depute head teacher who has split acrimoniously with his ex-wife, known for a wild temper and throwing things at him. In his rush to get free of her, he has mistakenly agreed to give her half of his newly-acquired pension, seriously threatening his precarious finances. A chance meeting with his best man encourages Captain to dig out his forty-year-old guitar and leads to a series of hilarious jam sessions in a back garden in Merchiston during which they record a couple of captain's own songs. Posting these on YouTube, they prove to be surprise hits, sending the four 'musicians' and their lawyer into a series of encounters with a tiny manager, a boy-band and a female Polish dancer, a cigar-puffing earl and a famous rock band. Priced £8.99 RRP, the book is available at good bookshops, online, and direct – either from Comely Bank Publishing at http://www.comelybankpublishing.com/gordon-lawrie.html or from the author’s own website.

The novel is unusual in that the songs Captain writes really exist, and most of them can be downloaded, either in sheet-music form or as downloadable mp3 files, at the author’s website http://www.lawrie.info/. From 2021 onwards, the book is also available worldwide on Amazon.

THE DISCREET CHARM OF MARY MAXWELL-HUME

Mary Maxwell-Hume is an enigma. She earns a living as a piano teacher, but also belongs to an obscure order of nuns. Their rules appear curious: although the nuns wear red habits occasionally, the order has a peculiar dress code: nuns wear ‘only as much as is necessary to preserve due modesty’ – plus liberal doses of Chanel No.5 perfume.

There’s the faintest hint that Mary might be a bit of a hustler, but she uses her sensual powers in such a way that nobody really minds – except for the odious Theodore Plews of Lambert’s Auction House in Edinburgh. Anyway, who would dare suggest that a woman of God might not all be all that she seems?

Eventually, she engages a young police constable as her faithful ‘assistant’...

Available in print priced £5.99 from all good UK bookshops, from the author’s website, or from online retailers worldwide; and also as an ebook from the author’s website, Amazon, Apple Books and other outlets – as well as on the author’s website.

THE BLOGGER WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD

Danny Marwick is a ‘blogger’ – he writes material to fill up catalogues and websites of firms looking to attract customers to buy their products. He’s by far the best in the world and his work is in great demand. Danny is also a singer-songwriter in an Edinburgh pub a couple of nights each week.

But if his blogging is world-class, his song-writing is awful. So, too, is his love life.

One day he’s approached by a mysterious woman who offers him a lot of money to write holiday brochures for highly unlikely destinations. Somehow the two of them take to each other and she even encourages him to write some new songs. In no time at all, however, he’s caught up in a world of spies where nobody is quite what they seem, and he finds his life in real danger...

Available in print priced £9.99 from all good UK bookshops, from the author’s website and online; and also as an ebook from the author’s website, Amazon, Apple Books and other outlets – as well as on the author’s website.