Writing

So, I’m doing NaNoWriMo this year to try and get some short stories out, and have decided that the website material totally counts as part of my word count. Therefore, I present to you the first 500ish words I wrote for NaNo.

It’s also a bonfire night themed story, because I own a calendar. Perhaps a little bit of a scary one too, maybe I’m not entirely over Halloween.

And next week, the website story routine may change a little. I’m working on something. For now, plenty more stories are available as ever.

Just Some Guy

By Nick Bryan

‘Oh, sorry, are you awake?’

‘Sorry about this. I was told the sedatives would keep you out cold, but I guess I need to have a word with the chap who sold them to me. Can you move?’

‘Twitch? Giggle?’

‘Blink?’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.  Sorry about the needle pricks around your wrist, it’s bloody hard to sew that close to someone’s skin. I almost used a stapler to hold the outfit in place, but then I thought, it won’t really work if you bleed too much.’

‘And I know what you’re thinking, and the pain too, but you can’t feel anything, can you?’

‘Or answer questions, sorry. I always get awkward when someone stares at me like that. But that won’t be a problem in a minute. I just need to get these boots on you and make sure the join is solid.’

‘Sorry if the wheelbarrow’s uncomfortable, I know you’re at a strange angle. Sorry, I’ll try and stop talking now.’

‘Well.’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, never mind. So, you’re probably wondering who I am, I suppose? Just some guy?’

‘Well, truth be told, I was watching the bonfire night fireworks last year with my girlfriend and one of them shot straight into her face. I was… upset, I’m sure you can understand.’

‘So I did a little querying, stole a little paperwork and found out who should’ve been making sure the explosives didn’t blow onlookers’ heads apart.’

‘Sorry, I’m babbling. I’ll put the hood on in a second, then I won’t be able to see your eyes, and maybe I’ll  stop. But it’s been a year since then, so I’ve had plenty of time to think of something apt. Because I know you lost your job, but that didn’t seem enough. Prison would’ve been a start, y’know?’

‘So, I went down to the local community centre and volunteered to supply the guy for this year’s bonfire. Apparently kids from local schools usually do it, but I kept on at them. Then I spent three months making this costume out of sacks. It has bits of straw stuck on the outside, can you see that there?’

‘Which I’m sure will be a great comfort to you. I guess I’d better give you another couple of sedative shots before we go out there, I’d hate for you to start thrashing around. And stop crying, you’ll get the neck damp.’

‘Anyway, it’s time for the hood. Just need to lift your head a little, there we go. Perfect. Now, it might get a little warm in there, I hope that’s okay.’

‘That’s a joke, did you get it? Because… actually, you know what? Now the hood’s on, I think I can just leave you be. I might allow myself the luxury of attaching that with the staples, though. A little blood should be fine through three layers of sacking.’

‘Then we’d best be on our way.’

Copyright me, please don’t steal, email me to talk about it, comments below welcome, happy Guy Fawkes night, try not to accidentally burn someone in a scarecrow. Thanks.

Today, a story that started off as a broadly Halloween themed concept. I’m not sure if I quite stayed on topic, it might not be very scary, but nonetheless, I present it for your judgment.

Also, I find it helpful to imagine the cars in this story as being the ones from the Pixar animated movie Cars, which I have never seen. As ever, if you want to read more stories, they are in the archives.

Living In Cars

By Nick Bryan

Wayne let Doug drop, and then started scrambling over the fence himself, whilst his partner hissed at him to hurry up.

‘Hey, m’coming as fast as I can,’ Wayne hissed as he eased his crotch over the barbed wire, ‘you had me holding your bit of rope, this is hard shit on your own.’

That common sense wisdom didn’t seem to stop Doug muttered ‘C’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon…’ as Wayne made small hops down the vertical, before letting himself drop the last few feet. Neither of them could really make out each other’s voices through their masks anyway.

‘Okay, I’m here, let’s get this over with.’

Wordlessly, the two of them fanned out among the cars on the forecourt, each trying to find something worth taking. They were only two guys, after all, and they didn’t have a massive fucking sixteen wheeler to ship a fleet out. Two cars, one each, choose them, ram the gate and drive off.

They knew they wouldn’t have long once they’d broken the entrance open, hence why they had to enter using proper cat burglar methods. So now they had a little more time to scan around. Doug was sure he’d seen a nice Mercedes somewhere and he was determined to find it, Wayne was more practical. There were perfectly decent family cars he could drive out much less conspicuously, make a few quid.

There was a crunch near his feet, and Wayne looked down sharply. Nothing except an orange toy car he’d stepped on. He ignored it in the end; they were after bigger game tonight. It was horribly dark though. If not for streetlights, they’d be blind.

This was the only place without security guards that sold big enough gear to make it worthwhile. A couple of cars, all told, would be enough to get them out of trouble.

Still, he wanted this over and done with as soon as possible. He found a huge family car, proper kid-mobile with seven seats, and nodded at it firmly. This was the sensible car of his dreams. Nice shade of blue, plenty of space, sat nav as standard. He could get enough for this to keep him out of debt and into beers for ages.

Impatiently, he looked around for Doug. He’d surely be eyeing up a couple of sports cars by now, torn between Merc and Ferrari. It was down to Wayne to stand firmly over him until he made a decision.

He dashed around the cars to where he’d last seen Doug and looked around. They were not using torches, but there ought to be enough reflected light from polished new cars to make a man moving around visible, surely?

Fortunately, his problem didn’t last long. Car headlights snapped on, and showed Doug caught in their beam, frozen like one of those deer you hear about. Wayne was about to yell at him for being a moron, when he realised two things.

Firstly, two different cars had hit their lights at once, parked facing each other, leaving Doug caught in the crossfire. Secondly, Wayne wasn’t been at the wheel of either.

Moments later, one of them twitched slightly. It was so slight that he could have imagined it, but that was the troubling part. It wasn’t a judder, a rumble or a cranking of gears, it was a living motion, a tremble. The kind of movement you don’t expect from a machine.

The headlights illuminated the front of both vehicles, and made it perfectly clear: there was no-one in the driving seat, unless they were hiding way down by the pedals.  Still, there was a mighty rumble as both engines started at once and, before Doug could move, they slammed together. In a certain light, the number plates and headlights had seemed to curl upwards in a grin just before.

Doug, of course, was crushed between them, his pelvis bleeding its goo out all over the paintwork of the left hand car, and something that looked worryingly like shit coming out to the right. Even worse, Wayne thought he could hear the two of them clanging together through Doug.

And that was all he saw before he turned and ran. Unable to face another clamber over the barbed wire, he headed for the gates, before remembering that he had nothing to smash through with. He was nowhere near strong enough to open them by himself.

And then he turned around to see a huge family car advancing on him. In fact, it was the same one he’d been eyeing up a few minutes ago. Seven seats, satnav, and that weird metal grin dented into its maw.

The engine was barking and growling like a dog, getting closer and closer, when suddenly the bonnet hurled itself open. The whirl of machines inside didn’t look like dead metal and plastic. Instead, they were shimmering and twitching like blood vessels, humming and beating like a heart.

Which was the last thought Wayne had time for, before a radiator hose whipped out and wrapped around his neck. But that was merely a precursor to the main event, when it yanked his head down over the edge of the engine compartment, before the bonnet came smashing back down again.

Copyright me, do not steal, email me to discuss the mechanics of stealing, Happy Halloween, try not to get caught peeing on anyone’s car.

Another slightly more flashy example of flash fiction this week, perhaps more an idle character exercise than a story, to be honest, but at least it’s something. I’m hoping to get the productivity going again in time for NaNoWriMo.

But there are plenty more short stories on the website, and my 12,000 word story in an anthology, so hopefully this isn’t too inconvenient.

Or, if you’d rather not pay money, consider liking my Facebook page, I’m shooting for the 20+ mark. (Begging is a valid social media strategy, yeah?)

Colder

By Nick Bryan

‘So you reckon the fact it’s gotten colder is evidence of global warming? Colder means “warming”?’

‘No.’  Louise cracked her knuckles. ‘That’s why we call it climate change now. To stop over-literal pedants saying they’ve disproved science through semantics alone.’

‘Oh. Right.’ He considered the sledgehammer, but it seemed a bit much. ‘So isn’t that a bit of a cheat?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if any change of weather proves you right, then what proves you wrong?’’

‘Normal seasonal patterns?’ She kicked the door, but it wasn’t moving.

‘I guess. But you could point to, like, tiny changes in the temperature and it would still be proving you right. You’ve cornered the market or whatever.’

‘Not sure that means what you think it does.’

‘Sorry, now who’s being pedantic?’

‘My mistake.’ She picked up the axe and hefted it between her hands, enjoying the weight. ‘But yeah, we know what a normal year looks like. We can allow for variation. But it’s November and everything is freezing cold. Surely this situation proves my point?’

‘This proves nothing. And put the fucking axe down, you’re not using that.’

‘Fine.’ And it clattered to the floor. ‘But this is normally when it’s meant to be getting a little chilly, maybe a few log fires and scarves. Instead all the trains have stopped and your garage door has frozen shut while we’re inside.’

‘And you think the solution is to ram an axe through it?’

‘You already turned down my suggestion of starting the car and ramming it open.’

‘For a logical scientist, you seem very big on smashing shit up.’

‘Personally, I got into science because I liked burning stuff with Bunsen burners. And don’t change the subject.’

‘How about this?’ He held up a blowtorch. ‘Sounds like just your style.’

‘You think it melts the ice?’

‘Well, I’m sure as shit hoping it doesn’t go through the door.’

‘We could just go back to sleep and hope it melts itself.’

‘Our tiny heater goes in half an hour. You first.’

‘Okay, but I’m the professional so I’m doing this. You stand over there.’

‘If you don’t let me, I’m telling all the other scientists you said “hope it melts itself”.’

‘… What?’

Copyright me 2011, please don’t steal, email to discuss authorised stealing, please save the polar bears from climate change. Thanks. Sorted.

This week’s story is a bit briefer than usual. Sorry about that, I’ve been kinda busy with novel rewrites and my masters starting up again. Still, I think it’s not bad and it’ll take you about half as long to read as usual, so give it a go anyway.

And as before, you can get the anthology I’m in for as little as three quid if you go for the PDF format. It’s a decent story, honest.

Sketches Of Spain

By Nick Bryan

‘So, my other friends have been saying that scrawling all over the walls and ceiling of my bedroom makes me insane.’

‘Because, y’know, I did. I mean, I drew all over it. Not splodges or patterns or crazy shit, I drew proper pictures. I managed to recreate Paris in watercolours next to my bed, all reflections and moonlight and whatever it is people like about that place.’

‘And then I sketched out Barcelona, although it’s tedious trying to make somewhere feel hot with only light black and white, but I gave it a shot. My point is, proper drawings, real art, I’m not crazy.’

‘I know producing decent paintings of sunflowers didn’t stop Vincent Van Gogh from being mentally ill, but I haven’t amputated anything or killed myself – well, obviously – all I did was draw. I’m pretty good at it too, I think.’

‘And it’s not as if my housemate came home and saw it all over the house, y’know, like in the movies, and then screamed and ran away while I grinned. I own the place, I warned him beforehand, I can turn my room into a walk-in postcard if I want, can’t I’

‘No dead pets, no tin foil hats, no voices. Nothing that isn’t really there or anything like that. I barely even talk to the cat, millions of people admit to doing that. And you don’t see them getting friends coming up and saying “Are you okay?” in a high-pitched mutter.’

‘Thanks for bringing the paint and stuff over, by the way, I thought you’d want to see what I did with the place. I mean, I took a load of pictures and put them on Facebook, but it’s not the same, is it? Check out the architectural detail on that Barcelona, you can practically smell the Gaudi.’

‘Well, if you could, y’know? I’m not crazy, just very good at drawing.’

‘And I know you’re about to nag me that it’s time I left the house, it’s been three months, but I figured this was the next best thing, you know? If you can’t go outside, bring the world to you. See? And totally rational, since I’m a good enough artist to pull it off.’

Copyright me 2011, no stealing, just email me and ask nicely. It’s only 400 words, for crying out loud. Other stories are also available.

This Friday story came to me remarkably easily, so it’ll probably either be brilliant or forgettable. Not sure. I think it might be somewhat of an inside joke, to be honest, but we’ll see.

And if you like it (or any of the others), you can still buy the anthology containing my 12,000 word piece “Blood Will Stream”, of which more details here. Or you can read the entire Friday story archives for free as ever.

The Big Handshake

By Nick Bryan

‘To Joseph Holtz!’

Nearly a hundred glasses clinked in unison, and Joe almost recoiled. No-one else seemed surprised, so he felt weird about complaining, but that was one hell of a noise. Joe didn’t even drink, so why was it a problem for only him?

‘The most successful mediator in company history! Brokered more and bigger deals in ten years than I have in my life!’ The old guy, Joe’s departmental father figure since he started as coffee boy, grinned warmly. ‘And he’s made us so much money that I’m not even jealous!’

His colleagues swivelled nearly two hundred eyes in his direction, and someone at the back shouted ‘Speech!’ He felt himself blushing, even before the full horror set in. The big deal had gone through without a hitch, and this event had been called, he’d thought, for the bosses to congratulate everyone on their hard work.

Yet, oddly, it seemed to be centred on shy Joe Holtz. Had they planned this? Surely not? He knew damn well that other people had worked their backsides off on this from the very start, and they deserved their credit.

So, he realised, that was what he should say. Holding his glass of lemonade tightly, even self-conscious about the fact he hadn’t thought to use a champagne flute for appearance’s sake, he stepped forward into the throng and opened his mouth to address the huge conference room. Oh, he thought to himself, if I could just get a few minutes to prepare.

To his eternal thanks, a junior lackey, who hadn’t been important enough to attend, dashed into the room, wrenching the doors back on their hinges and killing the revelry stone dead. ‘Hey! Stop! They’re back!’

Everyone, including Joe, just stared. The old guy was the one to take control, even after half a glass of bubbly. ‘Okay boys, take them into a meeting room, tell them our best man,’ and he gave Joe a knowing look, ‘will be in shortly.’

‘Okay,’ the panicked kid nodded, ‘but they’re pretty angry, sir.’

‘We’re on it, m’boy.’ The old guy gave an avuncular smile and shooed him away, before curtly beckoning Joe to the door.

A moment later, Joe’s head spinning from all that citrus and sugar, they were swooping down the corridor to meet the apparently enraged client.

‘Sir,’ Joe began, hesitantly, ‘could you stall them for a few seconds?’

‘Oh, not this again…’

‘I know, but I’ve not done a meeting without preparing for years, I think I need it to perform without twitching or…’

‘Joe, come on.’ The old guy slapped him paternally on the shoulder blades, forcing a little cough out. ‘I know you can do this. You don’t need to slip off to the toilet for a line of coke, or whatever it is you always do.’

‘But it’s become a ritual, and I’d really rather…’

‘Kid, the client is angry. Get in there, seal the deal, and I promise I’ll get you twice the prep time for the next time. Okay?’ The friendly twinkle remained, but above it, a frown creased his brow, making it a bit sinister.

And Joe knew he didn’t have a choice. ‘Sure thing, sir.’ He gave a confident grin that felt about as sincere as that speech he’d never given. ‘Let’s do it.’

He entered the meeting room by knocking the doors open with a flourish, something he never usually bothered with. That was the first clue that something was wrong; the great Joseph Holtz was overcompensating.

There were other clues too, the biggest of which came at the end when the clients refused his terms, got up and left the room, his whole negotiation in tatters.

An hour or so later, everyone else was back at their desks, their faith in his magical powers bitterly shaken. Joe himself was at the site of the party, finishing off the soft drinks. He’d mixed coke and lemonade, living right there on the edge, but not once did he consider turning to alcohol. It wasn’t worth it.

‘Kid,’ the old guy had been surprisingly philosophical about it, ‘these things happen, you lose sometimes. You’ve won bigger deals than that, we’ll live.’

Joe couldn’t think of a worthwhile reply, so tried to express his gratitude by nodding.

‘But I gotta ask, Joseph, what’s the preparation all about?’

For some reason, he hadn’t been expecting that, so managed only a expulsion of ‘Huh?’.

‘Well, y’know, I’ve been letting it be for years, you gotta do what you gotta do, and maybe this one’s my fault a bit for not buying you the time you needed. But seriously, kid, what’s it all about?’

‘Oh,’ Joe weighed it up, but decided, in the end, fair enough, ‘I pray. Nothing special. No drugs. I just sit in an empty room and pray.’

‘Huh.’ The old guy nodded. ‘Yeah, I can see why you didn’t want that getting around some of the younger guys.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So,’ he continued after a beat, ‘is that what the whole teetotal thing is about? Some kinda religious stuff?’

‘Oh, no.’ Joe grinned to himself. ‘I got very drunk a few times in uni, vomited on a girlfriend and just, y’know. Had enough.’

‘That’s much better.’ And, with one final approving nod, the old guy slapped him on the back again and wandered off. All told, Joe thought, that had been a vast improvement on giving a speech.

So, copyright me, do not steal, email me to discuss any issues that emerge as a result of this story. And do consider buying that anthology with my story, you can get the PDF for three quid and I think it’s quite good.