Flash Fiction: Dog Star Peacock

So I've got the writing monkey stuck to my back again and boy is she bossy; not content with my improved efforts at writing my own stories she now demands I try a Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction challenge. To stop her scratching my face off or eating my ear, here's my first 2014, 1000 word story. It was another pick two random numbers to come up with a title and I got:

15:Dog Star

13: Peacock

Okaaaaaay… Bit random but I like a challenge. Hope you enjoy!

Dog Star Peacock

Thursday 28 August 1725

The winds are gone and the men are restless. These damned seas are silent. A fight broke out over the water rationing so I instructed my second Mr. Ealing to store what we have left in my cabin. I have the only keys. Those responsible for the fight were flogged in front of the others. One man, who killed another in the brawl, was thrown overboard; I will not have murderers on my ship.

Friday 29 August 1725

It is unclear how much longer we can continue. A week gone by and barely 5 knots done. Mr. Nibbens, on night watch in the nest, reported seeing a light on the horizon but there is no land here. I’ve removed him from watch duty. The men have started telling each other tales of some pirate known as “Dog Star” to lift their spirits. From what I recall he is known mainly for leading lost ships to fortune and glory by seeing the stars no matter the weather. A myth no doubt or else greatly exaggerated. I have told Mr. Ealing to discipline any man wasting his time on stories.

Saturday 30 August 1725

The light Mr. Nibbens reported has been seen by all and is shining through my cabin window. It’s an odd blue glow coming from a Western bearing, cascading over everything it touches. I have instructed the men to oars, winds be damned; if this is land we need it. One of the men jumped ship today, screaming about sirens. He was drowned before we could reach him. Please Lord let this light be your kind hand guiding us to salvation.

Sunday 31st August 1725

We came across an uncharted small island where the light was coming from. The light stopped as soon as the watch cried land. We reached land mid-afternoon and of all the things to find we came across a lone woman. She names herself Henrietta Peacock, marooned there a week ago by pirates. She wept and the men all agreed she would be travelling with us, despite the known ill-luck women bring to ships. Even I must admit this woman is a vision; raven black hair and a dark tanned complexion around the brightest green eyes I’ve ever seen. She directed us to food and water. Restocked, we plan to set sail tomorrow morning. I have no doubt the Lord himself has sent us this angel to lead us home.

Wednesday 3rd September

The weather has improved markedly and the change in the men is clear. Mr. Ealing and I have entertained our guest as much as we can but she asks to remain by the bow, looking at the figurehead or at sea. It’s as though she’s looking for something. I have witnessed some of the men speaking with her and they seem well pleased. I must confess to being surprised at their politeness; this crew were not of my picking and so far they have been rough and rude at every turn. But the change in them is a relief; we may make it back to port in time for our delivery.

Sunday 7th September

I am perturbed. Though orders are being filled I sense the men are not themselves. They have grown quiet and too polite. Mr. Ealing believes I am imaging things. I suspect our beautiful guest has something to do with it. She has an unnatural way of looking at you in the dark, long past the hour a woman should have retired. Her eyes have a glow I do not like.

Monday 8th September

I have become certain that Miss. Peacock (if that is even her name) is not what she says she is. Today I saw her talking to deck hands and walking among them as though she was one of their own. Despite my protests she has started assisting the cook Mr. Tawson. He assured me a woman’s touch was just the thing our meals needed. But my insides twist with a deadly certainty; this woman is unnatural. I have seen her speaking to the sea as though it can hear her - and it responds! Our way became clearer upon her words. It is against God to tolerate a witch. We are only five days from port; she will be in chains before we get there.

Wednesday 10th September

I write this from the life boat, headed to port, minus my crew and ship. Yesterday in the early morning I was awoken by four crewmen storming my room. They bound my arms behind my back and covered my head with a bag. Once I was on deck it was removed and of all people there was our very own Miss. Peacock, smirking at me. She offended my eyes by being dressed as a man, with a sword by her side. She said my services were no longer needed. I replied she needed a beating and was met with cries of “we’ll kill you first” from the crew. They were all bewitched by her. I stated as much and was struck by none other than Mr. Ealing. He said the crew were no longer under my command and would follow Captain “Dog Star” Peacock where she chose. The audacity of the woman; to wear that moniker for her own benefit.

The men were calling for my death, but Miss. Peacock refused. She ordered them to place me in a boat and send me on my way, unbound and unarmed. As the boat was lowered she threw down my logbook and pen and ink, saying she looked forward to the new legend I would write. Is there anything worse than a deluded, arrogant woman? I hope to reach land in a day or two, with the favourable winds that have moved me on far faster than I had hoped. Then we will see how much longer this “Dog Star” can run from justice.

Stories Make Me Feel Better

Those of you who follow me on Twitter will have noticed I've been quiet this week, and the few tweets I did were along the lines of "Stress! Too much to do, might break everything, end of the world. Argh". Well, I'm relieved to report that I didn't end up destroying myself or the online tools my department use with the changes I've been project managing*, so I'm feeling a lot more chipper than I was on Monday. To celebrate, I thought I'd write some flash fiction, and who better to provide inspiration than Chuck Wendig and his Flash Fiction challenge.

The challenge this week is to choose one option from his selection of "Sub-genre", Conflict" and "Must Feature". I used a random number generator and the gods of tale-telling have been super kind:

1. Weird West
5. Enemy at the Gates
6. Someone gone or going mad

TerribleMinds Flash Fiction Challenge: Fairy Tale Upgrade

Another challenge is up on Chuck Wendig's site terribleminds, this time to take a fairy tale and rewrite it for the modern age (or any age that isn't medieval in nature). Read on for my effort, which is more of an interpretation than a direct retelling; hope you enjoy!

One Goal Reached, Many More to Conquer

I got excellent news this last week; my offer on a flat was accepted and the process of owning property has begun. But that isn't what this post is about (though it could be - I've been bouncing around in excitement about that for days). No, this post is about another bit of great news. For you are now reading the words of a published writer. That's right, my short story, that I talked about ages ago, has finally been released in an anthology and it's available from a number of sources.

**Shameless self-promotion ALERT**

The book is titled, "Twisted Realities: Of Myth and Monstrosity". It is a collection of short stories that explore what would happen if the old tales and legends were true - but with dark truths we never imagined. My story is called "A Fair Price", and is about a young woman discovering the holiday home her and her husband are staying in might not be so idyllic after all. You can find your very own copy here:

Amazon.co.uk
Amazon.com
Smashwords

and here:

CreateSpace

I particularly like the bit on Amazon, where it says "Author" after my name. Squeel!

Now of course I would love it if everyone reading this would go buy their very own copy to keep and treasure forever, and then get all their friends to buy their own copies too, but I'm realistic - and with the property buying, on a tight budget myself now.* But I would be super grateful for the word of mouth, so if you know anyone who likes twisted tales and short stories - or reading in general - pass it on. I will ask Karma to send you something nice. Like cake. Everyone likes cake.


* Really? Is that why you just spent loads of money on your birthday party? And bought yourself that watercolour set? - Internal Editor.** 

**Shut up.

Flash Fiction Challenge - "Death is on the Table"

I was thinking I needed to do a bit more fiction on this ol' blogshere shaped thought translator and waddyaknow (that is so a word) - my favourite foul-mouthed pen-monkey, Chuck Wendig, went and issued a challenge on his blog. The theme is death, where it is a main feature of a 1000 word story. To that I say;

Death Of Rats by Paul Kidby

"Challenge accepted, sir. Even if it's, you know, a bit bleak."

Then I thought, does it have to be bleak? Can I make a story where death is a main element, the raisin dental of the story, but not be depressing about it? It's worth a go anyway, so keep reading to see my entry, coming in at 999 words. (It was very hard not to write my own ode to the Death of Rats, of Discworld fame. I love the Death of Rats. With his little scythe and his little cloak.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Death Duty - Apply Within

Some people think that dying is the worst thing that will ever happen to them. It isn't; filling in your forms so your spirit goes to the right place is the worst thing that can ever happen to anyone. I should know. I do it for a living. I'm an "Afterlife Co-Ordinator".

You see, there isn't a natural ascendance into heavenly space - death is complicated. Everyone has to be checked and assessed, before being assigned to their next life. Oh, did I not mention that? Yeah, you gotta do the whole thing again. And again. Once more around the merry go round. But next time you might be a cockroach, if you didn't behave yourself in your mortal coil. There's rumours of a next level, a higher state, but I've never seen it or known anyone to vanish into it. Likely a ruse to keep us keen.

It's a pretty dull job most of the time. The netherworld isn't the most glamorous (no nightclubs, no restaurants, no night for that matter) and those of us assigned this "honour" have to do it every day, hour after hour. It's not even as if we can simply stamp the form and send the floating essence on its way. Oh no, we have to interview them too, work out what their perspective is. Not everyone, just the "edge cases", the people who did some pretty bad things but may have had a reason, or seemed to accidentally do good things. Personally I envy those who only handle small furry mammals, or fish. How easy must that be? Oh, you were a fish? You bobbed about in the ocean until a bigger fish ate you? Let me stamp that form for you. Jeesh... some people don't even know how good their afterlife is.

I've been here for... well a long time. I can't honestly remember anymore. And, even though my head hurts at the thought of work, when I'm processing the latest form I always try to remember that the spirit before me is still getting used to this. Most are surprised they get to go back. And even more surprised when they find out they get to go back as a lion. Or a polar bear. Or an ant. That happens to more people then you might think, but then a lot more insects get to go back as humans then you might expect too.

I was starting another day, tidying my desk, when in came my first essence of the morning. I don't like to think of them as spirits; too spooky. But this one was different. It had a glow about it as it hovered between the filing cabinet and the Palm plant in the pink pot. Most of them have at least some features, the residue of the person they were, but this one had no face, no arms, nothing. Just a big glob of faintly glowing white-blueish mist. Then it spoke.

"What now?"

Short and to the point. I liked it already. I opened my drawer to pull out it's file, which normally materialise out of no where in there, as you need them. Oh, how I wish they would magically file themselves, but alas. This time though, there was no file. So I looked in my inbox tray. Nothing. I looked through the papers on my desk. Nothing. I began to feel a dread come over me. I'd lost a bloody essence's file. That's never happened before. I'd never even heard of it happening before. If I could have, I would have been sweating by now, but as it was I tried to act calmly in front of the client and looked through the filing cabinet. It floated over my shoulder, watching my movements as I again failed to find its file. I had to stall.

"So, where are you from?"

The essence bobbed up and down a couple of times, its confusion obvious, before it responded. "I remember a boat?"

"Really? A boat?" I asked, rummaging under my desk now in desperation, "so were you a fisher... man?"
Again the shape was silent for a time, giving me a moment to curse under my breathe when the damned file still hadn't materialised in any place I could think of. Then it glowed a little brighter and said, "I was told to come here."

None of them had ever said that before. I looked at it puzzled for a moment before asking what it meant.
"I... yes, it's coming back to me. I went to another office before this. They were very nice. They said I was to come and relieve you. That you're free to go."

For a moment I was the one who hung there, silently. With a shake of my head I gave a nervous laugh and answered, "That can't be right. There is no where to go. This is my job."

The globule moved about on the spot, like a dog shaking itself.

"No, there's another place above this one. They said, you just need to go up the stairs and turn to the right. And to not worry. I'll be taking over and will be fully trained on the job, just like you were."

I honestly felt like I was going to be sick, which considering I don't technically have a stomach anymore, is impressive. I walked to the door and opened it. There, despite never being there before, was a staircase, leading upwards, with a blazing glow at the top of it. I turned to the essence, which was beginning to take on the shape of a woman.

"Thank you. I think."

"Not a problem. Apparently you've been very good at what you do here. I hope I get to join you one day," she said.

"Yeah." I couldn't think of anything else to say. I turned to those stairs, which had a golden hue to them and took a step towards the light and a totally unexpected future.

Flash Fiction - "True Love"

Chuck Wendig posted a flash fiction challenge to his blog, "The Present Tense"; to write a maximum of 1000 words, all in the present tense. It's an odd tense to work in, and I thought it needed a lot of concentration to stay in it. Can't promise it's one I'll use in my fiction but it was nice to try it.

So I present you with my effort, "True Love". Hope you enjoy.

Flash Fiction Challenge - "Miss Billet Investigates"

Post New Year and I'm trying to get back into a writing schedule. To get the engine running I've taken part in another of the dastardly Flash Fiction Challenges concocted in the deep recesses of Chuck Wendig's mind. This week's challenge was to write a 1000 word story mashing up any of the two following genres;

Dystopian Sci-Fi!
Cozy Mysteries!
Slasher or Serial Killer!
Lost World!
Spy Fiction!
Bodice Ripper!

I won't say which ones I chose (hopefully it will be obvious) but have to say I enjoyed writing this. My entry is no where near as good as some of the others and I highly recommend checking them out via Mr. Wendig's blog. So here is my humble offering;

Miss Billet Investigates

A loud bang upstairs made Miss Billet spill a bit of her precious tea on her lap.

“Oh, that just won’t do,” she said, as she wiped the wet patch with her hanky. Her sister, Mrs H (for she had refused to change her name since the divorce, but insisted on not having to hear it ever again) threw the parlor door open.

“Did you hear that terrible noise? You don’t suppose one of them got in do you?”

“No, my dearest, I doubt it. We have triple bolts on all windows and doors, a double row of grating, as well as the best laser defence this side of London. I rather imagine it was the cat, making a nuisance of himself as usual.” Miss Billet rose to her feet and went upstairs, her sister close behind her. They passed their lodger’s locked door, before finally reaching the third floor.

The rejuvenation room’s door was open. There was no sign of any damage to the windows, so being kidnapped by the Shadows didn’t seem to be an imminent problem. The floor had scuff marks on it, with a scattering of the cat’s fur, but other wise all seemed normal.

“I can’t see anything wrong, can you sister” Mrs H asked.

“No... and yet something must have caused that noise dearest. I wonder--”

Mrs Billet stifled a cry. It was most unlike her to express emotions of any sort, but what she had just seen, or rather not seen, was enough to make a stone scream. The de-aging machine was gone. Everything else was present; the anti-wrinkle rejuvenator, the bone marrow renewer, even the long unused breast augmenter. But the one thing they needed the most, the one machine that would allow them to live forever, was gone.

Though she hadn’t said a word her sister soon noticed the missing object, and she did in deed scream. So loud in fact that the next thing they heard was their lodger running up the stairs.

“Dear god, they haven’t got in have they?!”

“No, Mr Jag, no one has got in. But something has very much gone missing.”

After explaining what had happened, the young man (having had his latest de-aging treatment a few weeks ago) slumped into one of the oversized bean bags that littered the floor.

“Where could it have gone, Miss Billet? How could it simply disappear?” As he spoke Mrs H took a seat next to him, her head shaking back and forth.

“Mr Jag, you know perfectly well it couldn’t have disappeared. Someone took it,” replied Miss Billet.
Both of her audience gasped, and looked everywhere except at each other as they both said simultaneously, “well, it wasn’t me.”

Miss Billet smiled. She considered torturing them a little longer with their suspicions, but thought better of it.

“I am well aware it could not have been either of you. After all, you were together in Mr Jag’s room when the loud noise was heard.”

They both paled, Mrs H’s lower lip shaking in an attempt to form the letter “b”. Mr Jag got there first.
“But... but how could you know that?”

“With all due respects Mr Jag, I’m not senile yet. And you must recall I was the Met’s best detective before the Shadows descended. I admire your efforts to keep your affair secret, but I have known of it these past thirty years.”

Her sister jumped to her feet, “Then why didn’t you say anything!?”

“I felt if you wanted to keep it secret you had every right to do so, dear sister.”

At that Mrs H sank back into her chair, looking the way she normally did with one of Miss. Billets perfectly logical replies. She replied, “But then who took the de-ager? You couldn’t have, for I ran downstairs the moment I heard the noise.”

“No dear sister, I didn’t take it.”

“Then who? There’s no one else in the house... unless... one of them is in here.”

The two lovers looked about as though they may be able to see one of the Shadows standing next to them if they only looked with the sides of their eyes.

“You’re not looking in the right places. Are they my little friend?” Mrs Billet said into the air.

The cat jumped up on the ornate table to Miss Billet’s right and curled its tail delicately around its feet. He looked at Miss Billet with huge, green eyes.

“None of that. Your game was up a while ago with me. Now explain yourself.”

For a second longer the cat continued to look at her in blissful ignorance. Then, when it clearly wasn’t working, the gaze relaxed and the cat swung his head down to stare at the table top.

“I’m sorry.”

Mrs H and Mr Jag let out a cry as the small voice sounded from the cat.

“That’s not really good enough,” Miss Billet replied, “What did you do with the de-ager?”

“I... I just needed to borrow it. I dropped it. I... I hid it.”

“But... but... but...” Mr Jag muttered.

“It’s quite alright Mr. Jag. We do indeed have one of them residing with us. But he is not, exactly, one of them.”

“Oh no,” exclaimed the cat, meeting their gazes without hesitation, “I hate my kind. We’re so mean. In here... well I can relax. I can live a good life. I just needed the de-ager for a bit, to hold off my own years. I’ve used it before and no one noticed, but this time... I panicked. I’m sorry. I’ll bring it back.”

No sooner had the last word been uttered than the de-ager reappeared in its correct place, undamaged by its inter-dimensional travel.

“I suppose you’ll want me to leave now,” asked the cat.

“Not at all. In fact I want you to stay. It will give me someone to talk to while these two canoodle upstairs,” replied Miss Billet.

Bullshit Bulldozer Bonus - A Terribleminds Flash Fiction Challenge

The flash fiction challenges over at Terribleminds continue, with the latest being to write a story under 1000 words where the title uses alliteration. Oh, and no vampires allowed. Head on over if you want to have a go, it's open until December 10th, and top prize is a copy of Mr. Wendig's very own Double Dead novel.

Please to enjoy. (Warning; features profanity. In case the title wasn't a clue)

Flash Fiction - "We Can't Win Them All"

This is my entry for the feminist flash fiction competition going on at Mookychick. If you're not familiar it's open to everybody (male or female), internationally, and entrants are tasked with creating a piece of flash fiction or a haiku under 200 words based around an aspect of feminism. It's free to enter and the top prize is £100 (or your country's equivalent) and a year's subscription to Bust Magazine. See their website for more details if you'd like to have a go.

My entry is below, and ended up being about more than I originally intended... please to enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~

“But he’s a rapist.”

“Not exactly, he paid them didn’t he?”

“The girls were underage – and don’t even speak English.”

“He wasn’t to know that.”

“How could he not know that?! He screwed them and he doesn’t notice they can’t speak English? Oh, and that they’re obviously children.”

“I know you’re frustrated, but you can’t prove any of that. Especially not against a man like this. Don’t take it so personally.”

“I’m not… He paid for sex, which is a crime, he smashed a girl’s face in, which is a crime, and he raped who knows how many underage girls. How exactly am I meant to be okay with the case being dismissed?”

“You need to calm down, take a long term view. We’ll get him for something else – looks like he’s been embezzling for years, so once that case comes round we’ll get him behind bars.”

“And what about the girls? Looks like all but two of them are being deported and we both know they’ll just end up back here, pimped by someone else.”

“You really need to not get so hysterical about this. I know it’s frustrating, but we can’t win them all.”

This is an entry for the Mookychick blogging competition, FEMINIST FLASH FICTION 2011. Enter now.

Flash Fiction; The Marketeers

It's that time again when Chuck Wendig has a Flash Fiction challenge on his blog Terrible Minds and yet again I couldn't resist. So here is my contribution. The theme this week is "Corporate Abuse", in keeping with the current Occupy movement and general dissatisfaction with the Capitalist system as it stands. A good excuse for some dystopian fiction in other words. I humbly present my piece, called "The Marketeers".

Flash Fiction Challenge: Brand New Monster

As some of you may know I follow Chuck Wendig's blog over on terribleminds.com. I love Chuck's writing style, and his advice is at once punishing, truthful, and always from his heart. I also love the challenges he comes up with every week, and I liked this one so much I wanted to give it a go. So, here we are, in 1000 words, a story about a monster that no one has ever seen before. Vampires, zombies and werewolves - get lost. Your kind aren't wanted 'round here.


Enjoy!

Progress

A glum little gremlin sat at the bottom of Sheryl’s bag. Technically he was a wingless fairy, but none of the gremlin’s would ever admit that they were related to those annoying fluttery creatures. Always so full of themselves and, worst of all, smiling all the time. Even while they tangled up peoples hair as they slept, and pushed coins and pens down the side of the sofa, they always smiled and laughed. Bag gremlins rarely smiled, or at least not in front of anyone. This particular gremlin hadn’t smiled for a long time. You see, he was bored.

Dan (his parents liked human names so inflicted him with the dullest they could find) had not had anything to do in a long time. Day after day he sat at the bottom of his human’s handbag, waiting for something to be put in there that he could work with. When he’d been a youngling, and appointed as Sheryl’s personal bag gremlin, everything had gone fine. More than fine in fact. If Sheryl was on her way to school he got the chance to fold up all the corners of her books, and rubbed the spine until he was sure the pages would fall out. He punched the front covers so they dented, and lost their shine. And it was even better when she covered her books in paper and pictures; so much to rip apart! Not to mention the assortment of pens he got to open so they’d leak everywhere. When she got a bit older she got a “walkman”, some strange human device that played hideous sounds. But oh, the delight of tangling up the string attached to it, with the semi circle of plastic attached at the end. Then he’d discovered that on either end of that crescent were two soft and removable coverings. The joy of pulling them off every time she stuffed those “headphones” (what odd creatures humans were) into her bag, so that the next time she took them out he got to hear her grumbling and watch her hand rummaging around the bag to find them. He didn’t know why they were so important, but he knew it was a big deal if they came off, so he made sure to do it at every opportunity. Actually, that wasn’t entirely true; he sometimes left them on, and other times didn’t tangle up the attached cord. It meant the next time he got a much better result from Sheryl, who would swear and sometimes even tip her whole bag out! He could laugh on that for weeks. Only to himself of course.

Now, things were not the same. Where before there had been books a plenty to scrabble and scrape, now there was some hard and resistant thing, which even had a cover over it made of leather to stop him getting at it. But it wasn’t like normal leather, all soft and animally tasting. It was hard and nasty to bite on, so Dan quickly gave up on that. He didn’t know what it was called, but it seemed to have replaced the books. There weren’t even any pens to push into the lining of her bag, or a notepad to scrunch paper up. The only thing left was a piece of cord, though this one only had round things at it’s end, without the removable bits. Though he made the most of it, tying it up into the trickiest knots he could manage, it wasn’t the same.

The life of a gremlin wasn’t what it used to be. He’d heard that others were having this problem too, in the few times he poked his head out the top and chatted to another clan member from their own bag.

Maybe I should take up vacuums, he thought, that gives you the chance to use dirt and hair to block it up, even make it spew all the filth back onto the floor. But it wasn’t the same. There wasn’t the daily amusement in it, and was more for gremlins wanting to retire than those only in their first half century.

Suddenly a thought occurred to him. Why should the fairies get the chance to tangle up hair, and move things around while human’s sleep, when he could easily do it too. Yes, he couldn’t fly, but he could climb and he was always in the house anyway. Just think of it, all that stuff in the bathroom, in the bedroom, all those pens left lying around, all waiting to be hidden in the most inconvenient places. Dan covered his wide mouth with his taloned hands, holding in a giggle. He mustn’t lose it, he had to stay focused on the plan. The fairies were not going to like this, but he was bigger than them. Anyway, he’d tear their wings off if they tried to stop him.

Later that night Dan crept out of the bag that had been his home these past five years (the bag before had been far more comfortable - until he ripped the lining apart) and he scurried to the bedroom down the hall. Sheryl was asleep, and didn’t stir as he pulled himself up the bedding covering her. He sat on the pillow next to her head and set about tying her hair together. And he suddenly realised he was grinning. A fairy spotted him before long, flitting in unannounced as was their habit. He threw it the finger and it sped away. Nothing was going to distract him from the sheer joy of doing something again. He actually let out a high pitched (and far to fairy like) laugh. Once he was done he moved the hair pins from the side table onto the floor and began to search for other things to work on.

In this way the great war between fairies and gremlins began. Dan had no idea it would come to that when he started, but when it did, he couldn’t help himself. He smiled. 

Flash Fiction: An Unexpected Guest

I've decided to have a try at one of Chuck Wendig's flash fiction competitions and this is my first go. The upside is all you lovely people get to read one of my stories, such as it is. Chuck Wendig does these weekly so if you're inclined to have a go (I recommend it, flash fiction is fun) you can find him here: http://terribleminds.com/ramble He's also well worth a read in general as his writing advice is spot on and he is very funny.

So without further ado, here is my entry to the flash fiction competition.

-------------------------

An Unexpected Guest

Wailing pierced Ned's skull, scraping away a little more of his patience. He hadn't wanted to have a birthday party (in Ned's opinion birthday parties should stop after you turn forty-five, at the latest.) but his daughters had insisted. And then brought along their children and newly arrived grandchildren. What a way to make a guy feel young on his ninety-third birthday. They'd all been so excited, putting up streamers and balloons all over the house, which seemed to pop just as any kid so much as looked at them, resulting in the cheerful sound he was now being tortured with. Even sitting out in the garden like this wasn't enough to improve it, with them all floating around him like he might keel over any second.

Finally his eldest came running up and carried away the screeching child from "Great Gran-da". Ned hated that name but was resigned to it, much as he was resigned to his dodgy hip, his aching knees and his inability to go longer than two hours without needing a piss. The joys of aging. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered to wake up in the morning. He'd done as much as he was ever going to. Unless farting became an Olympic sport.

Eventually the party seemed to continue without him, which suited Ned fine. That old ache in his chest was back, but to hell with them if was going to mention it. He was in his nineties for Christ sake, what kind of condition did they think his health was supposed to be in? He bent down to reach for the glass by his foot, his fingers finding a purchase even though they didn't bend as well as they used to. But when he sat back he was surprised to see someone sitting next to him. Surprised because he didn't know him and even more so because a moment ago there had been no seat there for someone to sit on.

"Who the hell are you," Ned asked, in his usual direct way.

The younger man smiled. He seemed to be in his forties, and was wearing a smart pin stripe suit. But no tie. Ned's mouth wrinkled in distaste. What was the point in wearing a goddamn suit if you don't put a tie on?

"You know who I am Ned. I certainly know who you are."

"What are you talking about? I've never seen you before in my life." Ned took a sip from his drink, looking at the man from the corner of his eye.

"Oh Ned, you know better than that. Or don't you remember me sparing your life all those years ago?"

Ned had a flash of memory. Korea, an explosion ripping his unit apart, blood everywhere, some men screaming, some men silent. Ned had been next to Pete, holding the man's guts together while trying to stop the flow of blood from his own leg.  A hand had appeared from behind him, taking his away from Pete, a voice telling him it would be alright, and then his friend was dead and Ned was still alive. There hadn't been anyone else around and Ned had always suspected some other force at work that day. Apparently he'd been right.

"You got a hell of a sense of humour turning up on a man's birthday."

"Well," the man smiled, in a kind but inevitable way, "as they say, when your time's up, it's up."

"Who says that shit?"

"You do, Ned. All the time. Whenever you hear about one of your old friends popping their clogs, off you go with your wisdom."

Ned looked at him for a while, then burst into laughter.

"Well, it's true ain't it? Can't fight what you can't control," Ned replied.

They sat in silence a moment, both with small smiles on their faces. Then Ned asked, "Why now instead of then?"

The man looked down at the ground, as if working on a puzzle, before replying, "It wasn't your time I guess. At least that's what my files said."

"Your files? Since when did you become some paper pushing pussy?"

"Since the dawn of the new age old friend. I don't go around dressed in a cloak or carrying a scythe anymore either. Thanks to the Pratchett chap no one takes that seriously anymore."

Ned had never heard of this "Pratchett" but smiled anyway before turning his eyes back to his family, buzzing around the garden like a hive of bees.

"Does your file say anything about what happens next? Do I get some cloud in heaven? A dozen virgins all to myself?"

"I don't know about all that Ned," his smiled wavered a little, his eyes a little distant, "I just collect you and send you on your way. I never get to go that far so have no idea what lies beyond. You get to find that out for yourself."

"Hmph, figures. In life there's no answers, and in death there's even less."

"Yes," the smile changed again, reaching up to touch the man's eyes, "yes, that is very true."

They both watched the children playing some sort of tag game, which seemed to involve pushing each other over when they were caught and then looking innocent when the other started to cry. The breeze was cool and the sun was bright.

"Well, no point in waiting I suppose," Ned said.

"Don't you want to say goodbye to anyone first? I can give you a little time."

"Nah, I said enough to them all through the years. If they don't remember it, well, it will give 'em something to do when they all get together for the wake. The only people I want to talk to now are the ones that are up there... or wherever, waiting for me. Pete especially. I've missed that old sot. And the wife I suppose. Even if she is still complaining."

"Okay Ned. Just take my hand and we'll be on our way."

Ned reached out his old hand, the veins protruding along the back and even along the fingers and took the man's cool firm hand in turn. He stood up from his chair and walked some way with him, looking back once at the slumped shape he was leaving behind. He turned around and walked into the unknown, his companion by his side.