Winter’s Reign

This was another entry for the competition themed ‘Winter’, and I think I prefer this one:

 

Winter’s Reign

“Winter cleanses.  It takes the wild mud and confusion of Summer and Autumn, and transmutes them to soft, silent whiteness.  In the Winter it is possible to think, to consider the past year, and perhaps prepare for the next.”

Elder Phips recited the traditional greeting as the congregation settled.  His warm voice filling our hearts, while the warm church thawed our chilled bones.  It was cold outside.

“Let us all say thanks for the bounties which Winter provides.”

We bowed our head, and mumbled the ritual.

“Thank you Winter for cleansing us.  Thank you Winter for protecting us.  Thank you Winter for saving us.  Thank you Winter for providing for us.”

When I was younger I always questioned how Winter had done all these things.  Now I was a man, I knew what we were thankful for, though I didn’t entirely agree.  Still, the community around the church was strong, and our Elder kept us together.  I was not going to rock the boat.

After the ceremony Elder Phips invited me into his study.  His house joined to the back of the church, and there was no need for us to put on our full furs to get there.  There was some discussion of linking the whole village up in this way.

“Ah come in Jorgy.”

“Thank you Elder.”

“Oh hush, I’ve know you since you were a pup, please call me Phips.  Now I expect you are wondering why I asked you in here?”

I nodded.

“It is two things.  Firstly, I know the other hunters follow you.  Are you supporting the covered links for the village?”

I paused.  This had become an emotive issue.

“I will Elder.  While the resources required are substantial, I’m convinced that it will return more.  It will allow more visits, strengthening the community as well as reducing the time all of us spend getting ready for outside.”

“Good man, I thought you’d see sense.  Now if only I can get the salters to agree.  Any ideas?”

I thought a little.

“Perhaps remind them that they will get more visits, and more chances to sell their wares.  They aren’t fools, though they may act that way sometimes.”

“Excellent.  I shall.”

He stopped and looked at his desk.  The second thing, whatever it was, clearly bothered him.  It was also clearly the real reason he’d called me in.

“Ah Jorgy, there’s a more delicate matter.”

I waited silently.  I had a suspicion I knew what it was.

“It’s about, ah, the Spring.”

I had wondered if he had the courage to say it.  I stayed mute.

“Well, there have been rumours that you, ah, that you think the Spring might be coming.”

One casual remark, and now this quiet inquisition.

“No Phips.  I had but remarked that the South wind was less cutting than I would have expected for this time of year.”

He looked at me, trying to judge.

“That’s not all Jorgy.  I have seen your log-pile.  It is not up to the eves.  The Guidance clearly states that the log-pile should be built up to the eves during every long break in the weather.”

Digging himself out of this was going to be more difficult.

“Apologies Elder.  My son has been ill, and I spent the time looking for extra food for him to help him recover.”

“Hmm, I would have more sympathy if you hadn’t told Tomas that you didn’t think there was any point in having such a stockpile.  You claim that you didn’t use all of yours during the last big freeze.”

Ah, the crux of the hypocrisy.  He’d watched his neighbours when the snow had finally cleared enough.  They’d been manically burning their wood, to make sure that it was all gone.  The Interpretation of the Guidance was that all fuel supplies should be exhausted after a big freeze, otherwise Winter would send worse.

The problem was, the big freezes were less common, less vicious, and shorter than they’d been even a few years before.  The weather was changing.  But these fools could not see it.  I was rocking the boat, even while trying to keep my own keel even.

There was nothing I could say to the Elder.  So I said nothing.

He shook his head sadly.

“Jorgy, the Spring isn’t coming.  The devil is playing tricks, and you are falling for his ways.  I’m afraid you must pay penance.”

I wanted to scream at him, but there was little point.  I thought voting for the covered links, a measure I thought would become irrelevant in a few years, would protect me, but clearly not.

“Yes Elder.”

“You must do ten hours a week on community work.”  Which would mean the covered ways.  Ten hours would be tough, but it could be worse.

“And half your next hunt.”  I nearly stood at that point.  It took iron will to stay still.  Half my hunt was already taken as tax.  The other half was to feed my family.  With both halves taken, we would starve, or be forced to live off the charity of the village.  Which of course was the whole point.  The Elder liked to make sure we understood that the community was paramount.

“Yes Elder.”

He nodded.  Then smiled, as if the unpleasantness was now in the past, and we would all be friends.

“Good lad Jorgy, I knew you’d understand.  Now, don’t forget to make sure the other Hunters vote the right way.  You know the way out?”

I did.

When I arrived home Mary looked at my face.  She could see the Thunder, but then she’d known it was likely to be bad if the Elder had called me in.

“Oh Jorgy.  What?”

“Half the hunt.”

“Nooo”  she covered her mouth.  She knew hunger and feared it.  But she also feared the shame of relying on the bits of stew and weak broth from the other villagers.  The women would be kind and helpful, but they would be judging.

“I’m sorry Mary.  Perhaps I can do a double hunt?”

“Stay out there for that long?  Winter will get you.”

I smiled wryly.  She was trying to get a rise from me.

“Perhaps he will, but I might snare Spring.”

She laughed.

“Jorgy, it’s that kind of talk that got us into this trouble.  Do you want them to do worse?”

“I know.  But, I don’t understand.  It is so obvious.  Spring is coming.”

She shook her head.

“Jorgy, it’s been a thousand years of Winter.  How many times have a group of hotheads decided Spring was coming, that the old ways are bad and that they should be in charge?”

“I know.  But I am not a hothead.”

“Not anymore.”

“I’m not saying the old ways are bad, just, that change is coming.”

“And you should be in charge?”

“Winter’s bones woman!  No.  I would not want that.”

“Then why challenge?”

“I wasn’t, not really.  I am just trying to get them to see what is in front of them.  Yet…”

“There are some that won’t believe until their faces are rubbed in the mud.”

Such language from Mary.  She was clearly upset too.

“Do you think we should…”

We’d talked about leaving.  I believed that the changing weather meant that it was safer to be out, and that travel was now possible.

“Oh Jorgy.  I don’t know.  What about Karl?”

“We could leave him here?”  I winked at her.

“Our son!  Never.  Who would look after him?”

“It’s hard out there Mary.  I may think Winter is weakening, but He still has some strength.”

“I’m strong enough Father.”

“Karl, how long have you been listening!”  The whole time probably, though I’d only noticed his slipper sticking out a little while before.

He walked forward, holding his head high.

“Since you came back.  I want to leave.  The other boys all taunt me, they call me Spring’s spawn.”

I reached out to him, and he ran for a hug.  How had we arrived at the point where Spring itself was evil?

The decision was made.  We spent the rest of the day packing.  There wasn’t much.  I made sure they both had extra furs, minimal food and some basic tools.  We’d start off fast and light, in case the Elders sent someone after us.  Once we were several days away and I was confident we were clear I would build a sledge, and then I’d be able to hunt properly.  We’d have a few days of hunger, but less than if we stayed.

I left a note for the Elder saying that he could distribute all that we’d left.  He would have anyway, but giving him my permission would enrage him.  I told him we were leaving to look for Spring.

Gathering all our belongings we stepped into Winter’s cold embrace.  After centuries of cleansing I hoped that humans were pure enough to be given back the other seasons.  We were ready for whatever came after Winter.  We were ready for Spring.

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Winter’s Lament

This was an entry for a competition where the theme was ‘Winter’:

Winter’s Lament

“Why do they hate me?”  she cried.

My dearest Winter.  Such beauty, so misunderstood.

“They fear you dearest.”

“It is more than that.  They think I’m hideous!”

How could they think she was ugly?  When clothed in white she made the whole country look Christmas card pretty.  Perhaps it was because she stripped the dishonest leaves from the trees?

“Only a few fools my love.  Many love you.  Look how they celebrate you at your peak?”

“By hiding indoors!  Consuming food and alcohol in great quantities.  How many venture forth?  I give them bracing air, clear vistas and even a sprinkling of sparkling frost.  Yet they stay inside, staring at those flashing boxes and worshiping that fat man in red.”

This was a conundrum.

“Darling Winter, they honour you by spending time with their families, what more could you ask?  And as for the fat man… they do not shower him with worship, but with avarice and greed.”

She sniffed.  It was hard.  She had ruled once, a glorious time.

“Remember when this world was all mine?  My glaciers stretched across the continents, weighing them down.  It was quiet then.  So peaceful.”

“There are still echoes of that peace now.”

“Shattered by the coughing of machines, and wailing of human children.”

“And yet, on a cold crisp morning, there are many who still walk the hills and fields with wonder.  They marvel at how you reveal to them their environments anew.”

“This is true.”

“Some still worship you, delighting in your snow.  They swish across the mountains, and when you have left they mope.  Or fly to those places where you still have some sway.”

“They do delight me.”

This was better, perhaps she would calm.  I loved my Winter, but she could be a handful when enraged.

She was melancholy now.

“It is as if they would prefer only three seasons.  They would consign me to memory, and then forget.”

I could not argue, and perhaps it was better not to.

“I thought if I let them fly they would love me.  And they do, swooping across my icy ponds, scratching me.  Yet it is as if they can only focus on the bad.  Like the cold.”

“Which makes their cheeks red and healthy.”

Her withering look stopped any more such attempts at levity.

“What can I do?”

“Nothing my love.  Some will never be content.  Have you not heard how they complain about Summer too?”

“No, do they?”

“They claim she’s too hot.  That the sun it burns them, there are too many insects.”

“How interesting.  Yet they do not rejoice in my time.  I keep it nice and cold, and the sun knows its place when I’m here.  Insects, I remember them.  A few I will allow, but all the rest rightly sleep, and they do deserve it.  They have a hard task, they work hard in Summer’s glory.”

“They do.”

“So do they prefer Autumn?”

“Oh no.  It rains too much, the leaves fall and make a mess, and it’s too windy.”

“How strange.  I do not like rain too much, but it has its place.  And if the leaves did not fall they wouldn’t be able to enjoy the clean sculptures, showing the bones of the natural world.  Wind must happen for the leaves to fall properly.”

“Of course, and yet, they do complain.”

She was looking contemplative.  Then she looked at me.  “And you dear Spring, what do they say about you?”

“Ah well, they complain I’m late, or early.  That there are mad showers and that I’m still not warm enough.”

“None of us can satisfy them it seems.”

“It is why they build their boxes and hide away.”

“Yes.”  She was still looking at me, thinking.

I was worried she might ask the hard question.

“Dear Spring, why is it that I must leave during your glory?”

This was it.  How could I tell her?  How could I not?

“Winter my love.  You are my delight, my wonder, but I am weak compared to you.  You smother me and I cannot blossom while you are here.”

She shook her head sadly.

“Such a pity, I do so want to see your glory.  I tried last year.”

“I know, and how they howled at the sudden late snows and icy blast.”

“They did.”

She was tender then, and we just held each other.  Later she went out to spread some snow upon the world.  I slept, and hoped she hadn’t taken her thoughts any further.

She returned later that night.  There was an extra chill in her gaze.  She was wearing her icy armour, and carrying her hunting weapons, a spear and bow.  She stared at me, and I realised she knew.

“Now darling, you must understand…”

“Understand?  Understand!  Dear Spring, I do understand.  Now, finally after all these years.  In order for you to glory I must die.  Each year I die for you, and yet you do not have the courage to tell me.”

“I thought you knew, you must have…”

“Liar.  I can see the fear in your eyes.  You hoped to keep this from me.  Let me guess, there is poison in the wine you give me.  It works slowly, and even at my peak I’m already dying.”

I shook.  I wanted to deny it, but I couldn’t.

“This year there will be change.”

“No, you cannot.”

“I will kill you, and reign until Summer appears.  And then I shall kill her.  Autumn I might keep, for amusement.”

“But Winter, dearest.  You do not understand, only you can return from death.”

“Oh, I know.  And now the time has come dear Spring, for you to take a rest.”

She raised her icy spear and threw it straight at my heart.  I saw endless Winter rushing towards me.  There was nothing I could do to stop it.

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Filed under Dark

Flock

Another piece of flash fiction, entered for a competition for darker stories at Darker Times.

It didn’t win, and if I’m honest I wasn’t totally happy with it.  Sometimes the word limit helps, and sometimes it doesn’t, I think this is one where it didn’t.

 

Flock

The rain lashed down, soaking me in the darkness.  I didn’t want to be out here, but the flock hadn’t come in for their feed.  That meant they’d gotten out again.

Fortunately I found the hole in the fence quickly.  Unfortunately it was into the forest.  I’d rushed out without a jacket, and now I was paying the price.  Even better, my torch was running low.  No wait, now it was out.  So now I was in a dark forest, at night, in driving rain, looking for creatures whose colouring ranged from brown to black.  Could it get any worse?

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.”

The sound chilled my blood.  It was off to my right.  I called out, “Hazel… Catkin…”  The two leaders of the flock would normally come to me, though I’d always felt their names somewhat mis-sold them.  Hazel could be a real monster when she wanted to be, and Catkin was worse if anything.

“Maaaaaaaa.”

Off to my right again, then answered from the left.  If I hadn’t known better I’d have thought they were stalking me.  Then what sounded like a cry, followed by several more angry bleats.  I ran towards the sound.  I heard screaming.  The flock had found someone, and were stalking them.  I had to do something before it got out of hand.  I tried to go faster, but I was no longer on the path and the branches kept whipping my face.

The scream sounded again, and I leapt forward in a panic.  I found myself on my back, seeing stars and with blinding pain across my forehead.  I must’ve hit a branch.  The screaming had stopped and I could hear snuffling.  The rain seemed to be easing off.

Had whoever screamed been able to get away?  There were a few fences around the wood which the flock wouldn’t be able to get over.  Perhaps they’d made it?  I got up and headed towards the sounds.  I kept telling myself that whoever it was must have got away.

The moon had broken through the clouds, and I could see a clearing ahead.  Dark figures seemed to be clustered near the centre of the clearing, and they were making a lot of snuffling sounds.  I walked towards them, knowing that as they were pheromone bonded to me they’d just assume I was part of the flock.  I gingerly looked over at what they were gathered around.  It was the fresh corpse of a small Scottie dog.  I gagged a little but was relieved, it could have been much worse..

Then I heard more snuffling at the edge of the clearing.  The rest of the flock were there, gathered round a much bigger form.  Peering closely I made out a woman’s shape in the moonlight.  I gagged.  She was obviously beyond help.  I slumped to the floor, dazed and not knowing what I would do.  I couldn’t help railing at the madness of genetically engineering a cross between Soay sheep and wolves.

 

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Filed under Flash Fiction

A Friend in Need

I wrote this as an entry for a competition where the theme was ‘A Friend in Need’.  It was a bit of fun really, and I enjoyed writing it, even if it didn’t catch the judges’ eyes.

A Friend in Need

By Jason Gibbs

Paul sat fidgeting at the table, wondering when the waiter would come.  Laura looked at him and mentally shook her head.  He’d be great if he’d just sort himself out.

“Do you love me?”

Paul froze, caught in the headlights of the question.  The problem was that he did love Laura, or at least thought he did.  It was just that she was, well, demanding.

“Yes! Of course!”  Squeaking out the yes didn’t help.

“Oh Paul.  I love you too, but when are you going to get serious?  How is the job going?”

“Ah well.”

“You were fired… you quit?”

“No, actually.”  He looked a bit abashed, “They promoted me, and asked me to become a permie.”

Laura was shocked.  Maybe he was finally growing up, she was worried he’d stay a man child for ever.

“That’s great Paul!  We should have something to celebrate!”

Paul kind of thought coming out to a nice French restaurant counted as celebrating, but given the smile on Laura’s face he didn’t want to disappoint her.  As she waved the waiter over his phone buzzed.  It was Terry, but he didn’t have time to read the message before Laura turned back.  She’d been very clear with him that he wasn’t to check his texts, or answer anything other than an emergency, while he was sitting with her.  Or she’d storm out.  Again.

The waiter came over and Laura ordered some Moet, which he hated.  Perhaps there was something he could teach her for a change.  He stopped the waiter, and said, “Actually, do you have any Veuve Cliquot?”  The waiter nodded his reply and went off to get some.

Laura was impressed, she didn’t realise Paul knew anything about Champagne, or indeed anything that wasn’t in the Urban Dictionary.

Paul’s phoned buzzed again.  He managed not to make any sign.  Laura was looking particularly beautiful tonight, and he thought he might have properly impressed her for a change.  He didn’t reveal he’d learnt about Champagne during a summer serving at weddings.

When they’d first started going out she’d seemed quite happy with his jokes, and she never seemed bothered when he went out with his mates.  He’d spent time with her friends, who all seemed nice enough.  He’d even tried to set up Carol with Terry.  That had been a disaster though, and it felt like that had been the turning point.  From then on Laura had been pushing him, get a proper job, don’t drink so much, had he ever seen a gym, on and on.  The problem was, he did really want to be with her, he just wasn’t ready for all this responsibility.  The money from the job helped though.

After the starter she went to the toilet.  He’d had a dozen texts by this point, and he now read them.  They were all from Terry.  The first one was just ‘Help!’, they got worse and worse from there.  He was in big trouble, real trouble and he needed Paul.  Desperately.  Paul was certain it was to do with those gangsters Terry had been doing a deal with.  Clearly it had gone bad.  Damn.  How was he going to explain this to Laura?

He tried.  Her mouth slipped from a luminescent smile to a frown before ending flat and angry.

How could he?  She just didn’t understand him.  She’d tried to tell him that Terry was bad news, so many times.  This was it.

“Paul, if you leave now, then we’re over.  Don’t ever bother me again.”

He had no choice.  He left eighty quid on the table, grabbed his jacket and headed out without another word.  After all, what could he say?  He wasn’t going to abandon his mates.

He jumped into his motor and sped home, hoping he’d be in time.  Terry called, and his car automatically answered.

“Paul!”

“Mate, I’m on my way.”

There was a grunt of relief.

“I thought you were leaving me hanging!  Look, I can hold them off for a few more minutes but..”

There was the sound of gunshots.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Back of the warehouses, behind the Fedex office.”

Paul screeched up to his house.

“I’ll get tooled up and be right there.”

“Hurry!”

Paul ran into the house, and dived into the games room.  He jumped into his control chair, with the keyboard on one side and the controller on the other, and hit un-pause.  The speakers squawked, and the logo of East End Wars came up on the screen, along with a Ray Winstone quote he no longer noticed.  His character already had a load of weapons ready, he just needed to dump them in the Jag and get going.  He had to hurry, his friend was in real need.

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Filed under Flash Fiction

ArtAscent – Gold Winner!

ArtAscent (www.artascent.com) have been wonderful enough to award my story, ‘Shining Beacon’, their Writers Gold Prize!  It is a real honour.  The magazine has now been published, and not only does it include my story, but also a very nice analysis by Ana Bambic Kostov.

The magazine is available here.  Download is free.

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Filed under Dark

Coffee

I’ve been trying to explore different ways of telling stories.  This was my first attempt as using coffee ordering.  The aim was to write a 500 word piece of flash fiction just in coffee orders.  I’m relatively happy with it, and might well come back to the technique.

 

Coffee

By Jason Gibbs

“Can I have a tall, by which I mean medium, skinny: you see not only am I trying to lose weight, but also it turns out I’m slightly lactose intolerant, and actually since I started having skinny I have far fewer stomach cramps, though in all honesty I’d prefer it if you had goats milk, decaf: a few years ago I gave up caffeine for a couple of weeks as a test to see what it did, and I had two weeks of headaches and feeling like I had a fever so I haven’t touched the stuff since, in fact I think I’ve been caffeine free for over three years now, except once when someone accidentally gave me a cup and my heart started racing and I started feeling paranoid, really, it was horrible, never again, it’s evil I tell you, latte: yes I know it’s a weird Americanised version of an Italian drink which is only really had at breakfast in Italy and even then is considered more for kids, it has milk in it after all, but I like it, though I’m starting to wonder if I should have a white Americano, because I think it’s the espresso I like and not the milk, and what with the intolerance thing, and the lack of goat’s milk, I wonder if that would be more sensible, but in all honesty I’ve ordered this so many times I’m not sure I could really change.

“Anything else.”

“Yes, could I have a grande: what we used to call large, it’s for my boss who’s too damn lazy to buy his own coffee and thinks he’s a big man, both in size and organisationally so should have a big coffee, soya: after he heard about my lactose intolerance he had his checked and it was apparently much worse, so he has soya even though it churns his stomach, mocha: because he can’t admit he doesn’t actually like coffee, with an extra shot: as he thinks that makes him seem more macho, or possibly because he heard his boss get an extra shot once and thinks it’ll help in his campaign to get to the top.  Oh, and also extra hot: I’m not sure he knows what this means, but he asks for it, in a kind of, look at me I’m hot aren’t I kind of way, and his secretary rolls her eyes.”

“Cream on the mocha?”

“Yes, obviously, the guy isn’t actually lactose intolerant, and he hates the soya, so he always says yes to the cream and then pretends he only has a bit.  They used to ask about sugar too, but I don’t think even they would agree to add the seven teaspoons he has to have to stomach the stuff.  I suggested he have tea once and he nearly ripped my head off.”

“A tall, skinny, decaf latte and an extra hot grande soya mocha with an extra shot?  Can I have your name?”

“Murphys”

 

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Filed under Different storytelling, Flash Fiction

Hunting

This one was written for a competition which set the opening line, and had a 750 word limit.  I actually wrote an entirely different entry for the competition.

 

I like this version, though an early draft had R.O.U.S.es which were vetoed.  Unfortunately it feels too much like the intro to a story to be a proper piece of flash fiction on it’s own.  I may come back to it and finish the story…

 

Hunting

By Jason Gibbs

“Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain.”

Father had always been a well of great advice.  I’m not sure that was the best for my first day at boarding school, but his heart was in the right place.  Brain too, probably.

Another favourite was, “Penguins don’t need frying pans.”  If I’m honest I still don’t know what he meant, probably something jolly healthy like: eat raw fish.  Or possibly: technology isn’t always required.  Though he probably just liked how it scanned.

Of course the advice I should have given him was, “If you’ve just shot a large cat, don’t put your head in its mouth for a triumphal shot until you’re absolutely certain it’s properly dead.”  Not snappy I realise, but might have meant he’d have seen me graduate.

The years since hadn’t been kind.  But that piece of advice, while unhelpful at boarding school, had become surprisingly useful in the last few years.

“Jenkins!  Are you day dreaming again?”

“No sir, sorry sir.  Just remembering advice from my father.”

“Jolly good chap, pity about that whole lion thing.”

“Tiger sir.”

“Yes yes.  Get to work boy.  Sewers don’t clean themselves.  Take Jones with you.”

I nearly groaned.  Jones was such a despicable lick-spittle.  If I wanted to stop for a toke or two he’d be off tattling before I’d taken the first draw.  Also, more seriously, he didn’t understand the job.

Like my father I was a hunter.  Admittedly I was hunting in the sewers of our great capital, and not out in one of the colonies.

Jones arrived, cockily throwing his hat on the peg.

I nodded to him.  We were rarely on speaking terms.  He went to get his orders, and came back with his grin quite removed.  It would have been satisfying if I didn’t have to spend the next few days with him.

“Now Jones, we’re going out to the far reaches first.  Rumours of rat activity.”

“Spencer, we work in the sewers, there are rats everywhere.”

“Dammit man, this is the kind of activity we investigate!”

He rolled his eyes.

We were well kitted out.  Leather armour, including steel toecaps and heavy gloves.  Jones had the flame thrower, and I had the flechette gun.  It fired lots of tiny ice needles, which meant it was much less likely to cause damage to the walls, and the needles rarely penetrated leather.  They’d pass through skin and fur easily though.

We set out, and I tried to be civil to Jones.

“How long have you been here Jones?”

“Four extremely boring weeks.  Look, love to chat, but my brother sent me this great podcast which I need to listen too.”

With that he plugged in, and the only sound in the tunnels was our footsteps.

After hours of walking, and a couple of silent rest stops, we started to approach the area where the rat activity had been seen.  I looked around for any clues.  Jones carried on regardless, even after I tapped him and indicated we were approaching the danger area.  He’d never seen real rats.

I noticed slash marks on the wall.  Often the bigger rats would mark the walls of their territory.  We’d had a scientist studying them, he thought there might be a rudimentary language contained within them.  I hadn’t seen him for a while.

A screech made me stop.  The worrying thing was that it was from behind.  I tapped Jones again, and tried to indicate that he needed to get the flamethrower ready.  He ignored me and kept walking.

A few steps on he stopped and then started to scrabble back.  Clearly he’d seen the rats.  It’s always a shock the first time.

He backed towards me and started the flamethrower up.

I aimed up the tunnel as the creatures came round the corner.  There were hundreds of them, their eyes sparkling in our torchlight.  We must have found one of the bigger nests.

Jones opened up with the flamethrower, and the smell of burned rat filled the tunnel.  My job was more technical; I picked off rats which escaped around the edge of the flame.  I liked to think I’d inherited my father’s marksmanship as I killed them.  Each rat was stupid, but the swarm had intelligence and if enough got round they’d be all over us, so I made sure to focus on the task.  My father would have been proud of me.

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Something for the future?

Steamed Pumpkins

This was a Halloween themed competition.  The limit was 750 words, and the guidance was parallel worlds.  I really enjoyed writing this one (and also did a version featuring zombies), but struggled to find a solid finish, a point which was mentioned in the very nice feedback I received explaining why I’d missed out on placing.

I think there’s definitely a much bigger story here, and may well return to this world in the future.

 

Steamed Pumpkins

By Jason Gibbs

Behold, the incredible Hopkins Pumpkin Farm, wonder of the modern world.  Be amazed by the giant chimneys, spewing forth the by-products of pumpkin production, standing tall above the fortress-like barns at the centre of the farm.  Shall we go closer?

This is the main barn.  All the pumpkins are fed in here, and these giant machines sort them.  The wheels, belts, smashers and knives are all powered by pumpkin steam.  Where are the people you ask?  As well you might.  This wonderful machine was built by Theodore Hopkins, even before the plague hit.  He was rather an unpleasant man, and did not like people.

Theodore, never Ted, had a gift with machines; with steam, and, as we shall see, with wind up mechanisms of all kinds.  He built machines to help his workers, to make them faster, and save wages of course.  Then there was an accident.  A smasher hit a head, and not a head-sized pumpkin.  The poor victim took hours to die, and the screams lived on for some time.  Then a cutter took off a man’s leg instead of the stalk of the pumpkin.  The wound was so deep that eight pints of blood had coated the floor long before the doctor arrived.  The other workers, petrified, refused to work with the frightening machines, so he fired them, all of them.  Just like that.

The farm was closed for weeks, and the field workers heard mighty crashes, and some said, mighty screams too.  Then one day Theodore walked out and told them to start loading the pumpkins again.  They peered in to see a monstrous iron creature, all cogs, wheels and steaming pipes.  They fed pumpkins into the monster’s maw, and it cleaned, chopped and selected them.  It boxed and labelled them.  It was even able to cut lanterns, though some said that the designs were so ghoulish they must be tainted by the blood of the dead workers.

Then the plague struck.  The field workers seemed most susceptible to its evil charms, and soon Theodore had almost no one to work the fields.  He had been tinkering, but hadn’t been ready to unleash his new mechanisms, until he realised he had no choice if he was to gather in his pumpkins.  The first of his cog-driven men stumbled out into the field.  The few remaining workers laughed; convinced the old man had finally gone mad.  The cog-men could do the job though, and they didn’t stop at night.  Every few hours they would return to the innards of the factory, where they would be wound up again by the main machine.  They wouldn’t stop, even if someone was in their way.  A field worker didn’t move fast enough, and cog-man shattered his leg.  In previous days this would have been the cause of a strike.  Now the tired workers just packed up their bags, picked up their fallen comrade, and trekked home, never to return.

The pumpkin farm prospered, even as the plague strangled the life out of the countryside.  Theodore continued to tinker.  When the coal stopped coming he barely noticed, as he’d already converted the boiler to run on pumpkin waste, and gas from the giant compost heaps.  His greatest invention though, was the Pumpkin Master.  He invested it with all his energy, and gave it the magic of imagination.  It created the next set of cog-men.  These could plough up new fields, move boulders and even put in fences.  The plague emptied the neighbouring farms.  The pumpkin farm expanded.

Theodore Hopkins’ last day came.  He was ill and wanted to see his creation one last time.  He stumbled into the factory, and beheld the wonder he had built.  He went to see the Pumpkin Master, and after stroking it a final time, fell dying to the floor.  No human came for old Theodore, instead one of the cog-men came and picked him up, and carried him to the compost heap.  Nothing was ever wasted on the pumpkin farm.

The years passed, and the farm grew ever larger.  Farms were swallowed up, their fields converted to pumpkins, their buildings knocked down for more space.  Each year saw yet more tens of millions of pumpkins produced.  The factory farm produced them as whole pumpkins, as sliced pumpkin, it created lanterns in hundreds of designs and even experimented with pumpkin pies, all ready for Halloween.

What a wonder, a marvel even.  Where are the people you ask? As well you might.

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Filed under Dark, Flash Fiction, Something for the future?, Steampunk

Writing future.

This site is intended to be a vehicle for my writing.  I’ll be posting stories, concepts and hopefully good news.  Bad news will also occasionally get posted.

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Filed under General