Friday Fiction: Noah

“Ladies and Gentleman, all your thoughts on the matter are of course appreciated, but we still haven’t talked about the elephant in the room…”
The members of the gathered associated press laughed as flash blubs illuminated the stage.

“Two elephants surely.” One of them called out, to further guffaws.

“Why yes dear boy. Two of everything.” Noah replied, holding aloft two fat fingers, causing more flash bulbs to splash light in his direction “Any further questions?”

“Noah, Bill Malcolm New York Times, How do you plan on stopping the animals from eating each other?”

“I’ve spoken to them of course” Noah replied with a twinkle in his eye. “No in all seriousness the Ark is the most sophisticated thing the human race has ever built, the holding pens for all the animals are state of the art as you’ll see from the booklet we have provided.”

“Did you build the Ark yourself?” a voice called out.

“No it’s 2015 and I’m no boat builder. No, better to think of me as the project lead.”

“It is true you had issues with finance for the project?” said another.

“Every start up has difficulty keeping afloat.” Noah smiled through the groans from the crowd this comment caused, a man very much in his element. “But Coca-Cola, McDonalds and Addias all have been very happy to be involved with the project and they have given us the capital to quite literally save the world.”

“What do you say to all the people who say this is just a publicity stunt from you and those sponsors? An ego trip or an attempt to ‘Break the internet’ if you will”

“The reality is,” Noah replied gazing towards the window to his left and beyond to a clear blue sky “that without the internet and social media, the sponsors or indeed you, the members of the press wouldn’t be here and the Ark wouldn’t have been built. This is not about me, it’s about the boat and the animals.”

“What do you say to Greenpeace and the millions of animal charities throughout the world who doubt your claims and level charges of animal cruelty?”

“I would say it’s far crueller to let all the animals drown. Again they are welcome to look around the Ark to see the wonderful facilities we have, an improvement for many animals over their natural habitats.” Noah said with a steely look in his eye.

“You say a voice from the sky told you to build this ‘Ark’ despite it being the driest year since records began. Do you understand that people may doubt your claims?”

“Of course, I doubted myself. I am a man with an open mind, but even I worried I was going nuts. The voice spoke to me a number of times and was pretty convincing. I have attempted to warn the world best I can, there are always gonna be people who doubt you”

“What if you are wrong?”

And then the rain began to fall.

Noahs Ark Animal3

Friday Fiction: Noah

Ill

I have a cold… I know poor me I hope you all have the violins of sympathy out. So I write this with a nose like a unseasonable Rudolph only capable of smelling one thing, the inside of my own nostrils. You know the deal no doubt, as you too will have joined the snot brigade.

Where it gets fun however is when you pair this with disability, for disability makes everything fun don’t you know. For your average Joe or Josephine a cold means going armed with tissues and lemsip to work if you don’t feel too bad. If you walk with crutches however the daily commute becomes an issue. Most people for example don’t have to choose between catching a sneeze and falling over. Being on the ground having your fall broken by a snotty face is no fun so, most of the time the sneeze loses out, caught well by my beard, thats what beards are for.

If you manage to sneeze and catch it without a trip to the floor, well done. However careful you don’t sneeze too hard. If you do you might put your neck out and be really stuck, unable to move and on your back for a while. Oh and make sure no-one is near your feet. Because they will get kicked and/or covered in snot (if your catching isn’t so good) no control options are available.

Then there is the aches. Flu will make muscles ache and spasm for everyone. Well firstly welcome to my world, secondly if you muscles are shit to begin with, the flu likes to fuck them over nicely. I managed to get out of bed yesterday (yay me) and go and try to make tea. (I may be ill but I am still British) My leg went into spasm causing me to stumble backwards and drop the milk all over the floor.

So there I am, nose dripping, tea stewing in a puddle of milk that of course has gone down behind the cooker and everywhere. Dignity.. mine took a trip on a Greyhound bus. Hardly superhuman.

Achoo

"Cover Coughs, Cover Sneezes" - NARA - 514081

Ill

Tuesday Tale: Move

Gareth was an office worker, nothing fancy not the work of his dreams, but it paid the bills. Gareth’s office was slap bang in the centre of the city, in a unassuming office block most of which, if the sign out the front was to be believed, was available “To Let at reasonable rates” Ten years ago Gareth wondered what reasonable rates were, but the mists of time and the fact that he generally only had £3.03 in his bank account after his rent was paid, dulled his curiosity.

The office was usually quiet on a Thursday. With the homeworkers wangling Thursday and Friday as their “WAH” days. Gareth enjoyed the peace, it enabled him to get on uninhibited by office wit and tales of Justines boyfriend. Including Gareth there were five people on Floor 4.Thursday morning passed in the blink of an eye, even the teleconference, which usually was a nightmare, completed without a hitch.

Gareth went for lunch at Jean-Claudes not because he liked the food, it was overdressed and dry at the same time, go figure. But because he quite liked to look at Paula, pale, Polish and as curvy as a coke bottle. Maybe one day he would talk to her about something other than his BLT.

Full of regret, bacon, lettuce and tomato Gareth returned to his desk to find a pink neon Post-it note with “MOVE” written on it in block capitals resting precariously on his keyboard. Gareth sat down on his wheeled chair and examined the note further.

MOVE

“Dave.” Gareth shouted in the general direction of a bespectacled man at the opposite end of the office. “Did you see anyone near my desk at lunch?”
“There was a man, no-one I recognise though. Didn’t stick around for long” Dave hollered back.
“Cheers mate, did you…”
Dave held up his phone in the air. Dave was on a call.

MOVE

Gareth pondered for a few seconds before his phone sprang to life. He answered it expecting whoever was on the other end to give him answers to what the MOVE note was all about, just like in the movies. But no it was Michelle about the case notes he was preparing. She had amendments, lots of amendments so Gareth was to be sat at his desk all afternoon.

By 5pm Dave had waved farewell and the office was empty. Gareth had forgotten about the note. The case he was working on was high profile and complex, Gareth couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had work that really mattered. If he delivered this report, it would help Michelle put this guy away for a long time. Robbery, Battery, Bombings, GBH the list was long. All the prosecutors evidence was finally tied up. Gareth crossed the metaphorical t’s and dotted those hypothetical i’s on this one

By 7pm Gareth had completed his days work. He flipped the switch to turn off his computer, exhaling he swept his hand over his desk knocking his pen to the floor.
“Bugger.” he said aloud to no-one in particular.
He wearily rose from his chair and bent down towards to the floor to retrieve the escaping biro. It was then he noticed the second note.

“DON’T” it said.

It was then he heard the ticking of the bomb.

Buerostuhl fcm

Tuesday Tale: Move

Poem: Not far Left

There was a time where left was alright,
It steadfastly led the way,
Right dragged along,
Inoffensively useless, but useless all the same,
It was always left to left to rescue the right,
The right that was mangled achey and tight,

Now time has gone and flown,
All limbs of this being all fully grown,
Left is tired of dragging the right,
Left now achey managled and tight,
Where left once led a valiant fight,
To get me out of the mess, planned by right,
Left now complains, grumbles and moans.
And shoots pains through to the core of my bones,
So I am left to hobble around,
Inbetween frequent trips to the ground,
I knew this would happen to me, as others before,
I’ll dust myself off as I take an age to rise, from the floor,
So as you stride out all stable, to make your choice,
Cast your vote, make them hear your voice,
Whatever result come election night,
It’s always a battle between the left and the right.

Pixie Lott (2009) 02

(Not my legs, my arse though)

Poem: Not far Left

Friday Fiction: Jolene

She was pleased she was no longer under the glare of the studio lights. It had been a long week to be a news anchor. Riots and civil unrest in her city, she grew weary of being the barer of bad news, there was only so much beautiful auburn hair and flawless smile could do to lighten the turmoil on the streets.

She was heading fast towards her dressing room, gliding across the floor with the grace of a dancer in a deep green dress suit. She opened her dressing room door and kicked off her heels with one seamless motion. She closed the door behind her and let out a deep sigh. Then she felt something hard press in the small of her back.

“Don’t you fucking move Jolene!” snarled a woman’s voice.
Jolene let out a small scream that was soon stifled by her assailant shoving the gun harder into her spine.
“One more sound and I swear to God. Sit down over there!” the woman hissed waving towards a nearby chair with her gunless hand.

Jolene stumbled toward the chair, head spinning. What the hell did this nut job want?

The woman produced some rope and tied Jolene to the chair, almost the second she had sat down, she tied knots with skill that most boy scouts would die for. With a struggling Jolene secured the woman began to pace back and forth like a caged Lion. She went first to the dressing room door and locked it, then went so the emmy award winning news anchor could see the whites of her eyes.
“You stay the fuck away from my man you hear me?” she growled. “You see I had to have a little talk with you. I can’t just sit there and let you take him away.”

Jolene shook her head. She had no idea what the woman was talking about, she was no angel and in the past had had many a fling, and she could indeed proudly say that no man, or woman for that matter had ever turned down her advances, but she was too busy for an affair.
“No” she said softly . “I have no idea what you are talking about”
“Liar!” the woman bellowed into Jolene’s face, “You don’t know what he means to me, how dare you sit there and deny it.”
“I’m not seeing anyone at the moment” still calm, measured, how she delivered bad news to the camera. “Now if you’d stop waving the gun about, maybe we could talk this over.”
“You’d like that wouldn’t you? Talking. I heard him say he loves the way you talk.”
“I’m pretty sure, I’ve never met your husband. Tell me his name.”
“Tony Rogers.” said the woman growing twitchy.
“I can honestly say I’ve never met a Tony. Please put the gun down, I think you have made a terrible mistake.”
“Mistake? You fucking bitch,” the woman shouted nearly hitting Jolene with the butt of her pistol, but for some reason thinking better of it, maybe liking the reaction on Jolene’s face. “Scared you there didn’t I. Tony tells me you are so so brave.”
“Listen, I’ve never met Tony.” Jolene pleaded.
“Tony tells me, you are so beautiful and so brave. He never stops talking about you”
“I don’t know what else to say. I have never met, seen, or spoken to anyone named Tony”
“You lie,” the woman says, almost smiling, pleased with herself, “He says he meets up with you twice a week, on Tuesday and Thursday”
“At 10pm?”
“Ah ha you whore, You admit it.”
Jolene laughed nervously “At 10pm Tuesday and Thursday I present my show.”
The woman looked at her blankly.
“Your husband,” Jolene continued “Watches my show. I said there was a stupid mistake.”
Then the shot was fired, that struck a helpless Jolene in the side of her head. Causing her to slump down in the chair.
“No-one calls me stupid.”

Friday Fiction: Jolene

Overly Social Media

I’m a old curmudgeon. My mother says I was born an old man. I hate people until they prove worthy of my time, once you are in the circle you pretty much stay there until you choose to leave. In the circle you have benefits like unlimited lifts in the car at pretty much whatever time you like, beer money on the rare occasion I have it, IT/AV assistance, access to slow roasted Lamb and most importantly you can have my last Rolo.

Outside of my group you can pretty much, keel over and die without me batting an eyelid.

Selfish, yes.
Self preservation also.

Social media flies in the face of my survival strategy. Twitter and Facebook (moreso) forces you to form relationships with people you knew 20 years ago, or people you met once on a drunken night out in Rhyll. These people in the cold hard light of day mean less to you than your clan members in Clash of Clans or the members of your faction on Last of Us but because you have seen Barry’s daughter Stacy (whom you never met) take her first steps you feel somehow compelled to write some vapid response to Barry’s status. Which Barry will maybe read, smile and then ignore.

Using Facebook to plan a social gathering is like trying to find a TV presenter from the 1970’s that isn’t in prison. Possible, but hardly worth the effort. The people most likely to attend are your best friends, who whilst on your facebook, are also in your phonebook and textable. Those same people probably ignore Facebook event requests because they are as regular as someone on a fibre rich diet.

Those friends who see the event will also assume that because the Facebook event is visible to all of your 800 “friends” that at least 70 bods will show up. Now friending Dominos in is a great way to get 10% off Pizza but I doubt their CEO cares you are having a “Summer Shindig” so won’t turn up.

I left Facebook long ago, not missed it. All the people near and dear to me, write or talk to me. Not a wall or a time line. Facebook and any online platform, this included, is all too often used to foster a persona, a façade of the frothy. Don’t get me wrong, not everything has to have deep meaning, but it has to be real otherwise we may as well all pretend to be Astronauts.

No-facebook-me

Overly Social Media

Friday Fiction: The Landing

Jessica O’Malley moved to the city five years ago, she drove a delivery truck. She was originally from Boston and as close to an Irish rose as you could be without being born on the emerald isle. She had long red hair, which on this gusty day was swept back into a pony tail and topped with a green woollen hat that the salesperson said brought out her eyes. Jess didn’t care, it kept her head warm. She had a body which like any 28 year old she wasn’t happy with. The guys at the delivery depot from which she was driving didn’t seem to notice any imperfections, but what did they know. Guys eh, she thought.

Guys, or rather, one particular guy was the reason she sat in New York City traffic. She’d moved to the city to be with him. They split after he had a string of illicit liaisons the last of which had been with her sister.

Mike was a jerk and Jess was glad to be rid of him. But she grew to love his city, so she stayed. She found a job and the guys there were fun to be around, no-one date worthy however. She loved her job and people she would meet but sometimes it got all too much so the cab of her truck gave her space and time to herself. An oasis amongst the people, traffic and the elements, a peaceful haven whenever she needed it. Usually.

A huge crash shattered her peace.

“Holy shit!” she exclaimed, not another accident. Her boss was gonna be pissed, but something was different. The impact seemed to push her cab down rather than the usual forward motion of a fender bender.
“Arrh” she heard coming from the back her truck. The traffic wasn’t going anywhere and people were looking strangely at her and the truck, pointing. So she killed the engine and clambered out to investigate.

A small crowd had gathered. Jess was confused, what the hell was going on? She pushed through the crowd slid up the rear door of the truck and peered inside, along with at least ten strangers.
“Look,” she said. “Back the fuck off, it’s just an accident. Stop being so goddamn nosey” Jess clambered up into the truck and slid the door down behind her, no-one was stealing anything from her truck!

She looked up, there was a hole in the roof of the truck. beneath the hole, in amongst todays cargo, which happened to be mattresses was a balding fat guy, cradling his arm and moaning in pain.
“What the hell man!” Jess said. “How the fuck did you…”
“I fell.” the man stuttered.
“Where the hell from? There isn’t a overhanging branch in this city”
“That apartment block. My arm really hurts.”
“Fuck your arm, look at my truck. How do I know this wasn’t a dumass plan to rob me or something?”
“It wasn’t I promise you, I just slipped.”
“What the fuck are you doing up there anyway?” Jess said. “You ain’t Spiderman, you one of those meth heads tryna fly?”

The man looked at Jess. Took a deep breath and spoke slowly.

“You may not know it, but you just saved my life. My arm hurts like hell, but I don’t regret falling anymore. I have never loved anyone more..”

He passed out.

NY Street Scene

Friday Fiction: The Landing