3 Word Week: Shadowman

One of my previous Three Word Week stories Earwig has been published on the Microstory a Week site. Thanks for choosing it Steve!

Here's this week's:

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You know how sometimes you catch sight of something out of the corner of your eye and it scares you because it looks like a person in the shadows? You glimpse it, you turn to take another look, and then it morphs into your coat hanging on the door back, or a table lamp and a pile of books or something. Well it’s constant in my life, happens every day, but I never get used to it because once, many years back, it really was somebody, and I know one day he’s coming back.  

I had just got home from work, not that I worked too hard in those days. To be honest I was a bit of a waster and was the first to bleat if conditions weren’t exactly how I wanted them. I was drinking hard, ate too much of the wrong stuff, smoked worse than a kipper and was probably heading for an early grave. So I walked in the house and threw my coat and a load of other stuff onto an armchair as I passed it, went straight to the cabinet and poured myself a large whisky. Just as I looked back into the room, there he was; large as life and way more ugly, sitting in the chair where I’d just deposited my gear.

I did a double-take and checked again but he was still there. He looked like he’d been dragged out of a grave, all grey and dusty. His suit seemed like it had once been well cut, maybe Italian styling, but old fashioned. I could see the skull through the skin on his face and he just stared at me. He had no eyes in his sockets but I knew he was staring.

“Listen,” he said, lifting a bony hand and pointing at me, “I’m here to give you some advice.  Unless you want to end up like me you have to lay off the booze, cut out the smokes and watch your cholesterol. You’ve heard about all that karma stuff? Well it’s real, and you already have a debt to pay. We have a job for you to do and you’d best be fit for it when we come to call.”

“What job? What do you mean? Who are you? Who’s we?” I tried to ask, but it was no good. I was talking to my coat. 

Do I need to tell you how terrified I was? Some beast from beyond had paid me a visit with a personal message from…who? Heaven or hell or some place I never heard of.  Next morning I joined a gym and I’ve been living the clean life ever since to keep myself in trim. I daren’t do anything else because I know he will be back. I’ve seen his eyeless face every single day to remind me: in dark corners by wardrobes; in the way the curtains hang in my living room; in my rear view mirror. So far he’s always been a shadow man but one day will be for real. When he does come I want to be ready for him. Though whether I’ll use my new fitness to help him or fight him off I’m not so sure.

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Over at Steve Isaak's blog there's a weekly challenge to write a less than 600 word short story featuring the three words he chooses every Monday.  I've been playing with this idea for a while (about how everyday objects turn into strange people when you catch a glimpse of them) and figured I'd explore it through Three Word Monday. So here it is.

This week's words are:
Listen
Constant
Bleat

And here's the rules. If you'd like to join in,

Three word week: Earwig

Prison life really suited Jimmy the Wig because of his habit. Jimmy’s nickname didn’t come from any lack of hair; he had such a thick thatch of black locks that many people thought it was a rug, but no. He got his name from being a natural earwig. He couldn’t stop himself eavesdropping conversations. He was compelled to do it, just like that disease, that obsessive compulsive thing, you know, OCD.  So being in prison was just right for him, surrounded by people with nothing better to do than discuss old exploits and plan new jobs for when they got out, and Jimmy became what they call institutionalised. He was happiest behind bars.

His only troubles came from the other side of his compulsion: he felt driven to pass on whatever he overheard. If he thought he was imparting a particularly exciting piece of news he would gesticulate a lot, so it left no-one in any doubt what he was doing.  At first it ruffled a few feathers when he chose to reveal something to the hotter heads in clink, but an understanding Governor solved that by putting him in a cell with Clothears Jones: deaf in one ear and didn’t listen with the other. Wig could say anything he liked and Clothears would nod and hum and har occasionally to make Wig think he was paying attention. That went on for years and life looked settled.

Wig had a number of jobs around the prison. They’d tried him on library duty but it made him edgy because no-one was allowed to talk in there, so they swapped him to cleaning the chapel. He loved that because he often overheard juicy confessions about dirty thoughts. So one day when he was polishing the brasswork and Phil Skillett came in to talk to the Padre he thought he was in for a treat. He was; just not the kind of treat he was expecting.  Phil’s nickname was ‘Fillet’ and it wasn’t just a play on his name; he was renowned for his knife skills and I don’t mean he was a good cook! Anyhow, him and the Reverend disappeared behind the curtain and Wig could hear the prayer bit as he dusted his way closer to the booth. He was comfortably in place when he heard Fillet admit he was the one who had shanked one of the screws two weeks ago.

Well that was too much for Wig. He dropped his cloth and dashed out to find someone to listen. Give the boy his due, he went looking for Clothears, but as bad luck would have it the cell was empty. Wig turned back just in time to come face to face with a chatty screw and he couldn’t stop himself from telling. He was still talking and waving his arms around when Fillet came back from chapel and saw him. Of course he realised straight away what was going on and Wig’s days were numbered.

They found Jimmy dead in his cell two days later and everyone assumed that Fillet had got to him somehow, even though he had been questioned almost non-stop since the secret was revealed. At the inquest, though, the sawbones reckoned there wasn’t a mark on him and there was no hint of poison. The coroner had no option but to call it natural causes, though I know he was wrong. I know what it should have said on the death certificate. To protect him from Fillet’s attentions the screws had Wig put in solitary confinement. I reckon he died of boredom.

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Three word week is a challenge set by Steve Isaak. ONce a week he provides three words or phrases and we have to write a (max) 600 word short story based around them. I've not done one for a couple of weeks but here's this week's go.
This week's words were: earwig, OCD and gesticulate. 
Check out the rules here.

3 word week: Green, green grass of home.

The thing about living in a hotel is that your circle of friends changes with alarming frequency. Just as you start to get to know someone and add them to your ad hoc family their holiday is finished and off they go home. On the other hand, sometimes you are glad to see the back of visitors who over-reacted to mein host’s esemplastic skills and were sucked in closer than you ever intended. I choose to live here precisely because it brings a varied stream of potentially sparkling company to my door without me having to make any effort, but there are limits.

Seven nights of sitting in the bar listening to Sharon and Darren trying to outdo Tracey and Duane with their tedious tales is enough to put anyone off. I mean, déjà moo darling! The other night it was all about holidays-they-have-spent, and the claims became increasingly ridiculous as the level in the vodka bottle fell. If hand-rolling cigars in Cuba or pearl diving off Bahrain are so exciting, why did they come here? Truth is, a wet week by the scruffy seaside is the measure of their worth.

As for last night’s discussion about all the celebrities they claim to have met, well it was just too outrageous. They had never clapped eyes on any of the stars whose names were being bandied about. Even if I had never mixed in such exalted company myself it would have been obvious that they were just repeating women’s magazine gossip.  I fetched up here after a lifetime in the entertainment industry so I really have met most of the artistes they mentioned, and quite a few more I can tell you. I was never on stage, of course, never front of house. I worked as a dresser, so I have seen the great and glorious without their costumes and make-up, and I know the reality. But I am far too discreet to kiss and tell. Besides, once you have seen Tom Jones in his underpants you know there really is very little glamour in showbusiness.

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This is my offering for Steve Isaak's three word Monday, which he hosts at his blog Reading and Writing by Pub Light.
This week's words and phrases are: ad hoc families, déjà moo and esemplastic. If you want definitions click here.
For rules of the contest click here.

I've had an idea going round in my head for a couple of weeks now (as if I didn't have enough on with my current WIP) and this gave me the opportunity to let some of it escape and see daylight.

3 Word Week: Epic Fail

Called on geeky Simon last weekend – or Sly as he names himself. He was always a nerd at school, and he’s no better now, even though he can see thirty coming. He tried quitting home at nineteen but couldn’t maintain his lifestyle, so the hesher was back at his parents’ place before he hit twenty one, living his übergeek ways and missing out on any kind of girl action. He says “LOL. Why should I pay to get my laundry done?” You can get that from the way he smells.

Anyhoo. I wanted to reprogram Sly. Thing is, he’s superstitious: avoids green; touches wood; salutes magpies; the whole heap. Worst of all, he’s afraid of thirteens, and especially Fridays with that date. It’s called friggatriskaidekaphobia; he told me. He knows all his phobias personally.

As he opened the door he said: “What’s up bro?” He talks like that a lot. Like he’s seventeen and living in the ‘hood. Then he noticed the ladder. I’d propped it over the door hoping he’d step outside and walk under it but, no luck.

“Leave it out, bro’. Epic fail. You should not diss my belief system like that.  Show me some respec’.” He gets his street cultures confused at times.

“Belief system?” I spat, ignoring his slang salad.  “That’s no belief system, it’s hooey. The only person round here showing disrespect is you, scruffy n00b. Why don’t you bling yourself up and come down to the pub?”

He looked tempted but something held him back. “We’d have to check out before midnight. I can’t be there on the thirteenth.”

“Whatcha mean, the thirteenth?”

“Tomorrow, Saturday the thirteenth.” He looked at me as if I was vacant, so I decided to try my best shot.

“Sly. Today’s the thirteenth. You know?”

It wasn’t the thirteenth. I only said it for a joke, but his eyes opened out like searchlights as he muttered, without a hint of his usual attitude, “You mean I went to work on Friday the thirteenth? Oh shit.” Then he sort of belched and his eyes rolled up. He tipped backwards like a felled tree and I heard a crack as his head met the floor.

“Simon. SLY!” I yelled, and knelt down to check him over. He wasn’t breathing.

“Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh HELP!” I hollered, grateful his mother was in the house. Then I started mouth to mouth.

That belch had been a vurp because I tasted vomit as I put my mouth over his. His mother called an ambulance, but I had to stick with the paramedic act and eat his puke till they arrived. It was gross.

Huge relief: he was breathing on his own by the time they got him to hospital. When he came round I admitted I’d been joshing and it backfired. He was OK about it, considering. He recovered with no harm, except for one thing: now he’s afraid of Friday the twelfth too.

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This story is in response to the weekly challenge at Steve Isaak's Reading & Writing by Pub Light. Steve offers three words and we have to include them in a short story of fewer than 500 words. (This one JUST scrapes through the word count).

This week's words were what you might call a challenge.

Hesher - the kind of 28-year-old who dresses and behaves like he's 17 and still lives with his parents.
Friggatriskaidekaphobia - the fear of Friday the 13th
Vurp - the kind of burp that brings a small amount of vomit with it

No, I didn't know them either!

Jetsam has been published on Microstory a Week

My 3 Word Monday story Jetsam has been published on Steve Isaak's site Microstory a Week.

Steve issues a weekly challenge through his other site Reading & Writing by Pub Light, which calls for a story of less than 500 words, including three specific words of his choosing.  Then he publishes the ones he likes on the Microstory site.

Thank you, Steve for choosing my story!

Three word week; Jetsam.

I have just discovered 3 word week over at Steve Isaak's blog.  This week's words are Her, Outrage and Seashell.  If you want to know the rules (or have a go!) you should go over to his blog and find out more.  Meanwhile, here's my first attempt. (Very swiftly knocked out during a coffee break at work!)

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Jetsam

Eliza was a beachcomber - not that she made a living out of it or anything (nor was she like that weird old man who lived in half a wrecked boat at the shore).  She would walk along the sand as the tide went out and pick up the jetsam that was stranded there, imagining how it had been lost.

She never picked up pebbles or a sea shell. She was only interested in the abandoned, manufactured items. She would take her finds back to her tiny flat in the middle of town and arrange them on ledges and bookcases and shelves around the walls. Then she would sit and look happily at her treasures, while she talked to the spirits of their previous owners.

When the building collapsed, the inquest jury agreed that the structure was never intended to hold such a weight of junk and the old woman’s eccentricity had contributed to her death.  Her neighbours agreed it was an outrage that no-one had done anything about it before.

The old man watched from his half-boat as the merpeople returned to the sea with their recovered possessions, then he headed up to the church on the cliff where he was the only mourner at Eliza’s funeral.