Life is never simple

“You've included Aunt Elspeth on the invitation list,” Mum said struggling to keep the note of surprise out of her voice.

“She's my Aunt. Why wouldn't I invite her.”

“I just thought, Stephen's parents might find her a bit different.”

Friday 13th

The sun shinning through my window on to my face woke me up. It would normally put me in a good mood for the start of the day, but today. Today was my birthday. It was also Friday 13th , which meant that I was likely to be the butt of all the usual jokes, like I hadn't heard them all a million times before and was totally fed up of them. Waiting to hear them did rather take the joy out of the day. So I had decided that I was going to treat today like any other day, any other Friday, starting at 10am with a lecture.

“What time is it?”I muttered out loud whilst reaching out for my alarm clock.

“3.15!, no way is that right.

Shaking the clock, I realised it wasn't ticking.

The Job

Monday morning found Alice walking despondently from yet another employment agency. Yet another typing tests.

“I hate typing tests, the way they stand over you. Everything goes wrong. The result is so predictable.” she thought glumly.

“I don't think we will be able to place you.” the woman had said, “But you could try another agency, they may have more luck.” Not that she blamed them. She wouldn't be able to find work for anyone as incompetent as she had been in that blasted typing test.

It was then that the heavens opened, just to add the final touch to a dismal day.

“Typical,” she thought “I leave my coat behind, because it's a bit heavy for August, needs a good clean and a few buttons sewn on, if I can find them, and it rains, boy does it rain.”

She nipped into a door for shelter, but the wind drove the rain into the doorway to continue soaking her. She opened the door and found herself at the bottom of a flight of stairs.

One thing leads to another

I heard somewhere that since the moon landings you couldn't write a si-fi story where someone goes to the moon.   That is where the idea came for the following story

“One thing leads to another Jo. Its what Grandma always said, but somehow I never believed her. Well, she was always calling me Jo, called everyone Jo for that matter. She was always worrying about her, but then everyone was, including me I suppose. Now. Well, it’s a long story and best told from the start otherwise things get rather convoluted. They’ll get convoluted anyway, its that sort of story.

But, I'm procrastinating, its one of my failings.”

“We know that,” sighed the lawyer. “Now just get on with it. We don’t have much time.”

The Aftermath

The Dormouse stood under the chestnut tree, combing the remnants of the teapot out of his fur, and surveying the devastation as the card soldiers took away the Mad Hatter and the March Hare.

“They've done it this time,” he muttered to himself, there being no one else around.

“Never seen them quite this bad before though. Smashed a few teapots, cups and saucers, but never shredded the tablecloth or reduced the table and chairs to matchwood. Never had visitors either. Alice, she said she was called, it was her fault, had to be. All sweetness and light and left me with this mess, and them gone. Then again, I think the Hatter's been hitting the bottle again, going by the smell,” he said shaking his head.

The sun burst through the clouds, reflecting through a fragment of broken glass, a piece of alcohol soaked serviette started smouldering. A light breeze blew up, fanning the flame. The Dormouse collected his things and wandered off into the distance as the table, or what was left of it caught fire.

“Shame there weren't any crumpets, I could've toasted them, that would've been nice.”

by J.M.Nye

This was another of the short stories, I thought the dormouse should have a say.

The Frank Arbuthnot Tribute Band

“And now, the one and only Frank Arbuthnot Tribute Band, and their singer Frank Arbuthnot junior.” the voice of the announcer wafted out over the heads of families picnicking in the park. It was early afternoon of a sunny Sunday in June and the audience was happy to sit through anything because it was less effort than moving.
“I'd like to open with one of Frank Arbuthnot's favourite songs, as a child I used to hear him singing it all round the house and in the garden, especially when tending his roses. The Yellow Rose of Texas.”
And so began a roller caster ride of songs all familiar, to some extent to the audience, each song accompanied by a little anecdote about Frank, his star gazing, his chrysanthemums, his first car, the first in the street. The crowd warmed to him and started singing along. He did four encores and left to a standing ovation.
“Who was Frank Arbuthnot?” asked a reporter behind the stage.
“My Father,” smiled Frank Arbuthnot Junior. “A wonderful man, he had over 200 different varieties of rose in his garden.”
And with that he walked off leaving the reporter gaze open mouthed at his disappearing back.

by J.M.Nye

Ideas for stories come from many places and at any time. I was with my family at the Penwortham Gala, we had watched the parade and were looking through the program at the list of events, which included several tribute bands. The thought crossed my mind that tribute bands are always about famous people, but maybe they shouldn't be. This idea lead to the short story above, I entered it and a few others into a flash fiction competition a few years ago and heard nothing from them, I can only assume they didn't like it. I don't think it was that bad, but I'll leave you to judge that.