Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On...

“Sleep is a marvellous thing.” He smiled at me and waited.

Sleep.

What was that line? ‘To sleep, perchance to dream.’...

Shakespeare was full of sleep...

‘Macbeth doth murder sleep’...

Is that what I should call him, Macbeth? He didn’t look Scottish...

What did that even mean?...

mean...

CRASH! His hand on the table. He smiled at me and waited.

Mean?...

Oh yeah, she could be mean...

’No, Mummy, I’m not tired.’

‘Go on, little man, up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire’...

Lying in bed, stubborn and rebellious, determined to show that I could stay awake all night if I wanted to, and then...

the nod, the shock of waking, realising that you were starting to doze, that your body was slipping out of your control...

But it was always better in the morning light...

LIGHT.

Flashing, burning, right in my eyes. He’d pressed a button. He smiled at me and waited.

Light...

I used to say I was a light sleeper. What a joke...

 Dark sleepers, that’s what we are. The peaceful, sheltering shadows hide us away, until tomorrow...

Tomorrow is another day...

Another day? Without the darkness, when does this day end?...

The gradual, creeping light of a new day, so slow you are not sure it’s happening at all. The first bird of the morning chorus is the start of the day...

Roll out of bed...

Roll...

Roll.......

‘BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE I ROCK AND ROLLED. BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE I DID THE STROLL...’ He’d pressed another button. He smiled at me and waited.

Stroll... Strolling in the park on a Summer day, feed the ducks. Hold her hand. Tell her the old joke...

‘How deep is that water?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Well it can’t be that deep, the ducks are only up to their bums!’

She would roll her eyes and groan, so I’d tickle her, pull her down on the grass... Down on the grass...

Down on the grass...?

Why? Are the ducks moulting? Ha, ha, ha!...

“Ha, ha ha...”

“Do you find this funny?” he said. He wasn’t smiling now. “Or are you trying to avoid the situation? Others have already tried pretending to be mad...”

Mad...

She was mad at me...

‘Let’s sleep on it’ I would say to her. I used to say that a lot towards the end. That and ‘Sorry’...

‘Sorry seems to be the hardest word’...

Hardest...

Hardest? I thought the hardest word would be diamond...

Sparkling like...

WATER! I cough and gasp for air.

“Just answer the questions.” His smile was back in place. “You need to think, Mister.”

Think.

Think about things...

...’like a walk in the park’...

No, not the park...

The orange grove...

Orange, like my jumpsuit...

Picking the low hanging fruit...

“Fruit.”

SMASH! My head lolled back.

“What did you call me, you terrorist Scumbag?” His smile was gone again.

"OK, Sergeant. Take him away. And no more My Nice Guy. Stress position until he talks..."

498 words

@nickjohns999

This story was written for Alissa Leonard's 'Finish That Thought' #42 Flash Fiction Challenge

Gazing into the Abyss

She waited, trembling, for them to call his name. Or hers.
The sweat stained Mayor picked a folded slip, passed it to David to read out.

“David Osborne.”

He crushed it. Dropped it. It rolled to a stop against her foot.

He strode to the hatch, his body no longer warming the space next to her. She felt the impossibly small drop in temperature. But the hairs on her arm bristled for a different reason. 

 ***

“Come on, Em. Don’t be like this. It’s what we’ve worked for all this time.”

“What you’ve worked for, David.”

He yawned, popping his ears. Equalising the pressure of the descent, she knew, but she couldn’t let the chance pass.

“Sorry, am I boring you? At least you can listen now you are in the same room as me.”

“Em, I’m not...”

“...Not what? Not tired from spending all night out... again? Not wishing it wasn’t me here with you?”

His eyes flashed, cold and dangerous like the darkening water surrounding them.

“That’s not fair and you know it! There were a million details to settle recently. Who was going to sort them out – you?”

“...and why not? We started this project together. I know every inch of the design, even if it’s your brainchild. ‘You’re not just a pretty face are you?’ You used to say that when I surprised you knowing about the schematics Well, it seems that just a pretty face was all you were really interested in – once I got your funding lined up. We are – were – a team, David.”

“There’s no ‘I’ in team, Emma.”

“Is that the best you’ve got...?”

“... but there is a ‘me’, isn’t there? If you twist it. The way you twist everything.”

He took a step towards me then stopped. He drew a deep ragged breath. He exhaled as if more air came out than went in. His shoulders sagged, deflated, defeated.

“Whatever. I’m going to glad-hand the VIPs. You have the conn.”

The hatch closed, leaving me alone and still fuming. That was quicker than I expected. He gave in too easily now. You can’t fight properly unless you get in close, and we got so close we swore we’d never be apart.

Who was he close to now, I wondered. I wiped my eyes with my coverall sleeve, making a note to check the humidity later.

My hand hovered over the button. Was I really ready for this?

Hell yes! I slammed the button and held on. We lurched, our descent speed increasing rapidly.

I flicked the tannoy. “Emergency buoyancy loss! Brace for impact! Brace for impact!”

We hit bottom hard.

The VIPs had bickered, but it was obvious. David or I had to man the escape pod.

Two names in the helmet. Let fate decide.

***

 The sub rocked as the pod launched with a whoosh.

She had almost emptied the air tanks in it. No chance of making the surface.

She retrieved the crumpled slip. Unravelled it.

‘Emma Osborne’

500 words

@nickjohns999

This story was written for Alissa Leonard’s FinishThat Thought Flash Fiction Challenge #11

The story was judged the WINNER of the Judge's Challenge Category of the contest.
Judge Rebekah Postupak said:-

WINNERS:

Judge's Challenge: @NickJohns999. While I'm not sure why the POV switched from 3rd to 1st person midway, the abyss of deep water is pivotal to this story's central crisis and also serves as a stark metaphor of David & Emma's lethally destructive relationship. In the tradition of Stephen King, "Abyss" is utterly tragic and utterly terrifying; and it is utterly inseparable from its watery setting. It's a powerful and full-bodied use of the challenge, deserving of the challenge title.

Quid Pro Quo

If I’d known he’d be there again, I’d have brought the money.

Guess it’s bad manners to employ a professional killer then not pay him.

I’d see exactly how pissed off he was by what weapon he had brought. I reached for the switch.

“Don’t touch that. Some things are best in darkness. Just like your poor wife’s... accident.”

My shaky hand dropped away.

“Jon. About the money...”

“...I’ve been thinking about that. What would you say to a proposition?”

“Proposition?”

“You do something for me - and you don’t need to worry about the money again.”

“Do something?”

“Yes. I want you to kill someone.”

“Who?”

“Me. I want you to kill me.”

So, that’s why I’m wheeling a gurney out of the mortuary at 2am.

Oh, killing Jon? That was the easy part.

I phoned him. He became an emergency admission when I’m on call.

I told Geraldine, the night nurse, I’d attend to this patient. She was always looking for quiet time to write.

Jon shook my hand before I gave him the injection. By the time Geraldine heard the alarms and wandered in, Jon was dead.

She took his pulse and called me.

A massive myocardial infarction – a heart attack to the uninitiated – a quick squiggle on a death certificate, job done.

“Some people just live life too hard. Tough on a fairly young guy though.”

She peered at me.

“We all pay for all our sins one day

For evil does not wash away

Though smooth the road for mile on mile

Beware the final Serpent’s Smile”

“Yeah, right. Nice one Gerry.”

I finished the paperwork and sketched a goodbye wave at Geraldine, still mumbling her gloomy, night-time poems

I had discovered the current admin password for the clinic computer system, and, once in the basement mortuary, swapped Jon’s records with another recent stiff. I pushed him out along the deserted corridor.

I checked the loading bay. Periodically we had to call the cops when some junkie remembered there were drugs inside, and figured this quiet place might be their way in.

I unzipped the body bag and gave Jon another shot.

He stirred, then sat up, stretching his recently paralysed muscles, before hopping onto the concrete floor.

I handed him the bag of new clothes.

Dressed, he reached out his hand.

“A black Dodge truck, just around the corner.” I flipped him the keys. The catch showed his reactions had recovered.

“The cops will buy it?”

“Trust me. You’re dead. Buried later this week.”

“Thanks Pal.”

He reached out his hand again.

As we shook, he pulled me towards him. Off balance, I slumped against him. His left hand snaked behind me. I felt a sharp jab in my neck.

Falling away, I saw him pocket the bloody scalpel.

“Just another attack by a junkie. Tragic. But no-one stiffs me on a contract.”

He smiled down.

“I’m a man of my word. I promised you’d never again worry about the money you owed me.”

500 words

@nickjohns999

This story was written for Alissa Leonard’s Finish That Thought #9 Flash Fiction Challenge

The judges challenge was that the tale must include four lines of original poetry. I forgot this until I had a finished tale ready to post. I had to re-work the whole story - as well as actually writing poetry - EEK!

Rebekah Postupak (one of the best writers going around the circuit) chose the story as Winner of the Judge's Challenge category AND Runner up in the overall contest.

About Judge's Challenge she said:-

Winner: Nick Johns. The poem delivered by the Goth nurse was smooth and haunting, reminding me strongly of the seer's warning to Julius Caesar so many ages ago. And of course, as the narrator ought to have known, in stories a seer is never wrong. This poem serves as the story's hinge--the reader knows the narrator's not going to get away with it--and of course Geraldine's foreboding words are echoed in the story's final lines. Nice job.

About the overall she said:-

Runner up: Nick Johns. Who doesn't love a good Faustian tale? In "Quid Pro Quo," you give us a character doing his darnedest to cheat his devil, but in the end we discover our narrator isn't Daniel Webster--he's the devil himself, trying to have his evil cake and eat it too. It's a marvelous spin on the old conflict, right up until the narrator narrates his own death. Wonderful comeuppance; wonderful storytelling.

Thanks for judging Rebekah!