I, Writer Read online

I, Writer

  By Anthony North

  Copyright Anthony North 2013

  Cover image copyright, Yvonne North 2013

  Other books by Anthony North

  I, STORYTELLER SERIES

  I, POET SERIES

  Inmate Earth: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/237329

  Bard Stuff: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/252874

  Mind Burps: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/272508

  Verse Fest: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/302837

  I, THINKER SERIES

  I, Paranormal: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/237339

  I, Essayist: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/259928

  I, Society: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/272861

  I, Unexplained: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/303478

  I, Observer: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/304480

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  FLASH FACTORY

  Stories 1 - 6

  Stories 7 - 12

  Stories 13 - 18

  Stories 19 - 24

  Stories 25 - 30

  Stories 31 - 36

  Stories 37 - 43

  POETIC INTERLUDE ONE

  WRITING TIPS

  Tips – Pt 1

  Tips – Pt. 2

  Tips – Pt. 3

  POETIC INTERLUDE TWO

  MEMOIRS

  Life – Pt. 1

  Life – Pt. 2

  POETIC CONCLUSION

  List of Stories & Essays

  About the Author

  Connect With Anthony

  INTRODUCTION

  This is an introduction to my other eBooks – 7 volumes of Flash Fiction in most genres, 4 of poetry & 5 of essays, inc the unexplained. This volume has over 40 pieces of Flash Fiction + Poetry, Writing Tips and Memoirs – a dip-in volume to read at your leisure in a fast world. Here’s hoping I slow you down a little.

  FLASH FACTORY

  Stories 1 – 6

  (1) Criticism of Style (2) Moon Ladder (3) Outrageous (4) Time For a Change (5) Invasion Alien (6) Harvest

  CRITICISM OF STYLE

  No style!!? Me? What’s he talking about?

  I put down the paper – well, I scrunched it up and threw it in the fire. Any paper that could publish such a review of my latest book was unworthy of being read.

  No style? What nonsense is this? Okay, you can say a writer’s style is good, brilliant, indifferent or absolute rubbish. But no style? How can a book – anything – NOT have style – a pattern? If he didn’t like me, fair enough, but to obliterate me from existence!

  Several days later, I had not calmed down. He had gotten deep into my mind and evil thoughts just would not get out of my head, and I wished him nothing but bad luck.

  ‘I wish him bad luck,’ I eventually said to a person I spoke to in the bar.

  It was the following week that I read of the car accident. He wasn’t dead, but he did have a broken leg – which made it very difficult to escape the fire in his house the week after that.

  He did escape, of course, with some rather painful burns. But he would live – to be scooped up onto the bonnet of the car during the hit and run …

  And so it went on. Just a simple curse and it is done. It seems that this is how the enforcer got his reputation – and I have to say he was quite cheap, considering.

  ‘Ah,’ said the detective when I pointed this out. ‘That’s because he always follows the same incompetent pattern and he’s soon caught. Along with the person who hires him.’

  So there it is, folks. I’m writing this from prison. And there’s one thought I just can’t get out of my head:

  If only he’d had no style …

  MOON LADDER

  ‘Build a ladder to the moon.’

  Reynolds remembered the words – and it was hard to imagine it was only twenty years ago. And now, as he manoeuvred the shuttle into Earth orbit, he looked down on the result.

  It had taken a couple of years to thrash out the principles, but once the basic tech had been designed, and the money had been allocated, the project was on. And at last, thought many, the Earth’s industrial and energy problems were over.

  It had first been thought up by science fiction writers in the mid-20th century. Matter Drivers, they were called – a kind of huge electronic pulsed cannon, firing a constant stream of matter into space from the moon. It could be ore, anything that could be mined, and with no atmosphere to impede its acceleration, the journey to Earth would be cheap and effortless. Indeed, the only problem seemed to be the rungs – electronic pulsers to give the matter an extra boost on its journey to Earth. Indeed, working out the exact positions in relation to the orbit of Earth or moon had been the main stumbling block.

  But Reynolds had been there on the moon when the first stream had been fired, and he had followed them in the shuttle as they journeyed, and he had watched the way they were aimed to enter the atmosphere gently, only burning up half their mass, and ending up in the collectors on Earth.

  It was the most ingenious answer to man’s industrial insanity, they had said. But maybe the people should have known all along the vindictive nature of man. After all, with the equivalent of a constant meteor storm aimed directly at Earth, it was inevitable that something would eventually go wrong. And as Reynolds looked down on the Earth, its cities shattered, its oceans vaporized by the impacts, the idea entered his head that maybe mass suicide was intended all along.

  OUTRAGEOUS

  When I think back to how it was, I can’t believe it happened to me. There I was, a nobody, living a typical life of a teenager. Eighteen years old, a girlfriend, a job – of sorts – but mainly boredom. And then I auditioned for the TV talent show.

  I knew I had a good voice. I’d even been told I had ‘presence’. And well, we know how it went from there.

  I won! Millions voted for me, and suddenly I was the star.

  Oh man, how life changed. It was incredible. The girls, the adulation, the crowds screaming like that!

  It’s hard to explain how it is to BE somebody, to have people know your name, to have people aspire to be like you.

  The money poured in, of course.

  It was hard work, but I deserved that money. And okay, some people think I became rather outrageous, and I suppose I did – a larger than life character, bedding all those girls, the booze, the drugs, the statements on life, the universe and everything …

  Oh, what the hell – I enjoyed it! It was great! I was the luckiest man on Earth!

  Yeah, right!

  Well, mom, if only I’d been allowed to live as me, rather than that soulless image that was created for me, I wouldn’t be writing this suicide note ….

  TIME FOR A CHANGE

  ‘Well I think I’m ready for a change,’ said Jack.

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Pete.

  ‘Well, look at it?’ Jack was resting by the garden fence and gestured to the panorama that was his neighbourhood.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘What’s right with it?’ A sigh. ‘Lousy neighbours – yourself excepted, of course.’

  ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘And the noise. Kids always terrorizing the place. Cars flashing past …’

  Pete didn’t recognize the place like that, but said: ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes – and I’m fed up with it.’

  ‘So you want to change it?’

  ‘I do. It’s having such an effect as well.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, my job for a start. This place gets me down, so the job isn’t going right.’

  ‘I see …’

  ‘And my relationship with the wife is suffering.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘
Oh yes. We hardly get on any more.’

  ‘And changing your home will sort all this out, will it?’

  ‘It will.’

  Pete became philosophical. ‘Well, it seems to me that it isn’t your home you want to change.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. What you want to change is yourself.’

  Jack walked off, deciding it was time to change his friend as well.

  INVASION ALIEN

  When the flying saucer first landed, there was obvious curiosity. But when the little bug-eyed alien came out of the starship and began zapping everyone, fears grew of Invasion Earth. Armies were massed against him, but to no avail, and people began to crowd into churches, fearing Apocalypse.

  Something obviously had to be done. And this occurred when a priest appeared out of an old B-Movie, walked into No Man’s Land, held up his hands and said: ‘Please, stop!’

  The little bug-eyed alien thought a moment and lowered his blaster. He silently cursed, not realising until this moment that he was killing sentient beings.

  Within hours the little bug-eyed alien was no longer surrounded by armies, but scientists, eager to learn all about his technology, culture and psychology. However, no matter how hard they tried, the little bug-eyed alien’s ways were, for want of a better word, alien.

  True, he could easily build a particle beam blaster, understand the properties of quantum gravity, build an anti-grav drive, teleportation system and work out Godel’s theorem, but in all other areas his alienness became a handicap.

  The greatest minds on the planet came together to decide what to do with the little bug-eyed alien, and finally a decision was made. Convincing him to give up his toys, he was adopted by a nice family, and it is hoped he may soon be starting school.

  HARVEST

  Tony Brand knew the moment had come. The woman had moved away from her husband - left him by the lake and headed for the ice cream vendor. A hundred yards – that’s all Brand needed. He was good, and that would be enough time to kidnap her before the husband could get near. After all, kidnapping her was what it was all about.

  When he moved, it was fast, sweeping up the woman in one arm while another went to cover her mouth. By the lake, the husband was immediately alerted and began to run towards them.

  He was good, too, thought Brand, as he reached his car, opened the door, took out the gun and held it to her temple.

  The husband stopped in his tracks. Two pairs of professional eyes bore into each other. And the husband knew this was not the time.

  Brand pushed her into the car and in a moment sped off.

  The husband put down the phone, the arrangements made. He was sat in his London flat, and the strain showed on his face. He had met his wife a year ago in Paris, and it was love at first sight. She soon agreed to marry him, even though, by then, she was aware that he was a rising agent in the Russian FSB, his job as a London embassy attaché a mere cover.

  He was alerted by the door bell. Opening the door, he guessed who it would be.

  Dooley, sixty years of age with a face that reflected the shadow life he had led, walked in. Said: ‘If you want her back, we want the names of all your agents in Britain.’ He smiled. ‘Time for a harvest, I think.’

  The Russian smirked. ‘And what’s the point of that? We’d remove them straight away, and you’d be no better off.’

  ‘Ah, but we would,’ replied Dooley. ‘Your mother country is flexing its muscles again. And it needs a message. We’re still here, you know.’

  The husband knew it made sense.

  It was an hour later that the door bell rang and Brand opened the door of the safe house. Dooley walked in, looking smug.

  ‘Is he cooperating?’ asked Brand.

  ‘He’s thinking about it,’ replied Dooley. The old man opened another door. The wife was inside, sat on a chair, her hands tied, a gag over her mouth. Dooley smiled. Shut the door once more.

  And as Dooley left the safe house Brand checked his gun for the hundredth time. He never left anything to chance.

  Outside, the man in the car padded his mobile. ‘I’ve followed Dooley to the safe house,’ he said. ‘We know where she is.’

  It was dark when the two men crept up to the building, jemmied open the door and silently, but professionally stormed in.

  Brand was taken by surprise, and before he could reach for his gun, a bullet slammed into his chest.

  He fell back, blood pouring, his eyes staring into space.

  Quickly they freed the woman and were away. Within the hour, husband and wife were on a plane, destination Moscow.

  Dooley stared down at the still body of Tony Brand. He held a hard expression. Finally, he snapped: ‘Oh do get up, Brand. Don’t milk it.’

  Brand always did as he was told. He stood, took off the bulletproof vest and blood bags. ‘Did it work?’ he asked.

  Dooley replied in the affirmative. ‘They’re on their way to Moscow. His cover is blown, but his loyalty confirmed, so it will be a desk job for him. After all, it was a grave risk to his wife going straight to his masters – as we knew he would. And in ten years he’ll have risen to the high echelons of FSB HQ. And all that time with a wife who’s a sleeper in more ways than one.’ He smiled. ‘And I feel she will harvest a good amount of information from him.’

  Stories 7 – 12

  (7) He's One of Them (8) Live Wire (9) He Isn't There (10) The Recipe (11) Finger of Suspicion (12) A Perfect Christmas

  HE’S ONE OF THEM

  Miss Standing, the Headmistress, had admonished the boys the morning she heard them talking about Mr Smith.

  The boys had got it into their head that Mr Smith was a vampire. Indeed, it had got so bad that they’d avoid class rather than come face to face with him. And as for extra curricular activities, you’d never find THEM in the school after dark.

  It was his rosy cheeks that first drew their attention to the problem – that, and the distinct sharpness of his teeth. And then there was the delight he seemed to have dissecting little animals in the lab. Indeed, that was always a sticky situation. But nothing proved it more than the night they saw him in the darkened staff room, towering over Miss Jenkins, and lowering his mouth to her neck.

  The next day, she seemed almost comatose, and more than a little pasty. No, there was no doubt he was one of them. And as the boys had noticed, rumours of all manner of spectral goings on at night had been reported since he arrived.

  And when they spied Mr Smith taking Miss Jenkins to a secluded corner of the school, they decided they had to speak out again.

  Miss Standing admonished the boys once more as they told her, but realizing a ‘situation’ was developing, she followed the boys to the suspect’s haunt. Going in by herself, a red faced Headmistress finally emerged, and the rumour following said they were two teachers down due to ‘inappropriate behaviour’, with several other women teachers on warnings. But as Miss Standing later pointed out: ‘Don’t worry, boys, it won’t be many years before you’re little vampires, too.’

  LIVE WIRE

  We all know him.

  He starts off at school. He’ll maybe play football the best, and he’ll be leader of the gang – after all, he needs an audience so he can perform.

  I’m a psychologist. I study him thoroughly. I know him inside out. And as he gets a little older, he’ll be the dare-devil – the first to climb that wall; the first to kiss that girl. And as his hormones click in, he’ll more than kiss her – and many more besides.

  He’ll have to do this. He’s enslaved by his psychology. He may be from a broken home. He may have been abused. He may simply have been ignored – how dare they? – but he’ll be broken inside. Somehow.

  Years back he’d have been thought a naughty boy who needs a smack. In the deep past, he’d have the devil in him, and be exorcised. Today, he’d be hyper-active and given pills; pampered. Made worse.

  He leaves school, and he’s known as the live wire. He’ll succeed in everything he does. He’ll
work the hardest, party the wildest, and there won’t be anything he doesn’t know about. But the girl who gets close – she’ll know. She’ll see the vulnerability, the anger, the under-confidence that drives him on to succeed, ‘cos he has to. He was made that way.

  But others know him as the swell guy, the leader of the pack, ultra-smooth, ultra-confident – the man they all want to be. But they don’t see him cry at night; don’t see him shake before that confident act. Don’t see the man behind the mask.

  Not like I’ve seen – time and time again. Not like I’ve seen them rise in politics, or business, or sport, or entertainment, or any other career that exudes confidence!!

  Well, I’ve had enough for today. I stop the computer model – it has run enough times today – cut off its live wire, as it were.

  I’ll run it again tomorrow. Circumstances will change. Paths will differ. But the psychology is always the same.

  Show me a confident man and I’ll show you a wreck.

  HE ISN’T THERE

  The Techno-Lord looked once more into the eyes of the Heretic. ‘He isn’t there,’ he said. ‘Say it. Say it! He isn’t there.’

  The Heretic sat within the force field. Immobile except for his head, his body was covered in probe holes, where the ‘treatment’ had been inserted. His eyes still held, within them, the after-shock of expression as he remembered the pain.

  His head seemed to hang from his shoulders. But still he found the strength to raise himself. His eyes burned into the Techno-Lord with an intense heat. ‘He IS there!’ he declared, defiantly.

  The Techno-Lord shook his head. So many of them, he thought. So many retain the delusion.

  A gasp came from the audience. It had been his last chance. And now, the Techno-Lord pressed the button.

  Slowly, the juice flowed down the tube. The audience watched it with a mesmeric intensity. Eventually, it entered the body of the Heretic and his eyes closed.

  He seemed to float, then, for so long. Where he was travelling he had no idea, but knew that soon he’d know whether his death had been in vain.