Nick Bryan

Writing

Friday short story time: "Prophet Warning"

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Slightly old-school Friday story this week, after a few efforts in which I’ve attempted to change my style, throw out an idea quickly and so forth. Which… may mean it’s not my finest literary hour, but I really enjoyed writing it nonetheless.

And I’m currently 63 pages through Script Frenzy, if that interests anyone. Admittedly, my main conclusion is that I’ll probably go back and re-adapt it into some kind of prose format.

Prophet Warning

By Nick Bryan

‘Beware the horse!’

Joe turned around on that. ‘Come again, mate?’

But before the homeless, bearded man could yell anything more, Lettie tugged his arm. ‘Joe, don’t encourage him.’

Unfortunately, the tramp had already heard the encouragement. He had just been slumped outside the kebab shop, his dented Starbucks cup containing only a few pennies, but when he realised someone was acknowledging his existence, he was on his feet immediately. ‘Look  beware of the horse, my son! The horse will turn about and smite you down!’

‘Wait, will this horse be in the street? Or the living room?’

‘Or his fucking crack dreams, come on Joe…’

‘One sec.’ He turned back to the tramp. ‘So when will it happen?’

‘Sooner that you’d think!’ He shoved a finger into Joe’s face, which was encrusted in an ambiguous brown substance. ‘Mark my prophecy…’

‘So you’re a prophet?’

‘Joe!’

‘Seriously, is this like the horsemen of the apocalypse, because I don’t to miss…’

But before any more homeless wisdom could emerge, a large blob of man armed with greasy overalls and an alarming meat cleaver emerged from the shop. ‘Oi!’

The street prophet turned, eyes widening beneath his mess of hair, and the golden words stopped flowing.

‘Piss off, go on.’ The cleaver gestured viciously down the road. ‘Stop scaring my goddamn customers.’

And so the tramp ran, the courage of his religious convictions failing him in the face of a flaying from an angry kebab seller. To be honest, Joe couldn’t blame him, that guy looked crazy, Like he should be killing his customers and cooking them into the food. The Sweeney Todd of kebab shops, only nowhere near as good looking as Johnny Depp.

As Joe and Lettie finally entered the shop (it said “restaurant” on the sign, but there was no sign of tables, waiters or, let’s be honest, food), the spinning leg of grey meat behind the counter looked even less appetising than usual. That was where they hacked the donor kebabs, of course, using a sword even more terrifying than the one the prophet had been chased off with.

‘So,’ the scary man rumbled, taking his place behind the counter, ‘what do you want?’

His younger and more nervous sidekick skittered around in the “kitchen” area, throwing potato chunks back and forth from one deep fat fryer to another with no end in sight. Joe wasn’t sure if he was making chips or crisps.

‘Um, just the battered sausage with some chips, please.’ Joe indicated it nervously, deciding that was the least unappealing option. This had seemed a much better idea in the pub.

Lettie, even less concerned with being polite than he, politely shook her head when he glanced over. Goddamn it, Joe was going to suffer alone wasn’t he?

It turned out, that was even more true than he’d expected. As the owner bent down to retrieve the battered sausage from the humming cabinet that kept it lukewarm, the other guy nudged the controls for the revolving meat leg of horror whilst trying to adjust the deep fat fryer. And apparently he managed to hit the accelerator, because it went from humming delicately to whirling like a car axle, thrashing horrible sloppy gunk all over the walls. It hit the big guy, it hit the small guy, splattered the cabinet and dripped into the chicken servings, shot over the top and smashed into Joe’s nose and face.

He’d not had time to duck, but Lettiesomehow managed it. She was crouched in front of the plastic front, trying not to giggle at him. So totally deserved it when a blob of oozing flesh peeled off the heated plastic and fell into her hair. She nearly backflipped herself screaming.

Making no particular apology for his manners, Joe spat a few choice chunks out onto the floor, seized Lettie under the shoulder and made to leave. The two custodians of the meat-spinner seemed unconcerned by their departure; the battered sausage was now too battered to sell anyway.

They hurried down the street, Lettie pulling at her hair still, and Joe reaching for his mobile.

Finally satisfied that she’d done all she could without a shower, Lettie looked over to him. ‘What’re you doing?’

‘Calling the food hygiene people.’

‘To come and give you a disinfectant bath?’

‘No. To tell them that place is selling horse meat in their donor kebabs.’

‘Oh, seriously?’

‘Don’t worry, it’ll be an anonymous tip.’

Copyright me 2012, don’t steal, email me if you want, etc. And yes, puntastic title, disgusting moments and a twist ending. Just like the good old days.

Friday short story time: "Time-Lapsed"

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This week’s Friday story has a reason behind it, which you’ll already know if you’ve been following me on Twitter this week.

But for anyone who doesn’t (or just doesn’t pay attention): as an exercise for my creative writing MA this week, we all wrote pieces outside our usual styles, left our names off them, they were shuffled and handed out, then we each read one out and everyone had to guess who wrote it.

So what do I write when trying not to sound like me? Well, here it is. And I’m proud to say no-one guessed it was mine at all.

(Although a couple of people tried to imitate me by including bodily fluids or plot twists to throw others off their scent. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, isn’t it?)

Time-Lapsed

By Nick Bryan (obviously this wasn’t on it at the time)

Since Jackson last came to church, the statues had shrunk. The pulpit seemed closer, even though it had never been so far away. He took off his hat, crossed himself by reflex and then wondered if he’d done it the right way round.

The statues gave him no clue, though. They’d seen a million people do this by now, they must know, but they weren’t telling. Theoretically, he should also dip his hand in the little stone bowl of water before doing it, but he wasn’t sure he still had that privilege. He might have mislaid it in the last ten years.

Back then, it had seemed like a cavern, a magnificent display of space. Now he realised it wasn’t even half the size of his old school hall. And the cold breeze wasn’t the rush of the Holy Spirit, it was the chill of a stone building with inadequate heating.

The pews creaked when Jackson sat down, he was amazed they stood up to that breeze. He almost brought the whole lot down like dominoes when he sat back, and he was not a big man.

As he entered his late twenties, he’d found himself viewing his old church as quaint and simplistic. Jackson had trouble reconciling this stone shed, and the old man who stood up front, with all the un-PC views you saw accredited to the Catholic church nowadays.

Fortunately, the old priest was dead, so would never talk with him as an adult about all that. Jackson could keep viewing him as a kindly grandfather figure, who maybe didn’t hold with the gay-bashing and whatnot. He certainly didn’t recall it creeping into the sermons.

Jackson couldn’t remember anything he’d said in those sermons, to tell the truth. But he did like the way the church had never managed to replace him, just left the place standing empty. That was nice. It made his childhood memories seem a bit more special.

A fresh gust drifted through from the vestry, where Jackson had sometimes gone to help the priest tidy up. Nothing there now except a few cobwebs, of course. The body of Christ had surely dissolved into mould, making it impossible to tell whether it was flesh or wafer.

‘You done in here, mate?’

Jackson leapt up, like a kid caught out of bounds. ‘Oh, yes, so sorry, sir.’

‘Nah, no worries. I remember when they knocked down my old school, almost cried right there when I saw it in the local rag.’

‘Thanks for letting me look around,’ Jackson gave a nod, ‘I’ll get out of your hair.’

‘You sure you don’t want a bit longer?’ The workman glanced at his watch. ‘You can probably stay another ten minutes while the boys set up.’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Jackson gave a quick smile as he slipped out, ‘I think I remember as much as I want to.’

Copyright me 2012, please don’t steal, email and ask, etc. Oh, and it’s my birthday on Sunday, but I haven’t written a birthday themed story. I did write one last year, though, if you want to check that out. As my birthday actually fell on a Friday that time.

Friday short story time: "Backgammon: The Movie"

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Backgammon boardToday’s Friday story is about, well, backgammon. Basically, I’ve been bemused for a while by the need for a movie about the old board game Battleships. (Or “Battleship” if you’re American, and yes, they’re really doing that. It has Rihanna in it.)

So I thought, this must be suitable for some cheap satire. What’s another game that features almost no actual plot whatsoever that I can nail a story on to?

Well, I may not have quite found a part for Rihanna, but I think backgammon is the one nonetheless. For those unfamiliar, a backgammon board looks like the nearby picture. It features two sets of counters trying to move past each other on the big triangles.

I know what you’re thinking, sounds ripe for big screen adaptation, doesn’t it? Hollywood agents, form an orderly queue.

Backgammon: The Movie

By Nick Bryan

Taking a deep breath, Wilf stepped out from the tunnel entrance to grip tightly onto a huge stalactite hanging in front of him. He and his friends were trapped by a cave-in, the rocks were falling behind them, and they’d agreed, this was the only way out.

Not that he’d been looking forward to it. They had to clamber all the way across the cavern swinging between rock-spikes, make their way down some stone handholds at the other side, then climb between upwards-pointing stalagmites on the ground level, murky darkness below them. Then, once they’d crossed the damn cave twice, they’d finally be close to home.

He had his best gripping gloves on, not to mention tiny picks at the tips of his boots. They’d agreed to bash hooks into the spikes for attaching ropes, which reduced the risk from instant death to a few broken bones.

Nonetheless, this was among the most unsafe things he’d ever attempted, and Wilf had climbed Everest.

He breathed a little easier when, held only by scissored legs, he managed to draw back his hammer and put a hook in. The stactite was huge, but there was still worry in his gut that, when he struck the point, it would crack all the way across, the bottom would fall off, and he would tumble, tightly clutching the falling tip with his thighs.

Thankfully, that didn’t happen. With a sigh of relief, hoping the other guys couldn’t hear, Wilf threaded the rope quickly through and pulled tight. There was no guarantee this would hold, but it was better than nothing. They’d managed to secure the other end pretty hard on another hook back at the start.

But now, of course, it was time to repeat the process. Each spike meant another hook, another chance to fall. The only up-side was the tiny winch on his waist. If he fell, theoretically he could pull himself back up to the last hook he’d used. If the hook held.

The next two spikes passed without incident. He dropped one hook, but let it go. Meanwhile, behind him, his first teammate leapt out to join him. Sam, less experienced but curiously athletic, wrapped himself around that rock like a mouse trap closing, before quickly threading his safety line through the hook.

Christ, Wilf thought, best get a move on, otherwise there’d be a traffic jam. Maybe he should’ve let Sam go first, rather than trying to lead from the front

Still three spikes until they hit the back wall and the bottom level, which would surely be easier. Ella, the final member of their team, was just swinging out now. She was nervous, less seasoned than Wilf and not as naturally cat-like as Sam, but she’d insisted she could do this. And with the constant tumbling rocks behind them, it wasn’t as if she had much choice.

Wilf smashed a hook into the last hanging stalactite and looked to the ladder. This was it, he thought. All he had to do was unclip his safety line for the descent, because it was nowhere near long enough to go all the way down.

He took a look behind him and saw Sam just behind. Ella, meanwhile, was making her way much more slowly. There wasn’t much to do from here; hopefully seeing them succeed would encourage her.

So he let his safety line come away and leapt for the wall. It was as if someone had carved a ladder into the wall, and he loved them for it. Barely halfway down, he felt chips of stone fall onto his head as Sam joined him.

Determined not to hold anyone up, Wilf reached the bottom and leapt onto the first upwards stalagmite quickly, before beginning to shuffle around it, the picks on his boots doing a lot of work. Sam was there waiting for him to go.

But no sooner did he jump for the second spike, there was a rumble from the other side of the cavern. Worse still, a sqawk. Wilf looked up, expecting a cave-in, but no such luck. It was a swarm.

A gaggle of furious, black-furred monkeys emerged from the opposite side, the cave they’d been aiming for.

The little bastards were crawling all over the rocks, needing no safety equipment, covering the distance at a speed even Sam could only dream of.

Just what he needed, Wilf thought. A rival team. And although he’d dug in hard with the boots, he doubted it would withstand full-on impact with a monkey.

They were getting closer. And suddenly there was a squeal from above as Ella, apparently put off by the simian swarm, finally fell. To Wilf’s relief, the hooks held, and, only two spikes from the end, she started her winch and slowly hummed back up.

Nonetheless, taking in her plight left him unprepared for the ape assault. They were almost on him now, still wailing.

And, as the lead monkey tensed its legs and made the leap, so did Sam. Jumping across from the previous spike, as Wilf shielded his body with the one arm he could spare, Sam managed to get in the way of the monkeys, grabbing a couple round the throat.

Finally, he caught one by the arm, but, with no space on the spike left to grip, that was all he had time to do.

Because, at last, with a resigned smile, Sam lost his uncanny balance and fell off into the darkness, taking a few monkeys with him. Clearly Wilf had inspired more loyalty in the team than he’d realised.

Somehow, this loss seemed to deter the remaining monkeys. With yelps, they retreated. Into the same exit Wilf was heading for, but he had little choice.

With a glance upwards, he saw that Ella finally starting on the ladder, unaware of Sam’s sacrifice. Well, Wilf thought grimly to himself, they mustn’t let it be in vain. With a grim mutter, he struck out for the next stalagmite.

Some of you might think that movie heroes are rarely called Wilf. I’m pretty that’s prejudice, guys. Much like my inability to write a positive portrayal of monkeys.

Anyway, copyright me 2012, please ask before stealing, I’m certainly willing to negotiate for the rights. Email me at nick@nickbryan.com and let’s chat.

Friday short story time: "Astronauts Beyond Space!"

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Finally had time to do another Friday story, and thought I’d try for something a bit cheerier, since the last three included a story about internet misery, a sequel to that one and another called “Ready Salted Failure”.

So it’s time for a jolly adventure involving astronauts and a few off-colour jokes. And maybe a slight sense of end-of-an-era poignancy, but I can’t be serious all the time.

Time for lift-off!

Astronauts Beyond Space!

By Nick Bryan

‘It’s tragic, y’know. Fuckin’ tragic. The artform’s dying.’

‘Hodgson, you’re an astronaut, not a beat poet, and you’ve been on about this for about a month.’

‘What’s your point, junior?’

Cook tossed down his copy of Aeronautics Monthly with a sigh. ‘It’s not an artform, it’s working as a specialised pilot. Stop romanticising.’

But Hodgson, rocketing into his thirties, uniform scuffed, nearly bald bar a few grizzled patches where he’d messed up shaving, would not be deterred. ‘Piss off, it’s the end of an era. Now the shuttle program’s fucked, NASA’s basically a stuffed corpse propped up with a stick.’

‘Is it? So where are we sitting right now, exactly?’

‘Don’t fuckin’ ask me, Cook. Looks like a dentist’s waiting room from here.’

Cook had to admit, that was fair. He was the younger man in this conversation, the junior co-pilot, but he couldn’t talk up this particular NASA project. It had only a few chairs and low wooden table, laden down with six month old magazines and a broken snowglobe. Couldn’t they at least have stolen a poster of a spaceship from a teenage boy’s bedroom wall?

‘And,’ Hodgson ranted on, ‘what are we meant to do now?’

‘Well, if the big cheese does pension us off in ten minutes,’ Cook rattled out the speech he’d given his girlfriend that morning, ‘dunno about you, but I’m off to audition for Virgin Galactic.’

‘Oh, you fuckin’ sellout…’

‘Shut up.’ And he stood tall in his casually askew uniform, posing like a campaign poster. ‘They want young chaps who look good in a spacesuit and resemble Buck Rodgers, I reckon I can pull it off, maybe with a neater haircut and…’

‘Oh, don’t fob me off with the girlfriend speech, Cook,’ Hodgson literally growled as he said this, ‘you don’t want to end any more than I do.’

‘They’ve already discontinued the shuttle, you idiot,’ Cook sat forward in his seat, ‘what are we meant to do? Sit around and gaze, dreamy-eyed into the distance?’

‘At least have some respect for the…’

‘For what?’ And, even though they’d had this argument a dozen times, sometimes whilst flying a spacecraft at the same time, Cook still let it get to him. ‘Some wispy dream of spaceflight that never really existed? For Christ’s sake, Hodgson, you’re 38, you’re not fucking Gandalf, you can still retrain or whatever and…’

‘Kid, I spent hours of my life training for this gig, and…’

‘You think I didn’t?’

‘I think you wandered over from the Air Force and now you’ll either wander back or fuck off to some cushy corporate gig.’ He sneered. ‘I trained for years for this, all kinds of horribleness, you have any idea what zero gravity toilet training was like in the old days?’

‘Yes, I do Hodgson, because you’ve told me a dozen times…’

‘Kid,’ he got to his feet and Cook leapt up to meet him, ‘I had to headbutt my own shit for this job, and now you’re telling me to just forget about it because things have moved on?’

‘You’re ten years older than me, stop calling me “kid”.’

‘I’m telling you, we just need to repurpose.’

‘That’s what I keep telling you, you moron.’

‘No, no,’ Hodgson lowered his voice, suddenly backing out of the confrontation he had created, ‘I mean, we can still be astronauts, you know, we just need something new to explore.’

Cook was shocked out of his anger too, by sheer bemusement. ‘What?’

‘We’re not just pilots, man, we’re fuckin’ explorers. We just need a new frontier to explore.’

‘So what’s after space, exactly? Time?’

‘Don’t be stupid. What about burrowing downwards? What do we really know about what’s beneath us?’

Finally, Cook gave in to a fit of laughter. ‘So you want to build that drilling mole thing from Thunderbirds and go tunnelling? Good luck pitching to the boss, buddy. If I were you, I’d open with the time machine to soften him up.’

‘Oh come on, Cook,’ and, against all expectations, Hodgson didn’t get angry, ‘don’t you want to stay in this? Or are you telling me that ferrying rich twats around the lower atmosphere is what you dreamed of as a kid?’

Cook was stuck in the middle of the room, Hodgson’s earnest gaze burrowing into him like the drilling mole from Thunderbirds, and, annoyingly, he was starting to remember how he’d felt back when he started.

‘Yeah, I mean…’ He sighed. ‘I dunno, Hodgson, there ain’t much we can do. I mean, I always wanted to repurpose the shielding, tool up a submarine and go explore one of those ocean trenches, but…’

‘Well, pitch it. This is our last shot. Why the fuck not?’

‘Hodgson…’

‘No, look, he’s going to fire us, okay? He just is. This is the end for us as a team exploring new frontiers. And then what? You’re an intergalactic rickshaw driver and I’m giving fuckin’ space museum tours, amusing myself by telling schoolkids I once used a hoe on the moon.’

‘Used a…’ Cook paused, then rolled his eyes and laughed. ‘Yeah, I remember that. Man, it was wild. I had a good time with that spade.’

‘So come on.’ Hodgson took one final step closer. ‘Maybe no-one’s ever said this shit in a meeting before, but we’re meant to be about taking on the unexplored, yeah? What do you say, Cook?’

And before Cook could reply, an immaculately turned out young man in a shiny suit stepped into the room, not making a single sound until he said: ‘Gentlemen?’

‘He’ll see you now.’

Sorry there weren’t any aliens. I did consider putting some in, but it felt a bit against the tone. Copyright Nick Bryan 2012, please don’t steal, email me if you want to steal it in an approved fashion, the usual.

Friday short story time: "Ruination"

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This week, a rare sequel or follow-up. These have gone badly for me in the past, but I had a thematic continuation in mind. And since it’s a sequel to last week’s story, I can even pretend it was planned at the time.

Well, maybe not anymore. And no, you probably don’t need to read the original. Anyway, yes, this is once again a reflection on something that really happened. Are these stories close to becoming a form of therapy for me?

Ruination

By Nick Bryan

ENGLAND – THAT EVENING

‘Andrew?’

‘Mm.’

‘What’s wrong? I found your laptop smashed downstairs.’

‘Sorry, Jenny.’

‘That’s okay, it’s not my laptop. What happened?’

‘Oh, something happened to someone. Doesn’t matter.’

‘Seems to matter a bit.’

‘This is the problem with the internet, I think. It opens you up to all these new people, and, y’know, I’ve seen the television programmes, with the hostage situations and the fighting, and the hero’s weakness is always measured by… by…’

‘Andrew, what happened to who, exactly? Have you been taking your…’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, you were saying?’

‘Doesn’t… it’s just, you know, even if you don’t have arch enemies and shit, the more people who matter to you, the more weak you are. Something might happen to one of them, and then you have to feel bad.’

‘That’s kinda bleak, isn’t it? So something bad happened to someone online?’

‘… Yeah. Car crash.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Andrew.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Never even spoken to the guy.’

‘Clearly it matters to you.’

‘Yeah. You said that already.’

AMERICA – THE DAY BEFORE

Luke was drunk. You could tell because the jokes he was posting on Twitter were getting much worse. It was embarrassingly early in the day too, he could barely claim it was evening.

“So,” he tweeted, taking a long time over the spelling of each word, “just been warming up the bar for when you 9-5ers get here. Try not to stand in it when you arrive.”

After that had sent, he gazed at it for a while. Yeah, he’d done better. He hadn’t gathered nearly two thousand eager followers with that kind of dribble. He was a funny guy, he knew he was. Must try harder.

‘Yo, Luke, stop fucking around on your phone,’ his friend heckled from the bar, ‘we still got time for one more before the normals turn up.’

They had met doing the 7-3:30 shift on checkout, and evolved a strange kind of superiority. They were earning the same as everyone else, but doing it at a slightly different time, which meant they got the best seats in the pubs and, as long as they were willing to swallow a lack of sleep, had just as much fun.

‘Nah, s’all good, think I’m gonna head home,’ Luke jerked his thumb towards a nearby door, which was actually the men’s room, ‘pretty trashed for this early, I might sleep it off. Dinner with my folks later, they don’t like it when I’m asleep in the food.’

‘Don’t be such a fuckin’ pussy.’

‘Sorry, dude,’ Luke shrugged, ‘I gotta do what I gotta do.’

‘Yeah, and you gotta get another beer.’

‘Ain’t happening.’

With a slightly bitter farewell, the two of them went their seperate ways. Apparently someone else they kinda knew was in the bar somewhere, so there might still be a chance to keep drinking. Which had tempted Luke for a second, but in the end he’d stuck to his guns and left his friend to searching.

Because, after all, he really was a bit smashed, and hadn’t been lying about that meal with his parents. If he hurried home, he might have time to lie down. Not to mention, although he wasn’t going to say it out loud, the quality of that last joke on Twitter had pissed him off. Who knows what incoherent pigshit he’d end up posting after even more drinks?

He was approaching the road crossing outside the bar now, which was busy as hell. Hundreds of cars powering through, trying to get home from work as fast as possible to snatch a few hours with their families.

It was one hell of a crossing, but he’d done this a million times. First, though, he reached into his pocket for his phone. An idea had slipped into his head, a chance for Twitter redemption.

“At a busy intersection. Wow, if the caveman who invented the wheel had negotiated royalties, his family would own all our asses.”

And, satisfied, he flung himself into that junction.

ENGLAND – MINUTES LATER

Andrew didn’t think of himself as worthless, but he knew he wasn’t funny.

So he was always in awe of people on Twitter who could rattle that stuff out, seemingly without effort. Take that joke about wheels, just posted by “LukeAtMe”. Obviously, his real name was Luke, but Andrew didn’t know him. Until they were met in real life, he naturally thought of these internet folk by their online usernames.

It wasn’t even that they had fascinating jobs; he knew from long-term reading of his stuff that LukeAtMe worked in an American supermarket. So he could hardly claim his office management role was holding him back.

He tapped his laptop and tried to think of something funny to tweet about the cup of tea he’d just made, but it wasn’t coming. He… hoped he didn’t leave the teabag in too long, flip out and spit it up over his walls?

No. That’s not funny, just unpleasant. These people made it look so easy, and he never gave them the credit they deserved. Sometimes passed on their jokes for others to enjoy, but never told them how much he enjoyed their work.

Mostly, if he was being honest, because he didn’t want to sound like a gushing teenager writing to a pop star. However, he decided, maybe it was time. He gritted his teeth and wrote a message to LukeAtMe, thanking him for “all the laughs”. After the final keystroke, he stared at it a while, before shaking his head and deleting the whole thing.

Fuck it, he was tired. Maybe tomorrow.

Copyright me 2012, don’t steal, email me if you like, blah blah. And no, Luke doesn’t really exist. All is fiction. However, Mike Pandel, comic podcaster and entertaining chap, really did tragically pass away earlier this week. For a more direct (and musical and funnier) tribute, click here. That story really was just me reflecting on the occasional sadness of the internet.

I’ll do some jokes next week, I promise.

Friday short story time: "Ruiners"

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Another Friday story this week. Last week’s effort, by the way, was read out to my creative writing MA class on Wednesday and went over pretty well, which was nice.

And today’s is possibly the closest I come to “proper” blogging at the moment, too. This is basically a heavily fictionalised version of something that happened to me on Monday, in that one of the things here really took place.

The rest of it didn’t, admittedly. It also has a back-and-forth-in-time structure, because I like those.

Ruiners

By Nick Bryan

THAT MORNING

Everyone likes to think there was no better feeling than a job well done, but it still feels even better when you both do a good job and get it acknowledged by your damn superiors.

So when Andrew had gotten an email from his boss saying “Good work, Andrew – you’ve really done a job here”, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t love it. After skipping around the office for a while, trying not to boast to his co-workers or knock anything off their desks, he’d settled back down and announced it to his few hundred followers on Twitter.

He’d made a cup of coffee and it had worked out beautifully. Aromatic, flavoursome, left his throat feeling like it had been gently stimulated with velvet. This could, he thought, be his best day in years, and he’d had some bad ones in the past.

In fact, he was so overjoyed, not to mentioned determined to put off returning to work for another twenty minutes, Andrew called his girlfriend Jenny, both to share the good news and say that, yes, they should have dinner with her parents this evening. Why not? Things were going so well.

Not to mention, he got on well with the not-yet-in-laws anyway. They even regularly commented on each other’s Facebook statuses – his friends thought it was sickening. So this was nothing to be scared of.

THAT EVENING

Among the orange mood lighting, at a table that appeared to have been stolen from a rustic farmhouse, an awkward silence had descended before the starter even arrived.

‘So, Andy,’ her father began, despite the fact even Jenny called him “Andrew”, ‘did you see the game last night? Pretty good, eh?’

‘Oh, yes, good. We played well.’ He trailed off.

Giving Andrew a look that suggested intense disappointment, not-Dad returned to his soup without further comment. Even Jenny, who didn’t like football and was always bored by the two of them discussing it, glared.

‘So, Victoria,’ trying to pull something back, he turned to her mother, ‘how’s the business? Sell many socks lately?’

It didn’t take him long to realise this had been an error. ‘Actually, Andrew,’ her voice was shooting up the octaves now, ‘you might remember that the business went under last month.’

‘Oh.’ He reached for the right response. ‘Sorry to hear that.’

And Jenny’s father’s face turned red. ‘You already knew that, Andy, what’s the matter with you?’

Jenny looked genuinely scared that her father was about to put his fist through Andrew’s jawbone. She stood up, rattling all the cutlery, and tugged on her boyfriend’s shoulder. ‘Andrew, do you want to come with me while we wait for the starters and look at the… wines?’

No-one bothered to point out that they had a wine list on the table, had all ordered drinks already and their starters were just coming over now.

Before he really knew what was happening, Andrew was on the other side of the room, failing to justify himself.

‘What on earth? What’s wrong? Did something happen this afternoon?’

THAT AFTERNOON

With amazing work success in the morning, and a nice dinner to look forward to that evening, Andrew was relaxing in the office. The second half of the day was slipping pleasantly away from him, on a tide of light work and occasional checking of Twitter.

He’d just made his fourth hot drink of the day, traditionally the last one, so the end was nigh. He zipped off another email, proofed his latest spreadsheet, and then took another quick social media break. “OH MY GOD,” said one internet acquaintance, “what the hell is this? Can’t believe some people.”

Andrew paused for a second before clicking on it. As Jenny kept telling him, he was a sensitive soul. Best not to look at anything too horrific, but no-one had said anything about this being really disturbing.

So he went for it, the web page opened, and the strangled gurgle that emerged from Andrew’s throat drew the attention of a few nearby colleagues. Some news story about a cat being killed and left on someone’s doorstep. He didn’t get the details, because he closed it as soon as he realised it came with a picture.

And then he just stared, before fleeing his office to pace the corridors. There was a pounding rising in his ears and a gurgling in his stomach. The day was ruined, wasn’t it?

And there we have it. It was the thing with the dead cat webpage, if you didn’t realise, and then I was slightly down for the rest of the day. Luckily, unlike poor Andrew, I had no important event that evening, but nonetheless, beware the internet. There’s some bad stuff out there, and not all of it is horse porn.

Sorry. There won’t be a moral at the end of every story now, I promise. Copyright me 2012, please don’t steal, email me if you want it for anything, have a lovely week, etc.