THE WORDS UNSUNG IN A LOVE SONG (a.k.a. Part Two of My Stories in Honour of Short Story Week)

            I have never considered it a tragedy that none of you have ever heard me sing. I was a concert pianist then a lounge pianist and only now does it occur to me that I have a voice that mingles with the tune, carries it even.

            I have only tried one tune so far, a little ditty, but the effects were wondrous. I sat down at the piano the other day, much like this, and sang Frère Jacques to myself. I was tired but I couldn't sleep and that song was the first I ever learnt to play.

            Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques...

            Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping?

            I certainly haven't.  Maybe singing it was a way of waking myself up from this limbo but, when I repeated it, I felt something better than alertness. Resonance. My voice was far louder than I've ever imagined it, it drowned out the piano so I just played harder, firmer presses on the keys. Eventually it was as if the words and tune were rising while the meaning behind them was sinking into the earth, creating overwhelming vibrations beneath my naked feet. At some point I believe I was making up words as they came to me, swapping lyrics for passing thoughts. By the time the dawn came I wasn't singing Frère Jacques anymore, I was calling my own name.

            So tonight I decided to try something a little different. Rather than starting with a familiar tune and evolving it, I will let a tune just roll off the top of my head. I dedicate this song to you but let's just see how it goes.

            Every word is like a summons, getting louder and more precise. I want to see how far it goes, to what distances. This song shall be a way of clearing things up, I think, a way of bringing you all back to me for one night.

            Most of you aren't too far away, most of you probably still have me in your thoughts from time to time and it is precisely through those thoughts that I play to you now. I call to you as I play to you as I compose in your name. The whole song might not be for you but there's at the very least a line which contains your essence as I best remember it. It's hideously biased but then I haven't seen most of you in years.

            I can only play to your memory, the memory I have of you up until the moment you left me. Sometimes you knew that you were leaving me, sometimes you didn't, sometimes it gave you the most pleasure just to get away. Now this tune and this voice will bring you pleasure, bring you back to me one last time to listen to one last thing.

            I look out my window and notice a few headlights arriving from the distant dark and I know that it is you. The drivers among you at least, you've taken the car out for a night drive and you won't ever realise just how far you've come. I'm just glad that the first of you have turned up already, just hope that the rest aren't too far away because I feel the chorus coming. It's stirring within me.

            I see you, Rosita. I hear you, Marcus. I can feel your presence, all you lovers of the past. It's like the merging of the piano and my voice have led to a gradual amplification and it's only through that amplification that I can feel your arrival. Perhaps I am going deaf and all my other senses are increasing in strength. Perhaps I have discovered a special key on the scale that has led me through a door to a higher awareness, a supreme state of both musical and magical control. I feel benevolent. Maybe this is my gift.

            Come, Sasha. Come, Theresa. Come, Henry. Come Marguerite. I can see your shapes and figures forming through the shadows, crawling out like children from under a bed sheet. I hope you have brought your spouses, your loved ones; I want to give my blessing. The underlying message of this song is just as much for them as it is for you.

            You're almost all here, my darlings. My ex-lovers, the moving images from the back of my tired little brain. Come forward, stand in the space around my house, some of you should even recognise it. Fill that space as best you can. I don't know how long this song can last before it is strained and not really a song anymore.

            Nice to see you, Kimiko. You never called. Great to finally catch you, Dot. You didn't even tell me you were running away. It's so good of you all to be here. Are you all here? Standing? Swaying? It's all the same to me, do as you feel. The message is coming in the chorus.

            It is this: I no longer love you. I haven't a reason to love you so I have done. I want you all to turn to the person beside you and completely forget about me if you haven't already. Just carry on. Spare no thought. I am done.

            That's right, turn around in your cars, on your heels and just go home. The song is coming to an end now but the bells are finally ringing. Ding, dang, dong. Ding, dang, dong. There's really no point being here anymore now, it's nearly morning. My fingers are tired and my voice hoarse.

            One last high note, one last chirp of a piano key and that is all. Are you sleeping? Not yet but nearly. It is time.

            I close the lid over the piano keys. I drain my glass of brandy. I rise from the stool and off to bed.

            As I ascend the stairs, a new song starts to form. I hum it. It will have to percolate in my head overnight. It's going to be a good one though.

KALEIDOSCOPE AUTOPSY (a.k.a. Part One of My Stories in Honour of Short Story Week)

            Up until now there's been no good way to study stomach diseases in humans. So Lionel and I once tried it with a kaleidoscope.

            I was a doctor but Lionel wasn't. He suggested the idea and I was so drunk that it amused me. It was amazing that we even found our way to the morgue. We, of course, had to make a pit stop at Lionel's pad to pick up the essential tool.

            I pulled out one of the recent bodies which, fortunately for us, had expired due to complications before surgery. I made a surprisingly neat incision and held the flaps open even better than I do whilst sober. Lionel peered inside, twisting the front of the kaleidoscope a few times.

            'Observations?' I said to him.

            He giggled. 'This man's innards are a psychedelic green.'

            'No, no, no,' I snapped. 'You are looking at it all wrong. What does the shade of green tell you about the gastritis?'

            Lionel looked up, still through the kaleidoscope. 'That the stomach acid burnt into the lining in a very particular way. It made grooves.'

            'Grooves?'

            'Groovy.' Lionel did a dance. I almost ripped one of the skin flaps off when I reached up to hit him.

            'This is serious business, Lionel,' I said. 'Are there genuine grooves?'

            He examined the stomach without the kaleidoscope and then with it again. 'Actually...yes, I think so.'

            'Give it here,' I said. Lionel picked up the forceps gingerly.

            The kaleidoscope showed many tiny diamonds in a bizarre formation. I took it away from my eye and saw that they matched the grooves in the stomach lining almost perfectly. I gasped. 'How is that even-?'

            Lionel giggled. 'Possible?'

            'Yes. It can't be.' I twisted the top of the kaleidoscope. The colours changed to a pale yellow emanating a bright orange ring. The tiny diamonds remained in the exact same places. I moved the kaleidoscope further down to the underside of the stomach where the largest hole was. The diamonds fell and matched the shape. A few of them even started to twinkle.

            'This is mad,' I said.

            'This is hilarious,' Lionel added. 'Now let me look again.'

            I smacked his hand away. 'This must be the latest, maddest discovery in the history of medical science. Kaleidoscopes in the hospital.'

            'No coroner should be without one.' Lionel winked. 'And think how drunk they'll need to get beforehand!'

            I paused. We were drunk. This slowly sobered me up. I handed Lionel the kaleidoscope again, slapping my cheeks before pulling back the skin flaps again. I needed to drink something refreshing but tap water was the only thing down here. Harold stored his orange juice in one of the cupboards but I doubted that that would be quite as effective.

            'Hang on a minute,' I said, closing the flaps and moving over to the sink. I cupped my hands around the water and let the tap run into them. I splashed my face a few times before drinking.

            'Are you done?' Lionel said.

            'Yes,' I returned to the slab. 'Let me see again.'

            Lionel grumbled as I took the kaleidoscope away for the second time. The colours were all there but no diamonds. I turned the front a few times, ground it, but nothing even resembling them appeared. No unearthly shine, no bizarre sparkle. I stepped back.

            'We've got to get out of here, Lionel,' I said, realising the situation. 'We're pissed beyond logic.'

            'I don't know what you're talking about,' Lionel replied. 'I can see very well. Diamonds are quite logical if you think about it. They're beautiful.'

            I managed to coax him out of the morgue eventually. The next day he couldn't even remember being drunk in the hospital.

            I asked him about the diamonds in the stomach and he said, 'You mean the kind they smuggle in teddy bears?'

            'Yes,' I said. 'Just like in cop shows.'

            I was found out later that day. I had lost my license by the weekend. I still read the medical journals though, for the new discoveries.

RUSH HOUR CRUSH (a.k.a. A Heart-rending Love Story about Isaac Newton and Pomeranians)

To the Dude in the Green Shades,

You were staring at my Halloween costume whilst eating an apple. Why not drop one on my head sometime? I have a theory I would like to discuss with you over drinks.

Isaac Newton Lookalike

To Isaac Newton Lookalike,

Do you like Pomeranians?

The Guy in the Green Shades

To the Guy in Green Shades,

Yes. My sister breeds them. Shall we say The Watchman's Arms next Tuesday? 6? I won't be in full costume but I will keep on the wig.

Former-Isaac Newton Lookalike

To Isaac Newton Lookalike,

Where is the best place to buy a pair of sandals in Cleethorpes?

TGIGS

To TGIGS,

I always go to Richmond's.

Former-ISL

To Former-ISL,

Watchman's Arms. Tuesday 6:15pm.

TGIGS

To TGIGS,

Why did you run off in such a hurry? You asked questions about 'the mark', I'm a Mark, I thought we were joking around. I would love a second chance. Watchman's Arms? Next Tuesday at 6pm again?

An Idiot in a Wig

To TGIGS,

I must have missed you. I hope I missed you. Come by next Tuesday and we'll talk all about 'your mission'.

An Idiot Still Wearing a Wig

To TGIGS,

I felt like there was a connection. Was I wrong?

An Idiot Without a Wig

ME AND HER (a.k.a. The Chiller Main Feature)

            No matter how much I try to keep up, I always end up needing to slow down to catch my breath. It's not that she's particularly fast, it's just that everyone seems to have longer strides than I do. She stops to look back.

            'You were telling me about this hill,' she says.

            'Was I?' It sounds about right, I do have some strong opinions. 'Yes, well. I think it used to be steeper.'

            'Really? The cobbles look old.'

            'Cobblestones always look old. Perhaps the first week they look new, but then they get trod on and covered in whatever's on the soles of passing shoes. Mud. Chewing gum. Other things that stick. Then the rain comes.'

            'I was going to say.'

            'Yes. Sorry about that image.'

            'I was the one who made it up in my head.'

            'But I prompted you.'

            'Yes, I suppose you did. It's your fault.'

            I like this girl but when she says stuff like that, makes jokes as believable as that, I really don't know where I am with her. 'Where are we again?'

            'On this hill. That used to be steeper.'

            'Let me rephrase: where are we going again?'

            She pauses while I catch up. 'You're escorting me home.'

            'Oh, yes.' I don't even remember her name. I check the time. It's dark out but then it's always dark when I set off home from work. We must have been walking for an hour. 'Wow.'

            'Don't worry about it,' she says. 'We're almost to my house.'

            'Sorry. I just completely lost track there.'

            'Do you usually keep to a tight schedule?'

            'Nah. I just notice that the time I get back is roughly the same each day. One of the benefits of walking, you rarely need to take a detour.'

            'I'm new to the area.'

            'Yes. I think you said.'

            She clutches her cardigan around her waist. I'm in my tatty jacket.

            'Are you cold?' I say. 'I can always give you my coat.'

            She smiles. 'You keep it. I'll be fine, I'm just a wuss.'

            'If you're sure.'

            'That I'm a wuss? Yeah, I'm definitely one of those.'

            'Don't bring yourself down. You have a lovely taste in cardigans.'

            'Thank you.' She's ahead of me again. 'So don't you drive then? At all?'

            'No. Never even took the test.'

            'Ever thought about it?'

            'Yes. I just don't think I'm co-ordinated enough.' I search for the peak of the hill. 'Also walking is healthier. Better for me.'

            'You are looking nice and trim.'

            'Thanks. A hard slog is good for the figure.'

            'Slog.' She chuckles. 'What a word. It's a very English word. Northern English.'

            'You mean Yorkshire? Well I don't know about you but I am bred that way.'

            'I was too but then I lost my accent. All this travelling about.'

            'Travelling where exactly?'

            'Here and there. I tend to stick to Europe though, move all over it.' She sighs and turns to me. 'That's a hard slog if there ever was one.'

            'So have you been to Italy?'

            'Yes. Why?'

            'That's where 'slog' comes from, I think. Latin.'

            'It's just it sounds so Northern.'

            We've reached the top of the hill at last. She turns right so I follow. If memory serves this leads to a cul de sac so it can't be much longer before we get to wherever we're going.

            'It was on a night like this...' I say for no discernible reason. I just like the sound of it.

            She frowns. 'Is this the beginning of a story?'

            'Hang on, just let me think. It was on a night like this...that I saw a spaceship.'

            'You knew it was a spaceship? Not just a UFO?'

            'Well I like to think it was a spaceship. It was probably just like one of the things they always say it is: light on gas or a prototype for something.'

            'I don't know why people aren't more excited about that second option. They're usually supposedly prototypes for new aircrafts, aren't they? I think that's more intriguing.'

            'I suppose so. Why would they be testing at night though? Are these night-flyers of a sort? Are they meant to operate on shadow as opposed to light?'

            'Possibly. But you were saying about a UFO...?'

            'Yes. The UFO. It was on a night like this that I saw it. I was passing Drucker Drive, which is somewhere back there, and I just looked up and saw something weaving through the trees.'

            'Tree-weaving night-flyers?'  

            'Possibly. It changed lights. Blue to white.'

            'Crikey. Perhaps it was the police.'

            'Flying that low?'

            'Or floating that high?'

            We laugh.

            'I didn't really see enough of it to say one way or another,' I say. 'I just kept my distance.'

            'Were you following your usual route home?'

            'Yes, actually.' I cough. 'To think, all the people who say they've experienced something and they really haven't. It must be terrible to not have other witnesses.'

            'Did you have witnesses?'

            'Not that I know of.'

            'Do you feel mad?'

            'Like I just made it up?'

            'Yes.'

            'Oh, yes. That's why I make jokes whenever I mention it.'

            She looks me in the eye. 'You have a good sense of humour.'

            'You must too to keep walking and talking with a UFO enthusiast.'

            'Hey,' she says though I don't quite know if this is to me or to her or to anyone in particular. She's looking down so she certainly isn't trying to get my attention. Obviously, she already has it.

            My phone buzzes in my pocket. For some reason I've put it onto silent. Seems about right: no distractions whilst I'm talking to a pretty woman.           

            It's dad. He says Pollyanna has been rushed to the hospital. He sent two texts which were presumably meant to be one; the 'g' that should be at the end of 'bleeding' is at the start of the second text.

            'What's wrong?' the woman says.

            'My sister,' I say. 'She's bleeding.'

            'A lot?'

            'I don't know.'

            'But she's in hospital?'

            'Yes.'

            'Well that's good. You can leave me here if you like. I think there was a bus stop back down that road.'

            'I don't think any buses stop here at this time.'

            'Then call a taxi.'

            'To be honest, I'm not even sure where to say to pick me up.'

            The woman blinks. 'All right. There's a sign right outside my house, you can ring from there. We're not far now.' She sighs. 'For a moment there, I thought you were just trying to get away from me. Absurd, I know.'

            'I really don't think faking my sister being rushed to A&E would be something I'd lie about.'

            'Of course not.'

            'How far would you say we are now?'

            'About five minutes.'

            I check my watch again. 'Right.'

            'Sorry. I only said that because of all the other texts.'          

            'The other texts?'

            'You mentioned two other texts: one at the beginning of this walk and one about halfway through.'

            'I don't think I did.'

            'Well, I certainly didn't imagine them.'

            I pull my phone back out. 'Did I say what they were about?'

            'One was work and the other a friend, I think.'

            I scroll down for the rest of my messages.

            Curtis: 'Hi. You left your key in the machine again. Had to report it to Bill, he was right there. He wants to see you first thing tomorrow. Sorry, mate.'

            Hannah: 'I need to talk. I've been thinking again. Not good thoughts.' Three missed calls.

            'Oh shit,' I say.

            'Are you having a bad night?'

            'Yes.'

            'Sorry.'

            'But how did you do that?'

            'How did I do what?'

            'How did I just forget?'

            'I don't see how I'm to blame for that.'

            'No, sorry. You're right. It's just a case of bad timing.'

            'I didn't intend to distract you.'

            'I know.'

            'It just happened.'

            'Yes, I know.'

            'You're doing the gentlemanly thing here.'

            'Maybe. I just don't tend to forget important things this quickly.'

            'It's all right. You may have just blocked it out, it happens.'

            'Well, I am usually pretty tense about work. And my friend only really contacts when she's contemplating...'

            'Contemplating what?'          

            'Suicide.'

            The woman looks down again. 'Oh God.'

            'She has people there to watch her.' I put my phone away. 'So it's definitely only a couple of minutes away now?'  

            'The sign? Yes.'

            'What road is it called again?'

            She pauses. 'You know it's dropped out of my head too.'

            'Really?'

            'Yes. We've been talking for so long, I've forgotten. Whatever happened, it must have happened to both of us.'      

            'Possibly.'

            'Then again it is work. Who really remembers the road that they work on? Unless you're in higher management, of course.'

            'Didn't you say you were going home?'

            'Sorry?'

            'You said that you were going home. The long way round but still.'

            She dithers. 'Home isn't far away from work.'

            'Didn't you say you just got here?'

            'I said I tended to travel but now I'm working in this area for a bit.'

            'When did you start?'

            'Tonight actually, I'm set to start tonight. That's probably why I forgot about it. Blocking out work stress, just like you.'

            'How long have you lived nearby?'

            'About a week.'

            'Nice house?'

            'A bungalow.'

            'Very nice.'

            I look at her while she isn't looking at me. The rest of her is quite unassuming, a little frumpy in that cardigan but that doesn't really bother me. Right now it seems like I'm beside a real person, a woman who is at the very least pleasant to talk to if there is no other goal in sight. And yet when she looks me in the eyes...

            That's a phrase I actually hate: 'And yet when she looks me in the eyes...', it's a cheap lyric, love song fodder usually followed by the inevitable rhyme of 'surprise'. Nevertheless when she looks me in the eyes, it's like I'm suddenly on a quest. I don't usually escort strange women to places. It's creepy and, like she said, I usually have a tight schedule. And yet one look and I'm stuck walking with her until she finally reaches her destination.

            All I really know is that she has a cardigan and can walk for ages. She might have a bungalow, she might be working nearby. Only might.

            As soon as a familiar landmark turns up, a street sign, I'm stopping and calling a taxi. She can't have much further to walk and besides, the streets tonight have been surprisingly quiet.

            She turns to me and laughs. It's not the smile, the nose wrinkle or anything else, it's definitely those eyes.

            'Sorry.' I shake my head and blink. 'What was I saying?'

            'You were telling me about this cul de sac,' she says.

FLASHES OF DARKNESS (a.k.a. A Trilogy of Fiendish Flash Fiction)

THIS DOOR IS ALARMED

    I knew a guy who worked there.

    He kept going on about a door at the back with a sign reading 'THIS DOOR IS ALARMED'. He took a crowbar to open it.

    He sent me a text: 'No sound'.

    Of course not. The alarm's silent.

    They even kept the crowbar.

Egg Timers

            Men in orange shirts were handing out old egg timers on the streets one day. They were already ticking, set for an hour.

            People went home, tried to stop the ticking but they couldn't so they waited.

            When the moment came, the timers hatched. The ringing started. It never stopped.

Murmurs of Approval

            Entering the boardroom is like entering an echo chamber. The only sound is low, quiet and perturbed.

            The source is just above the shadows cast by the tallest chairs.

            Listen, there are now two sounds: humming and drumming, lips and fingers.

            You've been called in. A decision has been reached.

HALLOWEEN NIGHT ACROSS FROM THE MANSION (a.k.a. The Horror Begins in Earnest)

            'There was a fisherman,' Monty said, getting comfortable on the grass. 'He was working early in the morning one day, near a cliff side. I forget which. Anyway he looks up for a minute and sees something on the cliff's edge, bright white cloth wafting about in the breeze. He manages to get the boat in a little closer and sees that it's a woman, possibly in her nightie.'

            'Like this twist,' Darius muttered.

            'Keep your eye out. They might come to the window.' Monty sighed. 'As I was saying, there was a woman on the cliff top in her nightie. Our fisherman is dangling his line in the water whilst he's watching this spectacle and suddenly he notices that all the fish are rising up on their side. Dead. He feels ambivalent, on the one hand it's his lucky day but on the other this is all fairly ominous.'

            Darius stretched out his fingers. Monty waited until the cracking had stopped.

            'He throws out a net and brings a few of the fish in. He pulls one out and examines it, looks it right in the mouth. There's something there, a small scrap of white cloth, not as bright as it once was. He checks a few of the other fish and finds that they all have tatters and tears of white cloth in their mouths too.

            'The fisherman looks back up at the cliff top again. The woman is now dancing naked.' Monty raised his finger before Darius could say a word. 'And then she dives. He steers the boat away as fast as he can but somehow she disappears halfway down. Even her scream fades away.'

            Darius picks up a couple of cashews and chews on them. 'That's a good tale. Quite spooky.'

            'Only quite?'

            'Hang on.' Darius looked out through the crosshairs. He fired once. Inside the mansion, a teenager's head exploded. 'That's one.'

            'Fairly sloppy,' Monty remarked.

            'Oh, get over yourself. Like the old man said: the messier, the better.'

            'I still don't quite see how this will perpetuate that old myth of his.'

            Darius turned to Monty. 'It's not about us new snipers, it's about the old bullets.'

            'I'm sure,' Monty said. 'Personally I just think he's extremely prejudice towards squatters.'

            Darius laughed before lining up another shot. It went clean through the kitchen window and through the target's leg. 'Now I've got a ghost story for you.'

            Monty fired at someone in the attic. 'Go on then.'

            'There was a lot of barking on my street when I was a kid. Some old girl kept this pack of Dobermans within her back garden. They barked late into the night.

            'One night the Dobermans got out. I wasn't there to see it, I was out on my first contract. Anyway when I got back, people said the dogs had split up, spread out across the neighbourhood, all barking, all driving the neighbourhood round the fucking bend.

            'The funny thing was they found the dogs dead, every single one of them, mysterious circumstances. So what was it that was barking? It took a while before it stopped.'

            'When the old girl died?' Monty said.

            'Something like that.'

            'I'll give it to you, that was chilling.'

            'Thank you.'

            Monty caught a teenager with a bullet to the chest as he was creeping past the thick ivy on the left side of the mansion. The lad span around and collapsed.

            'You could have sexed it up though,' Monty said. 'The execution.'

            Darius snorted.

            They just had to hold this position for the rest of the night. The old man would be round in the morning to 'discover' the damage, point out the old bullet casings and claim to be haunted.

            Another year of life for a deathly tale. The scary part was that Monty and Darius would be long gone by then.