"I'm Jack. It's a bit snugly in here," he said, settling his thickset body down besides me in the small audition waiting room.
Two upright chairs filled the floor with a forlorn flower dumped on the window ledge because there wasn't space for a table. The room smelled of damp. Fifty years ago, some idiot had painted the walls red. They were beginning to make me feel sick.
His thigh rubbed against mine. He didn't seem to mind but I did.
"I'm here to play the young man."
"I'm Jill, the female part."
"Jack and Jill. That sounds great!"
I didn't think so. His boyish face and fair hair could have looked endearing but was set in a chubby body with a huge personality deficit.
His plump hand patted my knee. My short summer dress had been a mistake, I should have worn jeans - preferably with thick leggings. This whole audition was becoming a nightmare - but I needed the money. The rent hadn't been paid for several months and the reason why I was slim was I couldn't afford to eat.
'Kiss' was the name of the short film funded by a grant for an arts festival. There were only three roles and my agent had said the third part was an old man. My spirits sank right down to my non existent leggings.
Jack was on a high. He'd obviously decided this slim waif with dark hair was prime pulling territory.
"Fancy a quick snog now? Sort of a warm up before we get out on the stage?" he leered.
I didn't. Perhaps the local supermarket had a job going for a fully trained out of work actress. Anything would be better than this.
The door banged back and a diminutive producer with a pronounced lisp shepherded us onto the stage, haphazardly set up to suggest a living room.
"I'm Gerald, the action is mainly about kissing, as you might have guessed. No surprises here. Give the audience what they expect." He smiled limply.
"One good thing, from your point of view, is that there are no other applicants so you've got the parts and the money from the grant is in the bank so you'll get paid."
No way out then, I thought. My spirits fell to a point well below my boots.
An old man with a heavy beard shuffled onto the stage. He looked as if he'd been living rough.
Gerald looked pleased.
"Ah good, we are all present. Let's get started."
"The story is about a young girls feelings and reactions to the act of kissing. The film consists mainly of a monologue, spoken by the girl."
Jack looked miffed, obviously expecting a bigger speaking role. He interrupted, snidely.
"Isn't there a slight technical problem with that? How's she going to do the monologue and kiss at the same time."
"Please don't interrupt, Jack, I'm trying to explain."
Gerald clearly wasn't going to stand for any nonsense.
"The plot revolves around an orphan girl who is adopted by a same sex couple. It is they that do the kissing."
Jack instantly turned a colour even more sickly than the walls of the waiting room.
Me, I was on a roll and fervently hoped the film would be a huge success, become a West End play and run and run.
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this actress short short story and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
Tag Archive for 'News from Rob Hopcott'
Each day I stand before my personal creative writing tree, wondering whether I should make the climb again.
But, in the distance, where the sea meets the moors, I imagine a reader is waiting.
And lurking in the undergrowth nearby, the giant search monster whispers promises of fame and fortune.
However, my creative writing tree is old. It has many branches that threaten to snap as I reach up to lever myself once more into it's grasp.
Soon, far above in the higher reaches of the tree, I see the beginnings of some action beckoning me on and upwards.
With each new handhold, blinding leaves brush against my face and twigs scratch my arms saying "Turn back. It's not worth the effort."
As I climb higher, my excitement grows. I see there are new characters in the upper branches. I struggle to hear what they say, to listen to their arguments and fights, wondering about their backgrounds and trying to understand the meaning of their stories.
Finally, I have it and I burst once more through the branches out of the top of the tree with the characters and plot clutched firmly to my heart.
Triumphantly, I turn to face my waiting reader and the giant search monster.
Only to find they are already gone ...
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
But, in the distance, where the sea meets the moors, I imagine a reader is waiting.
And lurking in the undergrowth nearby, the giant search monster whispers promises of fame and fortune.
However, my creative writing tree is old. It has many branches that threaten to snap as I reach up to lever myself once more into it's grasp.
Soon, far above in the higher reaches of the tree, I see the beginnings of some action beckoning me on and upwards.
With each new handhold, blinding leaves brush against my face and twigs scratch my arms saying "Turn back. It's not worth the effort."
As I climb higher, my excitement grows. I see there are new characters in the upper branches. I struggle to hear what they say, to listen to their arguments and fights, wondering about their backgrounds and trying to understand the meaning of their stories.
Finally, I have it and I burst once more through the branches out of the top of the tree with the characters and plot clutched firmly to my heart.
Triumphantly, I turn to face my waiting reader and the giant search monster.
Only to find they are already gone ...
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
Once upon a time there was a beautiful Queen who was loved by the King but feared by all his subjects.
Unknown to the King, the beautiful Queen was wicked to her step daughter, Snow White.
Snow White was also beautiful but, unlike her Wicked Step Mum, was liked by all the Kings subjects because she was so sweet, kind and considerate.
"You'll never get anywhere with your soft liberal attitudes," snarled the Wicked Step Mum. "You need to toughen up and learn to be nasty!"
"Yes Step Mother dearest," was all Snow White would say, which irritated the heck out of the Wicked Step Mum who was hoping to provoke Snow White into a fight so she could discredit her with the King.
As Snow White grew up, she showed signs of becoming a talented writer and became popular, not only with the local Writing Circle, but also with the King's subjects on the Internet, where she would put her short stories on-line for all to read.
The Wicked Step Mum started to put short stories on the Internet too. She even forced members of the local Writer's Circle to vote for them on the Top List Web Sites to make her stories look more popular than Snow White's. But, as time passed, the Wicked Step Mum grew more and more worried that Snow White was outshining her.
It was the Wicked Step Mum's habit to peek and poke in Snow White's mail. One day, a package arrived for Snow White containing a desktop search bot program.
the cover proudly boasted.
It was the opportunity the Wicked Step Mum had been waiting for and she immediately decided to do a web search to see whether she or Snow White was the most popular writer amongst the King's subjects.
The instructions explained that the search bot was activated by the first line of an old fairy tale. So the Wicked Step Mum typed into her computer:
"Mirror Mirror on the wall who is the best free online short story writer of them all?"
There was a brief pause and the search bot replied:
This threw the Wicked Step Mum into a great rage so she kicked the cat and locked Snow White in her room for three days with nothing but bread and water and a computer dictionary to read.
Again and again, the Wicked Step Mum typed in search phrases in an attempt to find a story genre where the search bot would admit she was more popular than Snow White.
"Mirror mirror on the wall who writes short stories that are the funniest, the saddest, the most thrilling and the most romantic of them all."
The answer came back "Snow White".
"Mirror mirror on the wall who writes the best on-line fiction, sudden fiction, micro fiction, micro-stories, postcard fiction, very short stories and short short stories."
The answer still came back "Snow White".
"Mirror mirror on the wall, who writes the best on-line romance, thrillers, science fiction, mystery and crime short stories ?"
Each time, the search bot came back saying it was Snow White's stories which were the best, the funniest, the saddest and the most romantic in the world.
Finally, in desperation, the Queen commanded all her subjects in the Kingdom to vote for her stories on the Top Sites.
Afterwards, when The Queen questioned the search bot and got the same reply that Snow White was the better writer, the Wicked Step Mum flew into the greatest rage of all, frothed at the mouth and lay on the floor screaming.
So the King was forced to send the Queen to a far off part of his Kingdom, where the Queen could be prevented from doing any harm to herself or frightening the King's subjects.
When the King let Snow White out of her bedroom, she was very happy because reading the computer dictionary day after day was getting very boring.
She spotted the CD containing the search bot software lying besides the Queen's computer.
In her rage, the Queen had cut the CD into many pieces with the sharpest of scissors and battered the fragments with a heavy hammer.
However, Snow White still made sure she paid for the software by return and enclosed the sweetest of letters.
Can you guess what she wrote in her letter?
This is what she said.
Dear Sir
I enclose $100 in payment for your excellent practical joke wind up search bot software, with optimised artificial intelligence algorithms for maximum irritation.
Your wonderful software worked perfectly.
Regards
Snow White
After which, Snow White and the King, who, like his subjects, found he didn't miss the Queen at all, lived together happily in the Palace for ever after.
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this modern fairy tale and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
Unknown to the King, the beautiful Queen was wicked to her step daughter, Snow White.
Snow White was also beautiful but, unlike her Wicked Step Mum, was liked by all the Kings subjects because she was so sweet, kind and considerate.
"You'll never get anywhere with your soft liberal attitudes," snarled the Wicked Step Mum. "You need to toughen up and learn to be nasty!"
"Yes Step Mother dearest," was all Snow White would say, which irritated the heck out of the Wicked Step Mum who was hoping to provoke Snow White into a fight so she could discredit her with the King.
As Snow White grew up, she showed signs of becoming a talented writer and became popular, not only with the local Writing Circle, but also with the King's subjects on the Internet, where she would put her short stories on-line for all to read.
The Wicked Step Mum started to put short stories on the Internet too. She even forced members of the local Writer's Circle to vote for them on the Top List Web Sites to make her stories look more popular than Snow White's. But, as time passed, the Wicked Step Mum grew more and more worried that Snow White was outshining her.
It was the Wicked Step Mum's habit to peek and poke in Snow White's mail. One day, a package arrived for Snow White containing a desktop search bot program.
"Search for everything you desire and anything you want using the world's latest cutting edge artificial intelligence search algorithms!"
the cover proudly boasted.
It was the opportunity the Wicked Step Mum had been waiting for and she immediately decided to do a web search to see whether she or Snow White was the most popular writer amongst the King's subjects.
The instructions explained that the search bot was activated by the first line of an old fairy tale. So the Wicked Step Mum typed into her computer:
"Mirror Mirror on the wall who is the best free online short story writer of them all?"
There was a brief pause and the search bot replied:
"Though thou art clever, fine and fair,
Snow White's short stories are the best anywhere!"
This threw the Wicked Step Mum into a great rage so she kicked the cat and locked Snow White in her room for three days with nothing but bread and water and a computer dictionary to read.
Again and again, the Wicked Step Mum typed in search phrases in an attempt to find a story genre where the search bot would admit she was more popular than Snow White.
"Mirror mirror on the wall who writes short stories that are the funniest, the saddest, the most thrilling and the most romantic of them all."
The answer came back "Snow White".
"Mirror mirror on the wall who writes the best on-line fiction, sudden fiction, micro fiction, micro-stories, postcard fiction, very short stories and short short stories."
The answer still came back "Snow White".
"Mirror mirror on the wall, who writes the best on-line romance, thrillers, science fiction, mystery and crime short stories ?"
Each time, the search bot came back saying it was Snow White's stories which were the best, the funniest, the saddest and the most romantic in the world.
Finally, in desperation, the Queen commanded all her subjects in the Kingdom to vote for her stories on the Top Sites.
Afterwards, when The Queen questioned the search bot and got the same reply that Snow White was the better writer, the Wicked Step Mum flew into the greatest rage of all, frothed at the mouth and lay on the floor screaming.
So the King was forced to send the Queen to a far off part of his Kingdom, where the Queen could be prevented from doing any harm to herself or frightening the King's subjects.
When the King let Snow White out of her bedroom, she was very happy because reading the computer dictionary day after day was getting very boring.
She spotted the CD containing the search bot software lying besides the Queen's computer.
In her rage, the Queen had cut the CD into many pieces with the sharpest of scissors and battered the fragments with a heavy hammer.
However, Snow White still made sure she paid for the software by return and enclosed the sweetest of letters.
Can you guess what she wrote in her letter?
This is what she said.
Dear Sir
I enclose $100 in payment for your excellent practical joke wind up search bot software, with optimised artificial intelligence algorithms for maximum irritation.
Your wonderful software worked perfectly.
Regards
Snow White
After which, Snow White and the King, who, like his subjects, found he didn't miss the Queen at all, lived together happily in the Palace for ever after.
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this modern fairy tale and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
Alice had found adventure before through the local free newspaper which was, much to her distaste, pushed through the letter box of her neat and tidy suburban townhouse on Thursday each week.
Unrequested, it landed on her spotless polished wood floor and invaded her domestic world. With lips pursed in disapproval, she would primp her tightly curled fair hair and toss it straight into the bin.
This week, however, Alice was feeling restless. John, her husband, was preoccupied with his work at the Bank and the local Rifle Club hadn't met for weeks. She needed something to make her pulse beat faster and newspapers had opened the door to adventure for her in the past.
It was an advert in the free newspaper for a job with the possibility of personal danger that had led to weeks of exciting travel, social excursions and some very nice deposits into her bank.
When she replied to an advert for a fidelity investigation agency, romance had reared it's intriguing head. Memories of the hotel swimming pool still made her tingle.
An item purchased from a new shop in the high street, advertised in the free newspaper, had not only brought great discomfort to some unwanted visitors but also put a smile on the face of her husband for which Alice had been justly rewarded.
Adventure had found Alice in other ways too. She still had a very special photo stored in a secret place on her computer, received from a rather scurrilous forgotten flame that still gave her goose bumps.
But it was the headline of a national newspaper that led her to investigate the death of her school friend, Estelle, perhaps her greatest adventure to date. She still shuddered at the thought of how Estelle died at the hands of that tight knit West Country rural community.
The free newspaper duly arrived and Alice seated her diminutive figure at the kitchen table of her three bedroom townhouse - and read on.
One advert immediately caught her attention.
the advertisement proclaimed.
The front door bell rang, suddenly, making Alice jump.
She dealt with the door to door salesman without discussion. Her thin high voice very firm.
"Not interested. Thank you. Goodbye!"
But the advert had made her edgy. So she brewed up a cup of tea to delay finding out more. Perhaps the whole idea of an adventure was really silly. After all, the world was a very bad place populated by some very dangerous people. Adventures were fun, but only after they were over and life had returned back to normality and safety.
But she knew in her heart that a dash of excitement ultimately made the security she valued so much even more appealing.
So she read on.
"Oh!" thought Alice. Second hand adventure was not really what she'd expected. However, the Writers Group was meeting that lunchtime.
"Why not?" thought Alice. "Perhaps I'll go along and say hello. I could write about some of my personal experiences - but I'd probably have to tone them down a bit to make them believable.
It was a bit of a rush but, an hour later, Alice was seated in a very draughty local Church Hall, surrounded by several very earnest amateur writers, each clutching a story which they proceeded to read out. Each story brought brief applause and then some discussion about the characters, how the plot flowed and how it could be improved.
Alice had never before realised that the process of creative writing was so painstaking. However, she found she liked the precision. Everything about a story had to add up. It had to be neatly finished with all the threads resolved, even the twist in the tail. This appealed to Alice who liked her life to be that way too.
However, there was one story that an author, called Caroline, admitted was unfinished. Indeed, she'd brought it to the creative writing group in the hope of getting some pointers about how the mystery in the story could be resolved.
Intriguingly, it was also a true story and it was quite scary. It turned out that Caroline had recently bought a house locally to be used as a foster home but, after she'd moved in, strange things started to happen. Late in the night, and well after midnight, knocking and other strange noises could be heard downstairs, as she tried to sleep in her bedroom.
She'd called in a medium and the medium had described scenes of horror and carnage that had taken place in different rooms so that Caroline could hardly dare go back into her home again. She certainly couldn't bring vulnerable foster children to live in the house.
Things then became even worse with strange intermittent noxious smells occurring in many of the rooms.
It wasn't as if Caroline was of a nervous disposition. She came from a farming background, had a ruddy face, was a member of the local Equestrian Club who had done very well at the National Horse Trials, and, in contrast to Alice's diminutive frame, was well built, hale and hearty.
Yet, when she recounted the events in her new house, she completely broke down in tears. Her dismay was deepened when the writing group were not able to make any suggestions about how to 'solve the mystery'.
Alice hadn't liked to speak out at the meeting. At heart she was very shy, but she made sure she approached Caroline afterwards.
"I'd like to visit your house," said Alice abruptly, in her clipped quiet voice. "It's such a shame that you've had such bad experiences. It's a lovely area. I particularly like how the flowering trees come out each spring all along your street and your large garden is very much a rarity these days around here."
"It would be my pleasure," sniffed Caroline, who was still tearful. "I bought the house because of the garden. It was always my dream to grow organic vegetables and take part in competitions. The Horticultural Society here is particularly strong and I'm desperate to pit my green fingers against theirs. Also the front living room has space for my grand piano and I'm not likely to offend the neighbours because the house is so detached. My dream is to foster some kids and the bedrooms up stairs and large grounds are ideal. I love the Victorian elegance too and the large Victorian greenhouse at the end of the garden adjoining the road is a perfect quiet place for my passion of writing. It's all so ideal. I fell in love with the house as soon as I saw it. To me, the price didn't matter. It was my dream home and now my dream seems shattered."
"You know," said Alice, with a far away look in her eye. "I think your dream may yet come true!"
"But first I need to be able to talk to the medium to hear about the scary events in your house, first hand."
Caroline promised Alice she would drop by later with the leaflet that contained the medium's contact details.
A week later, Alice checked the newly delivered free newspaper and smiled when she saw a particular advertisement with a post office box address.
After a further week, she visited Caroline in her home, taking with her a herbalist friend from the Rifle Club and a number of letters.
A further week later another advertisement appeared in the local free paper announcing a writers circle party to be held at Caroline's house two days later to celebrate a successful exorcism of spirits by pagan ritual.
The following week, the free newspaper ran an editorial
Six months later, Alice and her new friends at the Creative Writing Circle were enjoying the opening of their new Creative Writing Club premises in Caroline's newly refurbished old Victorian greenhouse. Everybody agreed the new club premises, paid for by the Property Developer, were hugely better than the draughty old church hall.
Caroline's eyes were brimming but her face was smiling as she passed to Alice a certificate making Alice an honorary member of the writing circle for life.
"I really don't know how you worked it all out, Alice, and so quickly."
Alice smiled as she accepted the certificate. It would look nice on her mantelpiece.
"It was quite easy," she said tranquilly.
"It was obvious that the land with this property was ripe for development. All we had to do was to find out who had been disappointed because of Caroline's love of this house and her willingness to pay any price."
"When we published the first advertisement offering the land for sale privately, the Property Developer was forced to show his interest. Once we had a name, we could do more checking. When we compared his address and telephone number with that of the medium and found it was the same, the case was pretty well proved."
"It was obvious that Caroline was the only person ever to receive a leaflet through her door advertising this medium's services. However it was also interesting that the Property Developer's wife ran an aromatherapy business and had access to a variety of scents."
"It turned out that the smells in the house always happened in the hours after visits by the medium. My herbalist friend at the Rifle Club was even able to identify the chemicals and products used to create the smells."
"Hiding in the garden and banging on windows in the dead of night were an easy way for the Developer to scare Caroline, when she was alone in the house."
"The celebration party in the second advertisement in the free newspaper was an easy way for us to tempt the Developer to try one last time to scare Caroline out of the house before her foster children arrived."
The presentation was rounded off by one of Caroline's foster children who made a speech thanking Alice for saving their new home.
As Alice walked home, she resolved to commit this adventure to a short story or flash fiction of her very own."
"It was all so neatly wrapped up with no loose ends, and, for all the good people, it had a really happy ending!"
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this haunted house mystery short story and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
Unrequested, it landed on her spotless polished wood floor and invaded her domestic world. With lips pursed in disapproval, she would primp her tightly curled fair hair and toss it straight into the bin.
This week, however, Alice was feeling restless. John, her husband, was preoccupied with his work at the Bank and the local Rifle Club hadn't met for weeks. She needed something to make her pulse beat faster and newspapers had opened the door to adventure for her in the past.
It was an advert in the free newspaper for a job with the possibility of personal danger that had led to weeks of exciting travel, social excursions and some very nice deposits into her bank.
When she replied to an advert for a fidelity investigation agency, romance had reared it's intriguing head. Memories of the hotel swimming pool still made her tingle.
An item purchased from a new shop in the high street, advertised in the free newspaper, had not only brought great discomfort to some unwanted visitors but also put a smile on the face of her husband for which Alice had been justly rewarded.
Adventure had found Alice in other ways too. She still had a very special photo stored in a secret place on her computer, received from a rather scurrilous forgotten flame that still gave her goose bumps.
But it was the headline of a national newspaper that led her to investigate the death of her school friend, Estelle, perhaps her greatest adventure to date. She still shuddered at the thought of how Estelle died at the hands of that tight knit West Country rural community.
The free newspaper duly arrived and Alice seated her diminutive figure at the kitchen table of her three bedroom townhouse - and read on.
One advert immediately caught her attention.
Romance, adventure, thrills and spills
the advertisement proclaimed.
The front door bell rang, suddenly, making Alice jump.
She dealt with the door to door salesman without discussion. Her thin high voice very firm.
"Not interested. Thank you. Goodbye!"
But the advert had made her edgy. So she brewed up a cup of tea to delay finding out more. Perhaps the whole idea of an adventure was really silly. After all, the world was a very bad place populated by some very dangerous people. Adventures were fun, but only after they were over and life had returned back to normality and safety.
But she knew in her heart that a dash of excitement ultimately made the security she valued so much even more appealing.
So she read on.
Join your local Writers Circle and you can share in the exciting stories and experiences of other authors. Make new friends and improve your skills as a writer.
"Oh!" thought Alice. Second hand adventure was not really what she'd expected. However, the Writers Group was meeting that lunchtime.
"Why not?" thought Alice. "Perhaps I'll go along and say hello. I could write about some of my personal experiences - but I'd probably have to tone them down a bit to make them believable.
It was a bit of a rush but, an hour later, Alice was seated in a very draughty local Church Hall, surrounded by several very earnest amateur writers, each clutching a story which they proceeded to read out. Each story brought brief applause and then some discussion about the characters, how the plot flowed and how it could be improved.
Alice had never before realised that the process of creative writing was so painstaking. However, she found she liked the precision. Everything about a story had to add up. It had to be neatly finished with all the threads resolved, even the twist in the tail. This appealed to Alice who liked her life to be that way too.
However, there was one story that an author, called Caroline, admitted was unfinished. Indeed, she'd brought it to the creative writing group in the hope of getting some pointers about how the mystery in the story could be resolved.
Intriguingly, it was also a true story and it was quite scary. It turned out that Caroline had recently bought a house locally to be used as a foster home but, after she'd moved in, strange things started to happen. Late in the night, and well after midnight, knocking and other strange noises could be heard downstairs, as she tried to sleep in her bedroom.
She'd called in a medium and the medium had described scenes of horror and carnage that had taken place in different rooms so that Caroline could hardly dare go back into her home again. She certainly couldn't bring vulnerable foster children to live in the house.
Things then became even worse with strange intermittent noxious smells occurring in many of the rooms.
It wasn't as if Caroline was of a nervous disposition. She came from a farming background, had a ruddy face, was a member of the local Equestrian Club who had done very well at the National Horse Trials, and, in contrast to Alice's diminutive frame, was well built, hale and hearty.
Yet, when she recounted the events in her new house, she completely broke down in tears. Her dismay was deepened when the writing group were not able to make any suggestions about how to 'solve the mystery'.
Alice hadn't liked to speak out at the meeting. At heart she was very shy, but she made sure she approached Caroline afterwards.
"I'd like to visit your house," said Alice abruptly, in her clipped quiet voice. "It's such a shame that you've had such bad experiences. It's a lovely area. I particularly like how the flowering trees come out each spring all along your street and your large garden is very much a rarity these days around here."
"It would be my pleasure," sniffed Caroline, who was still tearful. "I bought the house because of the garden. It was always my dream to grow organic vegetables and take part in competitions. The Horticultural Society here is particularly strong and I'm desperate to pit my green fingers against theirs. Also the front living room has space for my grand piano and I'm not likely to offend the neighbours because the house is so detached. My dream is to foster some kids and the bedrooms up stairs and large grounds are ideal. I love the Victorian elegance too and the large Victorian greenhouse at the end of the garden adjoining the road is a perfect quiet place for my passion of writing. It's all so ideal. I fell in love with the house as soon as I saw it. To me, the price didn't matter. It was my dream home and now my dream seems shattered."
"You know," said Alice, with a far away look in her eye. "I think your dream may yet come true!"
"But first I need to be able to talk to the medium to hear about the scary events in your house, first hand."
Caroline promised Alice she would drop by later with the leaflet that contained the medium's contact details.
A week later, Alice checked the newly delivered free newspaper and smiled when she saw a particular advertisement with a post office box address.
After a further week, she visited Caroline in her home, taking with her a herbalist friend from the Rifle Club and a number of letters.
A further week later another advertisement appeared in the local free paper announcing a writers circle party to be held at Caroline's house two days later to celebrate a successful exorcism of spirits by pagan ritual.
The following week, the free newspaper ran an editorial
Property Development Skulduggery Exposed.
A local property developer and his wife were discovered lurking in the bushes of a house which they had been trying to persuade the new owner was haunted so they could develop the land.
Their attempt at fraud was discovered by members of the Equestrian Club and the Creative Writing Circle who lay in wait and caught them red handed.
It is understood that a substantial payment has been made to the owner of the house by way of compensation for injury caused.
Six months later, Alice and her new friends at the Creative Writing Circle were enjoying the opening of their new Creative Writing Club premises in Caroline's newly refurbished old Victorian greenhouse. Everybody agreed the new club premises, paid for by the Property Developer, were hugely better than the draughty old church hall.
Caroline's eyes were brimming but her face was smiling as she passed to Alice a certificate making Alice an honorary member of the writing circle for life.
"I really don't know how you worked it all out, Alice, and so quickly."
Alice smiled as she accepted the certificate. It would look nice on her mantelpiece.
"It was quite easy," she said tranquilly.
"It was obvious that the land with this property was ripe for development. All we had to do was to find out who had been disappointed because of Caroline's love of this house and her willingness to pay any price."
"When we published the first advertisement offering the land for sale privately, the Property Developer was forced to show his interest. Once we had a name, we could do more checking. When we compared his address and telephone number with that of the medium and found it was the same, the case was pretty well proved."
"It was obvious that Caroline was the only person ever to receive a leaflet through her door advertising this medium's services. However it was also interesting that the Property Developer's wife ran an aromatherapy business and had access to a variety of scents."
"It turned out that the smells in the house always happened in the hours after visits by the medium. My herbalist friend at the Rifle Club was even able to identify the chemicals and products used to create the smells."
"Hiding in the garden and banging on windows in the dead of night were an easy way for the Developer to scare Caroline, when she was alone in the house."
"The celebration party in the second advertisement in the free newspaper was an easy way for us to tempt the Developer to try one last time to scare Caroline out of the house before her foster children arrived."
The presentation was rounded off by one of Caroline's foster children who made a speech thanking Alice for saving their new home.
As Alice walked home, she resolved to commit this adventure to a short story or flash fiction of her very own."
"It was all so neatly wrapped up with no loose ends, and, for all the good people, it had a really happy ending!"
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this haunted house mystery short story and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
The President of Earth blinked with surprise when the three men in suits appeared.
He'd been happily looking out of his penthouse office window, feeling content that the world was getting on quite nicely and enjoying a break before leaving from his rooftop helipad for a Presidential lunch.
Then, suddenly, three identical men in grey suits appeared. They could have been twins, except twins are just two and these were three. All identical down to the shape of their faces, hair colour and height.
The President blinked again. His Presidential 'Panic Button' was a little too far away for comfort. Trying to look unconcerned he started edging his portly frame, fuelled by many long Presidential lunches, towards the button.
"Er, um! Who are you?" He said grumpily. "I thought Madeleine, my secretary, said I hadn't anything in my diary for another hour."
The middle man of the grey suits stepped forward. The President of Earth stepped back.
"Please do not be afraid. We come in peace to help your world. Since you are President of the planet Earth, we've come to you. Neither your secretary nor your personal protection armed forces have any idea we are here."
The President of Earth was now feeling very alarmed. Obviously protocols were not being observed and he resolved to make sure those responsible lost their jobs. He tried humour to lessen his nervousness.
"So you've come here bearing gifts. You sound like The Three Kings from the Orient."
"Exactly! We have come to you bearing gifts just as the Three Kings of your Christian mythology!"
"And you just materialised yourselves into my office? I've never heard such a load of cock and bull. I must require you to leave by whatever means you came. See Madeleine on the way out and make a proper appointment. I am a very busy man."
The spokesman of the three suits smiled and his two colleagues smiled identically.
"As you wish!"
Then, in the blink of an eye, the three men in grey suits were gone. They just disappeared. There was no gradual moving out of the room or opening of doors and passing through them, or even seeing Madeleine. Instead, they just weren't there any more.
"Phew," said the President of Earth to himself, shaking his head, "I need a medical, I'm cracking up."
He checked his computer diary. There were no entries for the next hour so he must have imagined the three men.
He blinked, as the three men materialised again. The middle man once more stepped forward, and the President of Earth stepped back, once more.
"We thought you needed proof that we are who we say we are." The lead man said.
"And who are you?"
"We are ambassadors from our world to yours. We have been observing you as we observe many worlds where intelligent life forms have evolved. You are not the most intelligent. However, you are not the most stupid either."
The President of Earth bridled.
"I'll have you know that I have access to some of the best minds in our world - and you are daring to call them stupid?"
"I didn't call them stupid, but your Earth is a very complex organism and sometimes it is better to give a species a hand to help them over a hurdle. We are here to do that."
The President was now almost in reach of his Panic Button.
"There is no point in pressing your alarm button because it has been disabled."
The President pressed it anyway and waited for the room to be filled with paramilitary police - or at very least Madeleine, asking him what was the matter. But the room stayed empty, apart from these three annoying men. The President had just also noticed that they not only smiled together but also blinked together.
Since his school days, the President had always been a pragmatist. He hadn't got to be President of Earth without adopting strategies that worked, quite ruthlessly sometimes. If he wanted something, he did what was necessary. So he reclined into his deep leather chair, framed his hands into a church shape, pursed his lips and decided to go along with this strange situation.
"OK," he said, "Shoot. Tell me why you are here!"
The lead grey suit clone placed a sheet of paper that had suddenly appeared in his hand on the desk in front of the President."
The President at that point realised that there was a perfectly rational explanation for these strange events. He was dreaming and in a minute he would wake up. Perhaps Madeleine would come in and wake him soon.
The lead man in the suit read his mind.
"You do not need to wake up, you are not asleep. You do not even need to read this sheet of paper. All you need to do is to pass it to your scientists and they will understand what to do with it."
"And what will the scientists do with this sheet of paper?" Said the President, tight lipped. He didn't like being told what to do, ever.
"This single sheet of paper will enable your scientists to design a motor that emits no carbon dioxide. It's technology already known to your world but with a few tweaks. We could have given you something better but didn't think you could cope with it. This modification to your existing technology will provide a natural scientific progression so that your scientists will be able to further develop it themselves."
"So what will be the result of this scientific development?"
"The electric cars you will then be able to produce will halt the global warming that is already under way and which will destroy your species and many others besides on Earth unless stopped. The electric technology will also revolutionise third world countries as it provides almost an unlimited and extremely low cost source of power."
The President blinked. The consequences of such a global change were immediately apparent to his astutely political brain.
"Is that it then," said the President. "You've delivered this piece of paper and explained it. Now, are you going?"
"That is exactly how we operate. You will not see us again. We have plenty of other worlds to visit and help. One day, in many centuries, we may come back, but not in your lifetime. There are just too many worlds out there that need our help."
"Well then chaps," the President said, smiling his most cordial smile, to which the three men smiled identically back, "On behalf of planet Earth, I must thank you for your kind help and wish you a good journey to wherever you are heading."
The three men in suits smiled in unison.
The President blinked ... And the grey suited men were gone.
The President did not read what was on the piece of paper. He assumed that he wouldn't understand it anyway. He'd failed all his science examinations at school, just as he had excelled at public speaking and debate.
He gazed out of the window and thought of all the workers who were building cars with petrol and diesel engines and of all the people manning the fuel pumps around the world. He thought of the electric power industry. He thought of the billions of currency that was invested in the companies that produced the vehicles and distributed oil and electricity. He thought of the businesses that provided other services and products that relied on the money flowing from the oil, motor and power industries.
The President of Earth knew global warming was a problem. He would, this very lunchtime, be attending a meeting with representatives of the worldwide business community within which the oil, motor and power industries were very prominent. He felt sure these business magnates wouldn't welcome their empires being disrupted. Proposing that electric vehicles with a revolutionary power supply were the answer to global warming would immediately make them his implacable enemy.
The President of Earth reached over, picked up the sheet of paper and fed it into the shredder on his desk.
Perhaps in a minute he'd wake up and realize this whole incident was just a bad dream.
In the mean time, he had to decide what to wear for lunch.
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Enjoyed the main character of this story? Try God Spoke To The President.
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this science fiction very short story and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
He'd been happily looking out of his penthouse office window, feeling content that the world was getting on quite nicely and enjoying a break before leaving from his rooftop helipad for a Presidential lunch.
Then, suddenly, three identical men in grey suits appeared. They could have been twins, except twins are just two and these were three. All identical down to the shape of their faces, hair colour and height.
The President blinked again. His Presidential 'Panic Button' was a little too far away for comfort. Trying to look unconcerned he started edging his portly frame, fuelled by many long Presidential lunches, towards the button.
"Er, um! Who are you?" He said grumpily. "I thought Madeleine, my secretary, said I hadn't anything in my diary for another hour."
The middle man of the grey suits stepped forward. The President of Earth stepped back.
"Please do not be afraid. We come in peace to help your world. Since you are President of the planet Earth, we've come to you. Neither your secretary nor your personal protection armed forces have any idea we are here."
The President of Earth was now feeling very alarmed. Obviously protocols were not being observed and he resolved to make sure those responsible lost their jobs. He tried humour to lessen his nervousness.
"So you've come here bearing gifts. You sound like The Three Kings from the Orient."
"Exactly! We have come to you bearing gifts just as the Three Kings of your Christian mythology!"
"And you just materialised yourselves into my office? I've never heard such a load of cock and bull. I must require you to leave by whatever means you came. See Madeleine on the way out and make a proper appointment. I am a very busy man."
The spokesman of the three suits smiled and his two colleagues smiled identically.
"As you wish!"
Then, in the blink of an eye, the three men in grey suits were gone. They just disappeared. There was no gradual moving out of the room or opening of doors and passing through them, or even seeing Madeleine. Instead, they just weren't there any more.
"Phew," said the President of Earth to himself, shaking his head, "I need a medical, I'm cracking up."
He checked his computer diary. There were no entries for the next hour so he must have imagined the three men.
He blinked, as the three men materialised again. The middle man once more stepped forward, and the President of Earth stepped back, once more.
"We thought you needed proof that we are who we say we are." The lead man said.
"And who are you?"
"We are ambassadors from our world to yours. We have been observing you as we observe many worlds where intelligent life forms have evolved. You are not the most intelligent. However, you are not the most stupid either."
The President of Earth bridled.
"I'll have you know that I have access to some of the best minds in our world - and you are daring to call them stupid?"
"I didn't call them stupid, but your Earth is a very complex organism and sometimes it is better to give a species a hand to help them over a hurdle. We are here to do that."
The President was now almost in reach of his Panic Button.
"There is no point in pressing your alarm button because it has been disabled."
The President pressed it anyway and waited for the room to be filled with paramilitary police - or at very least Madeleine, asking him what was the matter. But the room stayed empty, apart from these three annoying men. The President had just also noticed that they not only smiled together but also blinked together.
Since his school days, the President had always been a pragmatist. He hadn't got to be President of Earth without adopting strategies that worked, quite ruthlessly sometimes. If he wanted something, he did what was necessary. So he reclined into his deep leather chair, framed his hands into a church shape, pursed his lips and decided to go along with this strange situation.
"OK," he said, "Shoot. Tell me why you are here!"
The lead grey suit clone placed a sheet of paper that had suddenly appeared in his hand on the desk in front of the President."
The President at that point realised that there was a perfectly rational explanation for these strange events. He was dreaming and in a minute he would wake up. Perhaps Madeleine would come in and wake him soon.
The lead man in the suit read his mind.
"You do not need to wake up, you are not asleep. You do not even need to read this sheet of paper. All you need to do is to pass it to your scientists and they will understand what to do with it."
"And what will the scientists do with this sheet of paper?" Said the President, tight lipped. He didn't like being told what to do, ever.
"This single sheet of paper will enable your scientists to design a motor that emits no carbon dioxide. It's technology already known to your world but with a few tweaks. We could have given you something better but didn't think you could cope with it. This modification to your existing technology will provide a natural scientific progression so that your scientists will be able to further develop it themselves."
"So what will be the result of this scientific development?"
"The electric cars you will then be able to produce will halt the global warming that is already under way and which will destroy your species and many others besides on Earth unless stopped. The electric technology will also revolutionise third world countries as it provides almost an unlimited and extremely low cost source of power."
The President blinked. The consequences of such a global change were immediately apparent to his astutely political brain.
"Is that it then," said the President. "You've delivered this piece of paper and explained it. Now, are you going?"
"That is exactly how we operate. You will not see us again. We have plenty of other worlds to visit and help. One day, in many centuries, we may come back, but not in your lifetime. There are just too many worlds out there that need our help."
"Well then chaps," the President said, smiling his most cordial smile, to which the three men smiled identically back, "On behalf of planet Earth, I must thank you for your kind help and wish you a good journey to wherever you are heading."
The three men in suits smiled in unison.
The President blinked ... And the grey suited men were gone.
The President did not read what was on the piece of paper. He assumed that he wouldn't understand it anyway. He'd failed all his science examinations at school, just as he had excelled at public speaking and debate.
He gazed out of the window and thought of all the workers who were building cars with petrol and diesel engines and of all the people manning the fuel pumps around the world. He thought of the electric power industry. He thought of the billions of currency that was invested in the companies that produced the vehicles and distributed oil and electricity. He thought of the businesses that provided other services and products that relied on the money flowing from the oil, motor and power industries.
The President of Earth knew global warming was a problem. He would, this very lunchtime, be attending a meeting with representatives of the worldwide business community within which the oil, motor and power industries were very prominent. He felt sure these business magnates wouldn't welcome their empires being disrupted. Proposing that electric vehicles with a revolutionary power supply were the answer to global warming would immediately make them his implacable enemy.
The President of Earth reached over, picked up the sheet of paper and fed it into the shredder on his desk.
Perhaps in a minute he'd wake up and realize this whole incident was just a bad dream.
In the mean time, he had to decide what to wear for lunch.
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Enjoyed the main character of this story? Try God Spoke To The President.
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this science fiction very short story and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
The creative urge has been working overtime recently since I started writing flash fiction or micro-fiction.
I’m aiming to put up a new story every day.
Check out how I’m keeping up with this target at my free online flash fiction site.
Comments are welcome 
Bye for now
Rob
(Online author - fiction - news)
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Tracy left her high heels on the flat asphalt roof and clambered onto the dark parapet that ran along the edge of the London multi-story car park.
She shivered as the cold night wind bit into her bare back unprotected by her low cut black dress.
A taxi roared by far below and there was the smell of stale curry coming from the dimly lit Indian restaurant, now closed for the night, at the end of the street.
The parapet was about a metre wide. Tracy had always been terrified of heights. With heart pounding, she edged forward.
Her whole being seethed with anger, not only with the British Government but also with herself.
The British Government had said gambling was just another entertainment industry, no different from enjoying a film or a concert. The Minister had appeared on UK National Television besides a roulette wheel with a big smile on her face that said "Look how safe this is!"
Tracy's mum, still in her care assistant uniform, had strongly disagreed and had banged the iron down on the ironing board to emphasise her point.
"Only fools gamble," she complained, "That woman's talking rubbish. You'd be better off putting your money away in a Bank and earning some interest."
Her father agreed with her mum. Newly retired, watching television was his main entertainment, apart from cups of tea and smoking his pipe. He spoke ponderously, cupping Tracy's hands in his own, watery blue eyes pleading. He knew his daughter was headstrong. His eyes betrayed his belief that she wouldn't listen. Nevertheless, he still slipped her £100 "For the children".
"You've got a good teaching job, a fine husband and a great couple of teenage kids. Isn't that enough excitement for you?"
But it wasn't and the picture of the Minister and the roulette wheel haunted Tracy. It was a world that was tempting and exciting. There was a sense of mystery and passion. It aroused her curiosity and the sophisticated advertising said "Try me, I'm fun. You can't get hurt."
She remembered bitterly her first intoxicating taste of the casino. The dark cocktail dress she'd so carefully purchased. The smart and sophisticated businessmen who cheered her on when she won. The clatter of the ball, the warmth and fellowship of the other gamblers, the sense of shared excitement and the joy of winning that kept her going until she had no chips left.
That was the first time but it was just the beginning. From the roulette wheel, she moved onto private poker parties which gave her a sense of being special, being in the exalted company of experts. When she'd lost her money again, she stayed on and shared the excitement as an onlooker. The male players liked her long black hair and slim figure and were happy to have her around.
Sometimes they would give her something to play with. After a while she found teasing the men would get her a bit more. Then it became a loan that she knew she could pay off before the end of the evening because she was feeling lucky.
But, inevitably, she wasn't. In the dimly lit kitchen of the flat where the private poker game had been held, with her face pressed against the bread bin and her hips against the hard work surface, she found a way of clearing her debts that was better than having to admit her losses to her husband.
Rick, Tracy's husband, didn't realise that she'd stopped working at the school until weeks after. He left early for the City of London dressed in his crumpled grey suit and harassed smile.
The poker schools were often held during the day so Tracy just started going to the poker school instead of going to work.
It was more fun and there was the chance she could make immensely more money as a professional gambler than ever she could as a teacher.
She had to learn and learn quickly so cultivated the friendship of the men who were high rollers, men who turned up with a wad of money and slammed it down on the table to show they were good for the game. Men who were happy to give Tracy some private tuition in the intricacies of the card games they played, as long as Tracy looked after them in return.
Tracy took another step towards the edge of the parapet. The smiling face of the British Minister for Gambling floated in the darkness in front of her, still reassuring that gambling was just another leisure industry. It had now been joined by the hard faces of the men who'd seen Tracy coming and relieved her of every last penny she'd been able to get her hands on.
When John, her husband, had found out about Tracy's gambling, he'd gone completely berserk.
"What? You are completely out of your mind. How on earth are we going to cope?"
Tracy's main thought was that it was only bad luck that he'd found out. Unknown to John, Tracy had taken out a temporary bridging loan with the Bank which was secured on their house. She'd lied that a relative had died leaving some money and claimed there was the opportunity of getting an extension for their house done cheaply, providing they didn't have to wait for the inheritance money to arrive.
The bank teller's eyebrows had raised when Tracy had wanted the money in cash but the loan had been agreed and the cash had been handed over with no questions.
Tracy remembered how important she'd felt when she sat down at the table with the high rollers, confident that she would now be a permanent feature, respected and revered by the other females who were only allowed to attend the game to brighten the place up with their low cut dresses and smiles.
But, at the end of the evening, a bad run on the cards had left her with nothing, except the knowledge that John was bound now to find out and would try to put an end to her gambling just as she getting established.
When he did find out, they had their first ever argument. John demanded that she never gamble again. Amid all the tears and the regret, never gambling again was the one thing she couldn't possibly accept.
So, in the early hours of the morning, telling herself she was doing it for the good of her family, she left for London where a gambling buddy with a small flat and a big passion for her had promised to put her in touch with the local gambling scene.
Tracy was convinced that John was wrong. Unless she kept gambling, there was no way she could win back the huge amounts of money she'd already lost.
She promised herself that she would send money back from her winnings to help John pay off the crippling mortgage they now owed to the Bank.
Tracy was almost half way to the edge of the parapet. She'd always been scared of heights.
She resolved not to pause. Better not to think. Better just to keep going.
The Minister's smiling face floated in the open air beyond the edge.
"Just another leisure industry."
Her gambling buddies with their cruel smiles floated in the dark besides the Minister.
It only took a week before her London gambler friend was threatening to kick her out.
"You're bringing me bad luck, Tracy. If you stay, you've got to pay."
His face hardened.
"There will be some drinks after the poker party with some girls and a few high rollers with money to throw around. Set your terms and you can make enough money in one night to keep you going for months," he said.
Tracy felt the wind blowing against the bruises on her face and remembered how it was she who had been thrown around and not the high roller's money.
Swaying in the strong wind, she was now at the edge of the parapet.
One more chance to get lucky, she thought. Tightly held in her hand, was her last pound coin.
Heads she would jump. Tails she would join a convent and become a nun.
She flipped the coin. It spun high in the air. She could hardly see it in the dark.
She reached out to catch the coin. Somewhere to her right was a smart suited Minister reassuring the gamblers, as they floating in the air, that gambling was just a bit of fun and no different from any other leisure industry.
In the cold night, Tracy had already overbalanced. The journey down took hardly any time. The pavement took away all her breath and broke her body.
But it was gambling that took away her life.
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Message from the author.
Please, if gambling is causing you or your loved ones problems, there are organisations that can and want to help eg. GAMCARE. Harming yourself will harm your loved ones. Seeking help for yourself will help your loved ones. In other words, don't jump but get help!
If you have never gambled and are contemplating taking up this dreadful form of entertainment, please don't. In the author's humble opinion, gambling is like playing with a loaded revolver. It may be entertaining for a while but can rapidly cause immense damage.
If you are a politician who has supported the expansion of gambling in the UK , please read why I believe you are so wrong.
Rob's quote of the day
Good fortune is more likely to happen when you don't leave it to mere chance, especially when the odds are stacked against you.
Bye for now
Rob
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
She shivered as the cold night wind bit into her bare back unprotected by her low cut black dress.
A taxi roared by far below and there was the smell of stale curry coming from the dimly lit Indian restaurant, now closed for the night, at the end of the street.
The parapet was about a metre wide. Tracy had always been terrified of heights. With heart pounding, she edged forward.
Her whole being seethed with anger, not only with the British Government but also with herself.
The British Government had said gambling was just another entertainment industry, no different from enjoying a film or a concert. The Minister had appeared on UK National Television besides a roulette wheel with a big smile on her face that said "Look how safe this is!"
Tracy's mum, still in her care assistant uniform, had strongly disagreed and had banged the iron down on the ironing board to emphasise her point.
"Only fools gamble," she complained, "That woman's talking rubbish. You'd be better off putting your money away in a Bank and earning some interest."
Her father agreed with her mum. Newly retired, watching television was his main entertainment, apart from cups of tea and smoking his pipe. He spoke ponderously, cupping Tracy's hands in his own, watery blue eyes pleading. He knew his daughter was headstrong. His eyes betrayed his belief that she wouldn't listen. Nevertheless, he still slipped her £100 "For the children".
"You've got a good teaching job, a fine husband and a great couple of teenage kids. Isn't that enough excitement for you?"
But it wasn't and the picture of the Minister and the roulette wheel haunted Tracy. It was a world that was tempting and exciting. There was a sense of mystery and passion. It aroused her curiosity and the sophisticated advertising said "Try me, I'm fun. You can't get hurt."
She remembered bitterly her first intoxicating taste of the casino. The dark cocktail dress she'd so carefully purchased. The smart and sophisticated businessmen who cheered her on when she won. The clatter of the ball, the warmth and fellowship of the other gamblers, the sense of shared excitement and the joy of winning that kept her going until she had no chips left.
That was the first time but it was just the beginning. From the roulette wheel, she moved onto private poker parties which gave her a sense of being special, being in the exalted company of experts. When she'd lost her money again, she stayed on and shared the excitement as an onlooker. The male players liked her long black hair and slim figure and were happy to have her around.
Sometimes they would give her something to play with. After a while she found teasing the men would get her a bit more. Then it became a loan that she knew she could pay off before the end of the evening because she was feeling lucky.
But, inevitably, she wasn't. In the dimly lit kitchen of the flat where the private poker game had been held, with her face pressed against the bread bin and her hips against the hard work surface, she found a way of clearing her debts that was better than having to admit her losses to her husband.
Rick, Tracy's husband, didn't realise that she'd stopped working at the school until weeks after. He left early for the City of London dressed in his crumpled grey suit and harassed smile.
The poker schools were often held during the day so Tracy just started going to the poker school instead of going to work.
It was more fun and there was the chance she could make immensely more money as a professional gambler than ever she could as a teacher.
She had to learn and learn quickly so cultivated the friendship of the men who were high rollers, men who turned up with a wad of money and slammed it down on the table to show they were good for the game. Men who were happy to give Tracy some private tuition in the intricacies of the card games they played, as long as Tracy looked after them in return.
Tracy took another step towards the edge of the parapet. The smiling face of the British Minister for Gambling floated in the darkness in front of her, still reassuring that gambling was just another leisure industry. It had now been joined by the hard faces of the men who'd seen Tracy coming and relieved her of every last penny she'd been able to get her hands on.
When John, her husband, had found out about Tracy's gambling, he'd gone completely berserk.
"What? You are completely out of your mind. How on earth are we going to cope?"
Tracy's main thought was that it was only bad luck that he'd found out. Unknown to John, Tracy had taken out a temporary bridging loan with the Bank which was secured on their house. She'd lied that a relative had died leaving some money and claimed there was the opportunity of getting an extension for their house done cheaply, providing they didn't have to wait for the inheritance money to arrive.
The bank teller's eyebrows had raised when Tracy had wanted the money in cash but the loan had been agreed and the cash had been handed over with no questions.
Tracy remembered how important she'd felt when she sat down at the table with the high rollers, confident that she would now be a permanent feature, respected and revered by the other females who were only allowed to attend the game to brighten the place up with their low cut dresses and smiles.
But, at the end of the evening, a bad run on the cards had left her with nothing, except the knowledge that John was bound now to find out and would try to put an end to her gambling just as she getting established.
When he did find out, they had their first ever argument. John demanded that she never gamble again. Amid all the tears and the regret, never gambling again was the one thing she couldn't possibly accept.
So, in the early hours of the morning, telling herself she was doing it for the good of her family, she left for London where a gambling buddy with a small flat and a big passion for her had promised to put her in touch with the local gambling scene.
Tracy was convinced that John was wrong. Unless she kept gambling, there was no way she could win back the huge amounts of money she'd already lost.
She promised herself that she would send money back from her winnings to help John pay off the crippling mortgage they now owed to the Bank.
Tracy was almost half way to the edge of the parapet. She'd always been scared of heights.
She resolved not to pause. Better not to think. Better just to keep going.
The Minister's smiling face floated in the open air beyond the edge.
"Just another leisure industry."
Her gambling buddies with their cruel smiles floated in the dark besides the Minister.
It only took a week before her London gambler friend was threatening to kick her out.
"You're bringing me bad luck, Tracy. If you stay, you've got to pay."
His face hardened.
"There will be some drinks after the poker party with some girls and a few high rollers with money to throw around. Set your terms and you can make enough money in one night to keep you going for months," he said.
Tracy felt the wind blowing against the bruises on her face and remembered how it was she who had been thrown around and not the high roller's money.
Swaying in the strong wind, she was now at the edge of the parapet.
One more chance to get lucky, she thought. Tightly held in her hand, was her last pound coin.
Heads she would jump. Tails she would join a convent and become a nun.
She flipped the coin. It spun high in the air. She could hardly see it in the dark.
She reached out to catch the coin. Somewhere to her right was a smart suited Minister reassuring the gamblers, as they floating in the air, that gambling was just a bit of fun and no different from any other leisure industry.
In the cold night, Tracy had already overbalanced. The journey down took hardly any time. The pavement took away all her breath and broke her body.
But it was gambling that took away her life.
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Message from the author.
Please, if gambling is causing you or your loved ones problems, there are organisations that can and want to help eg. GAMCARE. Harming yourself will harm your loved ones. Seeking help for yourself will help your loved ones. In other words, don't jump but get help!
If you have never gambled and are contemplating taking up this dreadful form of entertainment, please don't. In the author's humble opinion, gambling is like playing with a loaded revolver. It may be entertaining for a while but can rapidly cause immense damage.
If you are a politician who has supported the expansion of gambling in the UK , please read why I believe you are so wrong.
Rob's quote of the day
Good fortune is more likely to happen when you don't leave it to mere chance, especially when the odds are stacked against you.
Bye for now
Rob
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
And God spoke in an exceedingly loud voice that made the whole Universe tremble and The President of Earth feel as if he was going to get a right royal judgement like he hadn't received since childhood.
"I don't care how many humans you represent. Humans are hardly evolved from apes. Ever heard of 'Thou shalt not kill'? Instead of throwing nuts, you throw explosive containers at each other. So where's the big improvement?"
God, who looked like a sort of huge brown furry slug with loads of large multicoloured tentacles that rotated rapidly to fan his heavily perspiring body, continued in a booming voice that seemed to come from everywhere.
"As for 'loving thy neighbour', most humans seem to think it's an automatic license to commit adultery with each other's wives. Compare this with the perfection of the Slime Colonies on Amorphous 2843.345. Being hermaphrodites, they don't have messy, complicated sex. When their planet needs more Slime Balls, they just expand to fill the space. So much simpler, so much more sensible and ..."
God extended a green tentacle to poke the President of Earth on his bulbous nose.
"No adultery, whatsoever! How would you like to keep up with all the goings on and all the complicated relationships of your insignificant little world? Especially when a whole load of you humans insist on weekly confessing your sins. I've heard it all before."
He prodded the President's nose again.
"And I'm BORED!"
The President of Earth spluttered, shifted uneasily from foot to foot and wished he was wearing some clothes - or at least his Presidential Chain of Office. This God thing just didn't seem to know who he was talking to.
"But I've always tried to keep the 10 Commandments," he countered, tremulously.
"Silence Ape-man," God boomed. "I could go through the list of Commandments one by one. But, quite honestly, and there's little you humans know about honesty, I can't really be bothered. I don't expect it would do any good."
One of God's tentacles flipped out and painted a moving picture on the wall of this huge, empty white chamber. The President thought it looked remarkably like Wall Street in heavy traffic. God continued:
"Your whole human economy is based on getting as much benefit as you can for as little as possible. What do you call it? Oh yes, Capitalism. Haven't you ever heard of 'Thou shalt not steal'?"
Another tentacle shot out and painted a moving picture on another wall. The ground was barren and parched. A rust colour pervaded the sky and everything appeared dead. The President thought it looked a bit like Mars.
God read the President's mind.
"Of course it's what you call Mars, dunderhead! What you don't realise is that your Mars was once like Earth. It was full of life and happiness and definitely no apes. The highest form of life was a rather attractive worm-like species. They lived happily for millions of years wriggling around. But the idiots evolved to have fourteen tentacles and then there was no stopping them. Before anybody could give them a bit of advice, they'd polluted their atmosphere by racing around the surface of their planet in machines that belched out carbon dioxide. Global warming settled in, which they talked about a lot but basically ignored, and soon they were extinct."
The President squared his bony shoulders and raised his hands in a gesture of supplication, well practised in front of the TV cameras at home.
"But there must be some living thing on Earth worth saving. And, wherever it is, as The President of Earth, I represent it, and, if it's worth saving, so am I."
The President of Earth felt quite proud of this argument especially since he'd thought it up without the help of any advisers - something that was almost unheard of.
God's voice became gentler and infinitely loving.
"There is one species that is perhaps worth saving and, I have to confess, they have a simple beauty that is quite endearing."
The President started to jump up and down with excitement with a big silly grin on his face.
"They are, they are, they are worth saving and I represent them so I'm worth saving too!"
"So WHY DO YOU KILL THEM with your horrible SLUG PELLETS, you monster. All they want to do is eat something green and tasty. WHY DO YOU POISON THEM WITH YOUR SLUG PELLETS?"
God's voice increased in volume to a deafening roar.
"BEGONE!"
A tentacle lashed out and gave The President a huge prod that sent him spinning head over heels backwards. He landed badly, bounced and felt a pain in his chest as his body slumped back again.
The President of Earth opened his eyes cautiously and was confronted with a room full of surgeons in their gowns. Electronic equipment whirred and beeped. A pretty nurse was holding his hand and speaking comfortingly in a soft Irish accent.
"You're all safe now, Mr President. Just relax. You're in St Mary and Joseph's Hospital. We thought we'd lost you but you'll be all right now."
A tear of relief rolled down the old President's cheek.
"There, there now," said the pretty Irish nurse. "Just relax and, if you can, try to get some sleep."
As the President closed his eyes, he resolved to issue a worldwide edict when he was well again.
If he never achieved anything else in the rest of his life, he would definitely get slug pellets banned!
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Enjoyed the main character in this story? Try We Three Kings.
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
"I don't care how many humans you represent. Humans are hardly evolved from apes. Ever heard of 'Thou shalt not kill'? Instead of throwing nuts, you throw explosive containers at each other. So where's the big improvement?"
God, who looked like a sort of huge brown furry slug with loads of large multicoloured tentacles that rotated rapidly to fan his heavily perspiring body, continued in a booming voice that seemed to come from everywhere.
"As for 'loving thy neighbour', most humans seem to think it's an automatic license to commit adultery with each other's wives. Compare this with the perfection of the Slime Colonies on Amorphous 2843.345. Being hermaphrodites, they don't have messy, complicated sex. When their planet needs more Slime Balls, they just expand to fill the space. So much simpler, so much more sensible and ..."
God extended a green tentacle to poke the President of Earth on his bulbous nose.
"No adultery, whatsoever! How would you like to keep up with all the goings on and all the complicated relationships of your insignificant little world? Especially when a whole load of you humans insist on weekly confessing your sins. I've heard it all before."
He prodded the President's nose again.
"And I'm BORED!"
The President of Earth spluttered, shifted uneasily from foot to foot and wished he was wearing some clothes - or at least his Presidential Chain of Office. This God thing just didn't seem to know who he was talking to.
"But I've always tried to keep the 10 Commandments," he countered, tremulously.
"Silence Ape-man," God boomed. "I could go through the list of Commandments one by one. But, quite honestly, and there's little you humans know about honesty, I can't really be bothered. I don't expect it would do any good."
One of God's tentacles flipped out and painted a moving picture on the wall of this huge, empty white chamber. The President thought it looked remarkably like Wall Street in heavy traffic. God continued:
"Your whole human economy is based on getting as much benefit as you can for as little as possible. What do you call it? Oh yes, Capitalism. Haven't you ever heard of 'Thou shalt not steal'?"
Another tentacle shot out and painted a moving picture on another wall. The ground was barren and parched. A rust colour pervaded the sky and everything appeared dead. The President thought it looked a bit like Mars.
God read the President's mind.
"Of course it's what you call Mars, dunderhead! What you don't realise is that your Mars was once like Earth. It was full of life and happiness and definitely no apes. The highest form of life was a rather attractive worm-like species. They lived happily for millions of years wriggling around. But the idiots evolved to have fourteen tentacles and then there was no stopping them. Before anybody could give them a bit of advice, they'd polluted their atmosphere by racing around the surface of their planet in machines that belched out carbon dioxide. Global warming settled in, which they talked about a lot but basically ignored, and soon they were extinct."
The President squared his bony shoulders and raised his hands in a gesture of supplication, well practised in front of the TV cameras at home.
"But there must be some living thing on Earth worth saving. And, wherever it is, as The President of Earth, I represent it, and, if it's worth saving, so am I."
The President of Earth felt quite proud of this argument especially since he'd thought it up without the help of any advisers - something that was almost unheard of.
God's voice became gentler and infinitely loving.
"There is one species that is perhaps worth saving and, I have to confess, they have a simple beauty that is quite endearing."
The President started to jump up and down with excitement with a big silly grin on his face.
"They are, they are, they are worth saving and I represent them so I'm worth saving too!"
"So WHY DO YOU KILL THEM with your horrible SLUG PELLETS, you monster. All they want to do is eat something green and tasty. WHY DO YOU POISON THEM WITH YOUR SLUG PELLETS?"
God's voice increased in volume to a deafening roar.
"BEGONE!"
A tentacle lashed out and gave The President a huge prod that sent him spinning head over heels backwards. He landed badly, bounced and felt a pain in his chest as his body slumped back again.
The President of Earth opened his eyes cautiously and was confronted with a room full of surgeons in their gowns. Electronic equipment whirred and beeped. A pretty nurse was holding his hand and speaking comfortingly in a soft Irish accent.
"You're all safe now, Mr President. Just relax. You're in St Mary and Joseph's Hospital. We thought we'd lost you but you'll be all right now."
A tear of relief rolled down the old President's cheek.
"There, there now," said the pretty Irish nurse. "Just relax and, if you can, try to get some sleep."
As the President closed his eyes, he resolved to issue a worldwide edict when he was well again.
If he never achieved anything else in the rest of his life, he would definitely get slug pellets banned!
The End
Rob Hopcott
(On-line author - fiction - news)
Enjoyed the main character in this story? Try We Three Kings.
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions or short short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
Whilst walking alone during her lunch hour on the edge of Hyde Park in Central London, besides some bushes, Laura noticed a small rectangular box trodden into the dirt amongst the autumn leaves.
Had she not been walking head down, wishing that the whole world would leave her alone with it's constant demands, noisy traffic and smelly exhausts, the tiny box would never have attracted her attention.
Pulling her hoody forward for protection against the biting northerly wind, Laura knelt down and found it was an old cigarette packet bearing the curt message "Smoking Kills."
Perhaps it was her mood. Her job in a local Knightsbridge insurance office was rubbish. Her love life sucked. Christmas was coming up and she had little money saved to pay for it.
Laura's mum, always bright and breezy in her spotless West London home, called Laura's moods 'sombre'. Laura disagreed, which she was entitled to do now she was aged all of twenty four and three quarters.
Instead, Laura liked to think of the random thoughts that came into her mind as being 'creative'. One day she would be a famous writer and write a best selling novel to show her mum and Bank Manager Dad that they had been wrong.
Now Laura wondered about the owner of the cigarettes and whether the message on the packet had fulfilled it's promise.
Was the owner of the packet now lying in the earth somewhere?
Just as the butterfly is said to flap it's wings and through a long chain of events start a hurricane on the other side of the Earth, Laura wondered whether there was an umbilical link between this small packet and a much larger box which was now the smoker's final resting place.
Was the owner of the cigarette packet a mum or a dad. Or were they an eminent lawyer, a teacher or a doctor whose skills would be hugely missed? Had their sons and daughters wept at the smoker's funeral?
Perhaps these thoughts could become the heart of an emotional creative writing story for the writers evening class she attended.
An insect wriggled out from inside the packet. Could even now an insect also be wriggling out of the smoker's coffin?
At night, was the darkness in this lonely part of Hyde Park as dark as the place where the smoker now lay?
Laura was tempted to lift the packet and deposit it into a nearby rubbish bin but somehow it didn't seem right. Instead, she moved on feeling sad.
But not for long. On the other side of the bushes was a large plastic bag with it's contents spilling out and strewn around. It was obvious now where the cigarette packet had come from.
Somehow, Laura no longer cared whether the owner of the cigarette packet was now living of dead and definitely had no intention of writing about them.
The End
Rob Hopcott
(Online author - fiction - news)
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other flash fiction, micro-fiction or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
Had she not been walking head down, wishing that the whole world would leave her alone with it's constant demands, noisy traffic and smelly exhausts, the tiny box would never have attracted her attention.
Pulling her hoody forward for protection against the biting northerly wind, Laura knelt down and found it was an old cigarette packet bearing the curt message "Smoking Kills."
Perhaps it was her mood. Her job in a local Knightsbridge insurance office was rubbish. Her love life sucked. Christmas was coming up and she had little money saved to pay for it.
Laura's mum, always bright and breezy in her spotless West London home, called Laura's moods 'sombre'. Laura disagreed, which she was entitled to do now she was aged all of twenty four and three quarters.
Instead, Laura liked to think of the random thoughts that came into her mind as being 'creative'. One day she would be a famous writer and write a best selling novel to show her mum and Bank Manager Dad that they had been wrong.
Now Laura wondered about the owner of the cigarettes and whether the message on the packet had fulfilled it's promise.
Was the owner of the packet now lying in the earth somewhere?
Just as the butterfly is said to flap it's wings and through a long chain of events start a hurricane on the other side of the Earth, Laura wondered whether there was an umbilical link between this small packet and a much larger box which was now the smoker's final resting place.
Was the owner of the cigarette packet a mum or a dad. Or were they an eminent lawyer, a teacher or a doctor whose skills would be hugely missed? Had their sons and daughters wept at the smoker's funeral?
Perhaps these thoughts could become the heart of an emotional creative writing story for the writers evening class she attended.
An insect wriggled out from inside the packet. Could even now an insect also be wriggling out of the smoker's coffin?
At night, was the darkness in this lonely part of Hyde Park as dark as the place where the smoker now lay?
Laura was tempted to lift the packet and deposit it into a nearby rubbish bin but somehow it didn't seem right. Instead, she moved on feeling sad.
But not for long. On the other side of the bushes was a large plastic bag with it's contents spilling out and strewn around. It was obvious now where the cigarette packet had come from.
Somehow, Laura no longer cared whether the owner of the cigarette packet was now living of dead and definitely had no intention of writing about them.
The End
Rob Hopcott
(Online author - fiction - news)
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other flash fiction, micro-fiction or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
To Angela, the bride didn't look beautiful. The pew seats were hard and the rural village church was more Gothic horror than quaint.
The bride, wearing far too many layers of make-up, still looked plain and ordinary with a long trailing off-white dress designed to hide the fattest of legs.
Her relatives in their top of the range cars and designer clothes were otherwise only distinguished by their double chins, the girth of their wives and their bored smiles.
The organist stopped playing the traditional entrance music half way through as the bride, over eagerly, arrived too soon in front of the congregation.
Luke, the bridegroom, was trying to make the best of it and smiled at his bride-to-be encouragingly. It was one of his best smiles. It lit up the whole church. His white teeth flashed and his eyes crinkled endearingly. It was his "I'm going to get you smile" almost always followed, Angela well knew, by a sweet lingering kiss. Angela's lips, out of habit, even half formed a kiss of reply.
But today it was not to be Angela's lips that would receive his kiss. It would not be around Angela's waist that his arms would circle. Tonight, in his marital bed, it was not to be Angela to whom he would make love.
Yet Angela knew with absolute certainty that, to Luke, his bride-to-be was a concept not a woman. She was a good family and a secure future not a lover. Angela knew what he liked for she had satisfied Luke's male desires for years from her small rented home above the local High Street. Last night, he even came to her after his stag night, saying he would always love her no matter what.
This narrow hipped woman with fat legs could only ever be second best to the ample and varied charms Angela had bestowed on Luke for so many years.
Charms that Angela would hold vividly in her mind when the pastor intoned the words:
"If there is anyone here who knows a just cause why they should not lawfully be joined in marriage, I implore you to speak now, or forever hold your peace."
In front of the whole congregation, Angela would stand up and tell them exactly why ...
The End
For more wedding stories read about Amanda's abseiling wedding experience.
For more sudden fiction, flash fiction, micro fiction, smoke-long fiction, postcard fiction or very short fiction, check out Rob's central site for short short fiction stories for quality free online reading.
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other wedding stories, flash fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.
The bride, wearing far too many layers of make-up, still looked plain and ordinary with a long trailing off-white dress designed to hide the fattest of legs.
Her relatives in their top of the range cars and designer clothes were otherwise only distinguished by their double chins, the girth of their wives and their bored smiles.
The organist stopped playing the traditional entrance music half way through as the bride, over eagerly, arrived too soon in front of the congregation.
Luke, the bridegroom, was trying to make the best of it and smiled at his bride-to-be encouragingly. It was one of his best smiles. It lit up the whole church. His white teeth flashed and his eyes crinkled endearingly. It was his "I'm going to get you smile" almost always followed, Angela well knew, by a sweet lingering kiss. Angela's lips, out of habit, even half formed a kiss of reply.
But today it was not to be Angela's lips that would receive his kiss. It would not be around Angela's waist that his arms would circle. Tonight, in his marital bed, it was not to be Angela to whom he would make love.
Yet Angela knew with absolute certainty that, to Luke, his bride-to-be was a concept not a woman. She was a good family and a secure future not a lover. Angela knew what he liked for she had satisfied Luke's male desires for years from her small rented home above the local High Street. Last night, he even came to her after his stag night, saying he would always love her no matter what.
This narrow hipped woman with fat legs could only ever be second best to the ample and varied charms Angela had bestowed on Luke for so many years.
Charms that Angela would hold vividly in her mind when the pastor intoned the words:
"If there is anyone here who knows a just cause why they should not lawfully be joined in marriage, I implore you to speak now, or forever hold your peace."
In front of the whole congregation, Angela would stand up and tell them exactly why ...
The End
For more wedding stories read about Amanda's abseiling wedding experience.
For more sudden fiction, flash fiction, micro fiction, smoke-long fiction, postcard fiction or very short fiction, check out Rob's central site for short short fiction stories for quality free online reading.
Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other wedding stories, flash fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.