Plot Medics 

This one was sparked by seeing a newspaper photograph of all those suddenly empty shops along the King's Road.  Er..that's it, pretty much.  Enjoy.

Empty (992 Words)

“Well?” Mr Gascone said, “Fred?”  In the pause he scanned the security guard’s name badge in a manner that indicated Nathan Gascone certainly couldn’t be expected to remember a mere name, even if Fred had been with the firm fifteen years.

“He didn’t do any damage, Mr Gascone, honest.”  Fred, sweating in his nasty powder-blue uniform, felt as though he were pinned facedown on a photocopier set to ‘reduce’.  

“You should have called the police, let them handle it.  It’s their job.  You’re nothing more than an early warning system and you can’t even do that right.  And how do you know there’s no damage?  He’s probably pissed everywhere.”  Gascone’s phone shrieked and he snatched it out of his pocket.  “What?  No, don’t.  I’ll be right there.  Bloody Health and Safety nazis.”  He marched out. 

Fred sagged, blowing out his cheeks. The phone had probably saved him from being fired, which, the way things were, he dreaded. Though the thought of another day working for Gascone made his ulcer flare like Mount St Helens. 

He’d been watching the monitors out of the corner of his eye while he did the embroidery he hid in a drawer when anyone was around. He had checked, hand hovering over the phone, before going down.  Once, he’d been up for taking on intruders.  Now he was older, and heavier, and if he ever forgot the three robbers who’d pitched him seven foot down onto concrete, his hip reminded him on cold mornings. 

But one poor old sod, muttering in his thorny beard, Fred could handle.  He armoured himself with a mug of strong, heavily sugared tea.

When he got to the room, the tramp was running his hands over the walls, head cocked, as though looking for a secret passageway.  “Come on, mate,”  Fred said.  “You can’t stay here.  Private property, see.”

“It was empty,” the tramp said, turning wide, surprisingly bright blue eyes on him.

“That’s right.”

“They move in,” he said, his hands whispering over the plaster.

“Yes, well, I’m afraid you can’t, old son.”

“They move into the empty places.  But you’re here, aren’t you?”  The tramp nodded.

“Yes I am.  You want a cuppa?  Then I’m afraid you’ll have to go.”

“Tea?”

“Here.”

“I don’t often get tea.”  Close to, he didn’t smell as bad as expected: damp, and not completely fresh, but no acid reek of urine or alcohol.

“There’s a hostel up the road a bit,” Fred said.

“Oh, no.  It’s all right.”  The tramp finished the tea, and handed back the mug.  “I’ll be off then.”

That had been easier than expected.  “Where will you go?”

“The next place.  This one’ll probably be all right now, so long as you’re here. You won’t leave it empty, will you?  They love places like this.  The emptier it was before, the more likely they’ll move in.”  On his way out, he paused.  “That one,” he said, pointing.  “It’s just the sort of place they love.”

It was an empty shop, For Sale signs obscuring the windows.  It had sold ugly vases and mass-produced artwork, pink glittery pencil cases and obscure dvds.  A downmarket Aladdin’s cave.  “Now you’re not going to break in, are you?”  Fred said, but the tramp was already shuffling away.

Fred shook his head.  Where did they all come from?  He was sure there hadn’t been this many nutters around when he was a kid.  There hadn’t been so many empty shops either; nor so many shops selling stuff that was, frankly, crap.  The building he guarded had been one too, only bigger, and with more expensive crap.  Gascone had bought it to sell on.  He bought buildings the way other people bought bad vases.

Fred had written up the tramp in the log book.  He hadn’t expected Gascone to come in and check it, but as the market got tougher, Gascone was getting more obsessive and even less pleasant to work for. 
 
On his way home Fred passed the other empty shop, and on impulse peered in the window, to see if he could spot the tramp. 

There was nothing except some dead post and a long dark streak on the dusty floor.  Fred wondered if he was in there, listening for ‘them’, the ones who liked empty spaces.  He felt a hard shudder twist up his back.  

The next couple of nights he found himself, every now and then, raising his head from his embroidery and listening; for what, he wasn’t sure.

Two days later Gascone had bought the empty shop; even in a recession the man couldn’t stop grabbing.

“Well at least it’s close,” Fred’s supervisor said.  “There’s no-one to cover it and His Lordship won’t budget for another guard.  Just keep an eye on the place.”

“Was there anyone in there?”

The supervisor glanced behind him; a gesture common to Gascone’s employees.  “They found a body.  A tramp.  Himself had it hushed up so they wouldn’t arse around with enquiries, maybe delay a sale.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Fred couldn’t concentrate on his stitching that night.  His gaze kept going to the window.  Finally he got up and looked out.

Big surprise, there was Gascone, swaggering down the road.  Didn’t the bloody man ever sleep?  Fred straightened his uniform – but Gascone unlocked the door of the empty shop over the road, and went in.

Fred stayed at the window, his tea growing cold.  Eventually Gascone emerged.  He seemed to stagger slightly.

Fred, his heart pounding, straightened the log book, emptied his mug, and waited.  He heard the door open, heard Gascone’s feet on the stairs; moving uncertainly.  Moving like something that wasn’t used to having feet.

They move into the empty places, he thought. 

The feet were closer.  Fred unfroze, grabbed his coat and his embroidery bag, scooted down the service stairs, and out into the clean and chilly dawn.  He didn’t look up to see what might be staring down from the window after him.

There's a long and convoluted story behind this one. It started when I noticed that an advert in my local paper offered "TTWF for naughty boys." Strangely, the internet couldn't tell me what "TTWF" stood for in this context. But it led me to some interesting places.

Tea and Vigilance (973 words)

Edna saw her opportunity, concentrated her will, and gently put Florence in a half nelson.

Outside the wrestling ring, Rose watched them from her chintz armchair, eyes sparkling. “The Turning of the Snake.” she said. “I used it to win the League of Vigilance national in ‘66, you know.”

Betty waved impatiently at Edna and Florence from a nearby table. They climbed out of the ring, and as they passed Rose she said, “You did remember to do the other half, didn’t you dear? State of mind is so important.”

“Don’t keep Edna, dear,” said Betty. ”We’ve got important things to discuss.” Florence and Edna sat down, and Doris poured their tea.

“She’s getting dottier,” said Florence.

Edna tinkled her teaspoon in her cup of Earl Grey. “She really did win in ’66. I looked it up. There must be something in what she says, about using your mind for the moves.”

“Load of mumbo-jumbo,” said Betty, reaching over to grab three scones. “It’s addled her head. It’s all about concentrating and keeping up your form. Building up your constitution so the Pink doesn’t poison you.” She patted her substantial tummy.

“I expect you’ll want some cream with those,” said Edna, pushing it over. Betty favoured the belly splash and other moves that allowed her to throw her weight around.

“Rose was the best in her day,” said Doris, “But she won’t be here forever. And we lost poor old Jessie last year. We need new blood. Who’s going to fight the Cabal when we’re all gone?”

“Buck up, Doris,” said Betty, dolloping cream on her scones. “We can’t have that kind of talk.”
 
“I’m just saying,” Doris went on. “Someone’s got to keep the Lore.” She glanced over at Rose. “She can’t even remember what she had for breakfast.”

Rose noticed them all staring. “It’s just a half nelson if you don’t do it in your head,” she said. “I’m going to use it on Freddie tonight.” She grinned. “He likes it.”

“Freddie’s dead, dear!” Betty shouted, then hissed to the room in general, “Don’t let her have more sherry.”

“Oh leave her be,” said Edna. “Where’s the harm?”

Betty pursed her lips. “We have intelligence that the Cabal is making a push,” she said frostily. “I don’t suppose your Emily’s turned anything up.”

Edna’s granddaughter worked at the local paper, and visited often. “Not unless the library book amnesty is an evil plot,” said Edna.

“Your report, Florence.”

“Last week there was all those young men going round, selling cheap electricity. Some company called Powermongers. Never heard of them.” Florence sniffed. “One of them knocked on my door. Shifty so-and-so, talked to me like I was daft. He told me I had to sign up then and there. I told him, I’ve been with my company thirty years, why should I change? I sent him off with a flea in his ear.”

The ladies nodded. It sounded like the work of the Cabal.

Florence leaned in and lowered her voice. “Now someone’s set up one of them fancy pastry shops in the High Street. It’s ever so cheap. There’s Battenburg cake in the window. And...there’s French fancies. Proper ones.”

”They wouldn’t dare!” said Betty. “We’ll go in for a reccie tomorrow.”

#

The patisserie was painted in pale blue and gold, and set with dainty tables covered with pristine white cloths.

“I can feel it already,” said Rose.

“Quiet, now dear,” said Betty patting her arm. But Edna could feel something too, nagging at her like a toothache. She helped Florence escort Rose to a table while Doris paid.

The Ladies ordered Battenburg and French fancies, and just to be on the safe side, the strawberry cheesecake. The Cabal had been using the Pink for centuries, but they couldn’t change its colour. They’d slipped it into kings’ cakes, merchants’ wines and peasants’ jams, anything that was sweet and had a rosy hue.

“Rose is right, said Doris with a mouthful of cheesecake. “There’s Pink in this.”

Edna bit into a French fancy and felt a lovely warm well-being wash over her, the feeling that all was right with the world as long as there was more cake. She focused her mind and imagined a sequence of moves, half nelson, arm lock, twist of the wrist, tying up the pacifying influence of the Pink in steel bonds of her will. She snatched her hand back as she found it reaching for another pastry.

Rose patted her arm. “Well fought,” she said. “Your family’s got the gift.”

 “How are the funds, Doris?” said Betty.

“We’ve got a bit put away from poor old Jessie’s house. And our shares are doing alright.”

“There’s only one thing for it, Ladies,” said Betty. “We’ve got the training, and we’ve got the constitution. We’ll draw up a duty roster. Four of us will come in every day and bear the brunt of it. That should upset the Cabal’s plans.”

“I’ll do for the Battenburg,” said Florence.

#

Doris poured the tea while Florence spread the local paper out on the table and poked a finger at an article. “There. I told you they was shifty.”

Betty put on her glasses and snatched up the paper.

“My grand-daughter wrote that,” said Edna. It was a report about Powermonger. Their customers hadn’t got the deal they thought they’d signed up to. Powermonger lost paperwork, claimed the salesmen responsible had left the company and routed all complaints through their call centres with half-hour waits and ‘accidental’ disconnections.

“It says here that the customers are outraged.” said Betty, triumphantly. “So we did our bit. If the Pink had got to them, they’d all be happily paying up. Humph. It also says your Emily’s getting them all together to take Powermonger to court.”

“What a clever girl. I must speak to her next time she visits,” said Rose. “The Lore must pass on. And Freddie likes her.”

This story is the long-delayed result of this odd little snippet first passed around the T Party writers’ group more than a year ago.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/south_asia/5186722.stm

Memories of Tiffin (992 words)

“Tea,” said Howard.  “He always wants tea, and cake.  He seems to like tilkut.  Have you tried it?”  

Joanna nodded.  It was a local speciality, but as with most Indian sweets that she tried she found the sesame-and-sugar combination a little sickly for her taste.   She took a picture of some passing monks in rich umber, terra-cotta and purple-crimson robes, with enviably serene faces.  Tomorrow she really ought to go look at some temples.

“He likes pedas,” Howard went on, “but he won’t touch burfi.  I think someone told him they’re given out when girls are born.”

“Well, he’s old fashioned,” said Joanne.  “Hardly surprising.”  She took a photo of the tomb.  The solid grey slab was strewn with crumbs; someone had even left a battered pewter teapot behind.  A leaf spiralled silently down and she picked it up, twirling it in her fingers.  “Cholera, wasn’t it?  That’s so sad.”  

“He’s doing all right now, though,” Howard said, with a hazy grin.  “The locals don’t mind him, and ever since the story got on the Beeb tourists have been trying to get a glimpse.  Some of them bring English biscuits, hoping they’ll, you know, tempt him out.”

“Amazing what ghosts can do for the local economy.  Not to mention the rat population, probably.  Are you selling more pictures?”  Howard had dropped out of their German course in college, to go to art school, then to India.  She’d envied him, even then.  

“A few.  I tell you who hates it though,” Howard said.  He nodded towards a skinny figure who was waving his cane in irritated fashion at passing insects – or possibly just at the world. 

“Who’s he?”

“Our oldest British resident.  Living, anyway.  Loathes the whole business.”

“Why?”

“Doesn’t like an English ghost caught up in a local superstition.  Oh, watch out, here he comes.”

“Lot of nonsense,” the figure said, shuffling towards them.  

He seemed entirely untouched by his surroundings; English from Brylcreme to brogues, with cheeks red as Sunday roasts and an aroma of pipe smoke and gas fires.  He was at least eighty, and driven by the sort of intense irritation that explodes in the letters page of local papers.  “Howard,” he said, with a brisk nod.  He looked at Joanne narrowly, as though he suspected her of being American.

Howard introduced them, casually.  Joanna shook the old man’s hand carefully, thinking of arthritis.  “So what do you make of it?” he said.  

“I think it’s rather, I don’t know, charming.  I mean, if you’re going to have a ghost, one that asks for tea and cake has a certain something, don’t you think?”

“Don’t see why they couldn’t have one of their own.  Got enough gods and so forth, you’d think they could spare one.”

Joanna, whose knowledge of any Indian religion was a vague fog of reincarnation, naughty temple carvings, and navy-blue demons with lots of teeth, didn’t think it quite worked like that; but she just nodded.  

That evening, back in her hotel, she leaned on the balcony and felt depression drop over her shoulders like a winter coat.  She was no longer quite sure why she’d come out here. She’d left teaching that summer, sensing she was on the verge of complete disintegration; it was an exhausting enough job even for those who actually liked it.  For her, every day had got more and more like wading through cold mud.  Howard had been in the back of her mind, an inspiration, someone who had cast off the shackles of everyone’s expectations and gone all out for what he wanted. She’d blown some of her rapidly shrinking savings to come and see him.

And here he was, selling his paintings, and tutoring to fill in the financial gaps.  That was no crime, but he was also getting stoned pretty much every night, from what she could make out, and did nothing but reminisce about their college days; old stories and jokes worn thin with retelling.  Where was the fulfilled free spirit she had come out looking for?  

Joanna didn’t want to be stuck with her thoughts any longer; she decided to walk out to the little graveyard.  

At night it still wasn’t scary; just sad.  So many of the graves were those of children; looking at them made her want to cry.  She walked up to the tomb of the Englishman, ran her fingers over the cool stone slab.  “Tea and cake,” she said.  “You wouldn’t think anyone would hang around just for that, would you?  Why are you hanging around?  Were you deprived of cake in life?”

She heard a noise behind her and jerked around, her heart thudding uncomfortably.  

It was the other old Englishman.  “Shouldn’t be out here, this hour,” he said, “young woman like you.  Hunting ghosts.”

“What are you doing here?”  She said.  That sounded ruder than she meant, but she was too distracted to care.

“Just walking.  Don’t sleep much these days.”

“No cake for the ghost then.”

“Certainly not.  You going to take your friend home?”

“What, Howard?   Well, no.  I mean, I just came out to visit.”

“You’re not planning on staying yourself?”

She shook her head.

“Good,” he said.  Then shook his head in irritation.  “Sorry.  Sounded rude.  But people come here, and get stuck. I did.”

“You?”

“Yes.”   He glared at the tomb.  “So did he.  No choice, in his case.” 

He nodded at her, and stomped slowly off, jabbing his cane into the ground.  Joanna sighed, and patted the tomb.  On a sudden impulse, she bent down and scooped up a little earth.  

She’d take it home with her, and hope no-one at customs thought it was drugs.  It might not do anything for the ghost, but it would makeher feel better, to put a little of it in an English garden.  

She’d make a garden, somewhere.  Sometimes, she thought, home’s not where you need to get away from; it’s just where you start. 

I've been given a very specific Friday Flash challenge, and I put a few hours in on it when I realised it wasn't working at all. I've concluded that it's because it just isn't silly enough. I hope to produce a suitable tale of tea and wrestling in a couple of weeks' time. In the meantime, here's one I prepared (quite a lot) earlier.

Swimming in the Electric Ocean
(100 words including title)

Yellow and orange scribbles on black, the city’s reflection scattered on the waves. Below luminescent colours answer as the creatures rise. Their language is written on their skin, pulsing in spots and patches. My own skin itches with the changes we have made, the new growth under the surface. I see the eyes of the clever hunters like saucers of ink. Deft arms weave the dark water. My thoughts fire new connections, electric pulses that are seen on my surface. Glowing like the city, I slip into the black water to learn to say hello.