Online short story writing by Rob Hopcott - online, original, free short stories

Xmas on Exmoor: a science fiction Christmas 2011 short story about finding love, other halves, atomic fundamental particles and interplanetary research by Rob Hopcott

2011-11-30T06:18:00.001-08:00

Every year, I write a Christmas short story or flash fiction for all my friends, instead of sending out Christmas cards, and, although I'm basically retired now from writing online, this free online science fiction short story for 2011 continues my short Christmas stories tradition.

I hope you enjoy:

Exmas on Exmoor, a science fiction Christmas short story by Rob Hopcott

Tired and bad tempered, after a lengthy and bumpy interplanetary journey, Og 132.27 drifted unseen across the sky over London then Exeter before landing gently on a grassy knoll near the top of the hill that Oggrer interplanetary research records indicated was called Dunkery Beacon on Exmoor in West Somerset, UK.

Unable to see very much because of the high foliage, Og crawled to the top of a nearby stone and surveyed the landscape using two out of fourteen available eyes to check out the flora and fauna in the local light wave-bands whilst allocating a further ten eyes to view the terrain in micro-wave and ultra-violet wavelengths.

The spectacular riot of sound, movements, smells and colours from the countryside all around was overwhelming and quickly forced Og 132.27 to damp down the data from all incoming sensory receptors to a more comfortable level.

Of the two remaining eyes, Og quickly reserved one for checking nearby dimensions, giving insight into past local events, whilst the other eye was allocated to a dimensional matrix that hinted of nearby future events. This last eye wasn't working too well, which Og assumed was probably due to overwork from recent excessive interplanetary case-loads. This made Og an even more bad tempered Oggrer than usual and an Oggrer who was longing for retirement.

A dark shadow loomed over Og, blocking out the bright light rays from the single star above that was sending rippling patterns of cloud shapes across the moorland down to the sea, known locally as the Bristol Channel.

Absent-mindedly, Og used one of his thirty two brains to interrogate accumulated research about the main flora on the hill and found it was called 'heather' and 'gorse' by the local dominant species. Other local species didn't seem to care much what it was called.

Og focussed one of his spare brains on the unpleasant intrusion high above that was blocking the star light and made contact:

"I'm pleased you could get here at last, Ag 33.2. I've checked out 43 other interplanetary scouts on this planet while hanging around waiting for you ... and they were all on time for their progress reviews. Now could you please settle down and get rid of that annoying large form you are wearing. I've set up a cloak field so we can't be seen. Your shortage of eyes, limbs and generally odd appearance, not to mention extraordinary size, is unnerving me. Despite doing progress reports for many sun rotations across many galaxies, I still find that particular alien form ... distasteful."

Og 132.27 twitched violently as a low whistle and squelch of heather and mud underfoot announced that one of the local dominant species had emerged from behind some nearby plants. Og's second brain quickly identified these plants as 'trees' and logged the data away.

Ag casually turned towards the newly arrived human being, flashed her emerald blue eyes and spun a radiant smile in the direction of the young male. He was wearing hiking boots, a big grin and a red hat with a white bobble on top. The form Ag had adopted to travel amongst the local species was of a slim female human. With her lithe figure, dressed in short-cut jeans, loose pullover and a similar red hat over long blonde hair, Ag was by now quite used to drawing admiration from young males of this species and even the occasional appreciative whistle now left her undeterred.

Not so Og who was still trembling from the sudden piercing sound.

Ag turned away from the human, using the body language of his species to show lack of interest, but, out of the corner of her eye, watched until the young man shrugged his shoulders and then trudged off down the hill.

Seeing the coast was clear, Ag gently stepped inside Og's cloaked area, changed form and size and settled her array of legs, eyes and body with its multiple brains gently down besides Og.

"Phew, that feels better," said Ag, using the official communication frequency spectrum common in mentor situations.

Ag was trying to appear at ease but had always felt uncomfortable in the presence of Og who was a very old advisor on interplanetary cultural issues with immense power to do ... well ... pretty much whatever Og wanted. This was not good because Og clearly considered Ag to be wayward and far too sensitive to the interests of the local species under investigation. This, Og considered, prevented objective research and frequently led to indecision instead of a firm hand.

In one case, recently, Og had been obliged to require that Ag's report be completely re-composed to stress clearly that the aquatic species on a planet under review had succeeded in developing a technology that could lead to the possibility of fractured time dimensions; albeit very remotely, after a great deal of development and over many star rotations. Nevertheless, Og insisted, if the technology was ever so developed, it had the (statistically low) possibility of reverting the species' universe to its big bang status with inevitable rippling effects across many other times and spaces. Consequently, Og demanded that a stern report be sent to interplanetary HQ demanding immediate remedial action.

Ag, on the other hand, had rather been hoping that the small adverse probability of interplanetary interference would go unnoticed at Oggrer HQ which was a very bureaucratic organisation and just as quick to lose files as it was to be over concerned about far off inter-planetary risk levels caused by other species' technology. Sadly, Ag's protestations were ignored by Og and the report was changed.

Following the acceptance of Ag's heavily revised report, it was quickly determined that a virus be introduced into the intelligent fish species' food chain which genetically reduced their intelligence thus effectively preventing any further technological advance at all. Unfortunately, as a by-product, it also had the effect of enhancing their empathy levels. Soon they were all happily swimming around and affectionately rubbing themselves up against any other species they encountered, however unfriendly.

In consequence, instead of being at the top of the food chain, the hitherto intelligent fish species quickly became the favourite food for all other local species with sharp enough teeth to cut through their soft skin ... Which was almost all of them ... The end result, inevitably, was the exceedingly painful and rapid demise of all advanced aquatic intelligence on that planet.

Ag had been mortified but Og had stated adamantly that the known universe was now certain to be safe for posterity (and especially the Oggrers) which was all that mattered.

Og bulged a brain pod out to make contact with Ag's own already proffered brain pod and settled down to absorb Ag's data transfer detailing researches to date.

In the mean time, Og dedicated another brain to debriefing Ag in general terms, knowing that the rapid sequence of grunts, scratches and light frequency exchanges were absorbed by the surrounding cloak and could not be heard by anybody.

"I hope you're not going to make excuses for this species like you did with those ridiculous fish," said Og, grumpily. "I've got some scouts working elsewhere on this planet at an atomic particle smashing centre and, I'll be honest with you, it's scary. To use a phrase that is common with this local species, it's like a baby playing with gunpowder and a box of matches. Sooner or later they'll rip some fundamental elements apart and we'll have chaos in our time or at least an inter-dimensional black hole. They haven't a clue what they are getting up to and they are about as terminally curious as a comet attracted to a neutron star."

"But they are very sweet as well as curious," demurred Ag reassuringly, "and so different! Unlike ourselves, for example, they can't reproduce on their own. They are split into two halves, one part called males and the other part called females. It really took me a long time to come to terms with that. Living amongst them as a human, I had to get used to being only half a person. It was very strange. Males and females live such different lives. However, after a while, I found it was rather fun to always be looking for your other half amongst all of the other halves and, when two halves do get together, they call it 'love', it's all rather ... exciting!"

Ag projected a picture of two halves of the species having fun, being in love and getting excited.

Og shuddered.

"Please Ag, there's no reason to be distasteful." An embarrassed glimmer of colours across many light spectrums rippled over Og's body.

"I hope you haven't practised any of this 'other half' love discovering stuff. It looks positively horrible!"

"Well ... in the interests of my study," Ag mentioned carefully. "Naturally ... Um ... I felt it would be considered a necessary part of my research work."

Ag twitched multiple appendages uncomfortably, secretly relieved that the images just sent to Og had been carefully censored so they didn't show the identities of the participants in the 'other half' love discovering processes. Cloaked up as a young attractive female human being, she'd had many opportunities for 'other half' love discovering research on this planet and had used the opportunities to the fullest extent under the excuse of obtaining more data.

"And what's that ridiculous garment you were wearing on that single pathetic human head?"

"That's what they call a Father Christmas hat," said Ag. "The story is told on this planet that an old man with whiskers on his chin secretly delivers gifts to many of the human's offspring. It's a tradition they have at what they call Christmas time. They consume lots of a chemical called alcohol which alters the properties of their minds and, while they are confused, they give each other gifts, among other things."

Ag's legs shimmered with an iridescent colouration, indicating a growing degree of excitement and enthusiasm which Ag clearly found was difficult to disguise.

"Er, then they do lots of finding their other 'love halves' which leads to producing more offspring and the need for more Father Christmases to secretly arrive in the middle of the night and give the children presents."

Og shuddered. "This species seems to spend far too much time finding the other 'love halves' of themselves. Not to mention their obsession with fundamental particles. It just doesn't seem normal. Can't we just introduce a genetic change to make them happy ... just being themselves ... and not doing very much connected with biology and technology?"

"Unfortunately, frivolous genetic changes are not allowed under interplanetary order X23.pod.4," Ag gently remonstrated, knowing Og was perfectly aware of this and was probably just testing.

Og quietly reviewed some of the data that was flowing into the brain that was connected to Ag.

"Plus they seem to do a lot of fighting others of their species and also have a nasty habit of eating marginally less intelligent but quite sentient species too. Why can't they just enjoy eating rock like any other civilised species?"

Ag rustled limbs nervously seeking to mollify.

"Yes, I must admit, that took some getting used to but hunting food is such a big part of their lives. In the earlier years of their development, called the Stone Age according to their history records, they would spend most of their time chasing other species and killing them to eat ... When they were not finding their other 'love halves' with which to produce offspring, of course."

"Disgusting!"

"Naturally, these days, lots of them do other things with only a few of them needing to kill and prepare other species for eating. They call this efficiency."

"Which I suppose means that they now have more time to build machines designed to destroy atomic particles and to cause the potential inter-dimensional chaos that my other scouts have reported is possible." Clearly Og was building a strong dislike for this species with every revelation.

"Well not all of them. Some spend a lot of their time these days watching stories on their communication devices." Ag presented a picture of a television with a pair of humans watching a Christmas movie.

"Argh!" said Og. "Even in their stories, they are doing that 'other half' love finding thing."

Ag quickly altered the channel on the television. "Sorry Og! I should have previewed it first. Try this one!"

The television screen changed to show explosions, metal projectiles flying around and bits of shattered human flesh lying on the ground.

"And they watch this sort of stuff for fun?"

"Yes, but they do have their nicer moments. They have constructed things called musical instruments which make sounds in their hearing spectrum that they call music. Some of these sounds are quite nice once you get used to them."

"And what do they do while they are listening to this music stuff?"

"Well, actually, quite a lot of the time, especially the younger ones ... Er, I don't know how to put this ..."

Privately, and with growing alarm, Ag was beginning to think the days of this species were as doomed as the intelligent fish Ag had previously researched.

Og quivered all over and screeched on multiple wavelengths in exasperation.

"Stop! You don't need to tell me, I can guess what they do to the music ... Now, Ag 33.2, we can't let this species continue in this way or we'll have whole planetary systems dressed in red hats and looking for their 'other half' love things whilst exploding fundamental particles out of curiosity, without doubt inevitably leading to the complete destruction of all our dimensions!"

Og continued, grumpily. "I've seen enough. I'm going to call an end to the investigation of these humans. Consider yourself relieved of your duties. I'll submit a report to Oggrer HQ for the engineers to craft a genetic virus that sorts these humans out. Since they are so keen on killing and eating other sentient species, perhaps we can arrange for them to kill and eat each other ... Yes ... That would be very appropriate and efficient too. With all the finding 'other halves' they do, the gene would transmit throughout their species very quickly. They'd eat each other and then we can stop worrying about their stupid curiosity and its threat to end our properly regulated universes."

"I wish you wouldn't be so hasty," said Ag. "You are condemning their species to destruction on mere speculation and I think they might have a lot to offer."

"It's too late. My decision is final," snarled Og. "While we've been talking, I've had one of my brains reassigning all the other scouts on this planetary system to new duties. There is a system of intelligent clouds that are restructuring electrical fields in an alarming way on the other side of this universe that needs investigating. Consequently, I've told the other scouts to immediately leave this planet and carry out new researches there."

As for myself, I'm retiring after this assignment and desperately need a holiday, especially after being subjected to all these unnatural 'other half' love finding activities you've been describing. So, I'm the only Oggrer left on this planet now, apart from you, and I'm off imminently."

Viciously, Og separated their brain pod connections, deeming the data flow now irrelevant.

Ag internally gazed sadly at the remaining data now to be left unsent to Og and reported to Oggrer HQ. It was mainly about Christmas and showed members of this planet's dominant species sitting around bright red log fires and dancing together to the sound of musicians. Adults and children were holding hands, smiling and giving each other gifts, seemingly inspired by the 'loving' thing so important to them ... In quiet places, other adults were joining together in their beautiful private dances where two halves become one whole, dreaming together of children born out of 'love' to continue the future of their species.

Og crashed into Ag's thoughts, tersely issuing an ultimatum. "You'd better get off this planet quick. Your form changing fields are due to be switched off shortly. Unless you leave now, you will be stranded. Frankly, I'm indifferent to what you do. Over sentimental interplanetary researchers are always easy to replace!"

Outside the cloaking force field, the young male walker had returned and was standing nearby gazing across the countryside admiring the beauty of the Exmoor hills and valleys in the setting sun. He thought there could be the smell of snow in the air.

Something indefinable about the young lady he'd seen earlier on this hill had drawn him back ... almost required him to return.

A twig snapped behind him. He turned around and found the beautiful young lady studying him. Quickly she lifting her foot and stamped at something on the ground that made a crunching sound.

Smiling, she held out her hand, compelling him to take it. Now, deep down inside, he knew he'd been right to return.

As they walked together down the moorland path, she asked what had brought him to Exmoor and he replied he was on holiday from his work as a nuclear research scientist.

"I'm called Agatha and I know a bit about particle physics," she said.

Agatha would now be her permanent name after, minutes ago, one stamp of her foot had severed all contact with her own species and ensured Og would never get to submit any report at all on this planet.

"It was a very secret research establishment," she said. "I couldn't tell you about the place where I worked but perhaps I could discuss some of the science."

"I'm called Alec." He smiled at her admiringly. "Brains and beauty, What more could I want?"

"I could help you with some of your work. We could exchange ideas," said Agatha, chattily. "There are things you need to be careful about when you are dealing with the most powerful fundamental elements of the universe."

"Probably there are," he said, laughing lightly, "but, before anything else, I want to know what you are planning to do for Christmas?"

Agatha gazed happily into his blue eyes and reached up to stroke his wavy fair hair.

"I'd love you to show me all that is wonderful about Christmas around here. I want country pubs, music, gifts, happiness, roaring fires and maybe even a bit of that mind altering stuff I've heard you make locally."

"Mmmm," Alec said. "You'll love our local mulled cider, made from apples grown in orchards between the hills and perhaps later I'll introduce you to some of our wassailing traditions. Also, while I'm home for these few weeks over Christmas, I've been asked to play a part in the local pantomime for the children. They were looking for more people to be involved. Perhaps you might like to play a part too."

"That sounds perfect," said Agatha, "and while we are learning our parts, perhaps we can talk about sharing our understanding of particles too."

As one they trudged down the hillside and then, still holding hands, disappeared into the woods.

Far away, across the universe, Oggrers industriously continued their interplanetary researches, ate rocks and quickly forgot they had ever encountered a species in two halves with a passionate interest in love and a curiosity for the properties of fundamental atomic particles ... leaving Alec and Agatha to live happily ever after.

The End

A note about Xmas on Exmoor by author Rob Hopcott:

I hope you have enjoyed this Christmas short story or short fiction that I have written for all my friends online instead of sending out Christmas cards. This free online short story for 2011 continues the short Christmas stories tradition that I have maintained for some years now.

It is a small thing but it pleases me and I hope it gives others some pleasure.

Perhaps you would also like to read some of my Christmas stories from previous years :-)

For last Christmas's short story and details of previous years free online short Christmas stories see:

Christmas Card from the President of the World - a sci-fi Christmas short story for 2010 by Rob Hopcott

A Merry Christmas to all, and a Happy New year!

Bye for now

Rob

Rob Hopcott - online author

Note: this Christmas short story is copyright Rob Hopcott 2011, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this Christmas short story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, science fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise on this planet or any other.

Christmas Card from the President of the World - Rob Hopcott's sci-fi Christmas short story for 2010 and other Xmas short stories

2010-12-12T03:53:00.000-08:00

The President of the World looked down at the message etched in white on his dark wooden Presidential Suite desk. He hadn't expected the reply from Slithers 45 to come like this when, at his first Interplanetary Video Conference, he'd suggested to The Kingdom of Slithers 45 that their two planets might Twin as a gesture of Interplanetary Goodwill. He'd even followed up his Twinning Suggestion with a Christmas Card and message carefully transmitted on a wavelength that his advisers said was monitored by the inhabitants of that far-away giant gas surrounded planet called Slither 45.

Furthermore, the message wasn't even polite:

Hi Pres (Just a bit too familiar!)

Thank you for your Christmas Card, which was received yesterday, your Interplanetary good wishes of the season and your request to Twin with Slither 45. We are sorry but we must decline your generous offer.

As you may know, our planetary cycle does not revolve around a year, like yours, but instead something similar to 1000 of your years and we don't die as you do but instead metamorphose. By coincidence, as you celebrate your Christmas with Wise Men, crystallised water in the air above a dry and hot desert (Did we interpret that correctly, it seems so unlikely?), the population of Slither 45 will be descending from our outer atmosphere to the mud flats below to congregate together for our cyclical procreation.

Like your Christmas, this event is indeed a time of great joy. As you may be aware, slithers are hermaphrodite and will share DNA with possibly hundreds of others in our wriggly celebrations as we burrow and writhe joyfully in the soft mud of our home planet for around two of your Earth years. After we have then given birth to around 1000 new Slithers each, we metamorphose from the physical back into gas and energy and ascend back into Slither 45's beautiful methane rich atmosphere. Soon, the pull of our nearest star will metamorphose the older of us into pure energy who will then move into the outer layers of our atmosphere. Soon after, billions of new Slithers will depart our home planet to travel amongst the stars and galaxies of our and other universes in the quest for knowledge and personal realisation.

So, you can see, there really are too many differences between our species that would make Twinning difficult, above all your existence only as physical beings, so we must decline your kind offer.

By the way, something that puzzled even our best thinkers, why have you only three Wise Men? Is there something on Earth that prevents them sharing their wisdom with the rest of your species? Isn't sharing the greatest pleasure for any member of your kind?

Your practice of giving physical gifts at Christmas also intrigues us. Does your species not distribute enough for the needs of all freely as a normal part of your lives and, if not, why not since you are all equally on the planet together?

Signed

W Riggly for All of Slithers 45

The President of the World sat back on his huge leather chair, placed his feet contemptuously onto the message etched into his Presidential oak desk and tuned his TV remote to more reassuring Christmas Carol festivities. Later he would meet other World leaders for drinks and gossip and perhaps a round of golf.

Intriguingly, he could see from the newscasts that Slither 45 technology had not got his State Reply quite right. Apparently, a very large number of desks had been etched with the Christmas reply from Slither 45.

Perhaps, therefore, the President of Earth mused, some good would come from his initiative (of which he had been rather proud before he got the reply).

At least the boom in replacement desks that would follow in the New Year would stimulate the world economy so the World would indeed have a Happy Christmas and Prosperous New Year.

THE END

A note from Author Rob Hopcott:

Every year, I write a Christmas short story or flash fiction for all my friends online and otherwise instead of sending out Christmas cards and this free online short story for 2010 continues my short Christmas stories tradition.

It is a small thing but it pleases me and I hope it gives others some pleasure.

Perhaps you would also like to read some of my Christmas stories from previous years :-)

For last Christmas's short story and details of previous years free online short Christmas stories see:

Bah Humbug, Share Dealing and Morris Dancers - by Rob Hopcott

A Merry Christmas to all, and a Happy New year!

Bye for now

Rob

Rob Hopcott - online author

Note: this Christmas short story is copyright Rob Hopcott 2010, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this Christmas short story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, science fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Bah Humbug, Share Dealing and Morris Dancers - Rob Hopcott's Christmas short story for 2009 and other Christmas short stories

2009-11-17T06:54:00.000-08:00

"Bah! Humbug," said Henry, as he tried once again to focus his old eyes on the share dealing program displayed on the computer screen in his front room and ignore the jangling, jigging and crashing sounds of the approaching Morris dancers.

'Ignorant peasants,' Henry muttered as he poked his dirty keyboard with gloved fingers.

He had retired to this thatched cottage located at the edge of this quiet West County village not to be bothered by noise or people. The once pretty garden was now untended and overgrown with brambles and weeds. Inside the cottage, dust was everywhere but, to Henry, it mattered not a jot.

'Darned waste of time,' he moaned.

Grumpily, he leaned over and flicked aside the grimy curtain which prevented the early morning December sunshine from obscuring the stock-market numbers that moved like lazy ants across his screen and worked industriously and tirelessly to make him richer.

Abruptly, he slammed closed the heavy window. The sound echoed down the corridor, through the empty kitchen, into the hall, up the musty stairs where the single photo of Daphne, his late wife, had toppled over on the landing window sill, through to each of the bedrooms that were never used because his family had long ago given up duty visits to their least popular relative. He didn't expect them back until he was in his box and they gathered around to collect their undeserved spoils.

Scratching his unshaven chin, he watched the stock market indexes reveal his latest successes. It mattered not that the pension from his career working as an actuary was entirely adequate for his needs.

Henry's joy came from every winning deal he made, knowing that for each win, someone else was a loser. Someone out there in a world that did little to include him would feel the icy glare of his intellect. Someone out there would lose money, perhaps their car or house or be unable to buy Christmas presents for their children because he had won.

'Fools! Pah! You are all fools,' he muttered as he made a sell order through his online stock exchange trading system and netted a profit that far exceeded the average monthly wage of many local countryside families - if indeed they had a job at all in the recession of 2009.

The sound of Morris dancers and folk musicians outside playing their music, laughing and jangling their bells was drawing closer. Henry tried hard to ignore them and concentrate on a report about a new fund that exploited foreclosed and repossessed homes.

'A tidy profit, a tidy profit, from foolishness' he smirked.

'Fools, darned fools, trying to live above their station. I'll teach them a lesson!'

The knock on his door almost made him fall off his chair. Who could it be? Locals knew not to knock. The warnings on his door were explicit.

'Hawkers not wanted'.

'Canvassers will be attacked by my dog!'

'Leafleters will be sued'.

'Trespassers will be prosecuted.'

'GO AWAY!'

Yet somebody was standing out there on his doorstep amongst the brambles and nettles, ignoring his warnings of dire retribution ... and, worse still, they had dared to knock on his door.

'Darn uneducated morons can't read now. I'll teach them a lesson,' Henry snarled, reaching for his walking stick.

'Go away,' Henry yelled through his front door, banging his stick hard on the wooden beams above.

Outside he could just hear a quiet voice that replied to his yell but could only understand what she said if he leaned closer to the door and listened very carefully, which he did now.

"Hello, hello, Mr Henry, came the small female voice. Are you all right? We just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas."

"A Merry Christmas?" snarled Henry through the keyhole. "It's just December. Christmas isn't for weeks."

"We know that," came the tiny voice from the other side of Henry's heavy oak door, "but we are collecting for the local children's hospice and, to enable us to get around all the houses in all the local villages, we need to start early in the month. Every penny of the money we collect goes to making Christmas better for the life limited children. Could you spare a few pennies. No matter how little, it all goes to the children."

"Why should I give my money away? I've hardly got enough to live on. Do you want me to starve?" Henry shrilled belligerently.

"Oh, in that case, if you haven't got enough to eat, instead, perhaps you would like to come and join us. We are going to have a picnic on the green at the end of your road. You could watch us dancing and enjoy the music. I'm sure all the others wouldn't mind sharing their sandwiches with you. It would all be free!"

Henry stroked his stubbly chin. 'Darned fools were giving away free food now. Idiots!'

'Only a fool would look a gift horse in the mouth, though' he conceded to himself.

The heavy oak door creaked as he pushed it open on its rusty hinges revealing a pretty young woman with brown hair tied behind her head into a ponytail. At her side was a little boy with a shiny, well scrubbed face and his thumb in his mouth.

At the end of the path leading to Henry's cottage, the Morris dancers clustered. Encouraged at getting a new audience, they leaped into life, banging their sticks and jigging around to their tunes.

"I'm Jane," the young woman said, confidentially, as she placed her spare hand around Henry's gnarled and veined wrist. "Come on".

They walked slowly along the road. The Morris dancers and their band followed with their melodeons, whistles and violins shouting, laughing and exchanging banter with people from the houses as they came out to see what was going on.

Several of the Morris dancers rushed from person to person jingling the coins in their collecting boxes in time with the jangle of the bells on their prancing legs.

They set themselves down on the village green in front of the Blacksmith's Arms and were soon treated to free roast potatoes donated by the publican who also served the Morris dancers with foaming tankards of ale as they munched their individual lunches.

Henry was introduced to the Foreman, the Bagman and the Squire. All gave him some of their food and one of them bought Henry a whisky to warm him up for he was shivering without a jacket. Then another of the dancers lent Henry his Morris dancing coat which he called his 'tatters' and by now he was really feeling very warm indeed.

All around Henry there was cheerful chatter, laughter and joking.

'Darned fools,' he still muttered to himself quietly so they couldn't hear. 'I'd be a fool to look such a gift horse in the mouth.'

When they had eaten, danced a few more dances and played a few more tunes, they all insisted that Henry have a lift in their mini-bus back to his door before they set off for their Morris dancing performance in the next village.

Safely back in his home, Henry seated himself at his computer and logged onto his online stock-exchange account.

The figures whirled in front of him. Numbers that asked nothing, demanded nothing of his emotions. Expected nothing in return yet made unceasing contributions to his wealth.

But he couldn't concentrate. Jane's gentle goodbye kiss on his cheek was burning its way through his whiskers and he could still feel the warmth of her hand as she had led him back to his home.

He also remembered her gentle voice.

"We practice each week in the village hall by this green and you can come along and join in, if you like. It wouldn't cost you anything and you might enjoy the company. We go to the pub afterwards and have a music session with a few songs and tunes which is fun. We could be company for you."

She didn't seem to care that Henry didn't reply, his mouth full of the delicious roast potatoes and cheese sandwiches and his mind bemused by the friendly banter.

"They are really a very friendly Morris dancing side," Jane assured him. "They will make you welcome."

"I discovered them when I came back to live with my Aunt after the death of my husband in Iraq. I couldn't afford the cost of the rent of my home in London. My Aunt plays violin in their band," she added.

She lovingly wiped her son's face with a handkerchief whetted by her tongue.

"They've all been very kind to us and welcomed us like one of the family. Of course, I'll have to go eventually because my Aunt's house is very small and there is no work around here. I'll be sad though because it's such a friendly community. But at least for a while it's given me a chance to get my head sorted and think about my future."

"If you are too nervous to walk down the road by yourself," she added shyly, "I could come and get you from your house ... if you would like ... to come to the Morris practice sessions each week that is."

Henry had just kept munching, looking slyly from side to side at all the other villagers gathered around.

Jane smiled gently, understanding, and continued to sit besides him while she chatted with the others.

"We are going to the hospice to help on Christmas day," she had said. "My Aunt is coming too and the Morris side will be dancing. You could join in and have your Christmas at the hospice."

Henry could even still feel Jane's son's small hand as he politely held it up to say goodbye at his front door.

He leaned over and pushed open the window by his computer. A blackbird's singing flooded the room. It seemed to have somehow picked up a few notes of the Morris dancing tune.

Slowly, unable now to concentrate on his share dealings, Henry switched off his computer. Perhaps he would shave and wash today for a change but first he would look in the attic for that old wooden flute he had once played as a boy. Jane had said her son wanted to learn the flute although she had worried they seemed so expensive.

On his way to the attic, he paused by the end bedroom which caught the sun perfectly every morning and had a further door off it into another single bedroom. Dust was everywhere on the floor and the bed linen needed cleaning but it could be made good, for little cost.

Perhaps he could trade some cleaning work from Jane for accommodation and food for her and her boy. It would give them a home. The sound of the child running around the large house would be annoying but there was a big garden outside and maybe he could teach him how to play the flute, as his father had done.

'Exchanging housekeeping for a home and food would be very economical with no tax to pay,' he grunted with satisfaction to himself. 'A bargain which could be worth considering.'

He trudged up the attic stairs. The black wooden flute was battered but he heaved himself onto an old packing case to see if he could still make a tune and was surprised by a strange feeling of contentment, not felt for years, that flowed over him as he started to play.

He leaned over and made a detailed note about his intentions on the pad of his old writing desk lest later he should forget.

Once more he picked up his flute.

Outside, startled by the melody of the flute that suddenly emerged from the attic of Henry's old thatched cottage, the blackbird paused briefly then joined in with his song.

Eventually, the sounds from inside the attic grew quieter then stopped. The blackbird stayed awhile and then went off about its own business.

When dusk fell, the blackbird briefly returned, attracted by the light from the computer in the dark room in the dark cottage at the end of the lane by the village green, before moving on to find his favourite roost.

At the Blacksmith's Arms, the Morris dancing side had also returned from their charity collecting and were ending their day playing tunes, laughing and singing songs.

Soon, with the approval of the whole of the Morris side, a young lady holding an electric torch found her way down the dark lane, knocked several times, then, seeing the door was slightly ajar, and concerned the only light in the darkness was coming from the computer, pushed her way inside.

The End

P.S. Every year, I write a Christmas short story or flash fiction for all my friends online and otherwise instead of sending out Christmas cards and this free online short story for 2009 continues my short Christmas stories tradition.

It is a small thing but I hope it gives you some pleasure.

Perhaps you would also like to read some of my Christmas stories from previous years :-)

For last Christmas's short story and details of previous years free online short Christmas stories see:

A Green car for Christmas by Rob Hopcott

A Merry Christmas to all, and a Happy New year!

Bye for now

Rob

Rob Hopcott - online author

Note: this Christmas short story is copyright Rob Hopcott 2009, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this Christmas short story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, science fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Time ... But not as we know it ... A short story by Rob Hopcott

2008-11-28T06:31:00.000-08:00

Either I'm going crazy or the Universe is!

This morning, in the shower, whilst using my shampoo, I was surprised to find that my hair seemed unusually abundant.

My tendency to baldness appeared to have been reversed overnight.

"You're going daft or senile," I thought.

So, I got dressed and went down the road to get my morning newspaper.

By the time I got back, my shiny new Ford in the driveway was looking strangely ancient. My motorcar, of course, is my pride and joy and I'm even thinking of giving it a name but can't work out what sex it should be. Is my car a Rufus or a Rosemarie? ... It's a puzzle that keeps me awake in the early hours of the morning ... as my wife snores.

Still trying to put my finger on why I thought my not-yet-named car looked older, I slipped the driver's door open and settled myself behind the wheel ... Well, it's been a day since we went driving together and that was only a short journey down to the Post Office to get some more bird seed for the voracious sparrows that over-populate our garden. I don't like my little Ford to feel lonely so I use her every day, if I can. Unfortunately, I forgot to pop her in the garage last night ... Perhaps that's why she looks a little tired ...

Without switching the engine on, I depressed the clutch and slipped into first gear. It felt smooth and sweet ... But something niggled at the back of my mind. Ah, that's right, I'd forgotten for a moment, my lovely little Ford is an automatic. Most curious!

Rufus and I trundled fairly contentedly down our little suburban street. The sun was flashing in my eyes and there weren't many people around. In fact I didn't see anybody at all which was strange because it was about nine o'clock in the morning and the road is usually full of mothers taking their kids to school.

Rosemarie seemed to be creaking a bit and had definitely developed a noisier exhaust pipe by the time we got to the High Street. A police officer emerged from his Police Box and gave me a rather severe second look so I accelerated a bit in the hope he might not catch me on his bicycle which was propped against the water pump next to the horse and carriage. It was all getting so confusing so I decided to return home and check the News.

It took me a while to figure out the buttons and I couldn't find the remote for the television. Well, to be truthful, I couldn't find the television either. It seemed to have been replace by a rather ancient radio. My wife was nowhere to be seen. Is she ever when she's needed? Perhaps she'd popped down to see our daughter on the other side of town.

The radio crackled and whistled but eventually I found a station. Unfortunately, I couldn't find a news channel. My radio didn't seem to have one anymore. Perhaps the microchips inside were not functioning properly. They did seem to be glowing somewhat brightly. Most unusual. A bit like the old valves we used to have after the Second World War.

My hair seemed to have returned to its usual state of sparseness ... In fact, I was now feeling practically bald so I popped that furry hat on my head my daughter gave me last Christmas. Reassured, I sat down in front of the radio that should have been a television and waited for the News.

I must have dropped off because, a few minutes later, the television was back and running a documentary. I do like these documentaries about the World and the Universe we are living in. It is so incredible to think how limitless the Universe is out there and all those billions of stars, galaxies and planets. It's amazing how much our clever scientists have figured out and they are always coming up with something new about time and space.

Having a television screen that covered the wall, of course, made the shots of the endless galaxies very impressive, even quite scary. Strange, because yesterday I'd just been talking to my wife who is called ... I forget now but she's very nice ... So I was saying to my wife that it would be good to get a television with a bigger screen. I wonder why I'd said that because obviously a screen covering the whole wall is more than adequate .. And quite scary when the shots came up of the riots in the town next door which I'd always thought was a good neighborhood mostly populated with pensioners.

I still couldn't find the remote for the television but it seemed to switch itself off as soon I thought I might go out again for a while. It occurred to me that I should eat and then perhaps pop up onto the moorland hill that overlooks our town.

I quite fancied a prawn filled sandwich and was pleased to see that my clever wife had made me one and left it in the fridge ready for when I got hungry and realised I wanted one.

The kitchen looked very shiny and new too and I wondered when she decided to change it. I couldn't remember her mentioning anything about a new kitchen ... Not that I understand much about the kitchen and cooking. It's more my wife's hobby than mine. I'm more of a postage stamps saving and walking on the moors sort of person. Which is a good thing because I wouldn't have a clue about which of all those shiny knobs switched the kettle on - although I have to say the cup of tea my wife had left on the work surface was not only piping hot but just as I like it.

The prawn sandwich was, I must say, absolutely excellent. So, full of contentedness, I nipped outside ready and raring to go for my lunchtime walk. Driving up onto the moors would give me an opportunity to practice using the new manual gear change option that I'd recently discovered in my Ford.

Well! Before I could figure out where the gear change stick was, we were half way down the road and I have to say Rufus / Rosemarie was purring along very silently ... Well, hardly even purring ... Rufus was completely silent even at speed. And she seemed to know exactly where to go without me steering ... Which was just as well, because I couldn't find the steering wheel!

Things were so confusing that I was quite relieved when we got up onto the moors. The moorland grass felt good underfoot. I like my walks on the moors. We live next to the sea and I like to look out over the green and gold heathers and watch the sunset in the evening over the bay. It looks beautiful, so calm and tranquil.

I sat for a long time on my favourite seat looking out over the countryside... So permanent and reassuring.

Occasionally, I would turn and check Einstein, which was the name I'd now decided to call my car. Einstein seemed better than Rufus or Rosemarie because my car was turning out to be such a clever car. One minute Einstein was the shiny Ford I knew and loved. The next minute it was ... Well, hard to describe, as it shimmered and shifted focus in the sunshine. When I looked again, it had reverted to something out of a vintage car rally. I'd always wanted a vintage car so, at these times, I felt quite pleased.

The countryside and moorland looked very good indeed so I took a photo which was normal and reassuring and not at all like everything else on this strange day.

It was fortunate that I took the photo because it gave me something to look at when I wanted to remind myself how things were ... Before there were three suns in the sky and things got very hot. Even the sea now seems to have a low lying mist that could almost be steam...

I think I'll just sit here a while longer. I'm feeling very tired and it's difficult to breathe.

It's so very confusing. I feel genuinely scared to go back into town. I really don't know what I would find. I doubt my house is still there. Although, if it is, I expect Einstein will know where to find it.

Perhaps he would know where to find my wife too ... So she could make me a prawn sandwich for supper ...

Perhaps it's better to sit here and not move.

Either I'm going crazy or the Universe is!

The End

Enjoyed this short story? You may also enjoy In THEIR eyes, you are just compost - a short flash science fiction (sci-fi) story by Rob Hopcott

Have you ever felt that time may be slipping out of synch all around you? Your comments are welcome below :-)

Bye for now

Rob Hopcott - online short stories author

This science fiction (sci-fi) short story about time and people's perceptions of changing time is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this science fiction short story about time, space and alternative universes and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, science fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Childhood friends meet as man considers seeking woman for illicit encounter married dating affair

2008-08-29T04:41:00.000-07:00

I met my childhood buddy, Alex, at a little coffee bar just off Oxford Street in London. Now married, looking rather bald, his dark suit and short fair hair was as dishevelled as when he'd played dating games with me - my princess to his prince - hidden away in the Tree House of my parents Hampshire garden all those years ago.

His masculine cologne briefly overcame the busy cafe smells of espresso coffee and croissant in a bear hug that seemed to go on forever.

He leaned close to me, confidentially, but also to be heard above the noisy chatter all around.

"Jenny, it's good to see you. It's been so long. I really feel guilty about dragging you all the way to London but I didn't know who else to talk to ... Who else to trust."

His voice was measured, firm and professional - each word carefully chosen but with a strong underlying tension.

I disentangled myself from his arms and squeezed onto a nearby stool. I'd chosen a simple brown suit for my visit to the City. It matched my page boy brown hair and was a million miles away from the jeans I normally wore. (Designer fashion was hardly appropriate to feed the goats, geese and chickens of our Cornwall small holding - my husbands passion before he discovered it didn't pay and returned to teaching.)

Muggins, as always, picked up the pieces and kept the small farm going. I didn't mind. Looking after the animals quite fitted in with my work as home-based web designer but, sometimes, I missed meeting people and my husband, Mr Serious, worked increasingly long hours. Modestly, I tried to smooth the short skirt wishing I'd chosen something with more length.

"Conversation provided by goats and chickens is pretty limited," I said, with a nervous smile. "Having an excuse to come to London is a refreshing change."

"That's good," said Alex, looking preoccupied, then pointed towards the window. "Quick, there's a place."

We made it to the small coffee table just before two large ladies with Harrods shopping bags who complained loudly to each other as they returned disappointed to the bar waiting area. Our table was tiny, squeezed in amongst others, and looked out onto fascinating streams of cosmopolitan people dodging between each other, London taxis and red buses, each one intent on their brightly coloured fashionable lives.

Alex focused his blue eyes on me. There were newly grown smile lines in the corners that I'd not noticed before.

"You're looking good, Jenny. No grey hairs. The country life obviously suits you."

(Nice to be complimented, I thought - well, it was the nearest thing to a compliment I'd received for years. I almost blushed.)

"Alex, I'm dying to know what this is all about. Sudden telephone calls and so mysterious. You wouldn't say but it sounds important. How's Liz?"

"She's all right. Busy leading her own life. We hardly talk. OK, I suppose."

Did I see a brief expression of pain and frustration cross Alex's face at the mention of Liz? He continued.

"I needed more than a telephone call and I couldn't talk to my friends - well - because it's personal."

"Ooh, this sounds intriguing." I tried to keep my voice light, as if hearing confidences was my everyday experience, but I could feel my throat contracting and butterflies were already flapping in my stomach.

"You were the only one I could talk to, Jenny. We've know each other since childhood and we've not got the baggage people get when they've dated and had a relationship. We're almost like brother and sister."

I eased my hands from between his. Brothers and sisters don't hold hands. Somehow now I felt deflated.

Our order arrived and Alex tucked into his croissant with gusto chatting away but now inconsequentially. I sipped my Latte wondering if I'd got enough money to do some clothes shopping later.

Suddenly this meeting seemed less fun and London was beckoning with its shops and tempting pleasures.

Until Alex one hundred percent grabbed my attention by saying

"So I thought I might join a dating agency - you know, the sort for married men and women who feel there is something lacking in their lives and want an affair."

"What!" My eyes widened and I could feel a blush coming on. God, how I hate my blushes ... What woman in her thirties blushes for goodness sake!

"An online web site that caters for 'illicit encounters' or 'married but looking'. I don't know what people call them. Basically, it's for people who want affairs with absolute discretion. They don't want to rock their marital boat but need a soul-mate."

Alex hesitated and started to blush too. That made me feel better, although I was still completely dumbstruck.

"The problem is, when I got this idea, I went steaming ahead but now I'm having second thoughts and just don't know what to do. I've even leased an apartment in South Kensington for the secret liaisons but now I'm not sure whether to go ahead. It all seems so tacky and, perhaps what I really want is not the - er - you know - the physical side - but to talk intimately and be close with someone who cares."

Alex took a big swig of his chocolate latte and stared at me defiantly. He hadn't tried to take my hand again. From the expression on my face he could see that I disapproved.

Inwardly, I was rationalising. Alex had always been a good person. Surely, his decision to join an online married dating agency was only done as a last resort. His decency was proved by his second thoughts. These were big pluses and I was trying not to let my country bumpkin prejudices get in the way of helping a special friend.

From what seemed far away, I heard myself say.

"The women that join these dating agencies may feel the same as you. They may be willing to agree to the physical side but may really be looking for intimate and loving companionship too."

Alex leaned forward, eagerly.

"Do you think so? I mean, could you as an ordinary common or garden woman imagine having a secret affair if it was guaranteed to be completely discreet?"

(I flinched inwardly at the reference to 'common or garden'.)

"Well, who knows? I suppose there may be many 'ordinary women' out there that day dream about the thrill of a new relationship and the loving attention and passion they could receive. Probably, it's often the fear of discovery - and perhaps not wanting to lie and cheat - that holds them back."

"You speak as if you could empathise with these women, Jenny."

"I can understand - in an abstract sort of way." My voice seemed to be getting tighter and tighter.

"Tell me what to do, Jenny. Tell me what to do. Should I pay the money and join one of these married dating agencies? Should I seek out these introductions and take them back to my apartment. I just don't know what to do. You were the only one I could turn to who I could absolutely trust and was outside my usual circle of friends."

My chest was now constricted so I could hardly speak. Alex continued.

"I've decided to make my decision this afternoon. I'm going back to the apartment to decide. It's really nice and leads out onto it's own private garden," he added lamely.

I noticed, Alex had enclosed his hands around mine again.

"I'd like to show you the apartment, Jenny. You would like it, I know you would."

The butterflies in my stomach were flapping about as if they were in a hurricane and inside my far too warm suit, I was now totally overheating.

"Perhaps," a voice far away said, "it would help you to have a second opinion on that apartment."

As we pushed through the crowds waiting for a table and emerged outside into the sun, fumes and bustle of London, I felt Alex guiding me with a protective hand that somehow had slipped under my jacket.

Suddenly, I longed to turn into his arms and be kissed and one thing had just became clear to me. When we arrived back to his apartment, kissing was only part of the yearnings I'd be unable to resist.

.......................

Later, lying on a huge king size bed beneath a casement window that looked out over a small but well tended walled garden, in the afterglow of lovemaking, and as Alex gently slept, I wondered if the story about the illicit encounters and married but looking dating agencies had been a cover story for Alex's real intentions.

Somehow, now, it just didn't seem to matter and I no longer cared.

I traced a lock of his hair with my finger and lowered my lips down to his. They tasted sweet and manly then his arms reached around me.

The End

Enjoyed this short story? You may also enjoy Blackberry Jam - a short story about infidelity, marriage and separation.

Have you ever imagined, even in your secret dreams, what it would be like? You can comment anonymously below :-)

Bye for now

Rob Hopcott - online fiction author

This short story about romantic encounters and married dating, marital infidelity and illicit meetings, online introductions and secret rendezvous is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short romance story and other short romance stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Ex School Classmate from Hell - a short story about a childhood bully and bullying by Rob Hopcott

2008-03-06T06:51:00.000-08:00

An old girlfriend told me this story and I have reconstructed it here for those who are into childhood reunions and the strong passions they can engender.

My high heels clicked hesitantly on the marbled entrance of the modern brightly lit London bar where I’d agreed to meet my ex-classmate from hell safely and privately prior to the official school-reunion. It was an event I’d dreaded daily since it had been arranged the previous week in a brief flurry of emotional emails.

The sky was overcast and so was my mood. Behind me, the busy street roared with motor vehicles and buzzed with lunchtime workers fleeing temporarily their pressured office jobs.

The revolving glass doors to the interior of the bar seemed to form a tightly sealed barrier warning me against stepping within.

I paused, checking my reflection in the glass, feeling very small and vulnerable against the tall doors. The short dark skirt, tailored jacket and black handbag complemented my long blonde hair and were, by design, equally appropriate for an office routine or secret assignation. It was a business suit, tight enough to be alluring but tastefully discrete. Pearl buttons ran down the front of my white blouse encouraging attention but numerous enough to repel unwanted advances in a tight situation. I wanted his interest, but didn’t want to give anything in return.

An American couple wrapped in designer raincoats, shopping bags and earnest sightseeing transatlantic conversation pushed past, setting the doors swishing. The seal was broken and the smell of pizzas and alcohol washed over me as I stepped inside.

My lunch date, Calhoun, was standing alone at the bar. Unselfconciously, he towered above the sea of circular tables and seated diners that swept in tightly packed eddies across the room. I saw instantly that the years had not changed him. Except that burly shoulders now strained against a light tan suit instead of a scruffy school blazer. He still exuded power and control. His square jaw and cruel lips were still not softened by his unrestrained mop of tightly curled fair hair. Rather, the don’t care hair mocked convention and promised anarchy strictly on his terms.

My stomach contracted as I forced aside images of myself as a terrified 12 years old school girl shrinking back against the red brick school wall. My coping strategy well worn through years of use clicked in and mentally I pushed the images into the heavy metal safe kept for this purpose and clanged the door shut hard as I’d done many times before.

My heart was still pounding as I walked past the diners across the soft red carpet to the bar and touched his arm. It felt taut and hard.

He turned and stared back at me arrogantly.

“I didn’t think you would come!” His voice was much deeper than I remembered, of course.

I tried to sound casual and offhand but knew the screaming tension inside me was barely hidden by my tight lipped smile. I struggled with my endlessly rehearsed speech knowing my voice sounded nervous and clipped.

“It’s better like this. At the reunion we wouldn’t have been able to talk properly.”

“For me”, he said, “it’s the second surprise. When you answered my email, was the first.”

“If you didn’t expect me to reply, why did you write?”

“No you first”, he demanded, aggressively. “Why did you reply?”

“There are things we need to clear up! You bullied me!”

“You loved it! You kept coming back for more.”

“I kept going to school because I had no alternative. It was hell!”

His mouth curled into a sneer. He leaned forward and wrapped fingers of steel around my arm.

“Look at you. You’re as arrogant as you always were with your great baby blue eyes. Nothing has changed except your hair was in a ponytail and now it’s loose over your shoulders. You always thought the world owed you! You loved yourself and you loved the attention I gave you. Nothing has changed. I was a bit of rough and you loved it. That’s why you replied to my emails and that’s why you are here like a moth to the flame. Admit it? You came here to see me because we’ve got unfinished business.”

His email to me had been completely explicit. “Hey babe, let’s get together … how about lunch first?”

I’d deleted it immediately, but then he’d sent a second and then a third, always with the same message. It was easier to meet him and, in the end, I justified to myself, it would shut him up.

I eased myself into the polished seat besides him, leaned against it’s high back, playing for time whilst my breathing steadied. Through clenched teeth, I spat back.

“I came because I wanted to know if you’d become more civilized over the years. Obviously, you haven’t. I wondered how such a low lifer as you could have kept out of prison. I’m even surprised to see you alone? You never used to go anywhere unless you were mob handed.”

“Quite the little tiger, still, aren’t you.” He moved his seat closer, confidently trapping my legs between his and patting my thigh. I felt my face reddening. He continued smoothly and sotto voce. “Maybe you’re looking for more of what you got that time after school in the classroom! Remember?”

My face was instantly crimson. Yes I remembered - how could I forget! In a flash, I was again the 12 year old school girl with the jubilant cries of his gang ringing in my ears and the hard desk biting into my stomach. Vividly, in my minds eye, I re-experienced the pain and humiliation of the beating he’d given me. It was a memory I’d relived painfully countless times over the years.

Thankfully, my huge mental safe swam into view and I savagely thrust the painful images inside and slammed the door shut again.

“You assaulted me, plain and simple, you committed a criminal offence. I’d done nothing to harm you. You had no right or reason. You should have been made to pay for what you did.”

He caught my jaw in his hand and squeezed. I tried not to show he was hurting me.

“Your existence offended me”, he snarled, “If you hadn’t liked my attention, you would have reported me to the school. Go on, you loved every minute.

“I didn’t report your assault to the school because you would have lied as you had done many times before and so would your friends. It would have been embarrassingly pointless. The truth was that you were lazy and heading for failure and you hated me because I worked and got good marks.”

He reached for his drink, while he considered this, then drained his glass swiftly. He still hadn’t offered me one.

“You certainly got the marks”, he sniggered, “but not where you wanted them.” He sounded offhand but I suspected my accusations had hit home, his mouth had taken on a harder line. He continued.

“Anyway, you’ve no idea how successful I am! And in any case, I did some checking on your pen pushing husband’s accounting practice. It’s not exactly mainstream and going places.”

“He’s doing better than you. I checked on you too and your down at heel company’s got just one, single shabby storage shed on a very secondary industrial estate on the edge of London. Hardly a princedom,” I retorted, cooly.

His face suggested he’d preferred me as a completely vulnerable school girl but clearly wasn’t used to losing arguments and with renewed emphasis he leaned forward placing his face close up to mine. His breath smelt of spirits and smoke.

“I may be just a business man - and I confess that I like to keep myself to myself - but what I do I do very well and make no doubt about it, I’ve got success and I enjoy it. You only saw a small part of what I’ve got. You saw what everybody else is supposed to see. You missed the good bits!”

The reference to bits was clearly intended to be suggestive. But his cold blue eyes were also wary. His face showed he hadn’t liked me checking up on him.

He attacked again.

“How about your husband? Does he give you enough to think about. I bet your mind wanders to other things when you tidy his house.”

“It’s not his house, it’s our house - he loves me and I love him, we’re planning a family soon. That’s why I don’t work. Anyway, he does well enough for both of us.”

“If you love him so much then why are you here with me?”

“I’m not with you. I’m here in this public bar because I’d hoped you might have the courtesy to apologize for victimizing and traumatizing me all those years ago. I need to get some sort of closure. I can see now it was a forlorn hope.”

We were now attracting the attention of nearby tables. He saw this and moved back in his seat letting my legs free aiming to defuse our conversation .

“You’ve got me all wrong”, he said slowly. “There’s lots you don’t know, lots that would surprise you.”

“What do you mean,” I said suspiciously.

“The truth is,” he said, eyes strangely imploring, or was it an act? “I had a crush on you. I actually worshipped the ground on which you walked. But you treated me with scorn and contempt, only teasing let me get back at you. It was my self defence. Then the teasing went on for so long that I forgot that I really wanted to be your friend and the teasing became everything. It was only when I saw your picture on the school reunion web site it all came back and I realized how important you were to me. You may even have been the reason why I’ve never settled down with anybody else. So I decided to give you the chance to see me as I am now. No longer a scruffy boy from a poor background but a successful business man interested in rediscovering a lost childhood relationship.”

His hands trapped mine, encircled and squeezing them. He continued: “So it’s not just you who is seeking closure!”

I fell back into my seat, eyes brimming, staring at him incredulously, totally off balance. He couldn’t possibly be serious - but I couldn’t tell. All the bullying, the victimization, the punches, the pushes, the cat calls, the pulled hair, the stolen books were because he liked me …

The long painful years I’d spent reliving again and again the savage teasing that had led up to the ultimate humiliation he’d forced upon me in that cold quiet classroom with the help of his friends was because he thought he loved me… nonsense!

The mere idea was unfair and stupid and left me shaking with anger seriously wondering about his mental stability - but I needed to know more.

“I … just don’t believe a word you are saying. You know I’m married so what’s the point. You are surely not telling me you’re just a misunderstood victim and everything I’ve believed about you over these years was wrong?”

“Maybe I’m not entirely the good guy, but there is a bond between us and I could be very nice to you to make up for the past.” He moved forward again, stroking my knee, sending uncomfortable ripples of sensation through my body.

“In fact, I’m now in a position to give you absolutely anything you want if you play your cards right - children, houses, holidays, cars. You name it and, it’s yours. As far as your husband is concerned, I couldn’t care less. He can jump in a river - or conveniently fall into one”, his voice was suddenly menacing. The bully was back in the playground. “It’s my philosophy that nice guys don’t win the fair maid.”

“I’m hardly a maid, these days”, I heard myself saying, strangely distantly.

“You look pretty fair to me”, he squeezed my hands again. “You don’t need to make any decision straight away, just trust me a little and let me show you around the other bits of my empire”. His tone was suggestive again - I knew it was no Platonic friendship he was after.

“If you think I’m going anywhere with you that’s not public, you can think again.” I retorted sharply.

“Relax, you see that door over there”, he pointed to what looked like a fire escape labelled ‘private’. “You have no worries, you don’t even need to leave this building, come-on.”

He slid off his bar stool, transferring his grip to my left elbow and before I knew what was happening, he was steering me across the room towards the door.

In the passageway beyond, it occurred to me that he hadn’t offered to pay for his drink - and the bar man, who had clearly seen him leave, had not called him back.

There was a lift up to the first floor where I was relieved to see there were more people again. The echoing cold passageway gave way to plush carpeting. A young girl stepped out of the second lift as we went in and greeted him respectfully by his surname. He called her Denise, more reassurance.

The lift seemed to go on for ever. As the lift doors opened and closed, I could see busy office workers studying computer screens. Some briefly joined us in the lift, usually giving Calhoun a respectful nod. He acknowledged them but never smiled and they didn’t seem to expect it. He seemed known which made me feel safer - but not much. My heart was pounding. Could it be, I asked myself, that he was right and I was a moth to the flame. There was something strangely compelling about him. I doubted he’d lacked for lovers over the years.

The lift sprinted over the last few floors and came to a halt at it’s highest point. The doors opened onto a penthouse suite with a receptionist sitting close to the entrance. Dark oak doors led to a private suite that was light and spacious, designed with a Chinese theme. It had whisper quiet carpeting on the floor and views over London and the river Thames to die for.

He saw me taking in a beautiful Chinese print on the wall.

“It looks expensive doesn’t it? Everybody notices that print and it’s insured for a can’t remember what. Me, I prefer the view. This suite came ready furnished with the company that owns all this building when I took it over last year. I saw no reason to waste time changing anything - but it was the view that got me. I like being above everybody else, seeing the mice scuttling around.”

He steered me over towards the window and as he passed the large executive desk, he pressed a button. Calhoun was right about one thing, the view was spectacular. Seconds later, the receptionist appeared and he ordered for me. It didn’t occur to him I would object. The drinks came quickly with an estimate of the time it would take to bring the snack of Spanish Tortillas he’d requested.

“It’s a cracking staff canteen downstairs and they’re used to keeping special stuff in for the boss,” he confided. “They’re in trouble if they forget.”

He released his hold on my arm to pour the drinks from a crystal pitcher on the tray. The drinks were mostly fresh orange juice but with a kick that confirmed its’ liqueur base - there was one thing that was certain, I wasn’t going to have a second one, whatever he intended.

“Ok, I’m impressed so far,” I said, sipping at the Tequila Sunrise, drinking in the view with one eye and watching him with the other. The secretary was going to return soon with the food so I felt safe for the moment. Despite his convincing start, I was accepting nothing at face value and there was a good chance I’d be leaving with the secretary, if things looked to be getting out of control. I went into the attack dismissing his claimed empire with a wave.

“So you’ve got a mate with a big office which you’ve borrowed for the afternoon to impress me. That would tie in with your sleaze ball past. How do I know you’re not just setting me up? Con artist was always one of your likely career paths.”

He tossed his balled up jacket over onto one of several leather seats that formed a small conference area close to the desk. Then he sat down at an angle to the desk, put his feet up on the polished leather surface and slugged back a couple more gulps of the juice considering what I’d just said.

I stayed near the window and well away from the desk with it’s unpleasant school time associations.

“Look around, feel free,” he gestured towards the filing cabinets. “There’s a computer terminal over there. It’s already logged in, wander around the building, I can warn security. Convince yourself that you’re wrong - and then come back and say you’re sorry for misjudging me.

The food quietly arrived delivered by a young boy in chef’s apron and hat who left immediately - I felt like leaving but he had given me no excuse - yet!. Calhoun started feeding his face with gusto. He raised his eyes briefly to me from his plate.

“Go on, I’ll lay you a bet. If you find I’m all that I say I am, you come on my knee and say you’re sorry properly.”

I felt my face flushing and anger coursed through me. He saw he’d gone too far and his tone attempted to lighten the temperature of the room which had just dropped to zero.

“Don’t worry, I meant on my knee not over it - you’re too sensitive.”

“It’s not me that’s too sensitive, it’s you who are still as objectionable as you always were, big office or not.”

My mind raced as to how best to check him out and the terminal seemed the best bet. I sat down and selected some menus. The first thing I confirmed was that his access permissions were truly extensive throughout the whole network which in itself seemed to stretch throughout the building. Logged in as Calhoun, through his private terminal, it seemed I could view anything I wanted, accounts, share registers, sales figures. The system was really neat with a top down approach that took overall Balance Sheet figures and enabled drilling down until even the smallest component could be inspected with it’s supporting audit trail.

He saw I was impressed.

“The system is the best,” he chortled through his Tortilla, “it cost a bomb - although I rarely use it. As long as the basics are right, I’m happy.”

“And what are the basics,” I queried, my brow furrowed as I ploughed through minutes of recent Board Meetings, the pages flicking across the screen with ease via the super high speed network link.

“You hire the best and buy the best, set them tough targets that yield top dollar profits - and you whack them if they let you down. It’s survival of the fittest. They have to perform or they disappear. You run them hard for a while and then you sell them off, lock, stock and barrel. If the assets are worth more than the business, you sack everybody and sell the assets. You just make them disappear and watch the profits tumble in!”

He seemed to like the word ‘disappear’ and repeated it several times, waving his hand in the air and making his lips go pop to create the sound effect of the staff disappearing. The drink was making him jovial. He could see my researches were confirming what he had said about his ownership of the company and was clearly looking forward to extracting his reward from me. Briefly my skin crawled but there was much to see and time was short so I foraged on, putting him temporarily out of my mind.

In a while, he got bored and lumbered over to me, grabbing the arm of my blouse between his thumb and forefinger. I felt the material give and my heart lurch.

“You’ve looked enough,” he slurred. “We’re wasting time. You can see you were wrong. Now, what is it to be? Are you coming to sit on my lap or not?”

I hit the last key to close the screen and allowed him to pull me over to the desk. His head was deep in my shoulder and his hot breath was in my ear sending unpleasant shivers down my spine. He slumped down into his executive leather chair and dragged me onto his lap. His face was level with my breasts and for a moment I let him salivate over them as I reached for my handbag.

“Hang on big boy, let me get down off your lap for a second and I’ll give you something that will knock our eyeballs out,” I said grasping a chunk of his hair in my fist to encourage him to disengage his teeth from the buttons of my blouse.”

“Now you’re talking,” he spluttered, “I knew you’d see sense, we’re made for each other.” He reached for the buckle of his belt.

I dropped the warrant card on the desk in front of him. The words ‘Detective Inspector’ and ‘Fraud Squad’ were written large alongside my name and a Police uniform photograph.

I smiled grimly.

“It was so kind of you to let me review your accounts. They are so much better organized than the ones you show to the world officially - and certainly more profitable. I guess you would call this a fair cop!”

He sobered up fast, his face darkened and he let loose a string of violent expletives. With the muscles of his arms bulging and readying for action, the veins on his face looked ready to explode.

“You would be well advised to cut the bad language out for a start because I’m recording everything you say,” I said tightly, revealing a tiny microphone slipped under my belt, “and it’s being relayed straight through to my office so violence will achieve nothing.”

He shut up quickly and just sat there fuming, relaxed like a panther ready to spring.

“What happens now, bitch?”

“Well first thing is you’d better forget any idea you have of trying to get rid of the records. I’ve already copied them to my office, across the Internet. What is going to happen is I am going to walk out of here and you are going to wait until the top brass contact you once the documentation has been reviewed. You may employ the best brief you like but there are a lot of names I’ve seen on your Board that are well known to us and which we’ve been after for a long time, not to mention yourself of course.”

“You said you were just a housewife!”

“Such a shame, I lied - but you’ve been lying for years to the Inland Revenue so you can’t complain.

“I would have given you anything you wanted!”

“I doubt that - although I’m sure you had something you very much wanted to give me … but it’s not something I’d ever want. You surely can’t think I’d believe all that rubbish about me being your long lost lover from your childhood. You’re such a sad sicko Calhoun!”

I was in command now and he was doing the very next best thing to groveling. His face looked sick but his eyes were darting from side to side and his mind was reviewing all the possibilities. He came up with one last try.

“We go back a long way. We were kids together!”

“And that makes it a whole lot sweeter, you piece of shit, now you learn what it feels like to be over the desk with me wielding the ruler and I’m loving every minute of it.”

“I can pay you more than you’ll ever earn as a cop. Think about it, a million sterling into any account of your choice, in return for a signed receipt saying the money was for tax consultancy. You walk out of here and never need to work again. I get my records back. If you sent them over to your office, you can also get them back, or delete them from here. It’s easy, quick, you’d have the money and I’d know you couldn’t turn me in because they’d call the money a bribe. They’d take the money off you and you’d never work again.”

“You think I’d trust you if the records were deleted? You must think I’m insane or stupid. I’d never get the money and I’d never get out of this room alive.”

He looked at me shrewdly, suddenly very quiet, almost questioning. You’re thinking about it though aren’t you? You know I’m right, you’ve everything to gain, nothing to loose.”

He held his hands together into a church and then tapped the ends of his fingers one after the other.

“You know I can transfer the money direct from that terminal? It’s the one thing I know how to do because I’ve got special additional passwords. I do it and it’s instantaneous. That’s how close you are to the money. Tell you what, I’m going to do it for you now. You will have to stop me.”

He lumbered over to the terminal, sat down and flicked through to a cash payment screen and entered the amount.

“Just tell me your account number and it’s done …” His voice went very quiet. “You’ve got to give me an out. If I’ve got nothing to lose then I could do anything, kill you even and you wouldn’t like that would you.” The menace in his voice was unmistakable.

“Two million,” I said evenly, my voice sounded far away.

He hesitated.

“Last chance,” I prompted.

“Give me the account number, bitch,” he said through clenched teeth.

I reached to my handbag and read from the back of my cheque book. He entered his special access codes and then the numbers of the account laboriously but accurately and I checked. He then called up a word processor program and I dictated an invoice charging him for tax services which he printed and I signed as received. He then pressed the ‘Enter’ key and we watched the payment confirmed as being sent to the specified account.

“See, it’s not too difficult being dishonest,” he said, grimly. “Now, delete the records in your office.”

I sat at the terminal and he watched as my fingers flew across the keyboard. Files were briefly displayed on the screen and then deleted. When I was finished, I turned to him.

“All done,” I announced, trying to smile, and stood up.

Then he hit me in the stomach. I doubled over retching but he caught me and threw me across the room. I bounced against the leather sofa and ended lying against the wall. There was a reassuring crash as an expensive looking green vase fell against a coffee table and shattered.

Calhoun leapt across the sofa in a huge bound screaming at me. He said a lot but the gist was I’d never live to enjoy the proceeds of my blackmail and he was going to make me die slowly and the pleasure would be all his. I immediately puked on his floor which gave me some satisfaction and slowed him down a bit.

Abruptly, he regained control of himself. He was breathing heavily and staring at me, licking his lips. I tried unsuccessfully to reduce the expanse of exposed flesh but, in a flash, he had me by the hair and was dragging me towards the sofa.

My mind struggled into action through a haze of pain and sickness.

“Not the desk,” I wailed loudly, “anywhere but the desk!”

He immediately changed direction towards the desk, snorting with the effort of dragging me.

“Time for our reunion,” he grunted, forcing me over the leather surface with arms of steel.

Momentarily, as he fumbled with his belt, he let go of my hair and I fell sideways from the desk clutching the handbag that I had just recovered as he had forced me down.

He instantly came after me with a roar and then stopped as I pointed the pepper spray at his incoming face and fired.

He was still scrabbling at his eyes and trying to find his way to the bathroom to rinse his face when I let myself out through the door.

I left the warrant card saying Detective Inspector on the desk. It hadn’t cost much when I’d bought it at a local toy shop where I’d also bought the toy microphone. I figured he wouldn’t have much idea of what a real id card looked like - any more than I had. I’d taken the photo out of a magazine about fancy dress parties. It looked vaguely like me but it definitely wasn’t me. Even the name was mis-spelt

As I sped down towards the ground floor, I reflected that I would have enjoyed going to the school reunion. However, it was probably better I gave it a miss this time. In life, everything has it’s cost. However, the money in the Swiss bank account was already giving me a nice warm feeling.

Perhaps I would go to the next school reunion. Probably, Calhoun would be safely locked up in prison by then. The files he saw me delete were not his records but just dummies I’d set up the day before. The real ones were stored in an online email account where I could despatch them to the Inland revenue after a few days. The money he’d given me was going by anonymous donation straight from the Swiss bank account to a number of registered charities that helped children who had suffered from bullying.

The previous week, my husband had sold off his accountancy business. The substantial proceeds meant that I had no need for Calhoun’s dirty money.

Later that day, with my slumbering husband contentedly seated besides me, I watched the clouds flowing beneath the jet airliner as it sped us towards our new home in the sun. Briefly, my personal safe floated into my minds eye. It’s door was wide open. Strangely, it seemed to be smiling. I visualized Calhoun and scooped him into it and slammed the safe door shut. Somehow, I had the feeling that I wouldn’t need to see that old safe again.

The End

Free short story about a feisty foreign female, a down at heel Romeo and a piano accordion

2007-08-24T02:25:00.000-07:00

If you are into pubs, foreign beauties and maybe a bit of pub music, or if you just like rattling good short stories with a bit of playful romance with the odd couple of twists and turns, Piano Accordions and Chat Rooms might pull your string.

Just like all of Rob Hopcott's stories, it's completely free to read online, safe to read at work, in a crowded room or in the quiet of your home.

If you are thinking of a quick fling with a married woman or buying a piano accordion from somebody you met in a chat room, this short story may give you pause for thought.

Enjoy.

Rob

Chapter 01 - Forgotten Flame by Rob Hopcott

2007-05-22T08:25:00.000-07:00

Alice was ready. Her excitement had been growing ever since she’d emerged sleepily from under her pastel patchwork duvet, kissed her husband good morning and moved energetically into action with the morning’s jobs.

Soon, an appropriately healthy breakfast was prepared with orange juice, croissants and an immaculately ironed shirt put out for him to wear to work.

She noted with approval the twinkle in John’s eyes this morning and that he was looking exceptionally dapper in his grey suit and light blue tie. Perhaps she should have stayed in bed longer - but then she dismissed the idea. There were too many things to do.

John looked down at her, as she waited at the front door for him to say his goodbyes and leave for work.

“You just can’t wait to play with your new toy,” he commented, wryly.

Alice patted her tightly curled fair hair in front of the hall mirror and gazed back at him, pertly. Her blue eyes were full of anticipation and her voice was determined.

“Last week passed by so quickly with so many things happening that I didn’t get a chance to do much. This week, it’s going to reveal all its secrets.”

Her voice was high pitched, almost like a child’s. In the past, John knew that many people hadn’t taken her seriously - and had lived to rue their mistake.

“And if it doesn’t reveal its secrets, it had better watch out,” said John, smiling. Alice liked everything to be in its place, tidy and under control. It wasn’t that she was obsessive; it was just that everything, animate and inanimate, seemed to find it easier to go along with what she wanted.

Minutes later, John was gone and Alice was showered, made up and dressed in a smart blue pastel skirt with matching blouse and ready for adventure.

Alice’s new computer purred into life. She selected her email client to see if there were any messages. A few of her friends at the rifle club already used email and she’d told them that she would soon be online and given them her address. The screen registered one message, which she double clicked with anticipation.

From: Karl

To: Alice

Subject: ‘I bet you’re surprised to hear from me!’

Alice’s brow wrinkled. She didn’t know anybody called Karl. Certainly there were no Karls in her close-knit local circle of friends. She read further.

It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other but I’ve often thought about you and wondered how you were getting on. If you still don’t know who I am, look a little further down and you’ll see my picture. There’s a photo of how I looked when you knew me before and also a photo of how I look now which will be helpful if you agree for us to meet.

Alice scrolled down the page and two photographs came into view. Suddenly, it was as if a whirlwind had entered her life and drawn all the breath from her body. Her heart was pounding and her blue eyes were moist.

She pushed her chair back on its castors away from the machine. She needed breathing space and time to think. She looked cautiously back at the computer as it sat on the specially purchased desk in her tidy spare bedroom and organized life. But the message was still there.

Questions struggled into her mind.

How had he found her?

Was it a coincidence that he’d made contact when she had just got this new machine?

More than anything else, what did he want! Alice had no doubt that he wanted something. Karl didn’t do anything without a reason.

She drew her chair up to the screen again. On the left was a young man in his early ’20s, his jet-black wavy hair perfectly combed into place to complement his perfect classical Greek features. His eyes seemed black in the picture but Alice knew that they were dreamy, greeny grey and able to melt a girl’s heart at a 1,000 paces.

He was smiling his usual arrogant smile and his arms were looped around the shoulders of two girls also in their early ’20s. On the left, was a much younger version of Alice and, on the right, her best friend of the time, Greta.

In the later picture, Karls face had broadened with the passing of the years but maturity only served to enhance the appearance of strength and power. His hair was thinner but his features were no less chiselled and he was standing in a book-lined library looking like an international tycoon.

Alice had little doubt that the appearance probably understated reality. In everything, he’d been a natural born winner. His grades were always the highest at university. His car was always the fastest and when vacation jobs had to be found, he’d a talent for finding the one that was not only exciting but also highly remunerative.

They’d met one summer on a Greek island at an extended villa party of a mutual, and undeniably wealthy, friend.

The girls there loved him and were drawn to him like a magnet, which to Alice was the very best reason to keep him at arms length.

Alice dragged her eyes away from his picture. The effect on her was too powerful and unsettling. She shouldn’t feel like this, after so many years of being happily married to John.

But she knew that the truth was that, despite the passing of the years, her feelings for Karl were so intense that even to look at his photograph made her feel she was being unfaithful - again.

— Previous — Next — Comments —

Hanging out together on a rocky cliff face by Rob Hopcott

2007-04-02T02:07:00.000-07:00

Amanda eased herself over the edge of the cliff trying to keep her mind empty of any thought or emotion.

‘Going over the top’ had been explained to her as being the worst moment. It was best ‘not to think too much and just get on with the abseil.’

But the sky was aquamarine blue above, the rock that emerged in front of her tautly controlled face was hard, grey and unyielding and, so far down below, the tiny figures of her friends looked up, some in friendly support and others in scarcely hidden terror, but none with any possibility of doing anything to help in an emergency.

Amanda’s foot slipped and suddenly the world inside her whirled even faster than her body rotated on the end of her abseiling line. Bile welled up in her throat as she tightly closed and then forced open her tear filled eyes. There was no rock face in front of her now, just emptiness and white, puffy clouds. The fingers of her hands, trembling in front of her on the line, were bled white with terror.

Continue to read this free short abseiling story about ‘Hanging out together on a rocky cliff face abseil’ by Rob Hopcott

Hope you like it

Bye for now

Rob

(Rob Hopcott - online author and abseiling wimp)

Sarah's Price - Free online thriller romance novel

2007-03-26T09:35:00.000-07:00

I've just noticed that Sarah's Price, my free online thriller romance novel is just seven years old now.

Since 1999, when I put it free to read online, it's had millions of readers which is fantastic. I am grateful to every one of them?

Sarah's Price is a story about a young married English woman's desperate search for solutions to newly found life of poverty imposed by the UK's recession of the nineteen nineties.

I have to confess that, when I wrote Sarah's Price, I had real anger in my heart.

The Conservative Government had consigned so many of my friend's savings to oblivion in the early 1990s. Friends had not only lost their jobs and their businesses but also, in many cases, their homes had been repossessed.

In Boscombe, Bournemouth, a large town on the south coast of England, somebody put up a big sign:

'Will the last person leaving Boscombe please turn out the lights'

In the famous words of John Major, Prime Minister of the time, "If it aint hurting, it aint working."

Believe me Mr Major, it hurt and I hope you feel good about it.

Eventually, after too many years of anger, I learned that my anger did not hurt those who had caused the hard economic landing through their mismanagement of the economy. While they moved on to earn huge fortunes on the international lecture circuits, my burning anger held me back and only hurt myself.

So, I learned not to be angry and, many years later, I now feel the better for it.

It's hard to believe anything good came of those times. People I know still have not recovered savings they lost. The Governor of the Bank of England stated they must never let it happen again. Perhaps it was a coded apology. I hope so.

In any case, Sarah's Price by Rob Hopcott lives on as a fictional story about those times and I would like to believe, a small contribution to it's epitaph.

Bye for now

Rob

(Rob Hopcott - online author)

Animated Friends - a short story about anime and animation by Rob Hopcott

2007-03-01T07:09:00.000-08:00

The gleaming saxophone animation appears prettily before me on my screen glinting brightly. She exists, she is perfect, she is anime and she is my creation. She looks to the left and then to the right nonchalantly .

All around me, the office is silent. The other animation workstations are dark and, outside the skyscraper offices where I work, the early evening traffic is humming with people returning home.
A few key strokes and another animated figure appears on my screen. Mr Clarinet stands upright, dark and suave and already aware of the young, attractive saxophone only a few pixels away.

Click here to read Animated Friends by Rob Hopcott, a short anime story

The Unwilling Vampire - a short vampire story by Rob Hopcott

2007-03-01T06:54:00.000-08:00

Young, fresh faced reporter Jennifer is called into the editor's office for the opportunity of her short career.

Fresh out of journalist's college, Jennifer always knew she'd have to start at the bottom. Nevertheless, as she sat squirming under the gimlet eye of the tweed jacketed and very scary chief editor of the Ridmorthampton Local Journal, she knew that there was an opportunity at hand that had to be grasped at any cost.

Ms Teresa Tresty, editor in chief, drew her stiff backed executive leather chair tightly into her leather topped desk, patted her tight bun with a white whizened hand and spoke in a frosty voice.

Click here to read the rest of The Unwilling Vampire, a short vampire story, by Rob Hopcott

Hope you like it

Rob

(Rob Hopcott - online vampire stories writer)

Romantic free online long fiction story romance - Forgotten Flame by Rob Hopcott

2006-12-23T08:56:00.000-08:00

Forgotten Flame is a long romantic free online fiction story romance by Rob Hopcott.

When Alice receives an email from an ex-lover, she knows that the happy married life she has known for many years may never be the same again.

First, she must decide whether to reply. Secondly, she must decide whether to meet her ex lover. Thirdly, she must decide if she can withstand the temptation to be unfaithful.

Alice is an ordinary housewife to whom cheating and infidelity don't come naturally. Will she stand strong against the temptation to cheat or will infidelity and the charms of her exlover prevail.

Forgotten Flame is a nice gentle romantic read for an office lunch break, coffee break, tea break or just as a diversion from the daily routine.

For further free reading, here is a complete list of fiction stories by Rob Hopcott.

Bye for now and merry Christmas and a happy, prosperous and safe new year :-)

Rob

Start reading Forgotten Flame by Rob Hopcott

.

‘Three Christmas Lovers’ a dating romance short story for Christmas from stories by Rob Hopcott

2006-12-11T06:11:00.000-08:00

Every year, I write a short story for Christmas. This is because I prefer to do this for my friends and everybody I know than to send them Christmas cards.

My Christmas short story for 2006 is called ‘Three Christmas Lovers‘. I hope you enjoy it and will have a very Merry Christmas and a Prosperous and Happy New Year.

Hints on writing short stories, novels and novellas 1000s will want to read by Rob Hopcott

2006-11-29T02:30:00.000-08:00

Everyone has a story in them, even if it's the personal story of their own life.

But you’ll need to entice, intrigue and seduce your readers into reading past the opening sentences of your novel or short story.

Also, your story must have a truly satisfying ending, for your readers to want to remember your name. If you can achieve this, your reputation will grow and you’ll get an increasing number of readers for your short stories, novels or novellas which is what we authors want.

The challenges are great but the rewards in personal satisfaction are enormous.

Here are some hints to help you write the perfect story.

Realted topics:

writing hints

writing tips

author hints

author tips

Painting pictures of the mind by Rob Hopcott

2006-11-16T08:52:00.000-08:00

At first sight, Painting pictures of the mind seems merely to present images of the countryside but the reader quickly finds all is not as it seems.

Painting pictures of the mind is a stream of consciousness creative short story in which Rob Hopcott anthropomorphically examines living paintings and the stories they contain that bring art to life for artists and viewers.

The reader is drawn into a tangled web of creativity with by a series of interconnected characters presenting different realities from different vantage points.

The perceived world undergoes rapid changes throughout this short story and readers may find this unsettling until the story is over, tensions are resolved and the final picture is painted.

Painting pictures of the mind is copyright Rob Hopcott 1999 - 2006, all rights reserved. All characters are fictitious in the story and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Related Topics:

personification

anthropomorphism

pathetic fallacy

Lost Souls and Tickled Trout - a fishing and halloween short story from the Rob Hopcott fishing short stories

2006-10-25T03:57:00.000-07:00

Lost Souls and Tickled Trout - a fishing and halloween short story from the Rob Hopcott fishing short stories

Halloween is nearly upon us and people's thoughts will be turning to things strange and unexplained. Here is my contribution to the world of strange, weird, ghostly and unexpected. I hope you like it.

The story is a nice eery Halloween story set in the West of England countryside in an old inn between the hills and by a dark river. It involves lost souls and tickled trout :-)

All best

Rob

New fiction story central for Rob Hopcott's short stories, online novels / nevellas

2006-10-23T03:27:00.000-07:00

I have a new story blog that is a record of all the fiction free online novels and short stories that I have written and posted online. I hope you enjoy them.

My sites have grown somewhat organically with many web space revisions over the years so it’s not always easy to find everything. This new blog aims to provide a central reference point so that readers can always find my latest stories wherever I put them.

If you would like to know when I’ve written a new story, simply point your News Aggregator at this new blog and the wonderful RSS technology will instantly tell you when I update this site with news of my latest story, wherever I put it.

If you would like to know more about news aggregators and how they can help you receive news of updates without giving anybody your email address simply click here.

I hope you enjoy my writing :-)
.
.

Cornish Guilty Secrets - a short story from England of bagpipes, mysteries, romance and Cornwall by Rob Hopcott

2006-09-15T03:24:00.000-07:00

The warm mellow notes from my bagpipes communed with the beams, danced around the old oak windows and mingled with the Cornish sunshine as it struggled through the tiny old glass windows of this ancient Cornwall inn.

The audience of Cornish country folk and tourists edged closer as the notes faded to quiet and then faded again until all that could be heard was the old clock ticking over the fireplace. Ticking as it had for centuries counting the years away in this ancient Cornwall hostelry.

Silence reigned and was enjoyed almost as much as the sounds that had occupied the tiny bar with it's antlers of ancient quarry and paintings of long forgotten English Lords of the manor with their scarlet riding costumes and leaping hounds.

This story has been renamed Bagpipe Lover and relocated to my new bagpipe site

Copyright Rob Hopcott 1999 - 2006, all rights reserved. All characters are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Ghosthouses - a short ghostly drama or dramatic short story comedy play about a real estate agency for ghosts by Rob Hopcott

2006-09-05T06:33:00.000-07:00

Sound of ghostly telephone ringing.

Mandy:"Hello ... you are through to Freephone Ghosthouses, Mandy speaking, how can I help You?"

George:"Yes, hello, it's George here, I'm a bit nervous - a first time caller - I'm always one for a good laugh, you know a nice comedy or comic drama but you are not having me on are you? Can you really find me a haunt?"

Mandy: "Naturally! That's what we're here for. Ghosthouses is a service that's been established for hundreds of years to provide advice and guidance to select embodied and disembodied life forms seeking desirable abodes."

George: "I'm a bit confused - I just held my hand to my ear and a phone appeared and the next thing I was through to you!"

Mandy:"We pride ourselves on our ease of access and utilise the most up to date of ancient technology. How can I help you sir?"

George:"This isn't a joke is it. I mean I am talking to a proper estate agency for ghosts."

Mandy:"Rest in peace - I mean completely assured, sir. May I ask you where you heard about us? I just need to know for our statistics sir?"

George:"Yes, yes of course, I understand. It was a chap I met in a lay-by. He said you found him a very desirable residence in some old disused offices. Since it seems he's an ex-accountant, he really feels at home."

Mandy:"Always nice to hear about satisfied clients, may I ask you how you came to be dispossessed".

George:"Well I've never actually been possessed. It's a bit embarrassing really. I'm sort of homeless, you know, on the streets - destitute."

Mandy:"Oh no, not another road accident."

George:"I'm afraid so - my wife bought me one of these new powerful super bikes for my 50th birthday".

Mandy:"She really hated you then!"

George:"What? Everything was great until an idiot decided to drive a manure trailer along this quiet country road. I rounded the bend there was the trailer, full of steaming, stinking pig 'fertiliser'. It could have been stopped for all the difference it would have made. "

Mandy:"What a way to go! No doubt about it, in my opinion, she definitely wanted to get rid of you. Disgusting I call it. She should have been charged with murder. Can you think of any reason she would want to get rid if you?"

George:"Well, now you mention it, she has been a bit friendly with the chief librarian, recently".

Mandy:"I'd take a holiday once you've got yourself established in the after life. Go back and haunt her a bit - it's good for the soul. A traffic accident is a rotten way to die. (She wasn't friendly with the farmer too was she?) Anyway, there's far too much of it about these days. At least when people mainly died in their homes, it gave them a place to start off haunting for a while. The motor vehicle has changed all. I can tell you it's posed many problems for us in the haunting industry."

George:"Well this is all very interesting but have you got anywhere for me to stay. I'm really desperate."

Mandy:"Well, if you want a peaceful haunting, it could be difficult at the moment. There are fewer empty homes on the market for first time haunters. It's to do what with the new rating legislation. Corporeals can't afford to keep properties empty. Of course there are lots of bankrupt shops as a result of the government's successful small business policies. But main roads and high streets are not that quiet."

George:"Anything, really, I'm getting desperate".

Mandy:"Would you be willing to consider something occupied?"

George:"Well, as you realised, I'm quite new in this ghost business. I was at a petrol station only the other day and I accidentally materialised as a woman was filling her car with petrol. She got such a shock that she let the tank overflow on to the forecourt. Her scream scared me so much I spontaneously combusted - well that was the end of the filling station."

Mandy:"Yeah, I heard about that. Twenty eight got re-housed by a competitor in an old warehouse. Lots of space but not many amenities. You should avoid that sort of thing or there'll soon be a real housing shortage."

George:"But how do I get to these places. Do you have detailed particulars?"

Mandy:"Goodness gracious, you are a beginner. All you have to do is listen to my description, think about it for a minute, want to be there and then you will be. A bit like the way you thought you were holding a telephone and then you were."

George:"Yes, I'm still getting used to that one".

Mandy:"Would you consider taking up possession on another planet or do you require a haunting on earth."

George:"Oh that's a new thought. You mean you've got properties on other planets?"

Mandy:"Of course we have, silly. Time and space are meaningless to us so whether we are haunting earth or elsewhere is irrelevant. We are proud of our thriving alien properties section."

George:"But wouldn't that mean that they could come over here and possess our properties".

Mandy:"Naturally - and they do! Think of some of the really strange sightings Corporeals have reported. Intelligent cloud forms, pink elephants, little people - all grist to our alien properties section I can tell you!"

George:"To be honest, I'm a bit nervous about going anywhere to view at the moment. Could you show me some pictures to help me decide?"

Mandy:"Better than that, have you thought
of calling us up on the Internet?"

George:"How do I do that?"

Mandy:"Same way as you did the telephone but think about a keyboard and a computer terminal. You'll be straight into our Web Site, Ghosthouse.com.Earth. Its modern facilities provide a high degree of interaction and user friendliness with eye blink menu control for limb challenged spirits."

George:"Will I still be able to talk to you because I really feel you are somebody I can relate to".

Mandy:"If you use the video link on top of your computer screen then you will be able to see me sir and I will be able to see you."

George:"Hang on a minute - I had my own computer business when I was alive so I'm quite at home doing this. Yes there it is and may I say what a lovely looking lady you are. I hadn't thought of you as a blonde with long hair - your slight American accent made me picture your hair as shorter and darker."

Mandy:"I can change it if you want sir. At Ghosthouses ......."

George:"Yes, it's OK I think I've got the gist - you will do very nicely as you are!"

Mandy:"There is one thing I would ask of you sir."

George:"For such a pretty girl as you and since we are getting on so well you are absolutely welcome to ask me anything!"

Mandy:"Well your left eye - it's sort of dangling out of it's socket, could you put it back please. I'm just going on my elevenses and gaping eye sockets and dangling eyes are unappetising sir - I'm sure you'll understand, sir. At Ghost house we pride ourselves on our reputable clients. If all our clients are going around seeing properties with dangling blood shot eyes, people might find it off putting, sir. I tell you what, why don't you browse our Web Site and then call us back - after you've put your eye back in it's socket of course."

Sound of ringing off...
Sound of ghostly telephone ringing

Mandy:"Hello Ghosthouses here, Mandy speaking, how can we help you?"

Peter:"Hello Peter here. I've a complaint to make."

Mandy:"Oh no not you again. I thought we'd sorted you out."

Peter:"So did I, but when I first looked round the place you didn't tell me that it was a holiday home. There I was minding my own business, enjoying settling in and then suddenly ... mayhem. Children everywhere, happiness, enjoyment - it was absolutely terrifying. You described the place as quiet and gloomy. I call that a property mis-description. I could sue you."

Mandy:"Well there's lots of people dead and alive that can't imagine anything gloomier than a late thirties red brick terrace in Burningham on Sea!"

Peter:"It's all very well you making a joke of it, but I've got bad nerves. I need somewhere quiet."

Mandy:"Hang on I've got something here. It's just come in. How do you fancy a walk in fridge that used to belong to a butchers - a cool ambience with unrestricted aspects on all sides?"

Peter:"Oooooooh - now that sounds better, even ideal - I'll move in straight away, see you later."

Mandy:"In the nicest possible way, sir, I hope not!"

Sound of ghostly telephone ringing off
Sound of ghostly telephone ringing.

Mandy:"Hello Ghosthouse here, Mandy speaking, how can I help you?"

George:"I'm sorry about the eye thing. I feel so embarrassed. There I was thinking I was charming you when all the time I was all grotesque."

Mandy:"There's nothing wrong with grotesque, sir, some of my best friends are grotesque. At Ghosthouses we believe in equal opportunities. But there's a time and a place for everything sir - as long as you are not wanting to enjoy your elevenses and a Jaffa cake of course. Now, how can I help you?"

George:"Well I thought that this one looked rather nice -

Mandy:"A good choice if I may say so sir, very tasteful. Used to be a country pub but the drink drive laws closed it down - previous owner committed suicide and haunted the place for a while but then felt he wanted a change and moved on to an Olde Worlde Tea House. They say he's very popular with the tourists because he doesn't mind materialising in crowds. Feel free to spend a couple of days over there - sort of on approval - to see if you like it."

Sound of ghostly telephone ringing.

Caller:"Su dnouf uoy ytreporp ecin eht rof uoy knath ot gnillac tsuj."

Sound of ghostly telephone ringing off

George:"What on earth was that?"

Mandy:"Nothing at all to worry about, sir. Just a crossed line. Time Shifters. They can be very confusing to deal with when they call especially when they are going backwards through time instead of forwards. All their words come out back to front and they start off thanking you for finding them a nice property and then move on to asking you for one. It's better really if they can synchronise their time direction before they call - they just wanted to thank us for finding a nice property for them."

George:"That's a relief - look I'm feeling quite frayed at the edges, I'll pop off now and try that place out".

Sound of ghostly telephone ringing off
Sound of ghostly telephone ringing

Mandy:"Ghosthouses, Mandy speaking, how can I help you?"

Peter:"Peter here again, Believe me Mandy, just believe me. You've really stitched me up this time!"

Mandy:"You are not going to tell me that you didn't find an old butchers fridge really gloomy and depressing - ideal you said."

Peter:"But I envisaged a fridge in the back of a shop somewhere - this fridge was travelling down the M4 at 50 miles an hour".

Mandy:"Ooooooops!"

Peter:"I want to make a complaint to your superior for giving me a hard time".

Mandy:"Err, she's a bit busy at the moment but if you don't mind being put on hold, I'll pass you over as soon as she's available."

Peter:"I don't mind waiting as long as it takes. You're not putting me off this time - you'll get yours, I can tell you."

Mandy:Just putting you on hold now, sir."

Clicking sound of Peter being put on hold

Mandy:(To herself:) "I wonder if I should have told him I'm the boss. He's going to have a very, very, long wait? No silly me - I must be getting soft in my old age!"

Sound of a ghostly telephone ringing

Mandy:"Ghosthouses here,the agency that really cares. Mellow Mandy speaking, how can I really help you?"

George:"It's George here - I say I tried that place. You were absolutely right it was lovely and quiet. It was in a lovely country location. There was a beautiful garden outside with all sorts of wild flowers and a little pond. There were oak beams and open log fire places. Completely ideal for a new ghost seeking tranquillity".

Mandy:"I get the feeling that this is leading up to something."

George:"It's boring. I sat there for hours and had nothing to do. I've spent my whole life being busy and the thought of doing nothing for day after day is an absolute nightmare."

Mandy:(with a sigh:) "I can see that this is going to be one of those days. Couldn't you commune with the butterflies or something."

George:"Well there was an earwig passing. I tried being friendly but talking about the joys of watching wood rot just made me fidget - quite a lot."

Mandy:"George, I've just put on my thinking cap for you and come up with a brilliant idea. This George, believe me, will be absolutely ideal."

George:"You mean it?"

Mandy:"Definitely. You would make an absolutely perfect temporary dramatic ghost."

George:"Well I did help put on an amateur play once - I had to bang a drum at the tense bits. But what exactly is a temporary dramatic ghost?"

Mandy:"Well ghosts that have a regular dramatic haunting - you know, tragedies, re-enacted murders, blood oozing from floorboards - just like everybody occasionally need a rest. Sort of respite if you like. Sometimes they appreciate having somebody standing in for them. You know, somebody to keep the show going on while they are away. All situations are short term so you'll never get bored. You'll be provided with a script to work to so you won't have to make any decisions - it's perfect for a novice ghost that's prone to boredom. And it'll give you a good opportunity to try your hand at a variety of situations."

George:"Sounds great - I'll go for it!"

Mandy:"And here's an ideal first assignment. You are required, in return for bed and board, to occupy a tumble down house for a week. It's quite a light tragedy. The present occupant is a nice young boy who got trapped there and died in agony. He doesn't appear for everybody. Just other small boys - sort of as a public service warning."

George:"But I don't look like a little boy".

Mandy:"Use your imagination and you'll have no problem".

George:"Yes! I must be positive. It's a long time since I wore short trousers - I'll take it!"

Sound of ghostly telephone clicking off

Mandy:"Well look! It's time for lunch already. I've missed my elevenses again and I'm starving. I'd better go before the phone rings. Never mind, it's been a good morning - even if I say so myself.

There's still Gloomy Pete to sort out but he'll be all right on hold. Maybe I'll have a brilliant idea about him while I eat. Now come to think of it, I heard of an empty space station feeling lonely the other day and also there's the growth market for haunting the inside of computer screens......"

The End

Enjoyed this piece of writing?

Post this article to . . . Reddit Digg del.icio.us

© Rob Hopcott 1999 - 2006, all rights reserved. All characters are fictitious in this story and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Related topics: short story, short stories, free story, free stories, free fiction, online fiction, online story, online stories, short fiction, writing, , shortstory, shortstories, life after death, death, dying, last moments, ghost, ghosts, ghost story, ghost stories, paranormal, paranormal story, paranormal stories, ghosts story, ghosts stories, redundancy, redundancy story, redundancy stories, employment, job, work, out of work, unemployed, unemployment
estate agency, real estate, realty, real-estate
drama, dramatic, ghost drama, ghostly drama
play, ghost play, ghostly play
halloween, halloween drama, halloween play
.
.

Infidelity, separation, lonely hearts, loneliness and reconciliation - Blackberry Jam short relationships story by Donna Teller and Rob Hopcott

2006-08-17T07:01:00.000-07:00

"....and the weekend promises sunshine and southerly breezes. Make the most of it!"

The weatherman's cheery voice came from the TV, precariously perched on a pile of books, the only way she'd yet found for its cable to reach the socket. Piles of books, papers, magazines had always been a feature of Maggie's lived-in kitchen and they had grown in the dark days since January. But recent weeks had found her more able to cope with her situation and a measure of organisation had returned to her life.

But, like the TV, it was a delicate balance. To the outside world, she seemed cool and collected; inside she felt deeply vulnerable. Strategies had been adopted for coping; new routines found, places that would stir painful memories strictly avoided.

However, this was a small town and some places could not be ignored. Like the moor which looked down on her every time she opened her front door. Over the years, she and Mike had spent many hours walking on it, marking the changing seasons, content in each other's company.

Late summer had always been a busy time as they followed in the footsteps of countless couples before them and gathered in the harvest for jam and wine.

The forecast helped Maggie to make up her mind. Despite misgivings, the attraction of the moor in the late summer sun was too strong. It had to be faced one day on her own; it was too beautiful to stay away forever. The time had come to lay this ghost to rest and picking a few berries would keep her mind occupied. Decision made, Maggie turned off the TV and went to help with homework.

Saturday dawned bright and clear. Resisting the desire to turn back, Maggie drove along the familiar lanes that lead to the parking bay at the foot of the hill. The walk to the top seemed longer, steeper. She was out of breath, her legs ached and her heart pounded.

But at last the path emerged from the trees and stretched away in the sun. On either side, the brambles clambered over heather and gorse, laden with clusters of fruit, ripe for picking; a riot of black and green, purple and yellow.

She need not have worried. The moor seemed to welcome her back like a long-lost friend and her spirits rose. Taking a deep breath of the clear air, Maggie deftly took a bag from her pocket and started to pick, stopping every now and then to straighten her back and enjoy the familiar view. With stained fingers and scratched hands to show for her efforts, the bag slowly filled with the dark, plump fruit.

Horse riders and walkers exchanged greetings as they passed. After a while, a solitary figure appeared on the path behind her, pausing and stooping occasionally, yet catching up quickly.

"Do you want to add these, then?"

The voice startled her, quieter than before but unmistakable. She hardly felt the pain of the brambles tearing into her hand as she jerked upright.

"What on earth are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd find you here, first weekend in September. Do you want these?" He held out a handful of berries, then tipped them into her bag. "Perfect day - are there any bilberries?"

How could he be so calm, so casual, when anger was welling up inside her? She wanted to rage at him for spoiling her perfect day, but the words in her head wouldn't come out.

"I - I haven't looked."

"Let me have a bag, I'll go see." Mike made his way across the heather to the dense, low-lying bushes and started to move the leaves aside to seek out the hidden fruit.

Maggie turned away, her thoughts racing, her peace shattered. She thought about retreating to the safety of her car. But having come so far she was determined not to turn back. She ambled along the path, picking the occasional berry, enthusiasm gone.

He gathered slowly, moving backwards and forwards through the bushes, but always keeping up with her. After a while, he came back to the path. She answered his questions - the children, her job, her parents - but always skirted round the main issue.

At last, they reached the point where all the moorland paths crossed. Maggie was glad of an opportunity to rest. Seating herself at one end of the bench, she stretched her legs in front of her. Mike sat down as well a little way along and stared, like her, at the patchwork of fields that lay beneath them. She couldn't recall the number of times they had come to this spot and shared a picnic lunch. Maggie had been looking forward to this moment, but hunger had deserted her. His nearness unsettled her even more; why couldn't he sit somewhere else.

"Are you on your own?" Stupid question. No sooner was it said than Maggie wished she had phrased it differently or thought about it more. But it was the question that she had been wanting to ask and there seemed little point in dressing it up with more words.

"Yes. In every way." He kept his eyes on the fields. Maggie didn't speak, waiting for him to go on. "It didn't last into the Spring. She moved on."

For the first time that day, Maggie turned and really looked at her husband. His eyes were deeper, his hair greyer, his face more lined, and his expression more worn. A sad face. Somewhere deep inside she wanted to pull him close, to tell him that everything was fine, to make those eyes smile again. But the pain that he'd caused could not be erased by a hug, even in this place, and she looked away.

After a while, she stood up. Despite the sunshine, there was a chill in the air.

"I'd better be going now." She didn't know what else to do or say, but nothing would be achieved by sitting on a bench. "Here, let me take that." He took the bag and they made their way in silence. Maggie wondered what he was thinking, were his thoughts as much of a jumble as hers?

At last, the cars came into view.

"How did you get here?" she asked as she fumbled in her pocket for her keys.

"Train to Tonechester, then bus to here. There's a bus back to Tonechester this evening."

She resisted the sudden urge to offer a lift to the station. But perhaps there was a middle way.

"You've time for a cup of tea before you go?" She hoped it sounded more like a question than an order.

"And would there be scones and blackberry jam?"

Maggie laughed, relaxing for the first time since hearing his voice.

"You're pushing your luck! Is that all you've come back for! "She didn't give him time to reply. "No scones, but I've fresh bread which is just as good."

And after tea, she drove him to the bus stop. Getting out of the car, he turned, "Will you be out next week?"

"Possibly, if the weather holds."

A brief nod, and he joined the others waiting for the evening bus.

She didn't wait. Making her way home, she chose the longer route that twisted along the foot of the moor. They had a long way to go, but, like the weather, maybe the outlook was promising.

The End

Copyright Donna Teller and Rob Hopcott 1999 - 2006, all rights reserved. All characters are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Related Topics:

short story, short storys, short stories
infidelity, separation, aching heart, loneliness, reconciliation, relationships
Blackberry Jam

Countryside storytelling tales of the strange and unexpected - a short ghostly music horror story from Rob Hopcott's free online stories

2006-08-02T08:55:00.000-07:00

Tom loved stories. He would sit in the old storytelling chair by the fire, his pale blue eyes glinting in the light from the flickering candles on the tables all around. His chuckles would drift from lips that were weather beaten like the old oak beams above his head. Contentedly, he made himself comfortable in the oak chair that had heard thousands of stories over hundreds of years in this small West of England Inn that nestled between the dark hills of Exmoor, Great Britain.

People came to see Tom from all around the world. How they heard about him nobody knew but the hostelry had welcomed travelers for as long as anyone could remember.

To find him, visitors had to negotiate miles of twisting leafy lanes. But when they came over the brow of the hill to descend into our little hamlet, they got their reward. The low slung thatched roof seemed to snuggle into the valley. There was an old rusting water pump and a mill wheel which in summer was covered in red and white roses. The low ceilinged beams were genuine and there was always good food on the hob. On a warm summers evening, the scent of fuscia mingled pungently with the musk of damp undergrowth from the surrounding high earth hedges.

When the winter came, there were fewer visitors but the village community that lived in the valley would draw close around the log fire that roared its way up the stone chimney until its smoke mingled with the moors beyond - and the stories would go on.

"Who is to tell the story tonight," Tom would enquire.

The drinkers at the bar and the diners at the tables would look away, trying to avoid his steely eye.

In all the history of storytelling in this isolated stone-built hostelry, with its blue wisteria that clambered around the low entrance porch in the summer, its white inner walls and its worn stone flags, there'd always been somebody willing to tell their tale.

Sometimes, a young man would accept the challenge and, with his hip born portable telephone and executive suit worn like badges, he would recount adventures of conquest and adversity.

Sometimes, the soft voice of a local woman would relate accounts of the countryside and haunting folk legends.

Occasionally, Tom would take the seat and reach into his vast store of experiences that spanned more than 80 years. With his eyes glinting like flints, he would bring forth images so strange that the merest glass placed on the bar would sound like a cannon's roar in the rapt silence.

But the best story was always saved until Christmas - for this was the story that marked the end of the year.

It was the time when the holly was cut from the high hedgerows and festooned around the bar with its shiny prickly green leaves and red berries. Then the Christmas tree, cut from the fir tree lined hills above, was reverently placed by the huge log burning fire and piled with presents to be exchanged with much ribald jibes on Christmas Day.

It was also the time when the landlord would serve warm mulled wine, the favorite drink of his customers at Christmas and it was the time that Tom was certain to make his challenge.

"Come on you mangy rabble," he would chortle. "You can't hide from old Tom, you know. Unless somebody comes and sits in this chair and tells us a Christmas story, I'll tell the landlord to put away the mulled wine!"

"You wouldn't do that," cried a busty girl with a pretty face, her long blonde hair cascading down to arrive just above her tiny skirt. "You like the mulled wine too much yourself, Tom!"

"Aye, lass, I like the mulled wine but I like the Christmas story even more. It's a tradition that goes back far longer than I know - even to when there were lords and ladies gracing this bar instead of you lot!"

He nodded his head sagely in affirmation of those better days. His white shaggy beard extended from his chin to the sideburns in front of his ears and his eyes sparkled in the flames of the fire.

"Tom's got my support!"

This was from a quick voiced man with clipped speech and a round face. His dress was smart but casual, with well-ironed light blue slacks and a shirt open at the front that revealed for more hairs than were on his head.

"When I come down from London each year, I always look forward to the Christmas story."

"You tell the story, then, m'dear," retorted a young laborer, his jeans still dirty from milking the cows.

"Not I," said the executive man. "All I know is balance sheets, profit and loss accounts and share prices."

"Cooo I'd like to know about that!" said the young man. His face shining with mock enthusiasm under his mop of fair hair. "Maybe I'd learn enough not to have to milk those cretinous cows every day. Last week, I made the mistake of walking behind one just as she was 'un-encumbering' herself, as you might say. Cooooor, I didn't half stink. I couldn't wait to get my kit off when I got home."

"We don't want to know about your disgusting experiences, young Jim, at the back of the cow or whenever," said Tom, preening his beard. "It's Christmas time. The sun goes down early and the nights are long. The leaves are off the trees and crisp brown on the ground. Our best pullovers are out and wrapped around us to keep us warm in the wintry gales. It's a special time of the year and we need our special Christmas story."

The room was quiet but everyone could hear the wind growing stronger outside. Feet shuffled and shoulders rubbed as people tried to escape to the back of the bar to avoid Tom's questioning stare. His eyes wandered from person to person. Few could hold his gaze long before looking down, embarrassed. But none were willing to take the story-telling chair tonight.

Suddenly, the front door of the Inn creaked open and the wind that was jostling the trees outside suddenly roared into the bar, spinning the decorations into whirling dervishes. All eyes swivelled around.

The woman had a pale face, short fair hair and impassive blue eyes. She stood uncertainly, staring around the bar, seeming surprised to see so many people in this lonely spot.

She pulled her red cape closed around her shoulders although it was already held fast at her neck by a small gold chain. Underneath the cape she wore a white polo necked jumper and white slacks. The heels of her red boots clicked on the stone flags as she slowly crossed to the only chair that was empty in the bar. Tom had moved to sit on a log, and was warming himself by the Christmas tree, with a serene look on his face.

There only seems to be one seat left in this bar on this dark and dismal night," she said.

Her voice was soft and mingled with the holly, mistletoe and decorations that hung from the beams.

"If you are to sit there," said Tom, kindly, "you must tell us a story and it must be a story for Christmas.

"I can do that for you if you wish," she said, removing the cape from around her alabaster neck and laying it over her knees as if to comfort and protect.

The landlord pushed through the crowd with a goblet of mulled wine and placed it regally in her hand.

"You'll need some of this, m'dear, to help you on your way" he said.

If the spices stung her throat, she showed no sign. After a deep draught, she laid the glass beside her chair and placed her hands palm down on its high arms. The old wooden structure seemed huge around her but she'd the attention of everybody in the bar as she began her story.

"Christmas is about children," she said. "The story I want to tell you is about a school where the children were all in their first years of learning."

"It was Christmas time and the children were having a music lesson. Clustered around the young teacher's piano, they sung some carols and then she showed them the individual notes of the musical stave and how she was reading them. Then it was time for the children to use what they had learned. They had to form themselves into small groups, decide on a note and then act it out."

"There was lots of laughter and discussion as they made their plans and the lesson was certainly a success because soon the children were fluently using the names of all the notes in the stave."

The woman in white with her cape as red as the holly berries paused and looked up at the clock above the bar.

"In the length of time it takes for the minute hand to go halfway round the clock, they were ready with their performance," she said.

"The first group formed themselves into a line on the floor with one of them curled up like a ball at one end and another diagonally angled away at the other end."

"We are a quaver," they shouted gleefully. "Our note is very fast. We're full of excitement and joy." The class clapped its appreciation.

"The second group likewise formed themselves into a line on the floor but this time without the diagonal tail and explained that they were a crotchet. Their music was solemn, marching, plodding and determined." Applause quickly followed.

"The third group then lay on the floor and formed a large oval shape."

"We are a semibreve," they said, proudly, "the longest of all the notes. We come at the end of the music when all the excitement is done and it is time for all the sounds to return home." Everyone clapped.

"Then, at last there was one child left who was not part of any group. This child was not popular and often missed school through sickness. Under the watchful gaze of the whole class, she slowly walked to the centre of the room, each step seemed painful and when she sat cross legged on the floor with her blue uniform tucked carefully beneath her pale knees, it was as if she was relieved to have made it at all."

"What musical note are you going to be," asked the young teacher. She knew that the little girl should have been part of a group but somehow hadn't got round to arranging it."

"The little girl sat quietly and completely immobile staring at the wooden floor of the classroom."

"The teacher turned to the rest of the class and asked them."

"What musical note do you think Natalie is today?" There was an immediate chorus of shouts from the girls and boys all around, each taking a different note from their imagination to associate with the little girl seated on the floor."

"The teacher frowned, worried. In Natalie's school notes, she remembered seeing something that had said the girl was unlikely ever become a teenager. Could it be that the child was ill now, for she was so quiet."

The class had finished it's shouting and waited, impatiently, for Natalie to speak. At last she raised her eyes from the floor.

"I am not really a musical note," she said, clearly. "I am the rest between the notes. I can be as short as a quaver or as long as a semibreve. I am the silence at the end of the music and the tranquility of the night when you are all asleep ... in the end, I am all there is..."

The lady lifted her eyes to the people in the bar all around.

"And that is the end of the story," she said.

She raised herself out of the storytelling chair, slowly put on her red cloak and made her way to the door. A young man at the entrance held out his hand, grasping hold of the cape and speaking gruffly.

"Were you the teacher?"

He seemed to recoil as her eyes met his ...

"No," she replied, "I was the child..."

Then she was gone and, in the bar, you could have heard a snowflake fall.

The End

© Rob Hopcott 1999 - 2008, all rights reserved. All characters are fictitious in this story and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Related topics: countryside, storytelling, tales, strange, unexpected, short ghostly story, short horror story, free online stories, Rob Hopcott, music

Nature's distractions on a hot and lazy Friday afternoon in the home office

2006-07-28T07:43:00.000-07:00

It's beautiful weather outside. The sun is shining on the moors as I look out of the window of my spare office bedroom over the green and gold heather of July Exmoor in the West Country, UK.

Lambs are being born in the sunny fields over to the left and the sky is the deepest blue you've ever seen.

Tonight I'm off to play some folk music in a smoky pub alongside the Bristol Channel with friends. My flute will ring out the reels and my soprano sax will haunt the oak beams and dance in and out of the minds of the assembled crowd.

Tomorrow morning it'll be tennis with the wrinklies at the local club, laughter and, after, aching muscles, hot shower, lunch then fighting to stay awake through the long afternoon.

Pause a while ... Work is calling ...

I wrench my eyes back to the blue grey computer screen in front of me. Years have passed as I have penned stories onto the web, earned a bit, lost a bit, played with advertising, built traffic, lost traffic, got older, never rich - just me and the view outside of the grass and the heather - always anonymous, me, the computer and the view.

My eyes drift back to the seagulls soaring and wheeling in pairs and fours across the valley between the hills. I wonder how it feels to be up there and free. A black crow dares to interrupt their path and they turn to mob him but he escapes. They climb again on the rising thermals, screaming, rejoicing.

My mind pulls me back demanding me to work. My emotions say no - linger a while, close the office door, walk out amid the heather and the gorse, feel the earth springy under my feet, hear the robins and skylarks, watch the agile squirrels leap from bending green bough to sturdy trunk.

But on the web there is no such thing as standing still. Stopping a while means falling back and dark eyed search engines demand feeding lest they cease repaying author's long hours of effort with meager crumbs. Surfers wheel from site to site like seagulls, elusively dancing to greedy corporate spider's tune, always eager to be freely fed.

So I must work, continue what I have been doing for years since the Internet was born like the lambs in the fields. Yet as lambs come and go with the seasons so did brief success and now there are ever more electronic hills to climb.

Weary fingers over computer keys, descend, hesitate, return to rest on polished brown desk top.

Work, I tell myself ... Work...

Nope, I reply, I'm going to write my blog instead.

Hi folks!

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

Related Links:

July, Exmoor, West Country, UK, work, lambs, Bristol Channel, folk music, blog, tennis. home office
.
.

'Retribution' - a very short short vigilante murder mystery thriller adventure flash fiction story by Rob Hopcott

2006-07-24T06:21:00.000-07:00

The alley stretched ahead of me like an endless corridor from drowsy evening to silent night. No longer alive with children's cries and mothers chatter, in the gloom, fear stalked its dusty way and it slumbered alone.

It was this fear that had drawn me here. Fear that the assailant would strike again. Fear that another mangled body would be found. Fear that another family would take the long hearse led journey to the local cemetery with its green willows and red berried rowan trees to scatter the ashes of yet another loved one.

My soft footsteps slid along the stone walls ahead of me. I tried to make my moves silent like the cat that wide eyed stalks as the world sleeps.

Determination welled up inside me. The animal that sought out defenceless victims would soon become prey itself.

Our plans had been made. I was part of the first shift for a week of evenings and then a break before my turn came again.

A sound from ahead made me freeze, my scalp tingling. Another shadow was in the shadows, waiting - aware of my presence. I moved tentatively, the wall scraping knifelike across my shoulderblades. The wooden stick held in tensed knuckles suddenly felt a poor defence against imagined lethal long knife or flame spitting handgun.

The shadow moved again - cautious, uncertain. It stopped, peered forward, edged on.

Heart pounding, I slid into position behind a large waste bin. It stank of leftovers from wordless TV dinners.

I couldn't see whether the shadow was near without looking round the bin - and the shadow was now too close.

Then the insubstantial shadow became the heaviness of a man knocking me to the ground. The back of my neck felt warm where it had scraped against the stone wall and blood oozed through shattered skin.

The shadow was on top of me and pain knifed through my kidneys, liver and spleen. The only sound to penetrate my agony now were the grunts of his exertion. Dimly I felt good as my flailing arm sank into his face then my arm was shattered by my own stick. Steely muscles clamped around my neck and tightened viciously. Consciousness faded - so this is what it was like.

The light that shone in my face seemed cool. The frightened voice of my next door neighbour distant.

"Oh God, Jim, I thought you were the attacker. Hang on in there, I'll get an ambulance."

Then running feet as he made towards the telephone box standing sentinel at the end of the ally - a sudden cough and a short cry.

As my mind gave way to total darkness, I dimly tried to understand.

Middleton News: April 10 ^th 2006: 'Two more found dead in Nightmare Ally - Police mystified, Neighbourhood Watch distraught!'

The End

© Rob Hopcott 1999 - 2006, all rights reserved. All characters are fictitious in this story and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Related topics: short story, short stories, free story, free stories, free fiction, online fiction, online story, online stories, short fiction, writing, shortstory, shortstories, mystery, mysteries, murder, mystery story, mystery stories, murder story, murder stories, murder mystery, author, fiction, writer, online writer, thriller, thriller story, thriller stories, neighborhood watch, flash fiction, vigilante
.
.

Just the Job - an out of work, unemployment and redundancy short story from Rob Hopcott's nineties ghost recession short stories

2006-07-10T01:10:00.000-07:00

"I'm afraid you may never have a desk job again. Employers prefer younger people! They shouldn't - but they do. You must be more flexible".

The man at the unemployment office had looked embarrassed. He'd still got his job. Age for age, responsibility for responsibility - the job was the only difference between us.But it was a big difference.

In a way I really missed my desk? It was comfortable. It had been part of me for so many years. It had brought in money - just enough - to keep things going. But now it was over. Chapter closed. I was on the scrap heap. Dumped.

Did I care? For a while I cared a lot, yes., then less. Gradually the me that was defined by a desk gave way to a me that was - freer. True the bills were overdue and there were ugly scenes.

To be honest, I accepted the job that day just to show willing. Of course the pay was a joke - £10 in a day, if I was lucky.

But, once out in the fresh air, somehow it just didn't seem to matter any more. The world seemed full of possibilities; unexplained, undecided and only just round the corner. The country air felt fresh in my lungs, the sun beamed down and my whole body tingled with anticipation. I had not felt so good for years.

The heavy satchel on my unfit shoulders seemed light as a feather. The twisting country lane stretched out invitingly in front of me with its high hedge bordered with a riot of white throated fox gloves, sweet scented creamy honeysuckle and pink campion. Songs from hidden birds in the hedgerow crowded the country air, lifting me up, leading me on.

Just a small country lane - but for me it held the promise of new and better futures. Each stride pushed memories of bitter setbacks into the past and brought with it the promise of a few pennies in earnings.

It would have been easy to miss the flash of light. But it caught my eye through a gap in the hedgerow and, once noticed, it couldn't be ignored. Intriguingly, it glinted in the sun like an urgent signal.

I paused by the half open gate and looked down the path into an overgrown garden to a cottage. It had a wasted and secluded appearance, rather forlorn. It didn't look occupied. The thatch was patched, paint was peeling and the crumbling plaster walls seemed to have been repaired over many years with whatever came to hand.

A border of red peonies and poppies crowded the path that seemed to draw me towards the trellis porch and the weathered wooden front door.

Parting the thickly climbing green ivy, I found the hole in the broken window and through it could just see an austere hall. It looked old fashioned and uninviting. There was a single upright chair and a worn carpet. The hole in the window was big enough for a child to climb through and there were signs of glass trodden underfoot on the inside.

"Can I help you?" I froze.

Her voice was low with a musical lilt. A trace of Ireland or Wales.

Completely embarrassed, I felt like a youngster caught pilfering. Her look was quizzical, inquiring. Brown shoulder length hair was tied back into a single ponytail.

Soft wisps of hair framed a gentle face. She was slightly built with a simple belted cotton dress that brushed her knees. Brown arms were folded around plain white rumpled sheets, just dried and collected from a clothes line. Her eyes were pale blue - wary. A housewife going about her everyday chores, a routine suddenly disturbed ... possibly threatened.

I stumbled over my apology. No intention to intrude... just passing...saw the broken window... first day in this area ... only wanted to help ... not wishing to pry or invade privacy ... I felt flustered, stupid. All I wanted was to escape back to the security of the road outside.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

A calm question? More a command. It stopped my explanations dead.

She didn't wait for a reply but passed close by me, pushed open the front door and disappeared inside leaving a delicate scent of lavender in her wake.

I hesitated - unsure of myself. But what was there to lose? Dropping my bag with a thud by the front door, I followed her down the long passageway to the back of the house. The dark corridor opened up into a bright sunlit kitchen.

The kettle was already on the old blackened coal burning hob and two cups were side by side on their saucers. An earthenware teapot stood close by on the bare wooden table. Her lavender scent was stronger now and mingled with the smell of old polished linoleum.

She seemed completely at ease, in charge, unconcerned by the stranger in her kitchen.

"Why don't you sit down".

It was the first time I had seen her smile. It lit up her face and made her look very young indeed. It was a youthfulness that somehow seemed a out of place in that old kitchen.

The chair she offered was of worn wood with a soft green patterned cushion to make it more comfortable. I did as I was told.

"Lovely view of the garden from here". I needed to make conversation.

The area I referred to was a hidden garden within a garden. It had a small lawn at its centre, bounded by a profusion of pink rambling roses and yellow honeysuckle that scrambled over trellis work all around. Very feminine, very pretty.

It seemed a place to escape to and perhaps to dream in.

Her back was turned to me as she too gazed out of the kitchen window and waited for the kettle to boil.

I found myself secretly admiring her figure. It made me feel guilty.

"It was my husband's favourite place in the world", she said suddenly.

"He used to say, that on a sunny day, time would seem to stand still and the lawn seemed to be at the centre of something indefinable and special.

She turned and looked at me intently.

"Do you believe places have a life of their own. Their own history and memories?"

I was surprised at such a direct and philosophical question - unusual between people who had only just met. To give me time to think, I reached out and played with one of the cups. It was dainty - a lady's cup. Then, like a stream that once released cannot be stopped, long hidden memories flooded back.

"When I was a boy," I said, "I used to live beside Dartmoor.

Nearby, at the foot of the moors there was an old railway bridge with huge arches that took the railway line across a ravine where the local river had cut between two hills.

"The trees were tall but even they seemed tiny besides the vast arches. I used to sit in their shade on the bank and watch the fish. Water dribbled down the concrete sides and moss had grown all over it so that the bridge blended into the landscape.

"But it was the old rusty metal and smell of creosote that made the place really special. Gates, posts, metal ties, old hinges of a broken down door in a small block house. Those bits of manmade things gave the feeling of past activities; intangible but still very much there.

I paused and looked up, afraid this was not what she had meant, but she was listening attentively, so I continued:

"The block house had probably been a tool store for the men working on the bridge. Strangely, those people's lives and hopes were in that tool store, their frustrations and successes. You could almost sense their feelings of exhaustion during their hours of work as the bridge was built. Their feelings of achievement as it was put into use; something modern, needed."

I looked up defensively. I had never before told anyone else about these memories.

Her arms were lightly stretched along the work surface to the side. Sunlight streamed through wisps of her hair. Her eyes said continue.

"I used to wonder whether they had stopped their work for a moment on a sunny day to gaze down at the fish just as I was doing and watch the green oak leaves patterning in the breeze.

"But more than anything else, I wanted to know if I looked long and hard enough, I could really see. If I could make a connection, enter their lives, experience their feelings.

"Not to intrude you understand", I said, slightly embarrassed.

"Just to be there. To sort of show they haven't been forgotten - silly really". I finished lamely.

Her voice came back sadly, reflectively:

"No, of course it's not silly.

She looked away across the garden. It was not the garden she saw but some inner memory from which I was for the moment excluded.

"The tea", I said hurriedly. "The tea will be brewed now."

"Of course".

She glanced back at the roses and the lawn.

"It's such a lovely morning, lets take our tea in the garden. You bring that blanket and I will take the tray. It was a quiet command not a suggestion. Picking up the blanket, I followed her.

As I stepped outside, the garden seemed to envelope me and draw in around us.

She put the tray down on the grass to one side of the blanket and sat down, legs primly to the side. I squatted down cross legged.

The smell of cut grass mingled with the scent of the flowers and created an intoxicating onslaught on my senses. But, strangely, nature was quieter here. Just the distant sound of the wind in the leaves and water flowing somewhere nearby.

We drank our tea. For the moment there was no need for talk.

"My husband liked to climb", she said, at last breaking the silence.

"He would be away for weeks climbing mountains all over the world. He was really good - expeditions to the Alps and the Himalayas. He acted as a guide to less experienced climbers.

She said it with a sort of indifference, as if it was just a fact of life something that had to be faced, something that couldn't be avoided.

"One day he didn't come back. He really loved the mountains and in the end they took him. They last saw him going back to check on a slower climber. Then he just disappeared."

"It's been years now but I still find it hard to believe that he's gone." Her light blue eyes, moist with the memory, sparkled in the sunlight.

Then came a sudden burn of anger in her voice.

"I went out there to find him, you know. The mountains he loved were just cold and unfriendly."

She wrapped her arms tightly around herself almost as if she could feel the cold.

"You see, I knew that he didn't want to stay there. The mountains were just a challenge. He loved their challenge but it was this garden that he wanted to come home to - even if it was just to say goodbye. But he never got the chance."

I felt strangely uncomfortable. Although we had only known one another for a short time, it was as if another person had suddenly come between us. I had a sudden feeling of loss. For a moment, she was no longer with me. My wife and my kids came into my thoughts and I began to feel that I had already overstayed my welcome.

But her crystal clear eyes and low musical voice compelled me back into her memories. I could hear her calling out to him on that far off mountain side. I could see the cold peaks pushing towards the snow laden sky and feel the bite of the wind on her warm body. Then suddenly as the years rolled back in my minds eye I shivered with him in his dark hidden crevice of death and felt his yearning to return.

Violently I shuddered and forced myself to drag my eyes away from hers to break the spell. But the cold and sadness was still with me. Hoping to lift my spirits again, I lay back to take one last look up at the clear sky above that garden before I left.

Soft clouds twisted and shifted in layers against the deep blue. Joining and then separating, they curled around each other and then parted like huge white creatures trapped in an endless dance.

I sighed and closed my eyes with relief. Clouds had now replaced mountains in my mind's eye, a big improvement.

"It's lovely here", I said, "but I really must go". Dimly, and then with some slight apprehension, I felt her move closer.

My face was now shaded from the warm sun, her body was next to mine and her lavender scent was everywhere. I could hardly breathe.

Soft cool lips caressed, slowly rubbed teasingly too and fro, then descended with mounting pressure onto mine. Delicate and delicious, it was a long kiss of welcome to her garden and her memories.

After some moments, she drew away slightly and I was able to look up at her. Small laughter lines crowded the corners of her eyes but the wistful look on her face couldn't hide the hunger,.

"Don't go yet", she said. It was a command

All my failures, redundancy, ignored job applications, unspoken reproaches by wife and children suddenly seemed far away.

I hesitated, the inhibitions from so many years of marriage were strong. But the link that had grown so quickly between this lady, her mountains and myself was much stronger and ultimately irresistible.

I reached up and enclosing her face between my two hands, drew her down to return her kiss. In a small part of my consciousness, I felt the coldness of the mountains begin to return. Her breathing was shallow and slowly, with gentle tenderness, our bodies moulded together.

Several weeks later, a boy on a push bike paused by the gate of a cottage, his shoulder bag of newspapers unbalanced him as he rode but it was quicker than walking.

He looked at his list of addresses and, turning away, saw the cottage had a broken window.

For a minute he thought of his predecessor on the paper round.

"An older man. Just took the papers and disappeared", said the gaffer at the paper shop". Must have been daft, if you ask me!

He turned to look again at the broken window.

"Probably kids messing about", he thought as he cycled away.

"Anyway, who would care, everybody knew the cottage had been deserted for years."

The End

© Rob Hopcott 1999 - 2006, all rights reserved. All characters are fictitious in this story and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Related topics: short story, short stories, free story, free stories, free fiction, online fiction, online story, online stories, short fiction, writing, romance, romance story, romance stories, romance fiction, romance adventure, shortstory, shortstories, housewife, wife, unfaithful, affair, affairs, love, lover, loving, spiritual, love story, love stories, lover story, lover stories, loving story, loving stories, love storys, lover storys, loving storys, life after death, death, dying, last moments, ghost, ghosts, ghost story, ghost stories, paranormal, paranormal story, paranormal stories, ghosts story, ghosts stories, redundancy, redundancy story, redundancy stories, employment, job, work, out of work, unemployed, unemployment, recession, 1990s, nineties, nineties recession, 1990s recession
.
.