Neil has been to the top of the street five times. He’s been to the other end four times. He’s been round the corner to show his new bike to David, but David finally got a Wii so wasn’t coming out. He gave a thumbs up at the window though, but that cost him the boxing match.

Neil’s also been to the locked school gates and back in eight minutes and two seconds. Then again in seven minutes forty eight seconds. He offered to go to the shops until Mum reminded him that they were all shut. Maybe he could pick up Grandpa? Grandpa would love a trip on the back of the bike. Or he could cycle and Neil could go on the back. Grandpa could cycle and Neil could run behind? Mum gave a patient but firm no to all his suggestions.

Neil decides to wash the dirt specks off the tyres and mudguards, until Dad comes out and tells him not to be so stupid, if that water freezes on the path and Grandpa slips, where would we be then? Spending Christmas in hospital and New Year nursing Grandpa’s broken hip.

In the end Neil locks the bike in the garden shed and goes upstairs to switch on his computer. World of Warcraft was last year’s gift but he can still play it for hours and hours.

Does it impress you?…yeah.

Twas the night before Christmas and Caroline still had to wrap her presents. She wasn’t allowed to go to Susan’s house until everything was packed in colourful paper and placed underneath the tree. She’d wrapped Mum’s already, the little Vietnamese cyclist ornament that tickled Mum so much when she spotted it in the shop window last February. That came in a box, it was no problem to wrap. But the rest? Dad’s brandy bottle was easiest, but how could she stop the paper becoming a runkled mess at the neck? She still had time. She’d think about it in the bath. But Caroline forgets the time when she has a bath, especially when she takes her big sister’s old issue of Marie Claire with her to read. When she finally wraps the towel round her damp body she only has half an hour to get to Susan’s. She runs on tiptoes back to her room and finds everything neatly wrapped and tied with ribbons on her bed. A Christmas miracle, surely. Caroline gets dressed quickly and takes the presents downstairs to lay at the tree. She grabs her jacket and, before she leaves, she gives Mum an extra long hug and warm kiss. She promises to be back before midnight. And she will be.

It’s almost midnight and Gerry is standing in the cold outside his own front door. He keeps one hand in the pocket of his quilted anorak, looks around at the frozen snow on the streets and pavements, contemplates the new layer of ice he’ll have to scrape off the car in the morning. He yawns a cloud in front of his face; it could be his breath hitting the icy air, it could be smoke. He takes another drag of his cigarette. Inhales deeply. In summertime he can lean out of the first floor window, but in this weather he has to stand outside for his last puff. In a moment, he’ll go inside, brush his teeth and smile revenge when he goes to bed and touches his cold feet to his wife’s warm calves.

They had watched their current building being built from their previous one. They had looked forward to leaving their old offices, with its tired décor, and moving into a state-of-the-art workplace. People volunteered to work on seating plans to ensure their desks were by those beautiful large windows, especially the ones overlooking the river. So naturally there was huge disappointment when they actually moved in and they discovered that the place had been furbished with second, third, even fourth-hand cast-offs that looked as if they had been sourced from the municipal dump. Mismatched, wobbly furniture had been ‘refreshed’ but the veneer soon wore off. The coffee machines, it was later discovered, could have been the setting of an entire nature series as they were home to so much wildlife. No, the move had not been a happy one. It was shaping up to be a winter of discontent.

The four-strong Management Team were located on the top floor, sat behind their executive desks and smoked screen panels. The tops of the filing cabinets were filled with emblems of their Alpha maleness: sporting trophies representing achievement of varying prowess, trinkets that their wives refused to allow them to display at home. Usually they were out of the door by 4 pm, on the pretext of being en route to work functions or other networking opportunities. Tonight, however, was different. Solid rumours had emanated from Head Office of impending, massive company structure changes and none of them wished to be out of the loop. Had you stood by their desks, you would have seen them apparently working on budgets, operational plans and programme strategies, the games of Freecell and Solitaire that they were actually playing minimised on their PCs. None of them wanted to be the first to leave. These were worried men.

They all ignored the footsteps, assuming that it was one of the cleaning staff, so when Mr Andrews, Chief Executive Officer, announced his presence they stood up in panic. This was most unexpected.

“Hello Team,” he boomed. “Thought I’d try and catch you before you left for home. Glad to see you all here still. Now I’d like a little chat with each of you, in turn, please.”

First to be interviewed was Miles Tipping, Head of Finance.

“Miles,” the CEO began. “As you are only too aware, we are operating in difficult times, cuts have to be made.” Miles nodded in agreement. “So why should we keep you?” This rocked Miles as he thought that his position, of all of them, was safest. He gathered his thoughts with remarkable speed.

“I consider myself key to the smooth running of this site, although I realise improvements can and should be made. In fact, I have prepared several recommendations.“ Mr Andrews cut in.

“Tell me about the St Margaret’s charity fund?”

Miles stopped. How did he know about that? It was a site initiative to raise money for a local hospice. He was the treasurer and although the majority of the money was spent as intended, he did find a ’tax efficient’ way to siphon off some of the money into his own account, or rather that of his special friend, Melissa. He must have thought this out aloud as he was shocked when Mr Andrews interrupted his thoughts:

“Miles, we’re all men of the world. I’m sure even the best of us would be tempted under those circumstances.” The CEO smiled, the smile of a shark. “Give Mrs Tipping my best regards.”

Miles exited the room, as if pursued by a bear.

David Davies, the HR Director was next.

“David,” Mr Williams used the same opening speech with all the team. “So why should we keep you?”

“My department, Mr Williams, is key to ensuring that any restructure is managed in a sensible and seamless way, whilst bearing in mind the needs of the staff who are to be released.“ He briefly stopped to draw breath. Mr Williams filled the void.

“Tell me about the appointment of Janice Phillips?”

This was an episode that David had no wish to be reminded of. He had forced through the appointment of Janice, the daughter of a friend who knew far too much about his personal life, in preference to a far better qualified candidate. The girl was ignorant and lazy, an unbearable burden on the rest of the team. In fact, the only area she excelled in was her knowledge of employment law, which made her impossible to sack. The morale and performance of the team plummeted so low that it was eventually disbanded.

“Your motivation for employing Janice was fully understandable, David. The impact on the team was unfortunate, but they should have been more …” Again, he flashed the shark smile. “professional. Incidentally, I believe that the other candidate went to work for one of our main rivals. Doing rather well, I hear. Tipped for the top.”

David made a mental note to dig out The Times’ Appointments supplement as soon as he got home.

Third in was Richard Evans, the Operations Manager. Mr Williams gave his spiel, allowed Richard to start pleading for his job, then:

“Tell me about Billy Sparkes?”

Richard started to stutter and splutter, then ran to the Executive Bathroom to be sick.

“Must have been something he ate,” remarked Mr Andrews.

Last was Stan Reynolds, who led IT. The pattern of the interview was as before, followed by:

“Tell me about the incident of the Client Details data loss?”

Stan went cold. Against the advice of his Technical Support team, he had been persuaded to purchase new disks from a friendly, very friendly, supplier. The disks were bleeding edge technology, that is they were so new they were insufficiently tested. The disks proved to be unstable and data was lost causing the company much public embarrassment. As a result, a junior member of the team was formally disciplined at the personal insistence of Stan although, privately, the entire IT department held Stan responsible.

“Of course, you made the correct decision, Stan. No senior manager should jeopardise his career over such a matter. The boy was only starting on the first rung of his career ladder. You had too far to fall.” Mr Andrews slapped him on the back. “Thank you for your time.”

Stan left the room, shaken and stirred.

All four men spent a restless night, tossing and turning, as they recalled the evening and considered their past actions. However, they still arrived for work the following morning, early if not bright. There was no sign of Mr Andrews, they noted with some relief. At 10 am, David Davies received a phone call. He emerged, ashen faced from behind his screen and called Miles, Richard and Stan into the Board Room.

“I’ve just received a phone call from Mr Andrews’ secretary.”

Seeing the look on his face, the other three rejoiced internally thinking that Davies had just been told that he had been given the bullet instead of them.

“Mr Andrews was involved in a fatal car accident last night.”

“After he left here?” Stan butted in.

“No, he was en route, just outside Birmingham at approximately six o’clock,” David continued.

“But he was here in this office, he talked to us …” Richard tailed off.

All four men fell silent and stared at the table, locked in their own thoughts.

Richard was the first to stand and make a move towards the door.

“Better brief the team, then. ”

“Yes, we had. But what about last night?” Miles looked around at his colleagues for support.

“What about last night? No one would ever believe us,” Richard pointed out.

“True.” David was still trying to his regain his composure.

“Wait. Before you go. I’ve been thinking. How about we relax our ban on Christmas decorations? It may boost morale in these difficult times,” Stan looked around at his fellow managers.

“Not a bad idea,” Miles agreed. “And I think I may be able to find some money in the budget for a few drinks for everyone in the Board Room after work one night. Nothing fancy, but I should be able to find a few spare shekels.”

“Back to business as usual then, chaps?” said David.

“Maybe, maybe not,” uttered Stan as he closed the meeting room door.

He had gotten over the feeling that someone was always watching him. He told lies without blinking, but sometimes hated the awful things he wished.

I have sinned against you in thought…

Prayer always felt more like a group exercise than communication with the ineffable divine. The minister hawked the book, blessed everyone’s messes. Tell God what’s on your mind.

He wondered, does God really make decisions based on what we say to him?

As far as he could tell, God had always ignored him, or perhaps listened to him the way his wife did, nodding but thinking of something else.

Venison soft tacos, with side order of venison nachos. Level 8. Tasted like five pinks lions gathered on your roof, by your chimney. I ate this and believed I was important for nine minutes, until that feeling wore off and I drank three cups of “banana” coffee. I covered the coffee filter in banana peels, then ran the coffee through. It tasted like Cracker Barrel. I got my potassium, though!

*

I am in the new SmokeLong Q. I am writing about standing in line at a pharmacy. Wow, that is an exiting topic. Kudos.

I am in The Pedestal. Take this poem and go play poker.

*

I finished a micro-fiction MSS today. Who knows? We will see. Won’t we?

*

I am reviewing disc for Disc Golf Station. They send me discs, I review them, I keep the discs. Hmm. Well, we will see, we will see…Lots of snow and ice out there right now, so not much reviewing going on. I could throw the discs inside but it causes strife. I remember the one time I threw a ball and knocked over a Bear Figurine of my mom’s and I went into the kitchen cabinet and procured a coffee mug (brown) and replaced the bear with the coffee mug. This worked for a week and then my mom noticed her bear had transmogrified into a coffee mug. There were questions. Though few answers.

Wonder how these will fly?

*

Every book in the world has at least one typo. I even found one in Moby Dick. I found three in a recent Dan Fante novel. This makes me nervous since my students will be copy-editing soon for The Broken Plate.

Speaking of, the students have sent out all Accept and Reject notices. If you sent, and didn’t get a reply, TELL ME!!

Thanks to all who submitted. Without submission, the students have nothing to edit!

Seriously.

tx

Olivia seems oblivious to the presence of others. She enters the busy cafe with her packed rucksack on her back. Army recruits carry less on punishment runs. She looks around for an empty chair, twists right, then left, then right again causing the young guy behind her  to duck from the swinging bag like a sad plank joke from a bad slapstick. Olivia gets her seat when two others leave. She dumps the bag in the nearest chair then sits in the next one, doesn’t even glance at the couple opposite. She gets straight back up to stop a waitress with an elbow grip, gives her order. At the table she takes out her newspaper, opens it wide till the corner of page 1 dips into the fried egg of the man sitting diagonally opposite. He moves his plate, says nothing. Olive turns over a new page, flicking a draught over the man’s coffee, and carries on as if he wasn’t there.

Susie smiles broadly, showing off her newly implanted teeth. She hugs Sean close, heavily powdered cheek to smooth downy cheek. She doesn’t feel his squirm, or notice his cough to clear his throat of her powerful perfume. She can’t see his frown, or realise that his hands are planted firmly in his pockets. And she won’t see it later when she gets back home. She’ll think it’s a really nice photo. A mother and her son.

Charlie has a witty remark for all of his customers. They usually smile but roll their eyes when he turns his back. He takes an order from one woman, makes an unfunny joke about the amount of toilet rolls in her shopping bag. The woman grins, turns away from him. Charlie goes to the machine to pour the coffee. Out of sight, he takes a deep breath, wipes his brow with a tissue. He looks at his watch, sighs, it’s earlier than he thought. He serves the coffees in strict order, offers another quip and gets a laugh. It’s insincere, but he doesn’t care. It’s all about keeping the customer happy.

Clive tuts when the woman changes direction and crosses in front of him. He breathes a silent ‘fuck’ when he has to change his own trajectory due to a badly parked pram. He mutters when he can’t overtake an old woman on the narrow pavement. And when the guy next to him talks too loudly on his telephone, Clive coughs hoping that his disapproval is broadcast all the way to the bastards in London or wherever the hell it is. At the crossing he sees red. Grits his teeth. Scrunches his eyes. When he can finally cross he rushes off, desperate to get to his office. All he needs is five minutes, to settle down with a coffee. Just one more cup, that’ll set him up for the rest of the day.

Ian has never been to this bar before, or this city. That’s why he’s wearing his Maple Leafs shirt; it always attracts comments. The first earns a beer, but then the guy has to leave to meet his wife. The second remark gets a whisky and Gary gets one back. The third guys stays at the bar and talks for a while, and some friends come to join him. Before long Gary is in a round and ordering shots with the others. This place is growing on him. He might even come back some day. But maybe he should visit Canada first.

Gordon runs like he’s going to dive bomb the deep end. His brown brogues slap the puddled pavement, splashing the hem of his beige chinos. His arms swing, wrists first, in the sleeves of his pale grey anorak. The limp hood tries to announce it’s presence and purpose by flapping at the back of his neck. His little drawstring backpack joins in, tapping a coffee-filled flask against his spine. Gordon doesn’t have the time to pay attention to these things. He ignores the rain and the people around him. He has only one goal. And he reaches it with a two-footed spring from the kerb into the water-logged road. Some kids nearby complain. But Gordon doesn’t even see them, he’s too busy laughing after having caught caught his mate out and giving him a good soaking. Great fun.

Drew stands around on the corner, smoking with his mates, waiting till the last possible moment to go into the school building. He makes a joke, at the expense of one of the others. They all laugh, it was funny, it wasn’t nasty. He says something else, something self-deprecating. He gets another laugh, respect from his mates.

Then she comes. Dark auburn hair, warm hazelnut eyes. Beth. She’d be perfect with hot chocolate and an open fire.

She says, Hi. His mates say, Hi. Drew says something like, Wow, nearly weekend. Great.

She stops, curious, asks if he’s doing something special.

Beer, he shrugs. Always special.

She smiles. Walks off.

Drew’s mates look at him, wondering if he contracted a brain disease in the last five minutes.

Drew drops his cigarette. Come on, he says, already moving. We better get inside, these brats won’t teach themselves.

Christopher Woods lives in Houston and in Chappell Hill, Texas. His work has appeared recently in GLASGOW REVIEW, LITCHFIELD REVIEW and NARRATIVE MAGAZINE. He shares an online gallery with his wife Linda at MOONBIRD HILL ARTS - www.moonbirdhill.exposuremanager.com/

It’s Erica’s time of the month, her big weekend when she goes out on Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday night. She parties with the girls, maybe some guys, in fact she’s already got a date for Saturday. All she needs now is to collect her salary. It usually gets paid into the bank at this time of the month. She clicks around in her high heels, partly from excitement and partly to keep warm while she waits in the queue for the cash machine. When it’s finally her turn she taps delicately at the numbers, careful not to break a nail. She waits. She taps a few more times. Waits. Taps. Looks at the screen, looks again. She swears. Punches the machine, slaps its mouth, calls it a fucking bastard and walks off. Maybe next week will be better.

Lawrence doesn’t have long hair, but it’s longer than most 54 year olds. He keeps his tri-coloured ski jacket tightly zipped up, to keep the chill from his neck. He walks quickly but with a slight limp; problems with his bunion even in his broad-fit tennis shoes. A little rucksack bounces with every step. There’s not much inside. Maybe a newspaper. A few sandwiches. A tube of pile cream, just in case. Two oranges hang in a net pocket on the outside like an old man’s balls in a hernia support. He nods Hi to a group of 20 somethings. They don’t respond. He walks past them, past the uni, and off into the park beyond.

Right, this is where I spotted her but she’s not here. Where could she have gone? I’ll search the Ladies and Gents first. Both are empty. She can’t have used the lifts because they’re switched off during the night. She must have used the main staircase.

I sweep my torch downwards but can’t see anything so I’ll go upstairs and return to the Office to scan the CCTV again. I pass the Mexican exhibition room. What was that noise? My heart sinks. Please, dear God, don’t let us have a break-in. Not on my watch. I switch off my torch. They could be armed and I don’t want to alert them to my presence before I’m ready. I enter the room as silently as I can. What’s that? I thought I saw movement at the other end of the room. Could it be the girl? I can’t see properly from here.

Something draws my attention to the right. Looks as if the top of that jar has been knocked off. I’m not supposed to touch the artefacts but I’ll just lean over the rope and nudge it back into place with my torch. What the …? I can’t move. Everything’s gone dark. What’s happening to me?

“That water ain’t gonna rise up over that hill, been damn sayin’ that for years, ain’t happened even in ‘93.”  Mack watched as his father spoke to his friend in the pickup, nodding his head along with his Dad’s assessment and parroting back, “Not over that hill,” in the little, put-on drawl of the precocious children of lower class laborers.  He looked up at his father and saw the look he got back telling him to shut his mouth and felt the sting of embarrassment, the harsh burn of being a burden, a disappointment.  He picked up a rock and wanted to throw it hard at his father, at the truck, at anything, so he turned an threw it at a tree.   When he saw it go sailing by he wanted to cry.

Trina starts with small mouth movements, mimicking words, but soon it’s a soft whisper, a notch above a breath. Something about fuck loads of diamonds. She goes back to silence. But not for long. Her left foot swings from the ankle, dangling over her right knee, getting faster as the scratchy beat from her ears gets louder. I don’t know what’s right and what’s real anymore, she hisses, lost in the music. I don’t know how I’m meant to feel anymore, she sings, loudly. She realises. Looks around. Her face flushes. Looks away. She touches her cheek with the cool of her hand. Turns the sound down. Laughs, quietly, to herself, then shares it with a silent text.

I make my way up the grand spiral staircase, keeping tight hold of the handrail. The exhibits cast strange shadows in the limited light and I start to feel a little jumpy. The place is deathly quiet and eerie. I decide to take a short cut through the Mexican exhibition as it is now familiar territory. I pass by the display case I had been studying, then stop in my tracks. I sense I am being watched and turn expecting, hoping, to see a Security Guard. I think I see a movement, little more than a black shadow, out of the corner of my right eye. I face that direction but see nothing. Must have been my imagination, fuelled by nerves. I take a deep breath to calm myself then continue on my way. I spot the sign for the Security Office and head towards it. Again, I feel as If I am under surveillance. I reach into my bag to take out my fold-up umbrella as an improvised cosh and spin around, back to the wall, to survey my surroundings. I reassure myself that there is no one there and leave the room.

I turn left and hurry down the corridor. I can see the Security Office! I run over and try to open the door. It’s locked! I peer through the window but there’s no one there. Once again I battle with the handle, willing it to open until I hear a sound behind me and I spin round. Thank God! It’s the Security Guard ….

Frank shivers slightly in his designer suit and thin white shirt. He takes the folded paper from his inside pocket, checks his travel details once again. The paper trembles in his chilled hands. He looks out the window, checks where he is. Relaxes. His eyes drift off, upwards, as he mentally pictures his performance, goes through, once again, the points he wants to get over. He nods to his imaginary inquisitors, smiles even. Sells himself. He sits back, confident, well prepared. Checks his piece of paper. Looks out the window. Panics. Jumps up, sits back down. Relaxes. Concentrates. He has to get this right.

Death answered the persistent knocking to see a gangly-looking adolescent wearing a novelty t-shirt that read, “There are 10 types of people – those who understand binary.”  Famine, Pestilence and War looked up from their game of Dungeons and Dragons to see the new arrival and Death noticed that there wasn’t a steed tethered to the railing, but rather a small, two door eco-friendly automobile.  Balancing a laptop under one arm and a large cola beverage in his hand, the young man reached awkwardly for the piece of paper stuck in his back pocket.

Death took the paper and read it before addressing the young man in front of him, “You come highly recommended.  What plague will you visit upon humanity?”

“I’m the Horseman of the Plague of Social Networking.”

In a dream, I swim through a beautiful ocean of words, until I meet a very old tortoise who whispers the perfect sentence in my ear.

I can’t remember the sentence when I wake, but my hair is wet.

**   **   **   **   **   **   **   **   **   **   **   **   **   ** **

One of my greatest frustrations with my Muse arises when he provides incomplete information. When inspiration strikes, I want to see the whole picture. To visualize the complete story, imagine exactly how the scene unfolds or clearly hear the voice of an important character.

But the truth is that muses almost always provide only fragments. That’s actually the muse’s job. To offer a spark of inspiration. Then we must turn the spark into something more. So many of my best pieces of creative writing have arisen when I started with just a hint of an idea, a hazy image, a line of dialogue or a brief moment of action that I first told myself wasn’t worth pursuing. But when I push aside the voice that tells me “No,” and insist on following the flash of inspiration, I often find something lovely unfolding.

Writers frequently talk about how their wonderful novels, memoirs, plays, screenplays and poems originated with such snippets. I find it really helps me to remember that when I’m annoyed at my Muse for only providing me with wet hair while leaving the perfect sentence balanced on the tip of my tongue.