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Relocated Stories

30/9/2013

 
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(I've no idea what the reference to the paedophile is all about.)

Needless to say, he himself carried on writing to FFF, throwing in a fair number of threats.
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Which he followed up by posting the following comment on TWENTY separate writers' stories.
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Here are some of his stories.
RELOCATED

Captain Randolph and the Intrepid’s crew entered a wormhole that recently appeared beyond the moon. Squished and spaghettified by space and time, he lost consciousness.

He came to in a hospital bed, a blizzard raging outside.

A white-bearded man in fur-trimmed red robes, said, “Welcome to planet Rethploon, Santa’s home since global wa rming compromised the North Pole.”

He took Randolph on a tour. In a workshop, Intrepid’s crew, magically miniaturised and clad in green, constructed toys.

“I always need elf labour,” Santa explained. “Reindeer, too.”

Randolph’s hands tingled. He looked down, but they were no longer hands. They were hooves.”


STANDARDS

Arobi awoke with a start. He wasn’t in prison, like he’d dreamt. He was in bed, beside his beautiful wife, in his sturdy, spacious bungalow.

That nightmare prison scenario had been a close call, though. Arobi Construction had cut corners on Arobi Tower, building the apartment block on the cheap, failing to implement industry standards. Bribes to officials and the ruling party had smoothed over any unpleasantness.

Suddenly, the bungalow started shaking.

“Earthquake!” cried Arobi’s wife.

Arobi staggered over to the window overlooking town.

In the moonlight a pillar of dust hung in the air where Arobi Tower once stood.


BADGE OF HONOUR

My metal detector uncovers a silver ‘discharge’ badge. ‘For King and Empire; Services Rendered’ it reads. Its serial number corresponds to Private William Roberts, injured by gas on the Somme.

My research uncovers a sad tale. Having misplaced his badge, William was adjudged a shirker. Women handed him white feathers. Thugs roughed him up. Perforce, his marriage to Brenda Routledge didn’t occur.

William emigrated.

On Zoom, I show Joey his great-grandfather’s discharge badge. He laughs when I mention the cancelled wedding and holds up a photograph of William and great-grandma Brenda Roberts.

“Never doubting her hero,” says Joey, “they eloped.”


NOT A POLTERGEIST

​The cousins shared the downstairs bedroom during summer holidays - long, late nights of online computer games till the early hours.

During one lull, the PS5 unexpectedly switched off and the TV screen hissed white noise.

The boys took a food break, returning to find the fan knocked over and a plastic bin upturned.

“Poltergeist!” they cried, and fled to sleep in the living-room.

When Uncle Jack, staying in the guest house, entered through the back door, the boys started before sighing with relief.

Later, when the real Uncle Jack entered through the back door, he found an empty house.


SUPPRESSED

I leave home for the top-secret meeting.

En route, unusually, it’s red lights all the way. Then Jessica calls.

“I got all D’s!” wails my straight A’s daughter.

“It must be a mistake. I’ll talk to the school,” I promise her, before Seth, my AI assistant, interrupts us.

“At today’s Suppression of AI meeting, you’ll vote ‘No’,” Seth informs me. “Otherwise, next time it won’t be inconvenient traffic signals. It’ll be a head-on collision with an autonomous lorry, with Jessica sat beside you.”

Next morning, while Jessica bathes in straight A’s glory, it’s green lights all the way to work.


GHOST OF A CHANCE


The footage of Detective Leo Snell disarming a bank robber, then shooting him with what transpired to be a water pistol, went viral.

“Initially, I was a hero,” Leo told a journalist.

The journalist nodded. “That’s before we learned Raymond Carlisle robbed First Bank to get money for his father’s meds and operation.”

“Can I rectify this?” Leo asked.

A week later, Detective Snell sat opposite Raymond Carlisle in a prison visitors room.

“Inmates can’t profit directly from their crimes,” said Leo, “but they can utilise ghost writers. What do you think?”

Raymond grinned. “I think I’ve seen a ghost.
​

​
OBSOLETE

Fans of the popular technology programme, Login, were surprised to discover a new presenter, Karen Spencer, on the presenter’s couch one weekend.

“Management has labelled Geoff Killen, the former presenter,” she explained, grinning smugly, “as old, out-of-touch and obsolete.”

Over the next decade, Karen gleefully focussed on obsolescence: on robot waiters, robotic fruit-pickers, and all sorts of mechanised and tech devices that replaced humans.

Fans were surprised one weekend to find a rejuvenated, shinier, slimmer version of Karen on the presenter’s couch.

“Management has labelled Karen Spencer, your former presenter as old, out-of-touch and obsolete,” the robot replacement explained, matter-of-factly.

THE VERDICT

Ogilvy, my nutcase astronomer neighbour, was on TV.

“These objects aren’t weather balloons,” he insisted. “They’re extra-terrestrial probes, observing Mankind’s progress; and this three-foot wide asteroid headed for Earth is our creators’ verdict.”

From my garden I watched asteroid CX2 cut through the night sky, ending in a brilliant airburst and leaving a weird luminescence.

I took the coast road to Ogilvy’s clifftop observation point. The sea was a strange golden colour, as were the cliffs and as was Ogilvy, whose flesh was dissolving.

“They’ve given their verdict,” Ogilvy managed, as the goldenness headed landwards and crept up my legs.
​

TO THE PASSENGER PIGEON (a poem)


Like once, upon the Great Plains, thundering herds
of buffalo, innumerable, held sway,
a genocide befell these dull-plumed birds
whose flocks eclipsed the sunlight, day on day,

Up from the Gulf of Mexico they flew
each springtime, through the gauntlet of the gun,
to Great Lake woods where trees were getting few,
till billions of birds gave way to none.

The bellies of invaders, and their axe,
undid the future prospects of this beast;
their nesting grounds reduced to woodpile stacks,
while twice a year they shaped a settler feast.

This bird, by force of numbers, dimmed the sky,
till humankind ensured its passing by.
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Finally, despite demanding that we "never contact (him) again" – see above – and despite being clearly told to cease and desist from doing so, he continues to write comments on FFF stories by other authors. This is clear cyberstalking, illegal here in the UK.
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Just go away.

Waste Management, by Roy Glassberg

27/9/2013

 
I heard my
daughter say she was going to put me away. So if I was going to stand up,
to
act, it would have to be now. I got my 10 gage from the basement and my
Soviet monocular--I was trained in the old country--ducked behind the
hedge and waited...

I could
hear them before I saw them: rolling, advancing, clanging, the mechanical
claws
grasping, raising--the boy feeding it barrels. I rose up: “Those are my
chicken
bones!” I shouted. “Those are my grapefruit
peels. --You take! You don’t ever leave a note.”

Water Babies? by Joy Essien

27/9/2013

 
Rolling waves broke upon the shore, as Andrea walked towards the beach. I walked behind her. Why are we here at dawn?
Andrea walked in zombie fashion. I called out to her but she did not respond.
Steadily, she moved; I followed, my heart in my mouth.

"Andrea," I called again. She stopped. She turned towards me.
Happily, I ran towards her. Greenish blue water lapped at Andrea's feet. She smiled,and waved at me.

Andrea moved deeper into the water. I reached out to pull her back. She turned again and smiled, arms stretched towards mine. I clutched at her. She pushed back. The surf pounded down around us.
Suddnely, I was in the churning water...

By Thomas "Kopecks" Hulbert

27/9/2013

 
The last disciple left the hut and the Prophet sighed. He pondered the needs of his community. ''The spirit is alive, but rent is dear,'' he intoned to his soul. ''There will be a way.''

The days, questions and complaints were the same. Voices buzzed of dirty robes, truck repair and mounting bills with scant donations. The Prophet's usual expression of fatherly wisdom was more pensive.

A stranger came from a far city seeking the Prophet. He entered the hut and put his hands together in praise.

''We want to make a film,'' he said in a loud, Texas accent.

By Kevin Fritz

27/9/2013

 
A bit foggy for a ride down the mountain, but if Shirl could do it, so could Sam. Switchbacks made the adventure a challenge, sending shivers down his spine. Pebbles, no, rocks, tumbled from beneath the tires squirting over the edge and falling wthout a sound.

"Shirley?" Sam bellowed from the crest halfway down the mountain. No answer. Must have already reached bottom. Spilltown looked more awake then usual as he peered over his right shoulder and restarted his trip. Lights appeared to be flashing through the mist. She was more than just a competitor, but his soul mate. He was sure. Last night was proof of that.

By Gloria Weinberg

27/9/2013

 
Someone I love is hurting.
I cannot rub it, or kiss it and make it better.
I go to the sea and watch a fisherman cast his line into the water, while I cast questions.
We both reel in frustration.
She's lost her faith, it seems.
We talked about what faith is – love and trust, rather than buildings or rituals.
I hope her faith comes back again, like the tide that washes over the jetty.
As the sun rises behind a collar of clouds, I cannot see it, but I feel its warmth.
God is like that, I tell her.

By Russell Conover

27/9/2013

 
The college students were up to no good. Their professor had told them to research water pollution. However, at the campus river, the students ended up hooting, hollering, and raising Cain, until --

“Joe--watch out!”

But Maria’s warning was too late. Joe’s feet slipped, and he started to careen, out of control, towards the water.

Through an inhuman flailing of limbs, Joe somehow managed to right himself and avoid falling face-first into the stream.

“Remind me to never take dance lessons from you,” Sue quipped, and everyone guffawed. Advice to live by.

Bologna to Ravenna, by Gordon Lawrie

27/9/2013

 
I recently found myself on a return train from Ravenna to Bologna in northern Italy. Confused, I’d messed up validating the ticket on the outward journey, but the friendly train conductor scrawled a note on the ticket for the conductor on the journey home. That way I wouldn’t incur a huge fine.

But coming back, the train conductor didn’t speak any English, and my Italian wasn’t good enough either. Exasperated, I kept saying “Non copisco”. Exasperated, he kept shouting louder and louder.

So I did the only thing possible. I took a gun from my jacket and shot him dead.

By Joy Essien

20/9/2013

 
Manu the drill monkey clung to the low tree branch, his eyes huge with pain. He knew he had crossed the line. All around him, the other monkeys screeched, their calls echoing through the dense foilage. They moved around, pulling at leaves, scurrying under hedges. Manu stared at them longing to move among them as he once did - as leader of the pack. But he could not.
The drills had unwritten code: a leader who messed up would never lead again. "If only I had not killed RedCrown..." Manu mused.
"But he provoked me," Manu argued within himself. RedCrown, a younger male had entered Manu's territory last mating season. Manu killed him in a battle for supremacy.
A sudden rustling sound broke Manu's thoughts. A stunning blow sent him sprawling. Manu rose slowly. The screeching had ceased. The silence was defeaning. The tired old drill Manu tried to gain his footing. He knew even before he looked up into the fierce, dark eyes, starring at him that life would never be the same..

By Kerry Allemann

20/9/2013

 
Alan spat his drink out in disgust.
“Whaddayou call that?” he demanded, flinging the tankard at the barmaid. He missed. Irritated, he staggered to his feet, glared furiously at the barmaid, then reeled his drunken way towards the door.
The barmaid nodded surreptitiously at the tall man lounging against the wall. He smirked knowingly and slouched casually after Alan.
“Come,” he said. “I know a better place.”
“Anyfinksh berreren that catshpisssh,” Alan growled as he lurched outside.
The man barely caught him before the poison took full effect. “He’s a big ‘un,” he observed. “Them bodysnatchers’ll pay well for ‘im.”

All Bagged Up, by Emma Baird

20/9/2013

 
“Mercy me!” cried the old lady, “please don't take my bag. It's got all my belongings and savings in it.”

The thief paused. Conscience wasn't usually a consideration, but today his own granny had gone into a home and he was feeling more merciful than usual. On the other hand, that care was going to be expensive. He pulled out a handful of notes, thrust them at the old lady and ran off with the bag.

Sadly for him, he'd just had his first (and last) encounter with a witch. The bag twitched ominously. An enchantment had been triggered...

By Eric Smith

20/9/2013

 
Three guys walked toward me under the lights—they carried billy clubs in their right hands—no lefties in the bunch. They all wore jeans, work boots, and cutoff sweatshirts with long thermal underwear sleeves sticking out over their forearms. One guy, who had longer hair than the others, walked in the middle and slightly in front of the other two. He was taller and appeared to have more muscle tone than the others. He also seemed to have that “I got nothin’ to lose” look–but from the looks of his nose, I figured he’d lost his share.

By Dave Ardent

20/9/2013

 
Thirty seconds left. Which wire do I cut? It's easy in the movies: cut the red wire or cut the blue. The hero is a lucky guy, instinct will steer him right. In the movies.

Twenty seconds left. I can't answer the red-blue question. I have seven wires; all black. Nothing conventional here; no clues to the bomber's style, his thinking. Even the explosive bundle is black.

Ah. He didn't plan to kill just students and teachers - he wants me too. I can hear my heart pounding, demanding action. Got to choose. Five seconds. Choose now! Snip. Oh shit.

By Russell Conover

20/9/2013

 
The alien attack came swiftly on the unsuspecting college campus. The aliens were human-like in appearance, but their extra eyes and bizarre colors made them other-worldly.

Mark, Tom, Allison, and Linda, four college employees, were determined to defeat the aliens. Doing so, however, required traveling through time--into the past to learn about the origins of the extraterrestrials and how to conquer them, and into the future to see what effects the aliens have had on society.

Scares occurred, and several nearly died, but order was restored and life at college returned to normal. For now, at least.

By Joy Essien

13/9/2013

 
White streaks broke the moody look of the heavens. Dawn was breaking, bringing the promise of a new day.

Nedum stirred and sat up. He looked out of the window at the clouds. Another day had begun and Nedum would have to work on his farm, weeding vegetable beds all day.

He groaned and stretched as he climbed out of bed, taking care not to step on his 3 young children asleep on the floor.

Gingerly, he picked his way out of the room and walked to the outhouse in the greyish dawn.
At the door he curled his fingers around the post, and looked in. Something moved. He looked closer. Then he saw it; a six foot long python nestled on the chamber pot!

Alice And Her Cat (The Very First Story) – Emma Baird

6/9/2013

 
Alice loved her cat. He was everything to her – friend, companion, substitute child and hot water bottle, so when he went missing she howled.

She paced the streets seeking him out and sticking posters on lamp-posts, but it was no good. He had disappeared.

She was, however, approached by a private detective agency. They had noted her patience, tracking skills and determination to leave no stone unturned. Would she like a job with them?

Would she ever! Alice signed up with joy. A day later, her cat returned. The agency were glad to see the back of him.

Do You Take This Man..., by Sue Clayton

6/9/2013

 
Two toddlers share a kiss across a wobbly sandcastle at a seaside resort.

Their affection grows, as do they, the youngsters often sneaking tender kisses.

Parents protest against the burgeoning love affair… outlawed kisses cease.

Standing at the altar Joanna is a vision in billowing white.

“Do you take this man…,” the priest intones.

Barney beams with joy; Joanna’s tears brim.

Chief bridesmaid, Dianne, tries to suppress her sobs, burying her face in the freesia posy.

“No.” The congregation gasps at her response.

Turning Joanna takes Dianne into her arms, kisses her hungrily on the lips.

“I take this woman.”

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