New Friday story, and I’m afraid it’s a bit shorter than usual. My usual thousand words is on the longer end for “flash fiction” anyway, this one just didn’t need to be that length.

And today I’m going to talk about the perils of excessive social networking website use; not autobiographical, I hasten to add. (My jokes are way better than his.) More stories available here.

COL

By Nick Bryan

Three Days Ago

I finally added that girl on Facebook, I thought this might be how we finally bonded. Unfortunately, seventy-six minutes after she accepted my request (yes, I counted), her uncle died. I know he died, because she posted this:

“Uncle John passed away this morning. Can’t believe he’s gone. :’(“

So presumably she’s quite sad. I mean, I’m not certain. I know she used a crying face made of punctuation, but ever since “LOL” lost all meaning, it’s hard to tell whether feelings typed online are mirrored in the real world. I mean, are those real tears or are they “LOL” tears? Is she crying out loud?

It seemed rude to ask.

Two Days Ago

I woke up from a nap at 4PM, wondering whether I should have left a sympathetic message out of respect to the dead uncle. I mean, I barely know her, we’ve exchanged thirty-eight words at parties (yes, I counted), but still, it’s a nice thing to do isn’t it?

When I checked my computer, there were six responses to that status, many had the same surname, and one was from her. I didn’t recognise a single person there. Most of her friends had stayed out of it, so I’d probably gone the right way.

Or perhaps they’d all expressed their sympathy by private message or text. I do not have her phone number. Later, I typed “Sorry for your loss.” into the comments box and stared at it for a while.

And then it was bedtime.

One Day Ago

So, she posted something new today. It was surprisingly upbeat.

”Great day at work – boss was out so built fort out of stationary. Then it fell on Johnny’s head!”

So maybe she isn’t that upset anymore? How long does it take one to get over the death of an uncle? I mean, it’s only an uncle, after all. When my uncle died, I barely even registered it. Didn’t even warrant a Facebook posting.

So I decided, since she was being jovial, I could probably be funny in return. I settled on this:

“Did you only hold it up with sellotape? I really recommend staples.”

I waited for a while afterwards, but there was no reply from anyone else, which was a bit of a downer. No-one even ‘liked’ the comment.

Today

I noticed today, for the first time, she appeared to be on the Facebook Chat instant messaging thing. After seventeen minutes or so (yes, I counted), it seemed reasonable to assume she was on for a sustained session, rather than merely glancing at messages.

After a stiff drink, I said hello. It was a little awkward, but we did manage to exchange more than thirty-eight words, thus doubling our total. And then, in a bid to try and move the conversation onto a higher plane, I decided to try this message:

“Maybe if your uncle had used staples rather than sellotape to hold up his stationary fort, he’d still be with us today.”

There was a pause of six minutes, then she said:

“LOL”

Nothing else followed, I’m unsure what to think now. Maybe the uncle isn’t really dead.

Thank you for reading. Please ask before stealing. And remember kids, don’t spend too much time on Facebook.

After a slightly longer gap than intended, as I attempted to get back into the swing of writing new material for my long-in-progress novel, here is another Friday short-flash story type thing.

This week, with rare topicality, I am hovering around the notion of the Rapture, the religious event scheduled for last weekend. Apparently the righteous were meant to disappear to heaven, leaving the rest of us to wallow in our morally bankrupt filth; I have tweaked the concept a little. I don’t think this qualifies as satire, but I’ve been wrong before.

As ever, more stories are available.

The Idiot Proof
By Nick Bryan

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Rapture has taken place.’

‘Unfortunately, uh, there seems to have been a slight mistransubstantiation.’

‘I mean, “mistranslation”. Apologies. A mistranslation. The “Rapture” is not a religious event, it just happens to be in their texts. Like, y’know, the Bible and those other ones. It turns out, people were judged not on their spiritual worth, but their intelligence and practical usefulness.’

‘If you can still hear this radio thingy, then it appears you are officially an idiot. God has spoken. We are not sure what will happen to the world now, but there are reports of plummeting hygiene standards in restaurants, plummeting survival rates in hospitals and plummeting helicopters flown by co-pilots who cheated on their exams.’

‘Without intelligence, how will we cope? Of course, since no-one understands how to use a condom anymore, the next generation will be here shortly, but will humanity survive long enough? The answer will be difficult, almost as difficult as the rhyming dictionary I used to write this broadcast, and…’

At long last, Bob Slarne turned off his radio. They had been repeating the same report for the last week anyway, except during DJ segments. It turns out, even in a stupid-powered society, you could find someone to dribble between songs.

But if the news reporting became sloppy and not authoritative, the masses complain, even though they couldn’t do better themselves without spending hours upon hours on research. So the news reports became less and less frequent.

Many, unmotivated or simply uninterested, had stopped turning up for work. But Bob, a government minister with a sense of duty, continued to slave. All his Cabinet colleagues were newcomers or idiots.

Unluckily for him, Bob was the latter. He’d excellent advisors, surfed through democracy on sheer charisma; the man could give a speech, even answer questions efficiently, but when it came to preparing material or governing, he had people for that.

Make no mistake, Bob had been insulted when the Rapture left him behind. He’d known he wouldn’t be winning Mastermind, but hadn’t realised he was a certified moron. Still, couldn’t argue with the Almighty.

And worse still, since he possessed experience and token leadership skills, others kept looking to him for guidance. In fact, he had no sooner leaned back in his stately leather chair when the phone rang.

Bob knew it would be a request for help, because it always was. He just didn’t anticipate the scale.

‘You’re through to the Minister, how can I…’

‘Minister! Bob! It’s Zack!’

‘Sorry, who?’

‘The Minister for Defence!’

Bob was in his late forties. But somehow the Minister for Defence was a twenty-six year old called Zack. Even in a society devoid of intelligence, Bob couldn’t understand how this had happened. Still, even if the irritating spike-haired kid had all the gravitas of a Vodafone salesman, the news he carried did a lot of the work for him.

Bob’s rosy complexion whitened and he leapt up, not even grabbing his trusty suit jacket before fleeing the room. He bolted past his startled personal secretary, who was too useless to use Excel or access her email, and rushed down the corridors until he encountered Zack, who was sweating so profusely that his hair was beginning to droop.

‘What the hell?’ Bob gasped out, between heart palpitations. ‘How did this happen?’

‘The… um, the… foreign people called.’

‘Which “foreign people”?’

‘I… I think all of them?’ Fucking hell, Bob thought, how was he in the same IQ league as this man? ‘They called saying they’d had enough of boring diplomacy and were going to launch the nukes at us.’

‘Which nukes?’

‘I… I think all of them?’ Jesus christ.

‘Okay, fine, what can we do?’

‘Could we maybe… launch our nukes at them?’

‘I’m not sure that will defuse the tension, Zack!’

‘Well, you come up with something better then!’

‘Off the top of my head, I believe it would be more prudent to…’

And on that, it ground to a halt. The kid had uncovered his weakness. Bob could talk a good game, but now was the time to back up big words with big ideas, and he just didn’t have any.

‘Could we…’ Bob summoned up his entire reserve of acquired knowledge. ‘Duck and cover? Is that how they did it in the old days?’

‘Oh, don’t be so stupid,’ Zack sneered at the old man, ‘I’m not hiding under a table and fucking waiting to be atomised!’

‘Could we… ask the public? Maybe one of them has an idea?’

‘We’ll all be dead in minutes! We hardly have time to set up a PO Box!’

‘What about Twitter? Isn’t that how the young people communicate nowadays?’

‘No, don’t be so…’ Zack paused. ‘Actually, that’s quite a good idea.’

But before Zack could put it into practise, there was a tap on his shoulder and a whispered voice. ‘Uh, Mister Minister? I got this note, I’m not sure what it…’

Well versed in the uselessness of secretaries by now, Bob reached past his ministerial colleague and snatched it. As he began to read, a grin formed. ‘Apparently a series of nuclear weapons have exploded in their silos during an attempted launch towards the UK by…. France?’

He looked up at Zack. ‘So it was France?’

‘Oh. Maybe.’

‘Wow. The stupid people are too thick to launch a nuclear missile.’ Bob grinned.

Zack smiled too, although it was more of a smirk when he did it. He looked like he’d just sold a 48 month contract on T-Mobile, complete with the insurance. And Bob felt saddened, not just because of that (although Zack was a prick), but because he himself was still here.

Because that Twitter idea had been a good one, even if he did say so himself. Part of him had hoped that would finally tip him over the intelligence boundary and allow him to be Rapturised up with all his former colleagues. But nothing came. Either he still wasn’t good enough, or there was no chance of redemption for idiots who bettered themselves.

As ever, above story copyright me, please don’t steal it, email me first if you do and sorry if it’s somehow offensive. It’s not meant to be, I come from a place of affection, but I know religion is a tricky area to wade into.

Good morning. Another week, another Friday story. I’m a little annoyed I didn’t notice Friday was April Fools Day when I wrote it, as I’m sure I could’ve come up with something. Alas, it came to me too late to produce a new one. (It was about midnight last night.)

Anyway, as mentioned in yesterday’s Script Frenzy blog post, my frenzying may stop me from posting these stories in the next month or so, although I will still give it a go. But if not, you could always read the entire archives.

Or, if you are really desperate for more short stories in the near future, I might have something interesting to declare here next week. Maybe.

JS-90701

By Nick Bryan

Well, my name is Peter. I am in my room, with the lights on, the heating turned up and a couple of cereal bar wrappers on the floor. I don’t have a girlfriend, a flatmate or even a pet. So there is really nothing else here, except for JS-90701.

I work somewhere anonymous. I don’t do anything interesting, but sometimes they carry exciting things past me. The security is amazing; you’d think it was the army. In fact, perhaps it is, I wouldn’t know. They are all in suits and shades, rather than khaki browns, but who knows what the military fashion is nowadays? Anyway, sorry, my point: they carry these containers past, flanked by machine guns.

Sometimes they’re big, and other times very small. And every so often, the security men stop for a breather and a dump quite near my cubicle. There are often seconds when the stuff is unguarded, and I don’t think it’s in the arc of any security cameras. A foolish mistake, really.

You sound like a bright girl, so you might be able to guess where is headed. I managed to swipe the box, and I really did expect a gun barrel pressing into the back of my head at any moment. Or perhaps they’d forego the formalities and shoot me there and then, I don’t know. It depends how valuable this is.

It’s not as heavy as I expected, which is handy. I was back at my desk, sitting calmly, before they noticed anything. Of course, I was a pretty obvious suspect, but this is the one part I had planned. My computer opened easily. Most people, especially ones who didn’t have to use them much, tend to see them as a single solid box.

Of course, it was always possible that the grunt who searched my desk would have been the one who understood there’s enough empty space inside a computer to hide the box. But he was exactly as I’d hoped. I was frisked, charmingly, my desk was turned upside down, but my computer was not opened up. Lifted up, but kept closed.

I had to throw it out of the window to get it out of the building, of course, as we were being searched on the way out, but retrieving it and running home was painless. And here we are.

It says “JS-90701” in stencilled type on the side. It is metal, barely bigger than my clenched fist and with a blinking light on the side I half-expected it to contain some futuristic homing device, bringing helicopters over my house within minutes, but there is no chopping yet.

Now, I know we’re meant to ask for advice when we call your helpline, so I guess my question is this: What do I do with it now? I mean, I did it partly for the thrill, partly because I hoped it might be profitable, but I can’t open it. How am I meant to list it on eBay? “Stolen military box, serial number JS-90701, mint condition UNOPENED!!!”?

Surely no-one would bid, and even if they did, I’d be arrested before they could collect their winnings. I’ve heard about the black market, maybe this is the sort of thing I am meant to sell to terrorists, but where does one find those people?

I’ve studied it in some detail, but can’t see an obvious catch or switch to flick. I suppose it’s meant to be secure. I’ve got a few tools, a hammer, crowbar, y’know, but what if it explodes? What if it’s booby trapped? What if it’s radioactive and all my sperm have already died?

Do you really think I should give it back? You’re not just saying that because you think you should? I mean, you really mustn’t worry, you can’t be implicated and I’ve made sure you don’t know enough to involve yourself. “Peter” isn’t my real name, and you won’t find anything if you google “JS-90701”. Trust me, I’ve been trying for hours.

But you really mean it? Well, I guess I could. Not walk up to them, obviously, that’s fucking suicide, but maybe leave it in reception or something? Try and wash my fingerprints off it first.

Still, it seems like such an anti-climax, doesn’t it? I mean, I wanted my life to have meaning and I’ve stolen an mysterious blinking metal box from a bunch of genuine Men In Black. If I can’t make any money, I owe itself to at least find out what’s in there, don’t I?

Yeah, thanks. I think I’m going to do,it, y’know? I’ve got my tools, there’s no-one else around, so it’s safe unless it’s a nuclear bomb. And let’s face it, it’ll probably be a rock sample anway.

Thanks very much for talking this through with me, young lady. If they listen back to this call in the future, and perhaps they will, I hope they take my advice and give you a pay rise. After all, you’ve definitely helped me, even if it wasn’t in a conventional way.

I’ll have to hang up now, I’m about to wedge JS-90701 under my bed so I can get a solid swing at it with the hammer. Take care of yourself, though.

You’re totally welcome to steal these stories and definitely shouldn’t bother emailing me if you want to use them elsewhere. April fool! (Was that funny? No?)

Today is my birthday. I did consider some kind of full-length blog post on the subject, but I am not sure I have much to say beyond that. Life is decent, I am well, so I am posting a regular Friday short story instead. It is birthday themed, and I am very proud of the pun in the title.

As ever, you can see more short stories here, and I hope you like the new one.

Birthday Presence

By Nick Bryan

‘So, how old are you next week, Astrid?’

‘Twenty-seven.’ Astrid looked weary, although perhaps she was putting it on a little. Samantha could never tell. ‘I’m worried this might be the end of my mid-twenties.’

‘No, it’ll be fine!’ Just in case it was a genuine crisis of confidence, Samantha made her voice very concerned. ‘You can say it’s your late-mid-twenties. People will believe you!’

And Astrid laughed. ‘You’re very sweet, Sam, but that sounds too desperate. I don’t really mind. I mean, I’m alive, I’m happy, I have people, I don’t need to desperately cling on to everything.’

‘Oh.’ Sam nodded thoughtfully. That seemed like a good attitude. Fearless. Why couldn’t she be more like that? Not worry so much all the time, or look like a fussing mother hen.

Whilst Sam was hanging back pondering, Astrid stepped fearlessly out to cross the road and was immediately knockd down by a passing motorcyclist. Sam could have taken it as a parable, showing her why it was good to have a little caution sometimes.

But she didn’t see it this way. She just saw it as watching her good friend getting messily run over. If God intended that as a morality play, he was a bastard.

****

It was a week later, and more poignantly, Astrid’s birthday. By midday, Sam had almost risen from bed once, but it had been a false start. She had taken the day off work to celebrate; her flatmate suggested last night that she could go into the office, simply because it might stop her moping.

Enraged, Sam had shouted that Astrid wouldn’t have wanted her to do that, but said flatmate had simply shrugged and said Astrid probably wouldn’t have wanted her to lie in bed feeling shitty all day either.

She had lain there for some time regardless, but this logic had stayed with her. And so, finally, Sam groped around her bedside table until she came across her glasses, then sat up. Her duvet followed.

Her flatmate, Jan, who often dispensed sensible yet brutal advice, also had the bright idea that she take Astrid’s presents to a charity shop. This hadn’t gone down any better.

The funeral was tomorrow. Sam thought it might be nice to hold the funeral on her birthday, eat cake and do the whole “celebrating her life” thing, but Astrid’s family had not agreed. In fact, her characteristically gentle suggestion had ended in being screamed at by a crying mother.

Which had upset Sam a little too. At last, she got up and walked over to the door, intending to make her way slowly to the bathroom and get the day started in her own time. As she emerged from her cave, blinking, she was met with the severe features of housemate Jan, raising her fist to knock on the bedroom door.

‘Hi Samantha,’ Jan waved, not at all comfortably, ‘I was worried you might spend the day wallowing, so I got the afternoon off and came to keep you company.’

‘Oh.’ And after a minute, Sam remembered she never offended anyone. ‘That’s lovely of you, thanks. I’m just going to…’ And she trailed off into a stammer, jabbing her finger at the bathroom.

Once the door had safely closed behind her, enveloped by the smell of clean things, only then did Sam allow herself a couple of small sobs.

****

‘So, do you want to go out for some lunch?’

‘No, thanks very much.’

‘Okay, sure.’

It turns out, Jan’s plan for cheering Sam up amounted to little more than coming home, ushering her into the living room and switching the television on, then making inane suggestions to take her mind off it all. There was cash in the attic, bargains in the basement, probably a deal in the dining room, Sam just didn’t care. But she didn’t want to make Jan feel bad, so stayed put.

And when Jan opened her mouth shortly later, Sam would find herself wishing she’d had the guts to leave long ago.

‘Look, Samantha, I don’t think this is doing you any good. Don’t you want to at least go for a walk? I’m not even saying I have to come with you,’ she hastened, ‘but you should do something. I could make us some food, then we’ll watch a movie?’

This wasn’t going to stop, was it? Sam sighed irritably, not out loud of course, and decided she would have to concede eventually. And this was Jan’s least annoying suggestion so far.

‘Okay, let’s do that.’ She even managed a bright smile and enthusiasm, as she started to leap to her feet. ‘We’ll watch Love Actually! It’s Astrid’s favourite!’

And the grin on Jan’s face froze like death. ‘Oh, do we have to? I hate that thing.’

And she’d been doing so well. Samantha, having successfully risen, turned around and glared down at Jan on the sofa.

‘You were the one who wanted me to do something! It’s Astrid’s birthday and she is dead and I am sad and we’re going to do her stuff.’ That had come out as a long, high-pitched sob. She squeaked in another breath, before turning to leave.

For emphasis, Sam slammed the nearest door, even though she didn’t go through it. That would have left her in the kitchen, and there was nothing to do in there. She’d have ended up pretending she wanted a glass of water, then slinking straight back into the living room, past Jan, to get to the stairs and her bed.

So instead, she’d grabbed the door with an outstretched hand and wrenched it shut. It had flown into its frame with a mighty crash, making them both recoil. Near the door was a shelf of DVDs, attached to the same wall that Sam had just unleashed her fury upon.

The combination of the door rushing home, as well as Sam herself shoulder barging it as she jumped, send a mess of plastic cases falling over themselves. One particular specimen bounced off Sam’s head, provoking a coo of pain, before crashing downwards into Jan’s foot, dangling nonchalantly off the sofa. She clutched it up to herself, swearing less gracefully.

Whilst Jan massaged her toes, Sam picked the DVD up. Without even looking, Jan growled ‘It’s Love Actually, isn’t it?’

Grinning wider than she had for some time, Sam nodded. ‘That’ll teach you to be mean to my dead friend.’

Jan shook her head, still wincing. ‘I don’t think it was Astrid’s ghost that dropped a terrible movie on my foot, Samantha.’

But Sam didn’t even dignify that with a response. Instead, she put the DVD carefully on the table and headed for the other door.

As she opened it quietly, she nodded calmly but firmly at her flatmate. ‘I am going for a walk now. I believe you have some cooking to do?’

Copyright me 2011, please don’t steal it or anything, it’d be a horrible thing to do on my birthday. Requests to use this (or any of the others) elsewhere, or general birthday wishes, can be directed to me by email. And yes, today I become the same age as Astrid would have in the story.

Good morning. Today’s story was inspired by a brief Twitter interaction I had with pleasant authoring chap Nick Harkaway. Do read his book The Gone-Away World, it’s pretty fun.

I would write more pre-amble, but I am quite tired and have to put some trousers on and go to work in a minute. More stories are available. Thank you.

Underground Angels

By Nick Bryan

It was late at night. So late that the train driver had stopped bothering to tell his passengers about the delays. They stopped, started, slowed, and Jemima was seriously regretting staying out so late.

She didn’t even drink, for christ’s sake, so didn’t even have the excuse of being judgment impaired. Usually, she’d have left at a sensible hour. And the one time she didn’t, she was stuck in a metal box. This unsettlingly empty late service, bombing from one end of rural Kent to the other.

It was a little after midnight; where were all the drunks? You could normally rely on late services to contain at least one City Boy trying his best to be subtle as he puked into his briefcase.

But no-one. No-one at all. Jemima thought she spotted a person in the next carriage along, and had half a mind to leap out at the next station and move along. She hated feeling weak, but knew she’d feel better if there was a more innocuous member of the public in her eyeline.

Before she could make that move though, the train came to another juddering halt, minutes before the next station. Jemima had stopped trying to focus her eyes on the outside world long ago, as it was one long mass of black with intermittent flashing lights. But with movement ceased, she stared harder and a texture began to come into focus. It was that a rough stone wall.

And after getting this line a hundred times before, Jemima knew where she was: inside a tunnel. With a few feet of rock between her and the outside world, she waited for the driver to finally say something.

Or the train to move.

Or anything to happen.

For five minutes, this went on. For the first time in her adult life, Jemima considered a sincere tug of the red emergency handle, but that seemed futile. Surely the driver had noticed they were not moving?

Unless, of course, he had suffered a massive heart attack and was now slumped over his levers, choking out his last breath. Well, pulling the communication lever would be equally useless in that scenario.

Finally, she tugged her mobile phone from her pocket. No signal, not a single tiny pixellated bar. It said “Emergency calls only”, but that was merely a teasing afterthought. The mocking remnant of vanished connectivity, hanging in there to remind her that the phone took far too damn long to realise it was dead.

She thrust it away and slumped her head back. Still, at least she didn’t have to worry about personal safety – not when buried under all this stone in an empty carriage. Any potential rapist would need a pneumatic drill, and she didn’t think she was worth all that effort.

So she sat and wished she’d got a book, instead of a tiny handbag containing a mobile phone and some money. Of course, that was when the train caught fire.

Jemima had seen sparks leaping up from the wheels of moving trains before, sometimes as they zapped along at maximum velocity, and other times whilst grinding to a halt. But to her dying day, she didn’t know what happened this time. Maybe something jumped across from the live wire, or trains had moving parts she didn’t know about, even when the whole rig is at a standstill.

Regardless, it started burning at the base of the access door at one end of the carriage. By the time Jemima caught sight of the smoke, the flooring was warmed up, flames licking along underneath her. As the fire began to attack at the end, thick grey licks were wafting in under the main doors in the middle. Maybe it had been burning ever since the train stopped.

Finally, without help, Jemima tugged that red lever. It did absolutely nothing. Either the driver had already fled, or whatever connected the carriage to him had been burnt away. She growled.

So, while she was trying stupid things, she retrieved the mobile phone again. “Emergency calls only” it still declared, with an implied smirk, as surely it wouldn’t work underground? Still, she was now stuck between two advancing flames, and it was either this or hurl herself bodily through the windows. Obviously, that was next.

Quickly, she dialled 999 and waited until this was over with. Her absent signal bars suggested that she should not get her hopes up.

So none were more surprised than Jemima when a friendly male voice answered after a few seconds. ‘Hi there! Last Ditch Emergency Rescue, how may we assist you?’

She wasn’t sure, for a few seconds. So confused was she by the mere presence of the voice, she nearly forgot that she was trapped in a rapidly heating tin can, moments from being oven-roasted to perfection.

But when a bead of sweat formed on her brow, it did come back to her.

‘Hi, yeah, um, I’m in a train near Chislehurst, and it appears to be on fire, so can you… um, help?’

‘Certainly, ma’am.’

The man didn’t ask for any further information, so Jemima decided to inquire instead. ‘Um, who are you? And how am I, you know, talking to you?’

‘Last Ditch, ma’am. Have faith and you shall be saved. You’d be amazed how many people try a hopeful call on their mobiles when they think it’ll never work. Seemed a good market to move into.’

She fell over her words at that, but finally came up with: ‘So this is about religion?’

‘Good lord, no. We pulled a Satanist out of a lake in rural Cornwall once. Nice chap, but strange piercings.’

Jemima wasn’t sure what to say to that. Suddenly, a burly man with a large hosepipe prised the doors open and attacked the fire with extreme prejudice.

Liked this story? Want to steal it and post it somewhere of your own? Please at least email and tell me first. Copyright Nick Bryan 2011, or whatever the cool kids say.

On a suggestion from my Creative Writing MA tutor, I seem to be writing about schools a bit at the moment, and I see no reason you guys should escape. So this is a story about teachers and, yes, it is ridiculous.

However, I sent it to my little sister, an actual primary school teacher, for fact-checking, and she approved it, so there must be a grain of truth in there somewhere. Well, maybe half a grain.

And if you liked this, more small stories are available.

Crayons

by Nick Bryan

Over there! The poster little Liam made! The paints were daubed all over the place, because he hasn’t worked out colouring between the lines. Bless his little cotton motor functions. Maybe one day he’ll re-invent impressionism.

And dangling nearby, Alice’s mobile, I’ve no idea what all that stuff hanging off it is meant to be. Well, except the paper dinosaur, I definitely recognise that. I quite like dinosaurs, you see. I may have suggested it to her.

And the toys, scattered across the room, varying stages of decay. Bite marks, stitched repairs and coloured stains. It was seven at night, and they were by far the most intimidating presence in the reception classroom. They threw shapes across the wall, armless men and half-gutted foam shapes.

Even though it was my classroom and I spend hours every day in here teaching the reception kids, I had to admit, I was unsettled. Partly because of the dark, but mostly because I had no idea what was coming. Miss Dalston had asked me to meet her here, after a prolonged awkward spell.

First, she’d glared at me after I took the last cucumber sandwich that time. It had seemed an intense look, all things considered. After all, there was always cheese and ham. And then I’d re-organised my class’s schedule to book the main hall for a different time. No big deal, I had just gotten sick of five year olds vomiting because P.E. was directly after lunch.

But the secretary, a vacant, constantly-tranquilised woman, had either not noticed it clashed with Miss Dalston’s booking or simply not bothered to tell her. Either way, it had ended in more sharp looks.

Things came to a head this morning, when I spotted one of my kids beating a little girl with a branch he’d torn off a nearby tree. That kind of behaviour would not be tolerated, I’d said. Knocking your fellow students about is not permitted, and nor was vandalising the school scenery. Although he was the kind of pint-sized thug I’d have expected it from, to be frank.

Anyway, he kept protesting, but since he was one of my students, I felt there was no reason not to send him home immediately, pending a curt conversation with his parents concerning not beating other students around with saplings.

Unfortunately, in my disciplinary fervour, I forgot that the child in question had an identical twin. His brother was in Miss Dalston’s class, and it was he whom I had just sent away from school. To be honest, in light of the severity of the offence, I felt my decision remained reasonable anyway.

However, Miss Dalston did not see it that way. Her eyes raked into me as she stormed back from the secretary’s office, no doubt having failed to discern much of use. Since the secretary probably thought the twins were the same child and she was seeing double.

It was lunchtime when a scrap of used receipt appeared in my pigeon hole, a message scrawled on the back. She still had not spoken to me in person about any of this. Apparently I was to meet her in my classroom at seven for “a word”. Seven wasn’t particularly convenient for me, to tell the truth, since school was done by three, but I didn’t want to provoke her any further.

So myself and another, saner, teacher went for a pint to kill a couple of hours. He did suggest that perhaps I’d misconstrued the subliminal messages of her terrifying dark stares. Perhaps she was secretly attracted, and wanted me at school after dark for a thrilling illicit liaison.

When seven o’clock rolled around and the door slowly opened, that option dissolved in moments. There was no sex for me here. There was some disappointment there, but mostly fear. In fact, the only good news was that she was not wielding a knife.

She let the door drop shut behind her, and suddenly I wished I’d been bright enough to turn the light on. The lighting outside may have let me move around freely, but now it was creepy.

‘Hello,’ I waved, stupidly, ‘what did you want to see me about?’

Finally, she replied. ‘I’ve heard that bullying in schools isn’t just for students. I believe you are trying to force me out of here by undermining my authority and stealing my sandwiches.’

Unable to think of a rational response, I stared blankly. Suddenly, I realised that she was weaving through the tables towards me. I tried to keep one of them between us, but it didn’t work.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had a handful of crayons shoved into your face, but it’s a horrible experience, not to mention quite waxy. For a moment, I felt myself drowning in bright green slippery gunk, like some garish oil slick.

Fortunately, I was able to grab one of those partially dissected foam cubes and smack it into the side of her face, before rolling to one side, spitting out crayon and impaling my own legs on discarded action toys. Was this how she disciplined the children?

She was also on her feet, whilst I was still swearing on the carpet. I wasn’t sure if I was the bully or the bullied by now, but regardless, I was not enjoying it. I’d been expecting a rude conversation at worst, not a beating. I was left with no choice but to run away, unheroically.

As she picked whiteboard pens from her pocket and threw them like darts, I scrabbled upwards for the door, knocking my head on the side of a table in my haste. This was simply too British for words. Store it up in your mind for weeks, then have a breakdown.

I finally made it out of the classroom, the relief beating in my head and a hurled jack-in-the-box beating against the wall. Outside was a plastic school chair, ropes dangling from its sides and a small knife left near it.

Had someone tied up a child? This was downright strange.

Miss Dalston, a moment later, emerged from the classroom looking dazed and rubbing the rope burns that were suddenly incredibly prominent on her wrists. I just stared, as a small group of police came around a corner, expressions none too sympathetic,

The officer in charge was shouting something about lowering my weapon, and I suppose it did look like I’d been in a fight. Also, one of them said they’d found the child I’d locked in the cleaner’s cupboard.

This was one hell of a set-up. I didn’t think we teachers had this much free time. I was so transfixed that I forgot to release my grip on the foam cube, so one of the policemen shot me with a taser.

Copyright me, don’t steal without emailing, peace in our time, prayers for Japan, hope you are well, etc.