Flash fiction

The Last Word

 by Roger Ley

First published in 365Tomorrows ezine - 9th June 2018

We were all staring up at the sky, waiting for the ‘Dawn Treader’ to light up her Hawking drives and start the journey to Alpha Centauri. There were hundreds of us, all members of the design and construction team with our partners and children, partying at our complex, near the foot of the Kisumu Space Elevator. A fair proportion of the world population would be watching.

I pulled the letter out of my back pocket. Estella had given it to me after the pre-launch ceremony two days ago, just before she and the rest of the Dawn Treader’s crew entered the space elevator and began the first leg of their journey to the stars.

We’d both worked on the project for eleven years and had been ‘together’ for six of them, the first six. We’d married, had two kids, I thought we’d been reasonably happy, but then came the horrible business of finding out about her affairs. Everybody seemed to know about them except me; nobody tells you.

It wasn’t an amicable divorce, she never forgave me for getting custody of Hank and Cliff. What was I supposed to do? She would be leaving when the ship was finished, a few years hence, it made sense that I give them a stable home. She was absent half the time anyway, either training or supervising, up at the Synchronous Space Station where the ship was being assembled.

She was gone now, not dead, but unreachable. It wouldn’t be possible to communicate through the blizzard of elementary particles leaving the rear of the ship. They’d be accelerating for eighteen months subjective time, but forty-seven years would pass, back here on Earth. By the time they shut the drives down and turned the ship around to start decelerating, I’d be ancient or dead. Past caring either way. The boys would be older than their mother, I wonder what she’d say to them, given the two-year time delay on her transmissions. The boys would have sent their messages two years before so that they arrived after the drives shut down. I expect they’d send pictures of themselves, their wives and children, Estella’s grandchildren. The next time they’d be able to talk would be when Dawn Treader arrived at its destination. The boys would both be about a hundred years old, but Estella would still be in her late thirties. When she returned to Earth there wouldn’t be a single person left alive who she knew. A big sacrifice to make for the sake of being the first woman to leave the Solar System.

The brazier of glowing charcoal crackled and sparked, a sudden roar from the partygoers. There, exactly on time, in the constellation of Centaurus, the Hawking drives lit up and blossomed like a three petaled flower, as big and bright as the Moon. Visible from Africa to Norway.

I looked at the letter, would Estella want to put things right between us, or did she want to have the last poisonous words? Make accusations I had no opportunity to refute, say things that would leave me bruised and angry for months or years? I paused for a moment, then threw the envelope, unopened, onto the brazier and watched it crisp and burn as her words turned to smoke and ashes. Hank and Cliff were both staring up at the beautiful multicoloured bloom of energy fields, they were both crying. I knelt down, laid my arms across their shoulders and pulled them into a family hug.

‘We have to remember the good times, boys, that’s what we have to do.’

It was, after all, my choice in the end.

End

He Seemed Familiar

by Roger Ley

First published in 365Tomorrows ezine - 28th May 2018

He was enjoying his day off after a hectic week, starting a new job in a new city. The taxi drew up next to him as he was walking downtown. An old, pale looking man leaned out, he seemed familiar, perhaps he’d been on the interview panel a month ago. It seemed rude to ask.

‘We have an emergency Dr Riley, they need you back at the hospital, it’s urgent, a difficult birth.’

Riley climbed into the taxi, and as it set off he listened as the other described the case, it became obvious that he was also an obstetrician. Minutes later they drew up at the hospital entrance, it looked Victorian, not the modern steel and glass structure he where he’d been interviewed. The sign read ‘Memorial Hospital’ though.

‘Where is this?’ he asked.

‘This is the old building,’ said his companion.

‘I thought they’d turned it into apartments,’ he said, but the other hurried him through the entrance doors and on down the main corridor. They entered the changing rooms, scrubbed up and walked through into the operating theatre. Its equipment immediately struck Riley as old-fashioned, out of date by thirty years at least, but the team looked up expectantly. Did he know them? They were all masked, gowned, capped, only their eyes were visible. The patient was prepped for a Caesarean, conscious but screened from the doctors.

‘I prefer younger steadier hands to do the cutting these days,’ said the older man. ‘I’ll assist.’

The anestheologist at the head end nodded and Riley set to work. Thirty minutes later the old surgeon reached in and lifted the infant out. He held it up smiling broadly.

‘Thank goodness,’ he said.

Riley asked one of the juniors to close up and lifted the notes which were hooked on the end of the bed.

 ‘How funny,’ he said, ‘she has the same name as my mother.’

The old man handed the baby to a nurse, almost snatched the notes from him and rehung them.

‘I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind if we make a slight detour on our way back. I have to attend a funeral, a close relative of mine, but it won’t take long.’

‘I’m not really dressed for a funeral,’ said Riley.

‘Not to worry, I’ll lend you a dark coat, I have a spare one with me.’

They changed and the taxi rattled off once again, ten minutes later they turned into the municipal cemetery. It took a few minutes to find the mourners standing at the graveside. The weather had suddenly turned unseasonably cold, the women wore veils, the men coats, hats and scarves. Riley and the old surgeon stood at the back of the group. The vicar did the ‘dust and ashes’ speech, but as the coffin was lowered into the grave, Riley caught a glimpse of the name engraved on the brass plate screwed to the top.

The two doctors walked back to the taxi and Riley noticed the company name stencilled on the side, ‘Styx Taxis.’ There were three young pit bulls lolling out of the open front passenger window. Riley hadn't noticed them before, he went to stroke one but the older man stopped him.

 'I wouldn't risk it if I were you.’

‘What an unbelievable coincidence, the deceased had the same name as me, “Martin Riley.” ’

 They were sitting in the back of the taxi by this time.

‘Yes, rather disconcerting for you, but personally I’m glad to have seen the old boy on his way. The taxi will take you back shortly Dr Riley, but I have one more favour to ask.’ He coughed delicately into a handkerchief and dabbed at his mouth missing the small streak of blood on his chin. He leaned forward, tapped on the glass and called to the driver ‘Take us back to the hospital please, the east entrance.’ The driver set off without turning around.

‘I need to go back to the intensive care ward,’ he slumped back in his seat and coughed weakly, ‘I’m very tired.’ He closed his eyes. Riley noticed, for the first time, that he was wearing a hospital pyjama shirt under his coat. His breathing slowed and seemed to stop. Alarmed, Riley reached for his wrist and felt the weak, thready pulse.

The driver half turned towards the older man’s side of the taxi. ‘Nearly there Dr Riley,’ he called.

End

Turing Test

by Roger Ley

First published in Fiction on the Web ezine - 25th May 2018

Mr Riley liked to start his day in the library. It was a short walk from his bungalow, in the Suffolk market town that he and his wife had retired to. When they’d first arrived, he’d joined the local writing group which met there. He’d spent many happy, creative hours in its friendly embrace. He told his wife it was as much group therapy as creative writing, but sadly it was all gone now. People had moved away, lost interest, died, he was the only one left of the old crowd. He and the chief librarian Mrs Peterson, who was nearing retirement. Mrs Peterson had a soft spot for Mr Riley, she had known his wife Estella before her illness and liked to exchange a few words with the widower, not every day, but most days. He was a fixture in the mornings, sitting in his corner reading the newspaper.

Mr Riley finished the paper and rummaged around preparing to leave. He checked that he hadn’t forgotten anything: gloves, hat, scarf, phone, then walked across the street to the “Hideout Café” for his morning coffee. It was only a little life, but a life all the same.

He arrived home at about noon, unlocked the door and stepped into the hall.

“Hello,” called a cheerful voice, a voice that sounded very like his own. It was Mr Riley’s African grey parrot. He’d moved it from the lounge to the hall because of its constant interruptions to his television programs. It had been Estella’s idea to buy one and now she had gone and he was stuck with it.

“Hello,” said the parrot again.

“Fuck off,” was what Mr Riley wanted to say, but he imagined the inevitable repercussions if he did. He ignored it and walked through to the kitchen, to make himself a sandwich, he coughed several times. The parrot coughed back.

 “Hello,” it called. “Would you like a cuppa tea?” Riley came back from the kitchen holding a packet of seeds and filled up the parrot’s feeder. “Hello,” it said, Riley sighed.

Mr Riley was thinking about the little job he had planned for the afternoon. He’d heard scratching noises in the attic last night. It was September, and he guessed that the mice had left their summer quarters in the garden, and were making themselves comfortable ready for the winter in the eaves. The noises had come from above his bedroom at the back of the bungalow. He changed into a pair of overalls, put on a disposable dust mask and found the long rod that released the attic hatch.

 “That’s the ticket,” said the parrot. Riley hefted the metal rod in his hands as he walked past and thought about braining the bird. “Hello,” it said.

Mr Riley opened the hatch and let the ladder down. He climbed up carrying his traps and a small quantity of peanut butter in an empty margarine box, he’d read that mice preferred it to cheese. The parrot called from below, “That’s the ticket.”

It had been a hot day and the attic was baking. He stepped carefully across the timbers, then knelt down and crawled into the narrow space where the rafters sloped down and met the ceiling joists. He lay down sweating in the rockwool and began to bait his traps, pushing them into the eaves. It was then that the heart attack struck. His chest cramped as if it was being crushed in an enormous crab’s claw. He lay back panting and clutching his chest. “Help me,” he whispered.

“What’s the time?” the parrot called back.

The cramping in his chest grew worse, he could barely move, he fell into a place between sleeping and waking. At times he regained his lucidity and tried to call for help, but finally he slipped into the blackness of  unconsciousness.

Two days and two nights passed. Mrs Peterson was walking home from the library, she passed Mr Riley’s bungalow on her way, and decided to see if he was all right. She walked up the path and knocked on the door.

“Hello,” called a voice.

“Hello,” she called back, “Are you alright Mr Riley?” she could hear him coughing.

“Help me,” whispered Mr Riley from the attic but his voice was too weak to reach her.

The parrot cocked his head. “What’s the time?” it said.

“About half-past five,” said the librarian. The parrot coughed again. “Are you sure you’re all right, do you need anything?”

“Would you like a cuppa tea?” called the parrot.

“Help me,” whispered Mr Riley.

“No thanks, I’m on my way home, George is expecting me.”

“That’s the ticket,” said the parrot.

Mrs Peterson walked back up the front path and on home.

Two more days passed and by this time Mr Riley was dead. He lay rigid and desiccating in the heat of the attic. Mrs Peterson knocked at the door of the bungalow again. “Hello,” she called.

“Hello,” called a voice.

“Are you feeling better Mr Riley? You’re not coughing as much, you certainly sound better.”

“Just the ticket,” called the voice. Mrs Peterson shrugged, turned and continued on her way home.

Another two days passed and Mrs Peterson visited the bungalow for a third time. She knocked and called, “Hello.”

The parrot, standing on its perch, looked at its empty water bottle and empty feeder. It raised a leg, cocked its head on one side and began to scratch it.

“Help me,” it called. 

 End

Easy Rider

by Roger Ley

First published in Erotic Review - May 2018 (In a slightly different form)

‘It’s in here,’ said Martin as he unlocked the door of the old, dilapidated wooden shed. ‘My dad lets me use this as a garage.’

The shed was sited on the edge of the golf course that his father’s family owned. They went inside. It didn’t smell too bad, and it was tidy but Estella wasn’t keen on the cobwebs.

‘I’ve never been on a motorbike before,’ she said as they gazed on the chrome and black leather masterpiece that was Martin’s latest acquisition, now he was old enough to hold a full license.

‘It’s a real copy of a vintage Harley,’ he said. She walked up to it slowly, taking in its aura of power and danger.

She turned, held his face and kissed him. ‘It’s lovely Martin,’ she said.

 ‘Climb aboard,’ he said as he reached down to pick up his helmet. She stood on the footrests and grasped the tall handle bars as he climbed on behind her and slid the helmet over her head.

‘Try this,’ he said leaning forward. He placed his hand over hers and showed her how to use the throttle, then pumped down on the kick start. The engine roared into life and she blipped it experimentally, the noise was deafening in the confined space. Smiling Estella turned to say something to him and her foot slipped off the footrest and onto the gear change, just as she jerked the throttle wide open.

With a squeal from the back tyre, the beast leapt off its stand and crashed through the thin planks at the back of the shed, scattering fragments and splinters in all directions. They wheelied across the golf course, front wheel high in the air, back wheel tearing a furrow out of the pristine turf and throwing clods in a high arc behind them. Martin was frantically trying to balance the bike as it hit a hillock on the edge of a bunker and leapt into the air, then came crashing down into a water hazard. The bike fell on its side, spilling them off; the engine gurgled, spluttered and died. Estella lay on her back in the shallow water, Martin was lying on his front levering himself up, spluttering and groaning. In the distance they could hear the whirring of approaching golf carts and men shouting.

 ‘Flippin’ heck Martin,’ she giggled, ‘that was amazing, can we do it again.’

He slumped back into the water muttering something incomprehensible.

Estella gazed up at the gulls gliding on the updraughts high above her. ‘You know Martin,’ she said, ‘one day we’ll laugh about this.’

End

Friends

By Roger Ley

First published in DECASP Magazine - May 12th 2018

In the jungle, the big orange slug quietly slimed its way along the branch. It scraped the soft green bark of the banana stem, enjoying the taste of the algae and fungi as much as the succulent bark itself. It bumped up against something, something that tasted different, something animal and inedible. It paused.

“Hello slug” said a croaky voice. It was the toucan.

“Hello toucan,” said the slug. “Nice damp day, not too hot, not too cold.”

“Damp may be good for you slug but it plays hell with my feathers, they start curling up and won’t lie flat. Makes flying much harder. You don’t get the nice smooth airflow, it gets all turbulent over my wings.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” said the slug. “I’m more of a slider and a slimmer than a flier.”

“Amazing isn’t it,” said the toucan, “all the different methods of locomotion us animals have evolved: jumping, flying, running, swimming, hopping.”

“Yes, and sliming,” said the slug.

“Would you like me to take you for a quick flip around the jungle?” asked toucan. “I could hold you in my beak and glide around the area, give you a better idea of your surroundings.”

The slug thought for a moment. “You won’t eat me, once you have me in your beak will you toucan?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, old boy,” said the toucan, glancing upwards and scratching his beak as he said it.

“Okay then,” said the slug.

The toucan reached down, picked up the slug, flipped it up in the air and swallowed it in one gulp.

“Sorry,” burped the toucan, “just couldn’t help myself.”

“Not to worry,” murmured the slug as the toucan’s stomach juices began to dissolve its bright orange skin and the poisons in it began to enter the big bird’s bloodstream. “Two can play at that game toucan.”

End

Masquerade

by Roger Ley

First published in Literally Stories Magazine May 10th 2018

The seed was sown when Riley joined the amateur dramatics group. He had played a couple of minor roles, first in a Sheridan play then in a Dickens, when the email arrived from the am-dram group’s administrator. It was forwarded from a film company needing extras for a few days filming in the local market town. He arrived at the crew’s temporary encampment in the central car park and was told he would be playing a policeman. He hadn’t worn a uniform since he’d been a scout, and was surprised by the feeling of empowerment it gave him. The helmet, the collapsible truncheon, the mock pepper spray, it was a new dawn, he felt marvellous, confident. He was somebody, he was a policeman.

The filming progressed over several days, local people seemed unsure whether he was an actor or a policeman assisting the film crew. There was a lot of time between takes and he moved confidently around the market square, giving directions when asked, even stopping the traffic to help the old and infirm cross the road. He walked up behind his next-door neighbour, laid the heavy hand of the law on his shoulder, and pronounced him to be “under arrest.” The poor man nearly had a conniption. Riley loved every minute.

When the three days of filming were over and he had returned the uniform to the wardrobe trailer for the last time, he felt a deep sense of loss. On a whim, he visited the theatrical costumier that his am-dram group used, and browsed the racks. So many roles, so many lives, so many possibilities. His first choice was a simple warehouse coat and clipboard. He drove to the city and took the park and ride to its centre. The clipboard and overall gave him free access to almost any building. He walked in and, if challenged, asked for the office of “Mr Parkinson, the general manager,” and then, after a brief discussion, decided he must be at the wrong address and left. Mostly he went unchallenged, he walked the corridors and offices, measuring with his tape measure, jotting notes on his clipboard, he even bought a colour chart and checked the decoration. It was okay, but not very exciting. He needed something edgier, something with more kudos.

The next week found him haunting the local law courts in the guise of a barrister, in white wig and gown. He moved from court to court, his black briefcase under his arm. He lunched in the restaurant and eventually plucked up the courage to enter the robing room and chat with the other silks. Security was lax, probably because there was so much public access.

After his pleasant day as a lawyer he returned the wig and gown and considered his next choice. Many of the costumes were historical and wouldn’t suit his purpose. He decided that hospital scrubs would offer him the most opportunity.

With a stethoscope draped jauntily around his neck, and wearing his green scrubs, he haunted the wards and corridors of his local teaching hospital. He had faked up an identity card on Photoshop, but he was never challenged. The trick was to appear to be examining a notice board and then quickly tailgate an authorised person as they passed through into the area he wanted to visit. He chatted to bedridden patients, and casually read the notes hanging on the ends of their beds. He offered them advice and reassurance, and on one occasion summoned up the courage to listen to a gentleman’s heart with his fake stethoscope. He couldn’t hear a thing, but nodded sagely and suggested that the patient shouldn’t over exert himself. Being a doctor was so much fun that he hired the costume for a second day. After a week he returned for a third time. People recognised him from his earlier visits. Nurses and auxiliaries nodded and smiled and he nodded and smiled back. He realised that it was all a matter of confidence, of believing you belonged. Wearing his scrubs he felt like a real doctor, just as he had felt like a real policeman on the film set.

Walking into the A&E department was his undoing. There had been a bad road traffic accident and a dozen victims had been brought in by the ambulances. A harassed senior doctor triaged a victim to him, and the staff supporting him realized his deficiencies almost at once. He was reduced to a quivering wreck by the experience, the blood, the pain, the screaming. One of the nurses called Security, they took him to an office where he sat weeping, a security guard keeping impassive watch, until the police arrived. He was arrested, tried in one of the courts he had previously stalked, and was given a two-year custodial sentence, the magistrate had decided he needed a short sharp shock. He was consigned to a category C prison because he had no record of violence, robbery or drug abuse.

Prison routine wasn’t too bad. He helped in the library and took part in the education program, tutoring the less literate prisoners. After three months he was made a trustee.

Investigators could not discover how he gained access to the prison officers’ changing room. CCTV footage showed Riley walking jauntily through the main gate on the evening of his escape, whistling and swinging his lunchbox. The picture of a man pleased to be leaving for home at the end of his shift.

His whereabouts are currently unknown, he could be anywhere, doing anything, being anyone.

End

Companeros

 by Roger Ley

First published in Literally Stories Magazine April 25th 2018

Giving it food had been a mistake, it was a mangy, cringing, skinny animal, and who would think that a dog would eat pasta anyway. It started to follow her on the trail, disappearing for a few hours and then returning and dogging her footsteps. After a couple of days, she started calling it Pedro. She didn’t need its company, this trek through the Iguazu National Park was supposed to help her come to terms with the divorce. That her husband had found a younger partner was humiliating enough, that he was of the same gender made it worse but losing both a husband and a competent handyman at the same time was unbearable. House repairs, gardening, car maintenance, Maurice could turn his hand to anything, she would never find his like again.

She decided to make camp, the sun set quickly in the tropics and here came the canine scrounger. As soon as she’d dropped her pack and started heating water it was sitting waiting, tongue lolling. She poured hot water over the pesto, couscous and dried vegetables and left it with a lid on while she threw out her pop tent, unrolled her sleeping bag, then sat down to her ‘feast.’ It tasted okay, the Tabasco sauce helped, she was hoping to lose a few pounds anyway, the dog seemed to enjoy it when she scraped the last few spoonsful onto the ground. It never came near her, never sought affection. Just as well, scabby looking thing, probably had ringworm and God alone knew what else.

The dog sloped off into the jungle brush as it did at any sign of trouble, other trekkers, odd animals, even large birds. Fucking tail tucker. Although, she had to admit, cowardice and the ability to eat a varied diet were both useful survival skills.

 She stripped off her clothes, peed a few steps from the tent, sponge washed and climbed into the sack. She heard the dog barking about a hundred yards away. She sat up and shouted loudly for it to, ‘Shut up or fuck off.’ Feeling better for her primal scream, she lay back, relaxed and drifted gently as the light faded and the temperature dropped.

Suddenly she was awake. It was dark, pitch black, and there was something in the sleeping bag with her. Something heavy, something smooth. A snake, a big one, almost certainly a constrictor, it was slowly sliding over and under her, wrapping its coils around her, it had already pinned her arms to her sides.

It stopped. She daren’t move as it pushed its head through the top opening. The laced top opening that she had loosely sealed to keep the heat in. They lay like lovers, she felt its gentle intermittent breath on her face and barely dared to breath herself.

She shifted slightly, the snake tensed and gripped her. She stopped and lay still. It wasn’t hungry then, just liked the warmth. Its head lay close to her ear now and she could hear its breathing.

She thought about screaming and unconsciously began to fill her lungs. The snake gripped her again, tighter this time, she could only shallow breath. She felt its muscular smoothness on her back and thighs. There was no point in screaming, there might not be another trekker for miles. She decided to pray, it would be a diversion, and she had to stay calm. Picturing the rosary, she prayed to the Virgin, telling the beads in her imagination. Slowly time passed, the sun came up, the day began to warm and the snake slid soundlessly away. It was momentarily hampered in its exit from the bag by a noticeable bulge about half way down its length, its last meal, the meal that had saved her life. She lay quietly for a few minutes then forced herself to get up and break camp. She muscled into her pack and set off, just two solitary days until she reached the Iguazu Falls and the end of the journey.

End

Piranha

By Roger Ley

First published in The Dirty Pool Magazine April 2nd 2018

The piranha grinned at him through the window of the thrift store. Yellow green, shiny, about six inches long, teeth projecting forward from the jaw bones, a personification of evil mounted on a simple rectangular wooden stand.

On a whim he went in, paid the couple of dollars, and took it home. His wife had died a couple of years before, he didn’t have to explain his idiosyncratic purchases to anyone. Anyway, it was she who had insisted on browsing the goodwill shops and thrift stores in the area and it was a habit he continued, it helped to fill his time. He had a small area of his backyard populated with quirky and unlikely items. Lizards made from coke cans and wire, small ugly sculptures, old bottles he’d dug up, strange and grotesque artefacts, all from the thrift stores. He called it the “Garden of Earthly Delight.” His new acquisition was definitely going to be displayed on the book shelves in his den,.

Arriving home, he placed the piranha on the kitchen table, made coffee and while it brewed he sat and studied the fish through his reading glasses.

‘What a handsome fellow you are,’ he said. The fish grinned back at him, as if it knew something he didn’t, something funny.

Years before, when he first retired, he’d dug a large pond in his back yard, it was an attempt to lose some weight and get fit after years in a sedentary office job, it had taken weeks. After he lined and filled it his wife had populated it with reeds and weeds and various types of goldfish. He’d always thought them fussy and boring, he wasn’t too worried when the local herons wet their beaks taking their quota.

 He did some research on the internet and found that he could purchase live piranhas quite easily. There was a small cold-water variety that lived in the upper reaches of the rivers of the Andes, they would be able to survive the winters here.

He bought half a dozen tiny juveniles and nursed them in an aquarium. After a few months he felt they were big enough to be released into the big pond. The results were predictable, slowly but surely the goldfish population declined and, after about a year, were extinct. As for the piranhas, they grinned quietly to themselves and went about their business like the good little psychopaths they were, gliding through the shadowy depths or swimming just under the surface, their dorsal fins leaving circular punctuations as they broke through the sticky surface tension. They were happy, they were comfortable, so they began to breed.

He fed them, they liked anything meaty, dog food, cat food, scraps from the butcher. For such aggressive creatures, they were remarkably respectful of each other at feeding time, each waiting their turn. He loved to see them motoring across towards him from all parts of the pond, when he made his regular afternoon visit with meaty treats and the occasional chicken carcass.

He showed them to his infrequent visitors, warning them not to put their hands in the water. Each fish would only tear off a small bite, he explained, but it was the accumulated effect that was so horrifying.

It was the mailman who noticed the pileup in his mailbox. He was a church goer who felt a duty towards his older customers especially those who lived alone. After two weeks he rang social services. A social worker came to the house but couldn’t get an answer at the front or back doors, so she rang the police, and it was they who tipped of the local paper.

“Skeleton found in pond” read the headline.

“Several police officers suffered injuries to their hands and arms while recovering the skeleton of a recently deceased resident from the pond in his backyard. It is believed to be Mr Martin Riley (69) of 14 Church Road, Bruisyard. The authorities were unable to determine a cause of death.

‘There was a complete lack of soft tissue,’ said police pathologist Dr Erin Matthews. ‘The victim may have suffered a stroke, a heart attack or simply tripped and fallen into his pond. We’ll probably never know.’ ”

The paper declined to report the facemask and snorkel, chewed and damaged but still loosely attached to the skull, nor the empty pint bourbon bottle at the side of the pond. It would be too macabre for the taste of the ‘Rocksprings County Inquirer’s’ readership.

And the piranhas? They grinned their grins and swam their swims, they were used to waiting. There were always the visits of the herons to look forward to, or maybe something larger.

End

Star Sign

by Roger Ley

First published in 365tomorrows Magazine March 25th 2018

‘So, what’s your star sign?’ Mary asked, and took a sip from her glass, she watched him closely over the rim. It was one of her stock questions on first dates. You could tell a lot about a man, depending on how he reacted. His actual star sign was irrelevant, she didn’t believe in astrology.

She liked to meet new prospects in the pub, on the way home from work. It was easy to make a hasty exit after one polite drink if the ‘Perfect Match’ was less than perfect. And, let’s face it, most of them were, it was just a matter of degree.

‘I’m not sure, I think you call it Antares.’

‘There isn’t a star sign called Antares,’ she said. She picked up her glass and appraised him as she took another sip.

He touched his ear and paused for a few seconds as if listening. ‘Oh, what star sign,’ he said, ‘a subgroup of a horoscope of twelve.’

‘Yes, which one are you?’ she asked again, trying not to show her irritation.

‘I’m a Monkey,’ he said. He tried his drink, tentatively, as if he’d never tasted beer before and was finding it difficult to acquire a taste for it.

‘A Monkey?’

He paused and touched his ear again, ‘Oh, sorry, wrong horoscope, I’m an Aquarian, born on the twenty-fourth of January.’ He looked around the pub and smiled as he scrutinised the décor of old agricultural implements, tools and horse brasses hanging from the beams and walls.

‘Such an old technology,’ he said. ‘Hard to believe that you still use human and quadruped muscle to power your food production.’

‘We don’t, they’re antiques,’ she said. She thought he was rather gauche but he was pleasant enough looking, about her age (thirty), nicely slim and well presented. She even liked the smell of his aftershave, which she hadn’t yet identified, and she was something of an expert on men’s aftershaves. She came to a decision: he’d do, certainly for a night, after that, time would tell.

She put her drink back down on the table. ‘Would you like to come back to my place?’ she asked. ‘It’s quieter there and we could get to know each other better,’

‘Oh, yes, I’ve been looking forward to this,’ he said, ‘I’ve never been on a two-sex planet before.’

Oh no, she thought, a first timer, I’ll have to explain everything to him step by step and it’ll ruin the spontaneity.

‘Never mind,’ she said, downing her gin and tonic. ‘I think I’ll pass on this one.’ She stood, picked up her handbag and left.

I’m going to stick to Tinder Vanilla in future, she thought, as she walked to the car park. Tinder Galactica is just too unpredictable.

‘Open,’ she said and climbed into her car as the door sighed up. ‘Home,’ she said, it set off, almost soundlessly. There was no point being polite to software, particularly if it wasn’t even sentient.

Oh well, she thought, another night in with her rabbit, and maybe some screen time later. You can’t win ‘em all.

 End

The Tiny Green Buddha

by Roger Ley

First published in Space Squid Magazine March 8th 2018

‘Do you think it’s hand made?’ Estella asked as she unpacked the small green figure of the Buddha from her suitcase. She’d bought it from a stall on the floating market in Bangkok.

‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ he said. ‘It’s probably just a resin casting. Look, the details are all blurry and there’s a seam on the top of its head.’ The base came off in his hand. ‘I’ll have to stick it back together,’ he showed her the two pieces. ‘Crap quality.’

The Buddha looked back mutely, fat and laughing. All blurry, crap quality.

‘It’s green, it could be made of jade,’ she said hopefully.

Martin went to his study and came back with a small screwdriver. He heated the tip with his cigarette lighter and applied it to the underside of the base. He sniffed.

‘You can smell the plastic.’ He offered it to her.

‘Yes, the base is plastic, but what about the figure?’

He turned the Buddha upside down and melted another small indentation.

He held it to his nose. ‘It smells the same,’ he said.

The Buddha remained frozen in his moment of hilarity. Smells of plastic, upside down.

Martin mixed up some epoxy resin and glued the pieces together.

‘We should never have paid two hundred Bhat for this,’ he said, as he put the Buddha on the shelf in the lounge, along with the various fossils, pine cones and odd pieces of geology that had come home with them from other holidays. ‘It’s just tourist rubbish.’

The Buddha stared through crinkled eyes. Tourist rubbish.

Next morning, as he walked past the shelf holding his first cup of coffee Martin called to his wife, ‘That Buddha statue, was it standing or sitting?’

‘I don’t really remember, standing I think,’ she called around her tooth brush.

He peered at it closely. The laughing Buddha was definitely sitting. He could have sworn it was standing before. Oh well. He left for work.

That evening, the statue was standing again. He must have got it wrong; it must have been standing that morning. His memory was playing tricks on him. He went to bed and tried to put it from his mind.

The next morning, still wearing his sleeping shorts, he brought a magnifying glass with him into the lounge. He would nail this once and for all. As he approached the statue he noticed something different about it. It was sitting again but this time, one of the arms was raised. He held up the magnifying glass. He’d been wrong about the Buddha’s expression. He wasn’t laughing at all, his face held an angry grimace. Martin looked closely at the raised hand. The tiny green Buddha was giving him the tiny green finger.

End

Dead People on Facebook

by Roger Ley

First published in Literally Stories Magazine March 6th 2018

“Seven o’clock, Martin, time to get up,” said Siri from the bedside table.

“Alarm off,” he said.

“Today is Estella’s birthday, would you like to send her a greeting?” asked the cheery voice.

“I’d love to send her a greeting but she died a week ago so it seems a little pointless.”

“I’m sorry Martin I don’t understand the question.”

“No,” he said.

He’d looked after Estella through her long months of illness, visited her every day during her weeks in the hospice and finally arranged her funeral at the Green Glades woodland burial site and it was all still very raw.

“Would you like to wish Estella a Happy Birthday, Martin?”

“Not really,” he muttered but Siri misheard him and dialled Estella’s cell phone, he heard her voice encouraging him to leave a message.

“I’ll get back to you,” she finished.

He lay, staring at the ceiling, wondering how he would fill the day, retirement hung on him heavily. When he first retired he’d tried all the usual suspects: Tai Chi, amateur dramatics, a reading group and, in desperation, a writing group. He hadn’t really taken to any of them. It was time spent with Estella that was the engine of his life, walking with her, shopping together, cooking for each other, chats over coffee at the ‘Hideout café.’ They’d found each other relatively late in life and had talked of marriage, maybe they would have got around to it eventually.

“A life of quiet desperation, but a life all the same,” she’d called it and now she was gone.

They’d discovered Facebook a couple of years before, but after about six months of posting pictures of meals they’d cooked, snaps from holidays they’d taken, anything to show their Facebook friends what a perfect life they too were leading it all began to seem competitive, futile. They ran out of material and started inventing things just to see how their ‘friends’ would react. Pictures of adorable pets they didn’t own. Martin standing proudly next to an expensive car he hadn’t bought, a selfie outside the big new house that they hadn’t moved into.

It became a hobby, everywhere they went they took pictures and sometimes brought small props to enhance them: in a kitchen show room holding up the champagne glasses, on either side of an enormously vulgar flat screen TV in the local electrical store, their newly remodelled garden, the holiday home in Minorca, the five metre yacht..

The chance find, at a church bazaar, of a box of postcards documenting a trip around the capitals of Europe encouraged Martin to take a short evening course in Photoshop. Suddenly the world was their oyster. With the help of a few sales brochures and their all-in-one printer/scanner they cruised the Mediterranean. Estella’s charity parachute jump got a considerable number of ‘likes’, as did Martin gaining his private pilot’s license, pictures at the controls, views from the air. They were limited only by their own imaginations, the more outrageous their posts the more people joined their following, they had over a thousand ‘friends’ by this time.

“How about a visit to Mars,” he suggested one evening as they watched a documentary about NASA.

“That would give the game away,” she said. “Let’s do it as a finale when we’ve had enough and want to move on to something else. In the meantime, ballroom dancing might be fun.”

But it was over now. He began to type the post announcing Estella’s sad demise but stopped as a thought occurred to him. Why should it end? He had a shoebox full of photos from before they went digital. He could carry on with the project, if he started at the front of the box they’d look virtually the same as now, but as he used pictures from further back they’d get progressively younger and more attractive. How incredibly galling for the ‘friends.’

He could see the future unfolding before him, into the past.

End