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.

New Friday story this week! Brought to you by a particularly agonising series of rewrites. Anyway, I gather no-one likes seeing how sausages are made, plus if I don’t put some trousers on soon I’m going to be late for work, so let’s brush over that. More stories available in the archives.

Taking It On The Chins

By Nick Bryan

It was almost pitch black outside and Luke was struggling with a piece of coathanger in a keyhole. This looked a lot easier on television. On TV, any idiot armed with a long, thin object could access any door in seconds. But he had been trying for ten minutes to feel some connection, and nothing.

It wasn’t helping that his piece of wire only fitted in at one point. He’d attempted a credit card in the Yale lock out front, but that had been a dead end, as there was a proper keyhole below it. So the party had moved around back, where it was less conspicuous and the neighbours would not call the police. Thanks to Facebook, Luke knew that all the students who shared the house were away.

Unfortunately, two problems remained. One was the lock that still would not give way. The other was, well, the running commentary. The problems had started when it became too dark for Dani to read her book and Luke had denied her permission to switch on a torch.

‘So I gotta say, Luke, I didn’t realise you were so vain.’

‘Shut up. Busy.’

‘You’re pretty bad at home invading, by the way.’

‘Please quieten down.’

His tormented wire, after an eternity wiggling in a tiny slot, snapped suddenly, leaving Luke to sprawling onto his knees. He’d been leaning too much weight on that flimsy thing.

As his head hit the floor, kicking up mud from between the paving slabs, Dani stifled a chuckle. That came as a pleasant surprise to Luke, actually; he’d been expecting her to laugh out loud.

‘You alright down there, cat burglar?’

She stretched out a hand and pulled him to his feet. ‘Yeah, just…’ And he glanced sideways at the chunk of wire now stuck in the back door keyhole, before giving it a futile tug. ‘I think they might realise we’ve been here.’

‘We’ll tackle that in a minute.’ She pointed at the metal drain pipe next to the door. Even in the darkness, it appeared slippery, but was also definitely secured to the wall with chunky rivets. ‘So, wanna try climbing this?’

‘I thought you hated this idea?’

‘I do.’ She shrugged. ‘But if he really did steal your essay, we have to get it back.’

So Luke stared up the pipe. The hallway window was open, because the residents were not particularly thorough, so all he had to do was shimmy up his own height, grab on to the windowsill and pull himself up.

 ‘Come on, then.’ Dani pointed up the pipe with a shrug. ‘Let’s do this if we’re doing it.’

His determination bolstered by Dani’s apparent support, Lucas clamped his hands around the pipe as tightly as he could muster. Fortunately, he’d worn his black gloves in case they dusted for fingerprints, and they seemed to give a decent grip.

Still, he wasn’t sure what to do next. He almost attempted a two-footed leap into the air, when Dani came up behind him. ‘Okay then,’ she began calmly, ‘I’ll give your foot a boost up, and then you might be able to reach the window.’

She knelt down behind him and latticed her fingers together. ‘Obviously, you’re on your own after that.’

Well, Luke thought, it was the most dignified approach on offer. So, with a wince, he let his left foot rest on Dani’s hands and braced the other one against the wall. Hauling his hands over each other as she slowly stood up, he was beginning to gain altitude.

As he rose, he tried to keep his weight off Dani’s hand. It would be bad form to break her fingers, after all. Still, as his grip on the damp pipe slipped, he could feel it slipping back onto her.

‘Dani…’ He heaved out as she began to shake, taking his leg with her. ‘You okay down there?’

‘Yeah, hope this is all worth it’

‘Oh, totally,’ he growled, as his left fingertips finally reached out and touched the edge of the window. ‘That damn picture will be gone in a second, and then I… I…’

He trailed off as his legs shook with the effort. Unfortunately, Dani hadn’t been as distracted as him. ‘Wait, “picture”? What?’’

‘I… nothing, I mean…’

‘Oh, seriously? We’re doing this to untag that photo where you have a double chin, aren’t we?’

In that moment of annoyance, her fingers slacked off. And, at the same time, Luke had let his right leg drop whilst he tried to get his weight up to the window.

All of which left him in freefall. If he had landed on Dani, it might’ve been okay, but he didn’t manage it. Instead, he hit the ground with his shoulder, which made a very uncomfortable crunching sound, then started throbbing.

 ‘Wow. Um.’ Dani stood over him, momentarily calm. ‘You still shouldn’t have lied about the essay.’

This story was inspired by a random word generator. True story. Please don’t steal, as ever, copyright me 2011 if it makes any difference. Email me to ask if you are an exception.

After attending the Out Of This World exhibition at the British Library on Tuesday, featuring lots of sci-fi books on sticks, I decided I’d attempt science-fiction this week. Admittedly, it isn’t exactly hardcore aliens and time travel.

Oh, and for fans of stories what I wrote, I may have some exciting news soon. Maybe, just maybe.

Sealed

By Nick Bryan

‘Doctor Farmer? Excuse me?’

‘Sorry, no-one normally calls me that. Are we starting?’

‘We are. Can you just introduce yourself please?’

‘Of course. I’m Mark Farmer, I’m 37 years old and I’ve been working on “intelligent fabrics” since I was 25.’

‘And what does that mean, exactly?’

‘It’s a wanky buzzword meaning any fabric that does something other than sit there. Applications largely military, but I managed to sell a patent into fashion.’

‘Which was the “self-sealing join”?’

‘Yeah. The one where two edges of clothing merge seamlessly, rather than needing a visible zip or buttons.’

‘I gather it took off rather?’

‘Yeah, it turns out for a lot of people, the visible join is part of their “style”. I don’t really get it, but I guess I’m a scientist who mostly wears cotton.

‘Very good, Dr Farmer.’

‘Thanks. But we get used in hoodies and dresses, the occasional shoe. Apparently we’re the new Velcro.’

‘And it was a hoodie which caused the incident in question, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah. Look, I really do feel awful about that.’

‘You weren’t directly responsible, Dr Farmer.’

‘Please stop calling me that.’

‘Apologies, Mr Farmer. So, from your perspective, can you describe the incident? Again, you’re not in any trouble, we just want to get your expert opinion.’

‘Okay. Um, so the kid, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten his name…’

‘Ashley William Marks, of 33 Shortlands St, South London. Known commonly as “Ash”.’

‘Thanks. Ash was wearing a cheap hoodie he’d bought from a market in South London, using the self-sealing join. It was a cold, choppy day, so he’d done the front up.’

‘Sorry, how does it actually work in practise?’

‘The join? Well, you press the two edges together relatively firmly and they merge together. Then you just run the pressure up the line, as far as you want it to go. Then they stay as one until you press the notch at the bottom tightly and the whole thing comes open.’

‘Very impressive.’

‘Thanks.’

‘So, continue.’

‘Right, well, Ashley Marks was on his bike, cycling to see his friends or whatever kids do. Unfortunately, the hoodie was a  shitty knock-off, they’d stolen the join, reverse-engineered it or something, the police don’t seem sure.’

‘Is that possible?’

‘Of course. Once you innovate, everyone copies you and claims they didn’t. I’m just the scientist, you lawyers can worry about patent law.’

‘So the join didn’t work?’

‘Oh, it worked. But whatever sweatshop morons made the hoodie had put the seal on all the edges, up to and included the rim of the hood itself. And of course, Ashley Marks had the hood up to break the wind.’

‘And health and safety didn’t catch this?’

‘You think they have standards and practises in the half-arsed knock-off industry? We should count ourselves lucky the cords didn’t seal together and strangle him.’

‘Are you alright, Mr Farmer?’

‘Sorry. So Ash was cycling down the road, the wind was whipping his hoodie around, and the edges of the hood were pushed together hard enough for the join to switch on.’

‘Yes, that’s what we’ve got here.’

‘Suddenly, Ashley Marks went from wearing a hood to a full-face Spider-Man mask, only without the eye holes. Whilst cycling down a street in South London. A few seconds later, a large articulated lorry came around the corner.’

‘And then he was quite severely injured, yes.’

‘Oh, you don’t fucking say?’

‘According to his hospital records, multiple broken bones, a collapsed lung and one arm more or less crushed. Probable brain damage if he does wake up at all.’

‘Wow. He’s probably going to sue when he gets off life support.’

‘Yes, Dr Farmer, that’s why we’re conducting these interviews, just to make sure we have our bases covered in the event of litigation.’

‘You lawyers are such lovely people. And stop calling me Doctor.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr Farmer, but we have to be prepared. If he came after you personally, it could have a long-term effect on your work.’

‘He’s not exactly from a rich family, I don’t see him suing.’

‘But on the other hand, a few hundred grand from us could be their ticket to a better life.’

‘Lovely sentiment. This must be how the guy who invented the atomic bomb felt. I wasn’t really prepared for this after choosing to go into textile science.’

‘We have a full schedule of interviews, Mr Farmer, so we really have to…’

‘I mean, I can’t even say I “just wanted to help people” or anything wanky like that. I just like playing with materials and chemicals.’

‘Do you want us to make official record of that, Dr Farmer?’

‘Look, for the last time… oh, can you just piss off?’

‘Certainly, Dr Farmer. We’ll send the transcript of this interview along tomorrow for your signature.’

‘Can’t wait.’

And check out the all-dialogue thing. Brave format experiment or utter laziness? You decide. Copyright me 2011, please email if you wish to steal, thanks.

I realised today marks (almost) one whole year since I first posted this story about ducks and the whole tradition began! Admittedly, I haven’t quite managed a story a week, this will be the 31st I’ve posted in that time, but still.

In an indulgent homage to myself, this story also features a duck, and you can see the rest of the backlog as ever. Enjoy!

Duck And Cover

By Nick Bryan

‘Look, you’re not allowed to own a gun anyway, you know, legally, so you shouldn’t be…’ Mid-lecture, Eric stumbled over a tree root and needed several running steps to resume his footing.

‘Some of us have ways and means.’ And Matt hopped effortlessly over that snaking root, doubly mocking Eric with his grace and favours.

‘Great,’ Eric sighed, looking down the leafy slope before them. ‘If only I was a posh twat like you, I too could wander around forests, armed to the teeth.’

‘Don’t call me a posh twat. But speaking of which,’ he looked back the way they’d come and lowered his voice, ‘where’s my girlfriend?’

As the bushes rustled, Julia struggled slowly through. Eric was halfway tempted to repeat what Matt just said, but didn’t think it would ease this already awkward hike. Once his mobile had signal again, he was going to send another passive-aggressive text to his own girlfriend about cancelling at the last minute, leaving him the third wheel in a hellish tricycle.

To be specific, the front wheel; the one that cruised through the shit first so that the back two could avoid it.

But as Eric really got to mental grousing, there was a high pitched scream behind them. Dutifully, Matt dropped his pack and raced over to Julia, who had tumbled over the exact same tree root. Unlike Eric, however, she had not run the impact off, instead twisting her ankle and falling a short distance down the slope before the weight of her backpack brought her to a standstill.

‘You okay?’

‘Yes, I think so.’ But then she reached down to her ankle and winced. ‘Maybe not, to tell the truth.’

She smiled sadly, leaving Eric and Matt to exchange glances. That slope was still pretty long, neither of them wanted to end up helping an injured woman down it. But there was no way out for Matt without looking unchivalrous, which left Eric to support her other shoulder unless he wanted to look like a prick.

Amid a flurry of swearwords from Julia, interspersed with growls from the other two, they eventually reached the bottom, a mudbowl of dirt, leaves and animal faeces. Julia still could not walk without gasping, in fact their lazy efforts in helping her down had only knocked the ankle more.

‘I think we should stay here.’ She pointed insistently at the ground where she now sat. ‘We were going to camp anyway and I’m not going anywhere.’

Eric, to be honest, was happy to get a sit down, but Matt was furious. ‘What? But we had plans to camp over there.’

Before Eric found himself in the middle of a full-on dispute, in which he wasn’t even sure he supported either side, there was an interruption from a fourth party: a duck. It quacked, it fluttered, then finally skittered away into the foliage.

‘Wow.’ Matt breathed deeply. ‘I didn’t think there was even any water around here.’ And he gave Eric a twinkly grin. ‘So that’s dinner sorted.’

With barely a pause, he turned back to Julia and indicated the dry matter around her.  ‘Sweetie, can you scrape some of that shit together and make a fire?’

And without even waiting for an answer, he was off into the undergrowth, crunching after the duck and reaching into the pocket where he kept that gun. Christ, what an arsehole.

As per his earlier thoughts about chivalry, Eric should probably stay and help the injured girl build a fire. Unfortunately, he had more pressing matters to attend to. Dashing loudly after Matt, he hoped his clodhopping footsteps would make the stupid duck fly away. No such luck.

At last, no doubt due to his better diet, Eric overtook Matt and managed to get between him and the duck. The hunter was holding his handgun by now, which was a little intimidating.

‘Matt, stop.’

‘What now?’

‘You know what.’ Deep breath. ‘I’m a vegetarian.’

‘You’ve got a nice pasta salad. No-one’s forcing anything upon you.’

Eric was fairly sure that click was some kind of safety catch.

‘C’mon, Matt.’ Why wouldn’t the stupid animal just fly away? ‘Don’t kill the duck.’

‘Look, I’m not really in the mood for this. It’s bad enough Julia’s going to be whining all evening about her ankle.’ As Matt muttered darkly, Eric couldn’t help but notice the gun was now pointing directly at him. ‘Fuck off out the way or I’ll shoot you.’

Eric wasn’t sure he’d even seen a gun in real life before, and now he was being threatened with one, out in the forest where no-one would hear, in a fight about a duck. What the hell does a normal person do in this situation?

‘Matt, you’re not going to kill me over a…’

‘Fair point.’ He lowered the gun slightly to point at Eric’s leg. ‘Is this plausible enough for you?’

It was right then, for the first time, that Eric thought Matt might do it. Teeth gritted, eyes widened, sweating heavily; hopefully he’d picked up some kind of fever and hadn’t always been this insane. Eric could think of nothing else to do besides closing his eyes and hoping.

There was a gunshot, and then a flap as the damn duck finally ran for its life.

But instead of hearing his own voice yelling out, it was Matt’s shout that Eric heard. Slowly, he opened his eyes one at a time. His friend was on the floor, clutching his ears but not bleeding from anywhere. Julia, meanwhile, was leaning against very heavily on a tree behind him, lowering a tiny handgun. It looked like she’d fired past him, but with the barrel almost next to his ear at the time.

‘Christ, what an arsehole.’ She sighed. ‘Obviously, we both have guns. It’s a hobby. So can you come help me with this fire?’

‘But what about…’

‘After that remark about me whining, I hope I blew his eardrums out.’

As Matt writhed on the floor, Eric began to think they might deserve each other. He hurried to start helping with that fire before Julia thought he might be slacking off.

Copyright me 2011, please don’t steal without emailing me first, happy anniversary to me, etc. Trivia: This story was originally called “Another One Bites The Duck”, but that was just too much pun.

This week, in the traditions of such high-concept stories as Cowboys & Aliens, Pride & Predjudice With Zombies and Pirates VS Lib Dems, I have done Monkeys Vs Pigeons. It is slightly shorter than some of the Friday stories because, let’s be honest, there isn’t that much mileage in the joke.

And yes, this is some light relief after last week’s thoughtful look at mortality. You can read the archives here, and I might consider something more serious next week.

Monkeys Vs Pigeons

By Nick Bryan

In the last twenty-seven minutes, Ted had seen dark things. His friend Ed had been walking along, pecking seeds and knocking his own head into walls, before being snatched up by a huge, gangly orange arm.

Then Ned, more confrontational in his style, had charged beak-first at a rustling sound in a bush, only for it to burst out, covered in black fur, and crush him underfoot.

So Ted was alone, bewildered and lost in the forest. It was difficult being a pigeon under this stress. They weren’t built for being hunted by unseen enemies, for one key reason: if the enemy remained unseen for longer than ten minutes, Ted was likely to forget the whole thing and start slowly ambling along, gazing at the floor.

He wasn’t sure how he’d been separated from his friends, because once again, he’d simply been distracted for a few minutes and the rest of them had gone. It had just been him, Ned and Ed, until the other two had been picked off by monkeys.

Suddenly, Ted realised he could fly and slowly buzzed up into a tree. It was a jungle out there, and a strangely literal one at that. Hadn’t they been in Regent’s Park a moment ago? Where the biggest threats available were being kicked by a child or unthinkingly walking into a lawnmower.

And now they were in some humid hell. Ted fluttered to a higher perch, and was rewarded by a hurled grapefruit splatting against the bark next to him. Before he had time to stick his beak into the pulped remains, another one hit even closer and he tried to fly for safety.

And as he reached a higher level, trying not to look down, a tiny monkey with an enormous tail jumped onto the same branch. They eyed each other nervously, Ted trying to stop his eyes twitching, until the tail flicked out at him. Ted, surprised, jumped backwards, but unfortunately there was little space to manoeuvre on that tiny branch.

So he fell downwards, only just managing a few wing-flaps to slow his descent. On the ground, two enormous monkeys awaited, waiting to pulp him like they had his friends. Ted had no idea what he’d done to earn this rage, he’d never even seen a monkey before, and was pretty sure they didn’t have to compete for the breadcrumbs from the tourists.

Sulky hairy bastards. A huge orang-utan arm slapped him aside and Ted flapped his wings pointlessly as he went into a tree. He was dazed and wandering in a circle, which made him feel like everything was finally back to normal, when the huge black gorilla tried to seize him in a fist.

Hopping from one spindly leg to another, he sidestepped that, only to meet yet another backhanded slap from that gangly arm. Did the orange monkey not have another move? Apparently not, as another slap followed seconds later. Avoiding it by a feather, Ted suddenly had an idea hit him full on in the face. Which, at least, was better than another monkey-hand.

Quickly, before he could forget his own plan, he tugged his dented wings into motion and hovered in the air directly in front of the gorilla’s face. And it was a little slow to react as ever, because the orang-utan let off yet another slap first. Employing reflexes he barely knew he had, Ted hurled himself to one side, letting the flailing orang-utan blow crack into the hard cheeks of the gorilla.

And then, of course, monkey infighting erupted. Ted, lost in the jungle, fled for his life, hoping to god that he had just wandered into the wrong part of a zoo.

Copyright me 2011, please don’t steal, I know it’s tempting to rush off and make a movie, but email and ask first, yeah?