Online Collection of Flash Fiction, Micro-fiction, Short Short Stories, Very Short Stories

Reality TV Intergalactic Wife Swap postcard science fiction from Rob Hopcott

2008-10-21T02:27:00.000-07:00

Dear Reality TV Little Swap Sister,

It's Prudence here.

I'm writing this intergalactic postcard hoping it will get through to you soon because I want out of here!

When I agreed to be swapped with a wife from another species, I did at least expect that they would have two legs, two arms and one head. After all - as I learned in my Texas hometown school - we are all created in Gods image!

But, after travelling uncomfortably for billions of miles in a tin can, to be faced with a two metres tall hairy intelligent spider who expects me to eat him after we have made love is just totally unreasonable and I want out of here! Immediately!

Love

Prudence.

Dear Reality TV Little Swap Sister,

It's Harold here.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for my wonderful intergalactic wife swap who is absolutely fantastic.

Admittedly, she doesn't seem to keep the place as clean as Prudence - there are cobwebs everywhere - but the, er, physical side is literally out of this world. I'm loving every minute of having all those legs wrapped around me and she is an absolutely voracious lover! I'm breaking out the champagne!

Guess what! My new intergalactic wife swap even reckons we might have started to make some babies together already.

How fantastic to have intergalactic offspring - a first for your Reality TV show!

The tip-off that she's pregnant, she tells me, is that she's beginning to feel really hungry after making love.

Tonight, after yet more love-making, she says we are going to have a special lunch together!

With the love-making so good, I can't wait for the meal :-)

Woohoo!

Yours Gratefully

Harold.

The End

If you liked this, you might possibly also enjoy In THEIR eyes YOU are just compost - a short flash science fiction (Sci-fi) story by Rob Hopcott :-)

Bye for now

Rob

Rob Hopcott - online author

This postcard science fiction short story about an intergalactic wife swap reality TV show is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short sci-fi post card humor story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

A Green Car for Christmas - Rob Hopcott's Christmas story for 2008

2008-10-20T07:44:00.000-07:00

When the car parked next to me drew away without a sound, I was startled and did a double take which was noticed by its driver who gave me a broad smile suggesting he was proud of his silently moving motor vehicle and pleased it had drawn attention.

It was quite unnerving to see such a large vehicle noiselessly gliding down our busy high street past all the brightly lit shops and shoppers who were out buying their gifts and presents for Christmas.

Obviously, I realised that it must be one of the new breed of cars that are powered by electricity in town but use a conventional petrol driven engine for longer distances, but I still couldn't help but stand and follow the progress of this strange new car as it built up speed down the road.

Puzzlingly, nobody seemed to be paying it much attention but, inveterate reporter of life in all its strange forms as I am, the seeds of a small article on green fuel was already germinating in my writer's mind.

So I stopped to make a note in my ideas for articles notebook that I always carry in my pocket everywhere I go.

It occurred to me that such a green powered car would be an ideal present for my wife although, of course, not one that an impecunious author like me could ever afford.

I was just turning away to continue my search for my wife's Christmas present when the car reached the end of the street ... increased its speed ... and took off.

As I stood transfixed like a dummy watching this four door saloon disappearing into the clouds, I could just see the driver looking back with red cheeks and smiling eyes and hear him laughing.

"Ho, Ho, Ho ... Merry Christmas and Goodwill to All Men!"

The End

Bye for now

Rob

Rob Hopcott - online author

P.S. Every year, I write a Christmas short story or flash fiction for all my friends online and otherwise instead of sending out Christmas cards and this flash postcard fiction is my Christmas story card to you for 2008.

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

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

Ho, Ho, Ho ... Merry Christmas to all, and a Happy New year!

Snip goes your tie - a tale of the unexpected post card micro fiction murder mystery story by Rob Hopcott

2008-09-02T00:41:00.000-07:00

"Snip goes your tie that you wore to work each day to ogle that adulterous bitch.

"Slash goes your shirt that you unbuttoned to press flesh to flesh at your despicably secret rendezvous."

"Splash goes the petrol."

"Scratch goes the match."

"May your soul burn in hell."

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

Headline: Midchestershire Journal and Times June 2008.

' Shocked High Street onlookers describe mysterious death of suited man in full public view writhing in agony from multiple cuts then bursting into flames from causes unknown.'

The End

If you liked this, you might possibly also enjoy my first murder - a postcard fiction crime story by Rob Hopcott :-)

Bye for now

Rob

Rob Hopcott - online author

This micro fiction murder mystery postcard short story about a lovers revenge is a tale of the unexpected copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short postcard revenge and adultery story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

In THEIR eyes YOU are just compost - flowers from outer or inner space - a short flash science fiction (Sci-fi) story by Rob Hopcott

2008-06-03T00:33:00.000-07:00

The President of Earth tried to stay focussed on the small flower that was floating above his Presidential desk but he found it very hard to concentrate.

To his right and to his left the generals and senior diplomats of all the countries of Earth, were looking as serious and as confused as the President.

On the other side of the table were massed a very large number of floating flowers in devices that looked like futuristic flower pots.

The President of Earth had heard that talking to flowers made them grow better but had never heard of anybody having an intelligent conversation with a flower in a plant pot, futuristic or from the local hardware store.

"We come in peace," said the flower that was floating opposite the President. The metallic voice was thin and reedy and seemed to come from the space between the flower and the President not the flower itself.

"On behalf of all the countries of our planet, which we call Earth," said the President, "Welcome to our home. Naturally we would like to know where you come from and what your intentions are, how long you're staying and how we can make you comfortable. Er, would you like any fertiliser?"

As the President of Earth waited for a reply, he contemplated that it was extremely difficult talking to a flower because they didn't move or react. They didn't have mouths to see them speaking or eyes opening and closing to give an idea of what they were thinking or feeling. Because the meeting was being held at the President of the World's Council Offices (PWCO), there was no breeze except that which was coming from a small fan in the corner so they weren't moving, either. Without any doubt, the President thought, talking to a flower is very difficult.

Whilst talking to these flowers was unnerving, the mere existence of these flowers on the planet Earth, was cause for even greater concern to the President especially since he usually enjoyed his Thursday mornings on the golf course.

How had the flower space ships got through Earth's Strategic Air Defences (ESAD)? The President pushed the thought from his mind. They were obviously a very advanced species to have got here at all. The fact that they were floating in their flower pots twelve inches above his presidential conference table was even further proof of their abilities.

"We are the Flower People. We travel through space and time bringing peace to every world we visit. Many of these worlds are populated by warlike animals such as yourselves. We show you the error of your ways and how to make your planet more beautiful by putting flowers everywhere and removing yourselves from your global ecology. By so doing, we make the universe a better place."

The President of Earth didn't like the sound of this. He replied firmly.

"Er, did you say you are going to remove us? What exactly did you mean by that?"

The disembodied voice coming from somewhere in between the flower and the President continued.

"It is a very easy process. We provide you with flowers that you will be compelled by your greed to eat. You will then fall into a deep sleep and soon afterwards we will spread all your carcasses around the world to make a fine manure for our people to feed on and live in contentment. Peace be with you."

"Er, had it occurred to you that we may not like this version of your peace?" Spluttered the President.

It was time for some tough talking, he thought. Perhaps these annoying flowers could be persuaded to go home to wherever they came from and then the President could get back to his normal Thursday morning's golf.

"Resistance is futile," said the floating flower, pleasantly.

The President of Earth noticed that each of the floating flowers had sprouted smaller flowers which were gently descending in front of each of the President of Earth World Delegates (PEWD).

It crossed the President's mind that these flowers looked rather nice to eat. It had obviously also crossed the minds of other delegates that they looked nice to eat because many were currently already munching their allocated mini flower.

Absentmindedly, the President started munching his flower and it certainly tasted very nice. Now what was he trying to remember about flowers not to eat - no, it had gone from his mind for the moment. Perhaps it would come back after a round of golf.

The head flower continued.

"Peace be with you. Thank you for helping your world become a better place."

As the President of Earth's eyes gently closed, he felt himself pleasantly slumping forward onto his huge presidential conference table. It crossed his mind that planet Earth really would be a much better place with flowers growing everywhere.

Apart from looking very pretty, it would certainly stop global warming.

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

The President of Earth felt his eyes, flutter open. The nice looking nurse was blonde and had an Irish accent.

"How are you feeling, Paul," she said.

The recovery room of the Victoria Hospital Operating Theatre looked clean and sterile. Paul experimented by opening and closing his eyes several times. The nurse was now busy telling Paul that she was called Theresa and he was just to lie still until he was taken back to the ward. She looked very pleasant indeed and had a nice smile.

"I had a strange dream," mumbled Paul.

"There, there," said Theresa, "That is not unusual. Just rest and relax until you recover your strength. You've had a nasty car accident but you are all right now and will be as right as rain after you've had a rest.

Paul tried to move his legs and found them encased in plaster.

The trolley on which Paul was lying started to move, pushed by two cheerful ward orderlies. He closed his eyes again until he was parked up with some other beds with occupants who were about as immobile as he was.

Thank goodness the stuff about the flowers was just a dream, Paul thought.

He felt an overwhelming need to sleep. But before he drifted off, he had one request.

"Um, you see those flowers on the window sill? They are doing my head in. Could you please get rid of them?"

Before the orderly could comply with Paul's request, a petal fell from one of the flowers and landed just within Paul's reach.

Absentmindedly, Paul popped it into his mouth.

The petal tasted so nice as he fell asleep.

The End

All comments welcomed :-)

Bye for now

Rob
(Rob Hopcott - free online science flash fiction horror author)

Enjoyed this? You may also enjoy my story 'Gone Fishing' - a flash science fiction short horror story.

Have you ever thought about what it would be like if flowers could talk :-)

This short flash fiction horror story about flowers from outer or inner space is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short flash science fiction horror story about flowers from outer or inner space and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, science fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Gone Fishing - a flash science fiction short horror story by Rob Hopcott

2008-05-21T07:04:00.000-07:00

The President of Earth glowered at the auto-cue and the television camera in the small Presidential Studio attached to the Presidential Palace besides the Presidential Golf Course which was where he should have been right now instead of reading ridiculous public service emergency announcements.

It was his day off and he reckoned that the world and its wretched public service announcements should wait until tomorrow.

Unfortunately, the world didn't want to wait and the World Parliament had prepared this announcement for him to read so he was glowering at everyone to show his displeasure.

The auto-cue started rolling and the President relaxed his scowling face and beamed into the television camera, exuding bonhomie to the billions who were watching as he read from the auto-cue.

Scientists are today investigating objects that are appearing across the world and which seem to present a degree of danger to anybody touching them.

Where these objects come from and where they disappear to when they are touched has not yet been ascertained. Any person identifying one of these objects should use the telephone numbers and contact details on their television screens at the end of this announcement.

World Scientists are advising that, under no circumstances should these objects be touched and to do so could be extremely dangerous.

Once one of these objects is identified, scientific experts and the military will place a cordon around the object while it is being investigated.

However, experience suggests that the object will soon disappear from within the cordon and may subsequently appear again nearby.

Although there is little information to corroberate reports, it is suggested that persons touching these objects appear to have gone missing. In short, the person touching it disappears with the object.

Unfortunately, these dangerous objects can often be very difficult to identify and are likely to appear to be every day objects to most people on Earth. In attempting to provide some guidance as to which objects are dangerous and which are not, the scientists are suggesting that the objects may appear to be out of place.

A heavy metal object that is floating on a pond would be such an example. A tree growing out of concrete would be another.

However there is no guarantee that objects will always have this incongruity and scientists are advising the general public to proceed with great caution, especially when at home where unfamiliar objects may be more easily identified.

The President of Earth leaned back in his presidential chair and gave his most reassuring smile.

Well that's it folks. Take care while we get to the bottom of this. You can be sure we are working on it hard. So bye for now from your President, goodbye!

The President of Earth slumped back in his chair and allowed his face to briefly assume the look of gloom and anger he had worn before going on air. He had agreed to one interview and one interview only about the public service announcement and that, as far as the President of Earth was concerned, was one interview far too many.

The red 'on air' light came on again and the selected television interviewer's voice boomed in the President's ear. It was a typically idiotic and aggressive question about the number of people who had disappeared and the length of time it was expected to sort the problem out. To compound the foolhardiness of the question, the interviewer even suggested that it was almost as if human beings were being treated like fish by some unseen hand, possibly from a different dimension.

To play for time while he thought of a way to avoid a straight answer, which was necessary because he had no idea of numbers or anything else, the President reached over and picked up a rather nice paperweight on the table that was sparkling under the bright lights of his Presidential Studio.

At that moment, billions of people across the world watched the President of Earth disappear from their screens.

Moments later, a television announcer appeared reassuring everybody that there was a technical hitch and normal service would soon be resumed.

Few of the billions watching believed the television announcer when he sarcastically suggested that the President had become suddenly indisposed and had perhaps gone fishing.

Most of the billions watching correctly drew the conclusion that, instead of going fishing, the President had been fished.

The End

All comments welcomed :-)

Bye for now

Rob
(Rob Hopcott - free online science flash fiction author)

Enjoyed this? You may also enjoy my '2020 News - Twinning with Galixos 2867#3' story - a flash science fiction short story about global warming and climate change.

Have you ever thought how it would feel to be a fish? I'd love to hear your fishy thoughts :-)

This short flash fiction horror story about life as a fish is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short flash science fiction horror story about extra-dimensional fishing expeditions and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, science fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Nightmare to romance at the comedy club - a short flash fiction romantic story about life as a stand up comedian by Rob Hopcott

2008-05-15T06:56:00.000-07:00

Some of the audience almost stopped talking when, in a last ditch attempt to make at least some of them laugh, I accidentally walked backwards off the stage.

The rest of the audience at Larry's Laugh a Minute Comedy Club just continued to eat, drink and ignore me, as they had from the faltering start of my comedy routine to its ignominious end.

Gingerly, I picked myself up from the grimy wooden floor. My skinny body didn't seem broken anywhere so the pain probably wasn't terminal. Hoping the audience had already forgotten about me, I climbed through the drapes to back stage feeling sorry for myself.

One look at the club owner's face, who'd unsuccessfully tried to mark the end of my act with a round of applause, removed any fantasy I'd had about getting paid and my heart sank to my well-worn boots. Without even expenses, the late night bus would have to travel the several hundred miles back to my aunt's home town alone and I was left high and dry.

My night as a standup comedian was looking more marish by the minute.

Earlier, as I watched the mousy brunette who went on before me die a thousand deaths with her cheerful comedy routine about anorexia and a tent dress that looked as if it had been made out of dishcloth material, I'd realized my comedy routine about the foibles of my dachshund were doomed to extinction before birth.

The audience were straight out of a standup comedian's nightmare. They were drinking too much to understand the jokes. They were talking too much to hear the jokes. Probably most of them were mortuary attendants, accountants or psychologists who didn't even do jokes. At best, they'd undergone surgery at birth to remove their joke genes.

Walking on stage under the dim lights of this tatty North of England comedians club was like climbing out of the trenches and going into battle, except it was more certain you'd end up defeated.

Disconsolately, as I stumbled through the dark corridors back stage looking for a way out that avoided going anywhere near the audience, I fell over a body curled up on the stairs.

"Outch," the voice was female. "You're just as clumsy as you are a crap comedian."

It was the mousy brunette.

"Crap comedian or crap audience, you choose," I said. "However, it doesn't really matter, either way there's no money and I'm walking home."

"I heard you fall off stage," she said. "They almost thought it was funny."

"It wasn't even part of the routine," I admitted, sheepishly.

She looked up at me in the darkness - a delicate vulnerable figure with a tiny voice cloaked in an super-sized dress designed for the sort of woman she'd never want to be.

"I only stayed to see if the audience would bomb you out too," she said. "It was supposed to make me feel better but it hasn't and it's still raining outside so I'm still going to get soaked."

"Not as soaked as me," I said glumly. "I was relying on getting some expenses to pay for the bus fare home."

"So you're not a rich entrepreneur in disguise who is going to sweep me off my feet, carry me away and bedeck me with expensive diamonds and untold luxury?"

"Sadly not. I'm an out of work author called Royston from nowhere in particular and with nowhere to stay the night. My shoes let in the rain and I've a habit of falling over things - even when they're not in my way."

"Dead loss then ..."

"Yup!"

"I'm called Lara. I'm not really a comedian but I do have anorexia and I got the stupid idea that, if I went on stage and made people laugh, it might help. It's been six weeks and nothing has changed except now I'm getting panic attacks about bright lights too."

"Life sucks."

"Shit happens."

"You're not an Axeman are you?"

"No, I had to pawn it to buy lunch. Why?"

"If you really, really promise to behave, you could stay at my camper van in the next street for the night? It's small and about as leaky as your shoes, plus it gets scary when the drunks bang on the side of the van in the early hours of the morning, but an extra body might just raise the temperature above zero tonight and save me from hypothermia. I could owe you my life and you'd be responsible for me for ever. What do you think?"

I held out my hand to help her stand up by way of acceptance. Right now, she looked like an angel of mercy.

"I was responsible for a rabbit once," I replied, conversationally. "We had to take it to the vets."

"Why?"

"I dropped it..."

As we walked the dark corridors of that scruffy old building towards a rain swept North of England night and a small leaky camper van parked somewhere by the side of the road, I looped my arm around her shoulders in a brotherly manner. She didn't seem to mind. Perhaps together the world could be a better place for both of us.

"There is one thing we could do to scare off the drunks," I said, philosophically.

"What's that?"

"We could tell them our jokes..."

The End

All comments welcomed :-)

Bye for now

Rob
(Rob Hopcott - free online stand up comedy romance author)

Enjoyed this? You may also enjoy my 'Blogging Strogonoff' story - a humorous stand up situation comedy about a blog job.

Have you found romance in strange places? I'd love to hear your experiences in the comments below :-)

This short flash fiction story about life as a stand up comedian and romance is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short flash fiction romantic story about life doing stand up comedy and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, science fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Romantic valentine getaway with Fred - a short flash fiction story about a weekend hotel break romance by Rob Hopcott

2008-05-14T02:32:00.000-07:00

OMG, thought Angela, as she paid the five-star hotel bill for her romantic valentine getaway in cash. I can't believe I did that. Incredible! What if anybody finds out?

Her long blond hair momentarily fell across her face. She hoped it would hide the blush she could feel rising above the neck of her expensive designer pastel colored suit.

Yet, as Angela walked through the large imposing glass doors of the Dunethorpston Hotel, Surrey, into the bright sunshine, with its scents of exotic flowers and cypress trees that lined the hotel's long winding entrance drive, she couldn't resist thinking back and reliving some of the moments of the perfect valentine hotel break romance that, even now, left her tingling with pleasure.

It had all started so badly on the Friday evening when her lover James had called on her cellphone to say, because of his wife, he could no longer make the valentine weekend they had planned together.

Since Angela had already made excuses to her husband, she was now stuck with the empty, although palatial, bedroom suite with nothing more entertaining than a drinks cabinet and a television for her valentine weekend break.

After the second hour on the Friday evening, boredom had quickly set in.

Fred, the resident entertainment counselor, had immediately responded to her call for information about local weekend break activities.

His entertainment suggestions had quickly become suggestive and the rest was history.

Angela, already cross over being let down, hadn't taken much convincing and Fred, with his jet-black hair, soft-spoken voice, gentle hands and amazing knowledge of almost any subject she could think of, had proved to be a lover to die for. Which was why Angela was still tingling two days later as she left what had turned out to be a very romantic valentine getaway.

The hotel bill, although reasonably priced for such luxury, shocked Angela, but explained much that had puzzled her, including why Fred's answers to her questions had so often been vague.

Lying in his arms, Angela had wanted to know more about his background; where he came from, where he went to school and what his dreams were for his future. His answers had been non-committal. He'd used her questions to discover what she wanted and what he could do to make her happier. It had been a tempting cocktail that Angela, unused to such consideration, found herself, again and again, fully exploiting.

Now, two days later, she had to decide on her future and she doubted whether it would include James, the married man with whom she'd planned to have her valentine hotel romance.

Whether the future included her husband, Angela was unsure. What she did know was that she was definitely going back to the hotel for a weekend break to see Fred again, at the earliest opportunity, and she was going back alone.

The thought filled her full of a strange excitement and abandon she had not felt for years.

OMG, I can't believe I'm thinking like this, she told herself as she spotted a refuse bin.

Angela took one last look at her copy of the hotel bill before shredding and dumping it.

She could take no chance that anybody, including her husband, would see the last entry on the bill or the words printed alongside the item dated this weekend in April 2055.

'48 hours personal entertainment counseling services with FRED (Fully-realistic Robotic Entertainment Device)'

Angela walked to the car port, musing over the weekend's hotel valentine romance that had been so different from her expectations, but which still left her smiling contentedly and tingling all over.

The End

All comments welcomed :-)

Bye for now

Rob
(Rob Hopcott - free online science fiction romance author)

Enjoyed this? You may also enjoy 'Girl Male Talk', my flash fiction story about new millennium relationships.

This short flash fiction story about a weekend hotel break romance is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short flash fiction story about a weekend hotel break romance and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, science fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Romantic gift search yields new romance - a short flash fiction coffee break Internet Cafe story by Rob Hopcott

2008-05-12T03:36:00.000-07:00

'Ideal romantic birthday gift for boyfriend' typed Samantha into the online search engine displayed on the public screen of the Lanzarote Internet cafe.

A quick scan of the suggested items had her wrinkling her pert nose and tossing her long fair hair with disgust. Nothing exciting, nothing interesting and nothing she wanted.

'Boyfriend birthday present' she entered, but again this yielded nothing useful.

'Perfect present lover' was no better.

'Ideal gift lover' left her fuming with impatience.

Why don't search engines ever give you the information you need, Samantha moaned to herself.

Her first holiday morning was fast ebbing away. It was a beautifully sunny day outside with a beach to die for and this Spanish Internet cafe was a lousy way to start her 'use it before you lose it' final two weeks holiday entitlement.

Samantha also doubted whether Nigel, her boyfriend back in England, would inconvenience himself to remember her birthday if the roles were reversed and this thought wasn't encouraging.

Come on Samantha, she told herself. Use your knowledge. You are an I.T. expert. Think like one. What exactly is the problem that you need to solve. Is it the perfect present or is it something else that's the problem.

It's these useless search engines, Samantha thought glumly. They are massively improved on previous years but they are still pretty unintelligent. They don't really understand ideal, perfect or any qualitative phrase or seem to have benchmarks that will enable them to do more than find something that has been described by somebody else as 'perfect' or 'ideal' and most of the time these people have an interest in stretching the truth.

What I need, she thought, is better search technology.

Samantha's clear blue eyes wandered from the screen in front of her and rested for a few moments on the fresh young face of a dark haired, brown eyed young man who had just seated himself behind the network administrators desk. He caught her eye and she looked past him to avoid giving him any encouragement to the new mobile cell phones displayed on the shelves against which he nonchalantly leaned.

Samantha tried to refocus her attention on the search screen and then pushed the keyboard away violently with annoyance as she realised her booked time was up.

The network administrator stopped Samantha on her way out of the Internet Cafe. She noticed he had the deepest brown eyes and beautiful black tousled hair.

"Search engine technology leaves a lot to be desired," he smiled, guessing accurately her problem. His voice was deep and mellow like chocolate.

"I hope you're not going to complain about me mis-treating the keyboard," snapped Samantha, "because I'm in a very bad mood and you wouldn't like to see me when I get really mad."

"I take it that you couldn't find what you are looking for." With a smile that lit his face up, he didn't seem at all worried about the keyboard.

"Half the morning wasted and still no gift for my boyfriend," admitted Samantha. "Search engines are just too frustrating for words.

"Try using this," said the young Spaniard holding out his cell phone.

"It's state of the art and has new search technology built in that doesn't rely on the main search engines. It uses artificial intelligence search algorithms and lots of clever new techniques to search the web and find what you really want. Here's the deal. If it doesn't, I'll refund your Internet Cafe fees for this morning. By the way, my name is Daniel."

He held out his other hand with a radiant smile.

Samantha shook his hand which was warm, soft and gentle and then took the mobile phone he was offering. It seemed very ergonomically designed and fitted her hand beautifully, rather like Daniel's she fleetingly thought.

When Samantha again tried the search phrases she had just used at the public terminal, she gazed with amazement at the results displayed. Without any doubt, she could see there were several that were very promising.

"That's incredible," she admitted and quickly socially bookmarked the gift sites for later reference. "I didn't realise that an improved mobile phone or better cellphone could give more perfect search engine results. This is a new concept and, I have to confess, one that seems ideal. Not only a mobile solution but also intelligent results."

"It's yours, " said Daniel with a smile, if you will go out with me tonight.

"I have a boyfriend already," said Samantha, wryly.

"But a better boyfriend is better, surely." Daniel's smile was easy, relaxed and confident.

Samantha lifted her long eyelashes from the cellphone and gazed into his eyes. They looked soft and gentle and very intelligent. Samantha knew she was a sucker for intelligent men.

A quick decision was needed but how to decide.

One last search, though Samantha, before I give the cellphone back to this attractive young man.

'Should I date him or not?' she entered into the search screen of the bright new mobile phone he had loaned her.

'If you don't, you'll never know what you might have missed,' the beautiful new cellphone startlingly replied.

Samantha lifted her crystal clear eyes to gaze steadily at the young man.

"OK," she said, "I give in. Perhaps my perfect new telephone can also find my perfect mate."

Daniel's hand closed over Samantha's hand and his arm looped around her waist as he led her into the bright sunshine outside.

"I own the shop," he said, "my assistant can take over. Let's start the date now."

As the hot sun fell on Samantha's face, she closed her eyes for a moment in bliss. Daniel's arm was now tighter around her waist and the day ahead was beginning to look very perfect. The sea was blue and her new Spanish companion looked very masterful and strong in all the right places.

Sun, sea, sand and a wonderful new cellphone with clever search technology. Who could ask for anything more, Samantha smiled to herself.

The End

Have you ever fumed at the poor results that search engines have given you in answer to straight forward questions? I'd love to know :-)

Bye for now

Rob
(Rob Hopcott - free online author)

Enjoyed this? You may also enjoy 'Always loving but never lovers', my short flash microfiction love story about unrequited love in Italy.

This romantic gift search flash fiction short story romance, set in a Spanish Internet cafe, is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this Internet cafe romance and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, science fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Always loving but never lovers - a short flash microfiction love story about unrequited love in Italy by Rob Hopcott

2008-05-05T04:36:00.000-07:00

When I first saw Marietta selling oranges under an azure sky by the Napoli roadside half a kilometre from my petrol station in Italy, I knew it was love at first sight.

Every day, thereafter, whether or not my young family and wife had any need for oranges, I found an excuse to visit her stall by the side of the road.

Secretly, I lusted after each curve of her body, the arc of her lips, her sweeping brown hair and her sunny smile.

For Marietta, life was hard as she tended her makeshift table piled high with oranges. Dust was constantly blown in her face from passing cars and lorries and from the scorching heat of the summer or the icy wind in winter there was no shelter. Yet she was always there with her welcoming smile, hazelnut eyes and her special way of sweeping back her hair that made my pulse race.

On the grey day that she was attacked and robbed, her husband asked if she could rest a while at my petrol station to recover. He tended her bruises and cuts as we waited for the police while I watched, unable to hold her and comfort her as I wished.

There was nothing that could be done about the small amount of money the thieves had stolen but the police said they couldn't guarantee it wouldn't happen again. She would always be vulnerable to attack in that remote corner of the highway.

I feared she would now stop selling her oranges but her husband said they needed the money to supplement his small earnings as a farmer so I came up with a solution.

The rent I charged was far below the market value for selling her oranges from my forecourt but at least I now knew she was safe and I loved watching her every day. Her simple cotton dresses ruffled in the wind around her slim body. Her fresh smile and the rich lustre of her deep brown hair in the sun reminded me of my long departed mother. Marietta now seemed happier too.

As the years passed, my yearning for her never changed but at no time did I say or do anything improper. She was married and I was married. We both went to church and were bringing up our families as best we could.

If she knew of my infatuation, she never gave me a clue.

More years passed and our families grew up. First my wife died and then her husband. Still I tended the petrol station and still she sold oranges from the front. There were more cars to fuel and more people to feed.

As time passed, life became easier and when my son, Paolo, and her daughter, Maria, decided to marry, the wedding was a fine and sumptuous affair.

My son's new wife inherited the good looks of my Marietta of yesteryear and perhaps my son inherited some of mine. Without doubt, he inherited my strong passions and these are easy to see when he is with Maria. They make a fine couple.

Now the festivities are over and Marietta and I sit beside my swimming pool at long last joined as family, although not as lovers, watching Paulo and Maria in each other's arms.

Sometimes, I think Marietta understands I have a special affection for her but, since we are now family, it would be a sin to be lovers although my affection for Marietta continues as strong as ever.

Perhaps one day we will talk about our final resting places and it would be nice if we could be somewhere together but that is not a subject for this happy and festive occasion.

Today the sun is shining and the smell of the olive trees is in the air. My son is handsome and his new wife is beautiful. The birds are singing, the band is playing and everybody is happy.

Now there is no need for an excuse to see each other, perhaps I can sell my petrol station, which has become a burden recently, and retire. Marietta stopped selling her oranges when she moved next door and going to work each day now means leaving her behind.

Although I know I will never be Marietta's lover, I am still content that we can spend our time together and watch the sun going down each day - not as lovers perhaps - but always in love.

The End

Bye for now

Rob
(Rob Hopcott - free online author)

Enjoyed this? You may also enjoy Undiscovered Beauty - my flash fiction very short story about a love of art, artists, communication and mistrust by Rob Hopcott

This short flash fiction very short love story about unrequited love, loving and lovers is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short flash fiction about unfulfilled love and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, science fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Criminal thoughts - murder confession, blackmail, extortion and justice in a flash by Rob Hopcott

2008-05-03T07:43:00.000-07:00

When my laptop went missing, I was annoyed. It contained my life, my plans, my dreams, my hopes. To imagine that all this was now in some unknown persons hands was unnerving and unsettling.

Naturally, as a safety measure, I changed all my bank account details, renewed my credit cards and warned people with whom I have frequent contact.

But I couldn't change the huge volume of personal information, thoughts, confessions, innermost plans and debates to which they gained immediate access.

Knowing what was on my laptop, it didn't surprise me when I soon received an anonymous email making demands.

The blackmail amount was for ten thousand pounds sterling. My suspicion was that it would be the first of many demands probably rising in value as the blackmailer gained confidence.

The message was simple.

"I know what you have done. Remember, murderers get life inprisonment and there is more than enough evidence in your personal diary to convict you. You have until the end of next week to pay me ten thousand pounds sterling, after which you will not hear from me again. If you don't pay, I will send your files to the police and you can suffer the consequences. I will also send your diary to the national newspapers, just for fun, and, after that, you can say byebye to your wife during your prosecution you debauched old fart."

Of course I didn't have any option and, when details of the place where I was to meet the blackmailer came in a subsequent email, I withdrew the money from my local bank branch and waited to be met as instructed.

It was a frightening experience and the blackmailer came mob handed. Standing there alone was terrifying, knowing that at any moment they could have stabbed or shot me. They checked the money, sneered at me, laughed, turned and went.

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

To cut a long story short, there was eventually a prosecution and the whole sordid business came out in the newspapers.

In his summing up, the judge said the following words that I will remember for ever:

"You have been convicted of a heinous crime of which you should be deeply ashamed and for which I will sentence you to the maximum term allowed by the law."

The sound of the slamming courtroom doors seemed to repeat the long prison sentence handed down by the Judge through the disinfectant laden courtroom air again and again.

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

Eventually, back in my home office, after the trial, I finally permitted myself a small smile.

Those who come across a confession to murder, should check the person's profession before turning to blackmail.

Who'd believe a laptop confession from an international fiction author? Certainly the police didn't and the blackmailers were apprehended just after the money was handed over.

I even got my laptop back.

Probably one day I'll write it up as a flash fiction too.

Could life ever get better?

The End

Bye for now

Rob
(Rob Hopcott - free online author)

Enjoyed this? You may also enjoy Undiscovered Beauty - my flash fiction very short story about art, artists, communication and mistrust.

This short flash fiction very short story about murder, blackmail, extortion and justice is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short flash fiction murder and blackmail story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, science fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Undiscovered Beauty - a flash fiction very short story about art, artists, communication and mistrust by Rob Hopcott

2008-05-02T01:36:00.000-07:00

Amanda applied a last touch of green to the canvas with her finest detail paint brush, stepped back and enjoyed the sensation of the landscape's colours exploding in her mind and senses.

She could hear the water trickling down the tiny stream. She could sense the movement of the brown trout that were scarcely shadows in the deep pool. The old water wheel towered above providing a focal point to the picture giving it reassurance and strength. Sunlight seeped through small breaks in the clouds hinting at the ordinariness, permanence and stability yet desolation of the beautiful country scene she had created.

A tear trickled down her cheek. She knew it was one of the best pictures she'd ever painted. The sheer enjoyment of creating something new and beautiful filled her with a satisfaction that made all the effort worthwhile.

She had never sold any of her many paintings but then she had never offered any of her paintings for sale. Instead, when they were finished, they were consigned to an attic bedroom at the top of the house.

Occasionally, a friend or a relative would visit and would see some of her paintings and tell her she should show them to the public. Always, she would smile modestly and pretend she loved them too much to lose them.

The truth was that Amanda longed for more people to see her paintings. In her dreams, she relished the idea of giving up her job in the local supermarket so she could paint full-time and give expression to the ideas, shapes, colours and pictorial stories that crowded her senses daily.

Amanda lacked confidence in her abilities. The tutor of the art evening classes at the local college had told her she should take a course in assertiveness. She never had. He had said she was an extremely good artist. She had believed him but saw no way to realise her dream of painting full-time.

When a leaflet had fallen through her door seeking unknown artists for a new local art gallery, she kept the leaflet but had not called the telephone number prominently displayed. She was suspicious of the gallery owners motives.

Perhaps she would pass by in a few months and see what was happening and look through the window if the pictures were as good as hers. She wouldn't go into the gallery and certainly wouldn't talk to the owner who Amanda suspected was probably some wealthy individual who got rich exploiting the talents of vulnerable and gullible aspiring artists.

Amanda sighed and walked upstairs to the attic bedroom to put the picture away. She was rostered to work on the night shift of the local supermarket and she was already late.

Almost exactly five miles away, Stuart sat by his telephone in a large empty building with spaces on the wall waiting for pictures from unknown artists. In six weeks he'd only received one call from the thousands of leaflets he had personally put through the doors of private houses in the area and it had been from somebody trying to sell him double glazing.

Spending money on home improvements was out of the question. He'd invested all his savings into the gallery where he now sat and waited for the telephone to ring from artists needing promotion.

This was the last day he would wait. Without pictures, his gallery couldn't open. The deal he had devised for the artists gave them all the money from the first five sales during which time he was willing to fund the gallery as a gesture of goodwill to win the artist's confidence. Afterwards, he was hoping to charge 10% towards the cost of running the gallery and provide him with an income so that he didn't have to go back to working in the local national book chain.

All his life, he had dreamed of running a gallery and passionately believed there must be artists who had not been discovered who were producing wonderful creations that others, who enjoyed art as he did, would love to buy.

As the next day dawned, cold and grey, Amanda laid the first strokes of colour onto her next canvas before rushing off to work in the local supermarket and, in another part of town, Stuart walked into his local estate agents to put his still empty art gallery up for sale.

The estate agent thought the building might eventually be bought by a developer to be converted into flats.

The End

Bye for now

Rob
(Rob Hopcott - free online author)

Would Art flourish in your local area if more people talked to each other and shared their dreams, aspirations and talents?

Do people talk to each other these days or do we prefer to relate on a one to one basis with mass media such as television, video or computer games.

What you think, I'd love to know :-)

Enjoyed this? You may also enjoy 'Lost and Found' my short flash fiction story about lost property, poverty, honesty and the good life.

This short flash fiction very short story about art, artists, mistrust and poor communication is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this flash short fiction art and artists story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, science fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Lost and Found - a short flash fiction story about lost property, poverty, honesty and the good life by Rob Hopcott

2008-04-30T06:23:00.000-07:00

The wallet spiralled to the ground and, with a flash of thigh, the immaculately dressed blonde woman in a tailored red suit eased herself out of the sports saloon she'd just parked near to where Smiley Johnson sat on the pavement.

Then, with rapidly clicking high heels and the scent of Chanel, she was gone, hardly giving Smiley a chance to focus his rheumy old eyes on her elegant and fast departing figure or on the wallet she'd left behind.

To Smiley, the London pavements were always hard and cold to sit on, even at the peak of an English summer when the skyline almost shimmered with the heat. Today was one of the sunniest mornings he'd known for years yet the newspapers he'd carefully placed beneath him still couldn't protect his old bones from the chill.

Smiley peered lugubriously at the well-stuffed wallet that the woman had dropped and then again down the busy High Street in the direction she'd disappeared.

He shuffled uncomfortably on the pavement and absentmindedly moved the hat he had placed to receive coins donated by passers-by closer to the wallet.

Although the street wasn't busy, the patterned brick parking places were popular with local office workers and, as they passed Smiley in the morning, they would sometimes be generous to an old man down and out on his luck.

Unfortunately, working this spot meant Smiley had to leave the hostel where he lived early and miss breakfast but, once he had a few coins in his pocket, he could always catch up with his eating later and, with a bit of luck, might even be able to afford a bottle of cider to wash it down.

Sadly for Smiley, this morning his old hat was almost empty, except for the two old washers he had put there to encourage the idea of giving and it was almost time to move on. He had missed breakfast and probably now would miss his cider too.

Nevertheless, as Smiley left the spot where he begged for coppers each day, he almost had a skip in his gait and his heart was as light as the white clouds that floated high above the London traffic on that hot sunny day. A lorry passed, showering him with dust and fumes but he still smiled. Sometimes it was just good to be alive.

Later, in an office block high above the street through which Smiley had trudged, the blonde woman with the tightly tailored red suit was in a meeting with her secretary when her wallet was returned by an apologetic doorman. He explained it had been handed in by an old man who hadn't left his name and who had only given them the vaguest description of its owner which meant it had taken them some time to track her down.

Smiley trudged on contentedly through the streets. The money in the wallet could have changed his life, at least for a time, but the knowledge that he had known the office block in which the well-to-do attractive lady worked and had returned the wallet untouched would give him a warm feeling for much longer.

Bye for now

Rob
(Rob Hopcott - free online author)

Is honesty the best policy or are the ruthless always those that reap the rewards?

What do you think? Leave your opinions - but not your wallets - in the comments section below.

I'd love to know what you think :-)

Enjoyed this? You may also enjoy 'One more step' - a flash fiction very short story about an old stone seat, lost love, romance, death and reunion by Rob Hopcott

This short flash fiction very short story about lost property, poverty, honesty and the good life is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this flash short fiction morality story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, science fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

One more step - a flash fiction very short story about an old stone seat, lost love, romance, death and reunion by Rob Hopcott

2008-04-26T04:40:00.000-07:00

One more step and I will see the old stone seat at the top of the hill. The prickly green and gold gorse bushes crowd my path and their heady perfume my senses. In the distance, the sea is blue, lapping the shores of the Bristol Channel.

My walking stick, cut from my garden's apple tree in the valley below is my comforter and relieves my arthritic legs as I pause to gaze back across the rolling Exmoor Hills and valleys I've loved all my life.

I know not why but in my other hand, I carry an old wooden flute - my wooden flute. It is a strange thing to carry to the top of a high hill but it is comforting. It has been with me for the happiest moments of my life.

Together, we have made music. Sometimes by ourselves and sometimes with our friends for hour after happy hour. Eyes smiling, bodies bent together, sharing the rhythms, violin bows rising and falling. Always my flute soaring like a lark through the sounds, texture and melodies in perfect time.

My love played the violin until she left me. For many years she was my only love and since then there has been no other. Of all the people with whom I have shared music, she reached me most deeply. Her sounds raised my spirits into the white clouds and held them aloft as they danced among the green hills and the gentle countryside. Together we enjoyed our long romance, spending our lives contentedly walking, living and loving. This was our favourite hill and I am determined to climb it again.

One more step and I am there. The wind is singing in the branches of our favourite tree and a narrow shaft of sunlight is breaking through the clouds illuminating brightly the old grey stone seat we have so often shared. Somewhere a violin is playing and the wind is like a softly spoken orchestra. One more step and I will hear it all more clearly. The air is like crystal this May day morning and someone is calling for me not to be afraid.

As I settle my old body against the cold, comforting stone, I feel calm. Once more I lift my flute to my lips. The orchestra has reached a crescendo and my love's violin is rising and falling in arpeggios more brilliant than the brightest sun.

One more breath, one more melody and my love and I are, once more, reunited.

The End

Rob Hopcott, online author

Enjoyed this? You may also enjoy Loneliness, love, romance and the long distance railway

This short flash fiction very short story about an old stone seat, lost love, romance, death and reunion is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this flash short fiction love story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, science fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Loneliness, love, romance and the long distance railway - an online flash fiction story by Rob Hopcott

2008-03-27T07:09:00.000-07:00

She had short brown hair framing a pert face and a formal pastel green short jacket over a knee length pastel green skirt and was sitting opposite me in the railway carriage.

A magazine was open in front of her but she had not turned a page for the last hour. English towns and fields flashed by under her steady unseeing gaze and her thoughts seemed far away.

Underneath her formal suit jacket, I noticed her white blouse had been wrongly buttoned as if she'd dressed quickly.

Her sad eyes suggested thoughts of lost love or a romance once shared and now ended.

Eventually, the carriage was almost empty and we sat facing each other, alone. It became embarrassing not to speak, not to acknowledge each other.

I wondered what to say. It didn't seem right to be inconsequential.

My London flat awaited me at the end of this journey from Dover. The central heating had been off for the three weeks I had been away in Paris on business. It would be cold. There would be no food and, above all, nobody would be waiting for me.

Our eyes met and I felt that her thoughts were similar to mine. I have never been one for smalltalk and prefer to speak from the heart. It has often got me into trouble but my habits were not about to change.

"You haven't read your magazine at all," I said. "Your thoughts must have been really interesting."

"Not interesting, but they certainly occupied my mind," she said.

Her smile was sad and gentle, with a sideways glance under her fringe that appraised me, I suddenly realised, not merely as a fellow passenger, but also as a man.

She saw my boring black trousers, old grey pullover and old-fashioned Harris tweed jacket and I suddenly wished I'd dressed more smartly.

I threw caution to the winds.

"I wonder, are you thinking about where you have come from or where you are going? "

Her hazel eyes widened and I could see she was struggling with her response. I'd been intrusive but I didn't care.

She answered my question with a question.

"And what about you? Are you looking forward to getting home?"

"My flat in London will be cold. My refrigerator will be empty. Amongst the millions in the city of London, I will be completely alone."

A tidal wave of emotions swept across her face and her eyes were moist as if she was fighting back tears.

"Perhaps it is better," she said, "to return to an empty flat where you will feel alone than it is to return to a house full of people yet still feel completely alone. At least you won't have to pretend."

"And the place you have come from," I said. "Were you alone there?"

"That place doesn't exist any more for me," she said. "Nor does the man I wrongly believed I knew."

"Whoever he was, "I suspect he didn't know the value of what he enjoyed," I suggested.

"He had no idea," she said flatly, and returned to gaze out of the window.

We had made contact and no longer needed to talk for the rest of the journey.

Somehow we now shared an easy camaraderie of intimate feelings and mutual pain.

I helped her with her suitcase and she left me standing beside mine on the platform as she walked away, pulling her suitcase on its tiny wheels behind her.

Slowly, I made my way through the bustling crowds towards the exit, wondering whether to take a taxi or to use the underground back to my flat.

Soon, the platform was behind me and I stood besides the ticket office trying to make the decision.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the lady from the train.

"Do people who are lonely, by keeping each other company, cancel the pain they both feel ?"

Her voice was soft, reflective and melodious. It sounded less a proposition and more a continuation of our conversation.

I put down my suitcase, took her hand and drew her to me, placing a gentle kiss on her lips.

"Hello," I said. "I don't know but I would certainly like to find out."

"Hello," she replied, kissing me back, "neither do I and I also would like to find out."

As we walked hand-in-hand to find a taxi to take us to a place which we would make warm together, neither of us needed to speak .

There would be time for talking later - perhaps even a lifetime.

But, just for tonight, perhaps neither of us would feel alone.

The End

Rob Hopcott, online author

Enjoyed this? You may also enjoy Deceiving My Wife - a short postcard fiction story.

This short short flash fiction story about loneliness, love, romance and the long distance railway is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this flash short fiction romance story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, science fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Deceiving My Wife - a short postcard fiction romance story about a romantic rendezvous by Rob Hopcott

2008-03-19T06:54:00.000-07:00

On the day I was to deceive my wife, the sky dawned a deep blue with puffy white clouds. There was the smell of newly mown lawn on the breeze and warring seagulls soared and screamed above the houses of our provincial market town.

As I carefully selected the clothes to wear, my hands were clammy and my breathing uneven with an excitement I'd not felt for years.

At 11.00 o'clock that morning, I had a rendezvous with a beautiful lady with auburn hair and the sort of hazel eyes that made me want to dive deep down into her velvet soul.

Every aspect of that special morning was planned like a military campaign.

Avoiding my wife's eyes, I dropped into breakfast conversation that I would take my lunchtime walk early to give me more time to work on my book in the afternoon.

Meticulously, in my mind, I checked and rechecked the route I would take for my secret liaisson.

When my wife announced she was going down the road to do some shopping, I again reviewed my way knowing our paths might meet and uncomfortable questions be asked. At all costs, I must avoid detection. Nothing must go wrong.

My heart was racing, my hands were clammy and I was sure that my smiles to my wife looked as false as they felt to me.

Then the time came. I slipped out of my front door, keeping close to the side of the hedge and drifted like a shadow through little alleys and byways in a circular route to my destination.

The High Street was the worst part of my journey but necessary and I knew my wife could have bumped into me at any point.

Could I have lived the lie? Perhaps I would have blushed, perhaps I would have stammered and she would have said "What's wrong?" After twenty five years of truth could I have lied convincingly?

Only by completely avoiding meeting my wife as I made my way nervously through the tiny streets of our seaside town to miss hazel eyes in her sweet smelling boudoir could I be sure of maintaining my deception.

Finally, with pulse racing, I was there.

The door had been left slightly ajar and I hurriedly pushed my way through and entered her sweet smelling domain.

She smiled and I smiled then I opened my arms to fulfill my mission.

Returning, hurriedly and out of breath, back to my home was equally challenging. My route was again different to take maximum advantage of peeking around corners and achieving clear sight vantage points through the streets.

Once home, I made arrangements to conceal incriminating evidence and then escaped to my study to pretend to work and allow my pulse to slow.

For the first time in my marriage, I had lied to and deceived my wife ... It was easier than I expected and the thought made me feel warm inside.

How I got through the rest of the day, I will never know. Perhaps I appeared offhand or perhaps I successfully concealed my inner turmoil. Ultimately, I was grateful when sleep overcame me.

Morning came with another beautifully sunny day. The robins were singing in the garden and all three of my children telephoned bright and early at 9.00 o'clock to see if their mother had enjoyed the Mother's Day flowers I had bought on their behalf the previous day.

My wife loved the huge bouquet I had surreptitiously carried through our small market town so all my lying and deception was well worth the effort.

The End

Rob Hopcott

Enjoyed this? You may also enjoy My Perfect Lover.

This short short postcard fiction romance story about a romantic rendezvous is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this flash short postcard fiction romance story for Mother's day and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

My Perfect Lover - a romantic postcard fiction short love story by Rob Hopcott

2008-02-27T07:46:00.000-08:00

My sweet lover is everything I could want.

She is beautiful and easygoing.

In the garden, it is so romantic resting in our favorite place in the warmth of the sun for hours, just being together.

She is a hard worker and keeps house for me perfectly. I love to sit besides her in the evenings as she practices her rural crafts of spinning, while I enjoy the sun going down over Exmoor.

She keeps our home tidy and the food she brings me is tasty and plentiful.

Everything about her excites me to such enormous passion; her wonderful legs, her soft hair ...

Soon tonight we will make love and, afterwards, we will lie together in the evening sun with her wrapped all around me.

It will be so romantic and I will be ready to give myself to her body and soul.

It fills me full of pride to think that I can help my love - by becoming her next meal - to produce a new generation of young garden spiders.

The End

Rob Hopcott

Enjoyed this? You may also enjoy Saying Goodbye Hurts.

This short romantic postcard fiction spider love story is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this flash short postcard fiction rural garden spider story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Tennis Bell Tolls - a 100 word microfiction about tennis clubs, tennis players and remembrance by Rob Hopcott

2008-02-17T03:55:00.000-08:00

Inside our old wooden club house, that slumbers besides our rural tree lined tennis courts, alone on a shelf, rests an ancient school handbell.

Over the years, with sun beaming down and birds singing in the trees, when our bell has rung, we have stopped playing for a minute's silence in memory of one of us who will play no more.

Now, as I grow old and struggle towards that ever faster bouncing ball, I know soon the bell will ring out again, loud and clear, but that day I will not hear, for it will toll for me.

Rob Hopcott

Enjoyed this? You may also enjoy Saying Goodbye Hurts.

This short postcard fiction tennis club handbell story is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this flash short postcard fiction tennis club handbell story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organization, living or otherwise.

Saying Goodbye Hurts - a short postcard fiction love story by Rob Hopcott

2008-01-17T08:27:00.000-08:00

She had three inch high heels, wore brightly colored tight dresses, spoke with a crazy husky voice that boomed out from under her brunette fringe and had the habit of getting herself into the sort of trouble in nightclubs that I couldn't resist getting her out of.

I followed her into bars, boardrooms and bedrooms. Like a fly on the wall, I luxuriated in her strong perfumes and observed her mannerisms, her philosophy and even the way she made love to barflies, barmen and, in the last resort, bar babes.

Irresistibly, she became a part of my life.

Every morning, as the California sun slanted through my bedroom window, I'd turn to see her head on my pillow and my heart would lurch with the teasing look in her eyes as she reached out for me.

Every night I would stagger from my bottle to my bed and blow her a parting kiss as she headed downtown for new adventures but only after she had promised to 'tell all' in the morning.

Sadly, I knew, one day, it had to end.

It was always going to hurt and when the time came to say goodbye, it broke my heart.

But there was no alternative and one day, I had to write ...

The End

(Rob Hopcott - online author - Fiction - News)

Whence my bohemia of artists, authors and musicians?

This short postcard fiction love story is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this flash short postcard fiction love story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organisation, living or otherwise.

Girl Male Talk - a flash fiction story about new millennium relationships by Rob Hopcott

2008-01-15T04:00:00.000-08:00

"Go on then, Maddy, what's he like, you know, in bed?"

Veronica leaned forward over the Space Agency Tennis Club ladies' changing room wash basin and gazed intently at the reflection of her face in the mirror. She wore a blue tracksuit that matched her questioning eyes, long fair hair and a bead of perspiration on her upper lip from the game of ladies singles she and her friend had been playing. Currently without a man in her life and starved for kicks, she was determined to get her thrills vicariously.

Maddy primped her short brown hair and looked modest but also proud. She knew that her current male was the envy of all her girlfriends. A high flier exchange pilot from the new squadron at the Space Agency, he had the sleek looks and high income universally admired in her post university, upwardly mobile, female circles.

"Awe shucks, leave it out Veronica, you don't expect me to tell you that? Its private."

Maddy had dark brown eyes, a foxy face and a figure that was as delicate as a figurine. She could have been a ballet dancer and had even considered going to dancing school when she was a teenager at the turn of the third millennium but instead had gone into speech therapy. It was through her work as a speech therapist that she had met her current beau, initially as her client and then, rumor had it, as her lover.

"Go on, Maddy, spill the beans. You know you want to. Give me detail and, if you've got one, I want to see the video."

Maddy pulled a pair of amber tracksuit bottoms over her short tennis skirt and examined her eyes in the mirror, a smile playing on her rouged lips.

"He's very strong," she said. "When he holds you close, you know you are not going anywhere else. And he talks all the time. He says the most wonderful things. It's a real turn on! "

Veronica gave a squeal of joy and wrapped her arms around her friend, giving her a big hug. She leaned back and gazed into Maddy's eyes.

"You are doing good gal, now tell me more!" Her face, already flushed from playing tennis, beamed with expectation, excitement and anticipation."

Maddy disengaged herself from her friend, leaned down and picked up her tennis bag, smiling modestly.

"But, before I do, I want to know why you have such an interest in my male. You're not thinking of trying to take him away from me are you?"

Veronica turned to look out of the window, across the tennis courts which were busy with players. Her mood had changed and now she was more defensive and thoughtful.

"No, of course not, but he has a friend from the same squadron who has emailed me and wants a date. My job in admin doesn't usually bring me into contact with the astronauts. It's a new experience and I just felt a bit nervous."

Maddy looped her arm over Veronica shoulders and gazed gently into her friends eyes.

"Treat it like any other date," Maddy said, seriously. "If you enjoy being with him, if you find you have things in common then let your relationship progress just as normal. But give yourself time to get used to him. Above all, don't go to bed with him on the first date."

"Why not, if I really like him," said Veronica.

"Because you won't want to go out with an ordinary man again. He'll ruin you for normal relationships."

"I don't understand?"said Veronica.

Maggie gazed cautiously into her friend's eyes and spoke slowly.

"This is so secret, it's almost classified."

"Tell me, tell me! Stop teasing me."

"Okay, males from his planet have two arms, a head, four legs and are about the same height as our terrestrial human beings, although a bit hairier. Even the children that are born from inter-terrestrial relationships are healthy and happy. But one thing is different. When they make love, that important little thing that gives us woman so much pleasure vibrates as they talk. This means that the love making experience is completely and totally out of this world."

"I don't understand why you think this is a problem," said Veronica.

"Quite simply, the experience is so fantastic that you will never ever want to go with an ordinary human man again," said Maddy.

As they left the tennis club, Veronica turned to Maddy.

"But doesn't that mean that, as more of their species come to live on Earth, ordinary male human beings will lose out?"

Maddy turned to her friend with sadness in her eyes.

"Yes, completely, as soon as this gets out, sooner or later, ordinary human males will become totally redundant."

The End

(Rob Hopcott - online author - Fiction - News)

Whence my bohemia of artists, authors and musicians?

This flash science fiction short story about new millennium relationships is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this flash sci fi short short story about new century relationships and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person or organisation, living or otherwise.

Love at first sight - a micro fiction postcard short story about a hotel romance by Rob Hopcott

2008-01-14T08:03:00.001-08:00

As soon as I saw her entering the hotel bar, I knew she was special. Our eyes met and there was a lightening bolt of chemistry that only ever happens once in a lifetime.

We sat at the table by the window and I felt so proud. Her face was foxy, her figure was an hour glass shown off to perfection by her demure black cocktail dress.

We talked about my love of painting and her PhD in Fine Art. We held hands across the table and I was almost afraid to ask.

When she stepped inside my hotel room, we held each other and kissed as if we could make all our troubles go away and prevent the world from ending.

I whispered breathlessly into her ear "I think I'm falling in love with you. I want you so much"

Her voice was husky, low, soft and gentle, and I knew she was mine when she whispered sexily into my ear:

"That will be five hundred dollars ..."

The End

(Rob Hopcott - online author - Fiction - News)

Whence my bohemia of artists, authors and musicians?

This micro fiction postcard short story about a hotel romance is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short postcard romance story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Darling I want to take a lover - a post card fiction short wife infidelity story by Rob Hopcott

2008-01-11T06:27:00.000-08:00

When my wife said she wanted to be unfaithful with another man, I felt as if I'd been punched in my stomach and all the breath had been knocked out of me.

To be fair, she said she wanted me to be the first to know of her decision and that she'd nobody in mind yet.

I just didn't know what to say, hoping desperately that, if I didn't make too much of a fuss, she might think again.

Since losing my job at the Bank, I'd felt less than the ideal husband, anyway, and I could easily understand her wanting a proper man in her arms, one who was able to contribute to the housekeeping. I felt sad not mad with her. After all, it was my fault not hers that creditors were telephoning us almost daily.

My hopes of a reprieve were dashed when she explained that the only way she was willing to do this was if I assisted in the search for her ideal lover.

To be honest, I still haven't come to terms with my wife's regular infidelity in our back bedroom or the part I played introducing her to my ex regional manager.

She says, he means nothing to her and when they are at the height of their passion together, it's always me she is making love to.

All I can feel is relief. I've got my job back, the threatening telephone calls have stopped and the cash we've stored up under the floorboards will soon be enough for a foreign holiday.

The End

(Rob Hopcott - online author - Fiction - News)

Whence my bohemia of artists, authors and musicians?

This postcard fiction wife's infidelity story is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short postcard unfaithful wife story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

My First Murder - a postcard fiction murder story by Rob Hopcott

2008-01-10T05:47:00.000-08:00

When I announced that I had just committed my first murder to the others in the local folk dance band, there was a pleasing stunned silence and my fellow band musicians looked really upset.

Then the lead violinist, a tall and willowy young lady with long straight brown hair and a gentle smile said:

"It was in one of your stories, wasn't it?"

There was an audible sigh of relief all around.

I wriggled in my chair and said, wryly, "sure!"

So we played our dance music through the evening. The folk dancers do-si-doed, formed into straight lines, circles and squares. Everybody smiled and was happy, except me.

Perhaps it was because I still had the murder in my head. The long drive through the night, the flash of the knife in the darkness, the scream of the victim and the sound of the spade in the gravel as they were interred.

The next week, when I turned up to play at the dance, my announcement that the police had been around asking questions, was practically ignored. The drummer played a quick drum roll by way of a flourish to mark my words, but the others in the band hardly looked up.

The dance went well. We had more people than usual and they skipped and jigged around like little lambs, although most were well past middle-age.

A week later and the band had no option but to take me seriously when they read my note apologising for my absence, .

As I explained in my carefully phrased letter, unfortunately, once prisoners are bound over for trial, the police don't allow them to continue playing in the local folk dance band.

The End

(Rob Hopcott - online author - Fiction - News)

Whence my bohemia of artists, authors and musicians?

This postcard fiction murder story is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short postcard murder story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Wife offers husband for public flogging - a humorous postcard fiction short story about office secretary infidelity by Rob Hopcott

2008-01-09T06:44:00.000-08:00

When my wife suggested that I be publicly flogged, I thought she'd discovered my lunchtime infidelities with my secretary. I was therefore quite relieved when she explained she was talking about auctioning my services off through an auction of promises as a weekend domestic servant to raise funds at her local women's club.

A week later, the whole event proved quite boring. Indeed, most of the bids were depressingly low, despite me flexing my well honed physique on the stage to best effect. However, the general lack of interest made it easy for an attractive young lady to come in with a late bid and win the auction.

It turned out to be the most enjoyable Saturday I have ever spent, and I must remember to suggest to my wife she auctions me off again next year.

My day of freedom with no questions asked was well worth all the effort, even if I did have to reimburse my secretary the £50 she paid for me.

The End

(Rob Hopcott - online author - Fiction - News)

Whence my bohemia populated by artists, authors and musicians?

This humorous office secretary infidelity short story is copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short humorous postcard fiction story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Last Wish - a micro fiction very short story about dying and fulfilling a lifetime dream by Rob Hopcott

2008-01-08T07:57:00.000-08:00

When my wife came right out and said she wanted to kill me, my first reaction was to laugh until I saw the automatic pistol in her hand.

I have to confess that I was pretty scared. Laura can be very single minded when she decides to do something. Today, apparently, she'd decided to kill me. No doubt she had her reasons but it didn't seem worth investigating them since it seemed clear she'd already made up her mind.

However, she'd always been such a giving person and there had always been a lifetime dream I wanted to fulfill before I died. So I asked her if she would mind me having this one last wish and grudgingly she agreed - as long as I didn't take too long.

I have to confess that having my hands tied behind my back and pulled close to my ankles with my face pressed against the floor was a bit uncomfortable but somehow I think it actually made my last wish even better than I expected.

By the time the explosion came, I didn't really mind dying any more - or anything.

The End

(Rob Hopcott - online author - Fiction - News)

Whence my bohemia populated by artists, authors and musicians?

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short postcard fiction dying wish micro fiction murder story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Marry him should I?

2008-01-07T03:31:00.000-08:00

When he said he loved me and would I marry him, I didn't know what to say. It was all so sudden.

After all, we had only known each other for a few weeks. Admittedly, we had lots in common; walking in the countryside, old pubs with open fires, even fishing. But the truth was that I didn't look at him that way.

He said, if I felt things were going too fast, we could get engaged and live together for a while.

He was very keen. He said he loved my warm smile and everything about me and it would make him the happiest man in the world if I could love him too.

I said it was a shock and I would need some time to think how I should reply.

After a few days, we met up again at a beautiful countryside traditional inn besides the River Thames. There were candles on the tables, lovely oak beams and pictures of country sports on the walls.

I told him that I was definitely and absolutely not gay and never would be.

His face fell and he looked so sad but then brightened when I said

"But I'm willing to go ahead if we can have a house in the countryside with a swimming pool."

The End

(Rob Hopcott - online author - Fiction - News)

Whence my bohemia populated by artists, authors and musicians living in perfect creative harmony?

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2008, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short postcard fiction relationship story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

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2008-01-04T10:26:00.000-08:00

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Mystery of the Destroyed Laptop - a postcard fiction flash story by Rob Hopcott

2007-12-20T07:37:00.000-08:00

When the Reverend McArbuster violently destroyed his laptop with a pick axe on the rectory lawn, in full view of his departing congregation, the good ladies of Treadhampton exchanged concerned glances before hurrying back to cook their Sunday lunches in their neat Gloucestershire village homes.

When it was announced a week later at the Sunday Service that the Reverend had suddenly departed for a new position in Africa, even the regulars at the local Figs Ferkin pub joined in the speculation before raising a glass in sorrow for the departure of this popular local clergyman.

The mystery deepened, soon after, when the solitary figure of a slim blond lady was seen knocking on the door of the deserted vicarage.

Now, it came to pass, as it sometimes does in small villages, the local web site designer was also the brother-in-law of young Tom the junior dustbin man and by means that will remain unexplained, due to such small matters as the Data Protection Act, a certain recovered hard disk from a certain laptop came to be searched for clues to the mystery.

Almost immediately, the whole village was alive with the sad story. People said something had to be done and a committee was formed with the head of the Women's Institute acting as Chairman. The vote was unanimous and a collection was made at the packed meeting to buy an air ticket for one.

Six months later, the good ladies of the village, and even the regulars at the Figs Ferkin pub, all turned out to celebrate the marriage of their beaming vicar to a slim blond lady he had fallen in love with and wooed over the Internet.

As they sipped their celebratory cups of tea, the good ladies of Treadhampton commented wryly, that the course of true love never ran smooth and it was one thing to destroy love messages but quite another to destroy the means by which your lover could say 'sorry'.

The End

Bye for now.

Rob

(Rob Hopcott - online author - fiction - news - philanthropy)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short postcard fiction mystery story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Jim, are you having an affair with your secretary? A short flash fiction love story by Rob Hopcott

2007-12-19T08:33:00.000-08:00

"Jim, are you having an affair with your new secretary, Lynn?"

I spotted a lay-by through the driving rain a few hundred yards ahead, dropped down a couple of gears and pulled in. Our old Ford Estate was immediately rocked and buffeted by wind and spray from passing cars and goods vehicles as they streamed relentlessly North away from London up the A1.

I was tired. It was the end of the working week. Our home was only 10 miles away. It would be warm and comfortable and everything I had worked for as an advertising executive in the City of London over the last 20 years. I didn't need this conversation.

"What on earth gave you that idea, Jenny," I said, mildly.

Since I'd picked her up at the railway station, something had felt wrong. Her brown hair was combed tightly to frame her face. Her whole body language suggested she was shrinking away from me. Her hazel eyes, typically determined, looked sad.

"I asked you a question, Jim," Jenny said. Her tone was clipped, almost detached.

"It's a very strange question, coming out of the blue," I replied. "You've never asked me that in 25 years."

"I didn't think I ever needed to."

Jenny reached for her hand bag and pulled out a small mirror to examine their face. She was paying particular attention to her eyes. Perhaps she was afraid I would see tears she wanted to hide. She hated to look vulnerable - ever.

Jenny's demeanor was always tense and unyielding. Her severe and sober jacket and matching skirt was all part of the battery of weapons she used daily to control the staff in her busy London legal practise. At weekends, she would change into more casual clothes but she always looked like a legal executive dressing down.

Lynn was my new personal assistant secretary. She was a single mother with two young children. She had long blond hair and a soft smile that grew as you gazed into her eyes.

When she sat on the sofa in my office, it became her kingdom. The softness of her face and the flowing colorful clothes she preferred created an oasis of calm around her. When she came near me, all thoughts of work and my office diary disappeared.

All I could think of was to find out more about her. I wanted to know what she liked doing; what she liked eating; how was it that she had decided to work for me in my busy office.

Instead of her revolving around me, her overwhelming Earth Mother presence compelled me to honor and worship her needs and desires.

I gave in to her steady smile almost immediately. It was almost as if she was controlling my every act. Yet, as each separating layer of cloth was shed, her mystery grew. Eventually, I reached in desperation within her to find the answer to her mystery and power. But still the mystery remained although I searched again and again.

Then her hand was cool on my brow as I fought to recover my senses. Her voice was assured as she suggested we continue the briefing on Monday. The sway of her hips as she departed left me intoxicated.

"I would have thought your legal brain would have been able to tell the difference between truth and lies," I said.

She gazed into the dashboard, looking for answers.

"As a lawyer, I go on the evidence.”

“What evidence?”

“How otherwise would she have been able to tell me about the heart shaped mole on your stomach?"

I dropped Jenny off at our home, turned the old Ford around and headed back to London with the Sat Nav programmed with Lynn's South London address.

I wasn't angry with Lynn for telling Jenny or sad that my relationship of twenty-five years had evaporated.

Instead I was thrilled that the weekend ahead offered more than cold and empty smalltalk.

I wasn't even surprised that Lynn had made the decision that we should be together and acted accordingly.

Obediently and willingly, I sped through the night drawn like a moth towards my destiny.

I must have dozed off. Just in time, I opened my eyes to see the parked articulated lorry towering over me. I heard the tires of the old Ford hissing on the wet road as I braked. But I was too late.

The impact left me numb. One word came into my mind before the darkness.

"Lynn..."

The End.

Bye for now.

Rob

(Rob Hopcott - online author - fiction - news - philanthropy)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short short flash fiction about affairs and infidelity and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Barry is Jennifered - Chapter 1 of Kingfisher Blue a humorous on-line novel by Rob Hopcott

2007-12-17T05:22:00.000-08:00

She walked into Smokey's Bar like the breeze that sometimes caresses your face on a grey day. Her fair, nearly blond hair, cascaded over her shoulders with two wisps hanging down by each eye. The bustle of the bar absorbed her into its midst and I lost track of her until she surfaced by the gamblers.

They were a group of men who visited lunchtimes who liked telling tales of their successes and forgetting their losses in the beer. Their appreciation of local female talent was shared and bonded with approving winks. She got the treatment in spades. Her denim jeans, slightly frayed at the ankle, rose forever to meet smoothly curved hips and her red tightly stretched cotton shirt hugged her body like they wanted to.

A wave of drinks orders distracted me and by the time I saw her again she was seated at a table by the window. The man she was with wasn't a regular and he was nothing special. Smokey's attracted every element of Central London's low and high life. But this suit looked like a no-lifer. He wore middle age with oozing confidence, bending his baldness towards her with a ravenous smile. She was his lunch for today. His opportunity for courtship was timed to the minute and his body language was in the fast lane.

"Come on Barry. Are you the waking dead or what?"

It was Ron, the gaffer and skinny owner of Smokey's. He was rapidly going under from machine-gun fire orders from erstwhile drinkers who couldn't reach my planet. Smokey's was always busy and he could have kept half a dozen barmen on survival rations like me if that hadn't been against his moral code. He liked lean and mean. He aspired avidly to the status of skinflint.

I grunted meaningfully by way of reply, flicked back my wavy fair hair from my face and squared up to the rush of orders like the condemned. My slender body, honed to perfection by endless contemplation of exercise, whipped backwards and forwards like a medieval ballista hurling alcoholic drinks at the hordes like lead shot. The charges I delivered seemed less lethal but I knew they would get them in the end.

Moments later, the bar was clear and she was standing in front of me. Her large blue eyes fixed on me like twin sparkling lasers in the night. I stood transfixed.

"A pint of bitter and a tomato juice with ice please." She had repeated herself. This time more insistently.

I pushed the cogs of my mind into gear and with as much aplomb as I could muster, dropped the freshly opened tomato juice onto the floor trying to do too many things at once. It mingled noisily with the quagmire of beer and spirits already there. I saw Ron snarl with exasperation but I was in heaven.

"Do you normally have this affect on all men that serve you?" It was a low quip but the best I had to cover my embarrassment as I cleaned up.

"Only on a really good day and when the men are young and red bloodied," she laughed. Her voice was soft like a thousand wind chimes in the night.

"Young men must have some advantages!" I let my eyes drift in the direction of the window seat she would soon desert me for. It was an even lower cut made with the bravado of an adrenaline rush.

"You sound as if you've something to sell! What are you offering?" I noticed that there were flecks of gray drifting in the perfect blue of her teasing streetwise eyes.

"Me? I'm a humble barman ... I just watch and enjoy!"

The drinks were now on the bar. She handed over a five-pound note and collected the drinks with finely tapered fingers.

"You can have the change," she said, batting her eyes at me from behind her wisps.

"You're a friend," I said.

"We all need friends." She tossed her ponytail. "And, anyway, it's not my money."

"I wouldn't have thought a good looking girl like you had any shortage of friends ... or money."

I saw the pain in her eyes as my words registered and mentally kicked myself hard. She knew I was wondering why she was with the old guy. Our eyes locked, hers cool and appraising, mine telling her I was sorry for being an idiot. She seemed to make a decision.

"You can be my friend if you really want to. Three thirty in the center of the park outside. Be there! I'm relying on you!"

Five minutes later, I remembered to close my mouth to stop the barflies making a permanent home.

Fifteen minutes later, she delicately threaded her way through the crush with her man in tow and was gone.

Read Chapter 2 of free on-line humorous novel Kingfisher Blue by Rob Hopcott

Bye for now.

Rob

(Rob Hopcott - online author - fiction - news - philanthropy)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short extract from my free online novel or novella Kingfisher Blue and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Time to say good-bye but not to cry - a short postcard micro fiction story about death, bereavement, grief and grieving by Rob Hopcott

2007-12-13T04:53:00.000-08:00

When my father-in-law died, I can still remember how my mother cried at his funeral; how my brother and I almost had to carry her between us, from the car into the chapel. I remember how we comforted her through the service and then, afterwards, mopped up the floor made slippery with her tears.

When my mother died, I learned at first hand the all consuming hammer blows of bereavement. Grief struck without any warning and consumed my whole being with unbearable pain. Like a hermit, I retired defeated by tears that swept through me like the crashing waves of a storm ridden sea.

Now, as I slip away from my frail and wrinkled body and soar through the blue sky, past white transparent clouds, I see ahead my friends and those I love waiting to welcome me to dance among the stars and wonder would we still have cried had we known that our loss was their gain.

Bye for now.

Rob

(Rob Hopcott - online author - fiction - news - philanthropy)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short postcard fiction story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

500 Lashes - a short story about the credit crunch and the Devil by Rob Hopcott

2007-12-12T06:05:00.000-08:00

James, the Chief Officer of the Bank, blinked when the little devil appeared. He felt certain that the little wrinkled man was a devil because he had a funny red hat, a black cape and a tail with an arrow on the end. Also, this was the thirteenth floor and the little wrinkled man had just emerged through an outside wall beyond which was only the early evening darkness. There was also a strong smell of sulphur.

But James hadn't got to be Chief Officer of the Bank without confirming his facts so he demanded, angrily, "Who are you, what do you want and what are you doing in my office?"

"I am, as you've already guessed, sir, a little devil."

"What do you mean 'a little devil'. I thought there was only one Devil?"

"No sir, there are lots of little devils as well as the Grand Master Devil. We little devils are the many minions that go about doing the job, and, if I might say so sir, doing a fine job in difficult circumstances."

"And what is your job?"

"According to my order, sir, I have to give you 500 lashes!"

"500 lashes?"

"Yes, 500 lashes with this nice leather whip. "

The little devil quickly locked the door, pocketed the key, and then sprang around the room vigorously swishing his tail and the whip backwards and forwards by way of demonstration.

"You can't do that," said the Chief Officer, shrinking back into his soft leather chair. "I'm the Chief Officer of this Bank. People don't just walk into my office on the thirteenth floor and say they are here to give me five hundred lashes of a whip. I expect to receive some respect."

"Don't worry, guv, you probably won't survive to feel all the five hundred. You'll probably die before we're half through. The human body can't take that sort of pain you know. That's why we do it slowly, otherwise it's over too quick."

"Over too quick? What are you? A sadist."

"No, sir, I'm just a little devil doing his job. According to my orders, sir, it's you who are the sadist - and your Bank. Your business lends poor people money to buy homes at inflated prices, puts up the interest rates after a couple of years and then repossesses them. The poor people lose everything and you make huge profits. Now, I have to get on. I hope you're not going to delay me. I have many more orders to fulfil tonight.

"Look, I'm sure it's all a mistake. If it's money that you want, I can pay you."

"Ah, now this order wasn't a money purchase, sir. The order was raised by our Crimes Against Decency division as a result of being contacted by hundreds of your customers. We call it the CADs division. You've got to admit that's pretty appropriate. After all, you raise hopes of owning a happy home and then dash them, which is all a bit caddish, don't you agree."

"But, I've only been doing normal Bank business. There's nothing illegal about that."

"According to the Laws of Decency, there's a lot wrong with that, sir. People have a right to make a home and bring up their families. The way you work, you end up with all the profits and they end up with no home. What could be worse than that?"

"Look, I demand an appeal. It's the Government that raises interest rates not the Bank. Surely an appeal is my right."

"Yes siree, that is your right, but it will mess up my whole evening. We don't have time these days for niceties you know. Death is too busy. Hell's torture chambers are too full. That's why we have introduced Hell on Earth, sir, because there's just not enough space to do the job down below any more."

The little devil drew back his shoulders and strutted about the Chief Officer's office proudly, swishing his tail and the whip.

"Bringing Hell to people on Earth is a new innovative policy. Are you sure you want to appeal. And, if you say there are people in the Government who need a few lashes too, that will mean more work and we are already overloaded."

"I don't care about your workload. Yes, I want to appeal."

"OK, step this way," said the little devil, sighing and wrinkling his face in resignation. He pulled up a chair to the window and slipped the catch.

"You don't want me to climb on that chair and step out of that window?"

"It's the only way to get an appeal sir. Trust me. Step out of this window and you will immediately arrive in the Appeals Office. They'll deal with your appeal according to the proper rules and regulations while I hang around here wasting my time. If your appeal is successful, and so many are these days with all the Human Rights Legislation, you could be off free to your private club this evening, with a quick visit to your mistress on the way, as is your habit. Later you could be back in your large home happily tucked up in your comfortable bed with your trophy wife and all this will be a distant memory."

The little devil smacked his whip on the Chief Officer's desk with a loud crack."

"Or you can stop creating unnecessary delay, strip off and take the lashes. That would be preferable from my point of view, sir, because I have a lot of people to visit this evening."

CRACK. The little devil brought the whip down on the table again.

"Hurry up and decide, I haven't got all night."

The Chief Officer winced at the sound of the whip on the desk, imagining the pain if the lash had fallen on his skin.

"Alright," said the Chief Officer, petulantly. "I'm going. You'll be sorry when they find out what a mistake you've made. I'll make sure you pay for it and pay dearly."

The Chief Officer climbed on the chair and stepped through the window. As his feet found only insubstantial air and not the firm floor of the Appeals Department, he knew he'd made a mistake."

"You've tricked meeeee," he yelled, flapping his arms, trying to hit out at the little devil, as he plummeted towards the deserted car park thirteen floors below.

The little devil, grinned maliciously, as he floated just out of range of the wildly thrashing Chief Officer.

"Divine justice, as you might say, sir, isn't it. You've spent all your life tricking people and this is how you will die. From our point of view, it's so much quicker and more efficient than beating you to death. Also, it doesn't get in the papers."

When the Chief Officer hit the ground, he was still cursing the borrowers who had sent him to the devil.

The End

Thank-you for reading this humorous short story about whips, whipping, banks and the credit crunch. I hope you enjoyed it.

Of course, far from being funny, the credit crunch is a very serious matter and a cause of much pain for many poor people. Frankly, I don't know how bankers sleep at night who have enticed borrowers with cheap loans the bankers know will subsequently become too expensive to pay.

Hopefully, too, the few countries in the world that still use whipping and flogging as part of their legal system will soon understand the barbaric nature of these acts and quickly amend their ways.

(Rob Hopcott - online author - fiction - news - philanthropy)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this short story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Campfire romance, young love, tents and camper-vans - a very short story about memories by Rob Hopcott

2007-12-10T02:37:00.000-08:00

It was a whim that drew me in; an undefinable urge to revisit an old haunt and to answer a faint but important clarion call from my past. Indecisively, I changed direction onto the country road. But then, as I drew closer, memories flooded in and I realized I was hooked and to turn back was impossible.

But where I'd expected to find a warm welcome and smiling faces, I found a dilapidated gate locked by a rusty chain.

The quaint shops still meandered sleepily up the high street. The light breeze brought exotic scents of spring flowers from the nearby wood, tinged with smells of river mud, where the sailing boats lay at rest until the sea called them again.

Instead of green grass and lines of tents and caravans, I saw piles of earth banked in preparation for building foundations and tarmac roads.

I leaned on the rusty gate and looked over to where our tiny tent had been pitched. I remembered the camp fire at the entrance. I gazed again into the clear blue eyes of the young girl wearing the kaftan and felt the warmth of the camp fire as we snuggled together.

I remembered how we shared a bottle of wine and listened to the bands through the night until the light of the new day brought romantic crimson streaks to edge the clouds of dawn.

Then, unable to find further reason to delay, we closed the entrance of our tent and passed from childhood into our tomorrows.

I heard another vehicle pull up besides mine, the sound of a door opening and then soft steps. A warm body leaned against the old gate besides me but still I did not turn.

To welcome her would have spoiled the memory. She needed her own time to make the journey back into the past and to relive the feelings and emotions that had also drawn her to this old camp site.

After many moments of silence, she was the first to speak:

"I can make us a cup of tea in my camper-van, if you like."

I turned to see clear blue eyes, undimmed by the years, staring steadily all the way from her memories into mine.

I would like that very much," I said. "Perhaps even a bottle of wine later."

"That would be even nicer."

As she led me to her camper-van, I thought how amazing it was, that after so many years.

She still looked wonderful in a kaftan.

The End

(Rob Hopcott - online author - fiction - news)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007, all rights reserved. All characters and places in this campfire romance, young love, tents and camper-vans very short story about memories, and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site, are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Queenie the Night Club Singer Sings Again - a very short microfiction flash story by Rob Hopcott

2007-12-05T06:42:00.000-08:00

Queenie moaned about everything; laddered stockings, her hair, the hours, the piano player and, most of all, about the pay my dad, the owner of Kizzeees Night Club, gave her.

"You've got nothing to complain about with the extras you get from your clients," my dad grumbled. "I reckon you ought to be paying me for letting you work here."

My dad was not wrong. I'd seen her in the passageway to her dressing room being very friendly with a man from the audience. People didn't pay too much attention to a small boy with no mum slipping in and out of their forest of legs.

But, when she got close up and made love to the microphone with the lights down low, her husky voice sang sweet and sad songs that lured her listeners siren-like onto the rocks of romance.

To me, as I roamed Kizzeees at all hours through my childhood, she was the embodiment of everything that was motherly, and throughout my adolescence a goddess of femininity.

When I dreamed the dreams of puberty, Queenie huskily played the leading roll in my fantasies.

My dad said it was the cigarettes that made her voice so unique.

"And it will be the cigarettes that kill you Queenie," he warned.

And they did.

I wasn't allowed to go to her funeral because dad said I was too young so I stayed back at the bar listening to sad songs on an old record player - but none of the singers could match my Queenie.

Queenie's death devastated me for weeks. Kizzeees was never ever the same again and soon after my dad closed it down and retired.

When I went off to College, I started an on-line fan club for Queenie. The message board memories came flooding in from people who had visited Kizzeees and had been touched by her singing over the years.

I discovered one of Queenie's fans had made secret tape recordings of her performances and arranged to put them on a CD and thousands sold within just a few weeks.

I can imagine her now demanding her cut and then grumbling it wasn't enough.

But I reckon she'd have been pleased and she would have given me one of her huge rose petal hugs. I loved her hugs.

From the CD sales, I saved enough money to open a music shop, so I reckoned she was, in her own way, still looking after me.

When I married, it was to a woman who, like Queenie, moaned a lot about her big behind and laddered stockings. Sadly, she wouldn't let me call the little girl she gave me by my favourite name.

Now I'm old and lying here alone with my memories in the hospice, with cancer gnawing it's final way through my vitals, it is Queenie's husky voice singing far away that still comforts me.

It won't be long now Queenie. I'll soon be with you again.

The End

(Rob Hopcott - online author - fiction - news)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters and places in this very short night club singer flash fiction very short story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Ultimate Solution to Global Warming and Climate Change - a short flash fiction story by Rob Hopcott

2007-12-04T03:19:00.000-08:00

"Professor, Professor. Could you spare us a few minutes? We have this wonderful invention."

Rick and Sophie, two of his best students, gazed at the Professor of World Studies with shining eyes and youthful enthusiasm.

"OK, let's hear your idea," said the Professor, trying to keep the fatigue out of his voice. "Talk as I tidy up my papers."

He'd just finished an hour long lecture on 'Could giant machines clean carbon dioxide out of the air and combat global warming?'

Always a popular teacher, close to a hundred youthful sweaty bodies had packed into his lecture and he was keen to retreat outside for some fresh air.

Retirement for the Professor couldn't come soon enough but he still cared about his students and genuinely wished there was a solution to global warming that he could believe in.

Rick grabbed a piece of chalk from the lectern and drew a matrix structure on the blackboard that the Professor had just wiped.

"The solution is simple," said Rick, enthusiastically. "A field of grass or any other plant life works brilliantly to soak up carbon dioxide and through photosynthesis produces oxygen. The problem is that to combat the levels of carbon dioxide we have in the air these days would take far too many fields. There just isn't the space on the planet."

Sophie grabbed the chalk from Rick, elbowed him out of the way, and started to draw light coming down from an oblong sun to represent the work of photosynthesis.

She continued the proposal.

"But what about if we had a large number of framework structures that allowed plant life to grow in the air with space for light to get through. We could use hydroponics to get nourishment to the plants and even have walk ways so they could be tended."

She slammed the chalk back down on the lectern, linked arms with Rick and gazed triumphantly at the Professor, waiting for his praise.

"Great idea guys," said the Professor, carefully, not wanting to bring them down with too much of a bang.

"Problem is that what you have just described has already been invented and distributed widely over the Earth. The rain forest has vast numbers of them. They are called 'trees' and the problem is that we human beings keep chopping them down!

As the Professor wearily left the lecture theatre, Rick and Sophie had switched to vigorously debating the merits and demerits of participants in a popular national TV talent show.

Outside, the Professor breathed the fresh air of the countryside campus deeply into his lungs and wondered how long Rick, Sophie and all the other young people of the new generation would be able to continue to enjoy this simple pleasure.

The End

(Rob Hopcott - online author - fiction - news)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this climate change and global warming flash fiction very short story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Desirable Haunts Wanted - a short flash fiction serialized ghost story by Rob Hopcott

2007-11-30T06:43:00.000-08:00

Harry blinked myopically at the large London policeman as he floated up from underneath the evil smelling pile of restaurant bins that had just fallen on top of him.

"Oi, Oi what have we 'ere," complained the policeman, as he adjusted his tall blue helmet to a more rakish angle.

"What exactly do you think you are up to, sir?"

Harry, who had already risen to over two metres above the dusty pavement, flapped his legs and arms and collapsed in front of the policeman, looking flustered and apologetic.

"I don't know officer," he panted. "The last thing I remember was walking home down this alley and those stacked dustbins falling on me. Otherwise, I haven't the faintest idea what's going on."

PC six nine and a half had always been known for his subtlety back at HQ.

"You're dead," he said.

"What?"

"You're dead, deceased, no longer living, stiffed, stuffed, kaput! You are no longer alive. Got it? Those 'orribly smelly dustbins fell on you and terminated your existence as a human being."

"Oh!"

"Now move along! You can't stay here in this alley. This alley is already occupied!"

But, if I'm dead, where do I go, what do I do? I'm a qualified tax inspector and I'm used to procedures."

"I don't care about your procedures. What you do is move along, sir. You move along and away from this private property!"

"But I thought this alley was public property and a public right of way."

"No sir, that is where you are 'orribly wrong. Not in the ghost world. No, no! In the ghost world, this alley is very private property and you are trespassing. You are committing an offence."

"What offence is that?"

"The offence of offending me. I have been happy in this alley for many years, sir, without being offended on. (Well, if you exclude the night I was stabbed in my particulars by that drug addict. Nasty piece of work. I put in a recommendation with the 'Top Brass' that he be dealt with severely when he arrived in this place.")

PC six nine and a half leaned forward, conspiratorially. Harry thought he smelled a whiff of spirits on his breath.

"They all come 'ere in the end - their end. And when they do, I'm waiting for 'em!"

"Well, that's all very interesting," said Harry, but I still don't know where to go. Is there a reception area or a place I can go to get some help."

"Ah, sir, now you are talking my language. We London policemen are trained to be helpful these days. We don't just catch robbers and thieves you know. We are an important part of the London tourism services. We even help annoying people who are getting in the way of our peaceful surveillance of private alleys, like you sir!"

PC six nine and a half beamed down at Harry.

Harry began to feel uncomfortable.

"Well, where do I go?"

"Around the corner, sir! There is a place around the corner where you can get a haunt of your own, so you don't have to bother me any more. Now move along, sir, at once!"

Harry, felt he'd been dismissed before he'd the opportunity to achieve at least some rapport with this large PC, in accordance with the Tax Inspectors Customer Manual section 33. However, feeling sad, but doing as he was instructed, he floated down the alley past the arriving paramedics and ambulance.

Looking back, he saw the paramedics were trying to give him heart massage but it didn't seem to be doing any good.

PC six nine and a half was officiously hovering over them making notes in his book. Harry wondered if he might get some sort of fine pushed through his letterbox, if ever he owned a door again.

The High Street suddenly arrived as places do when you are floating a couple of metres off the ground. It was rather busy but nobody seemed to pay Harry much attention.

A flashing light and neon sign caught his attention.

"G. Host Residential and Commercial Real Estate Agency," was written in large letters above the door of a rather dark and dingy shop.

Then in smaller letters:

"3,647 years of successfully helping first time ghost owners and all other ghosts and apparitions to find attractive haunts and climb the haunting ladder ."

"Well," thought Harry, as he floated through the solid door.

"This looks like just the place!"

The End

(is nigh, for now ... Ooooh! Oooooh!)

Read the second episode on my paranormal stories site

(Rob Hopcott - online author - fiction - news)

Note from the author. This is the first episode of a series of free serialized ghost stories by Rob Hopcott. I hope you will enjoy the ongoing ghostly story as it unfolds in regular free ghostly episodes.

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this humorous serialized ghost short story flash fiction and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

2020 News - Twinning with Galixos 2867#3 - global warming and climate change - a flash science fiction short story by Rob Hopcott

2007-11-29T06:20:00.000-08:00

The theme music of the Earth Wide Breaking Newsflash TV channel faded away. The President of Earth was tight lipped. The news he had to deliver was not what billions across the world were hoping to hear. He forced his craggy face into a smile and began.

"I have to announce today that negotiations over twinning Earth with Galixos 2867#3, a small planet in the Andromeda nebula, have broken down."

"Galixos 3, as I'm sure you are all aware, is a blue planet much like Earth. It has dry land spread over a number of continents surrounded by salty seas. Even the air is breathable by humans, although it is thinner and rather like the air found on Earth in elevated places like the Andes in Peru."

"Evolution too, on Galixos 3 has followed a similar pattern to Earth. Over billions of years, life evolved from simple bacteria through to sea based life forms who eventually adapted to breath air and live on dry land."

The President of Earth remembered to smile, willing the billions watching to feel at ease and believe he was in control.

"They look a bit different to us, of course," he beamed reassuringly. "They look like four metre long millipedes with three heads and eyes that are similar to our insects."

"However, they are very advanced and friendly and it was the United Council of Galixos 3 that first made contact with Earth, then suggested twinning with Earth in 2018 and subsequently provided an Ambassador to Earth for Observation and Friendship Purposes."

"Unfortunately, I am very sorry to have to report that the Ambassador has now concluded his study and, after listening to representations from Earth who argued strongly in favour, he has rejected our twinning for what he described as cultural and practical reasons."

"Apparently on Galixos 3, cooperative evolution has been greater than here on Earth where evolution has followed a combative pattern of the 'survival of the fittest', first identified, as you will know from your school studies, by Darwin."

"On Galixos 3, intelligent life evolution was dominated by the imperative that each life form be treated as if they were as one family. For them, of course, mating is a threesome process with a male and a female coming together with a third of their species who grows their young internally until birth."

"For them, concepts such as war and starvation, still prevalent in many places on Earth, are incomprehensible abstractions, not only alien but also extremely repellent to the entire Galixos 3 world population."

"Deistic beliefs still held by large numbers of humans on Earth are regarded by life forms on Galixos 3 as akin to mental illness having no basis in science and having an arbitrary and often harmful consequence on the lives of the adherents."

"For many of you, I know this is bad news. The technologies Galixos 3 offered are much more advanced than our own and would have solved many world problems from cancer to overcrowding."

"Unfortunately, when the Galixos 3 Ambassador transported away from Earth at 9am this morning, we lost all chance of continuing negotiations. We simply do not have the technology to contact them."

"However, we are a planet that has made great progress over the centuries and, ultimately, I firmly believe it is better for us to continue to achieve growth worldwide by our own efforts. We may be disappointed at our lost opportunity but we must soldier on. Thank you for listening. Goodbye."

The TV channel theme music faded up again and the green light showed the President of Earth that he was no longer on air.

Wearily the President of Earth mopped his brow with a tissue, as the news production assistant removed his earpiece.

He felt sad that he'd not dared to reveal the final reason why Galixos 3 had refused the twinning. The public would have demanded immediate action. There would have been riots and worldwide economic instability.

According to measurements by the Ambassador from Galixos 3, global warming on Earth was about to accelerate far more rapidly than Earth scientists had predicted, causing a sudden and cataclysmic release of methane, hitherto stored for millions of years in the permafrost of the North Pole.

The Ambassador's calculation was that Earth had no more than ten years to reverse this process of climate change. He had also assessed the likelihood of global warming being halted as extremely low, due to "warlike, anti-scientific, anti-cooperative, deistic cultural beliefs widespread in democratic and non-democratic populations on Earth".

The Ambassadors conclusion then was inevitable.

Twinning was pointless with a species facing extinction.

The End

Your comments are appreciated below.

Enjoyed this? You may also enjoy my story 'We Three Kings' - a science flash fiction very short story about scientific discovery, politics and first contact.

(Rob Hopcott - online author - fiction - news)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this climate change and global warming science fiction flash short story and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Body Language - a very very short seven sentence postcard fiction story by Rob Hopcott

2007-11-28T09:11:00.000-08:00

When I walked into the busy cafe in the crowded Shopping Mall, it was clear that the petite lady with the long black hair, demure green dress and perfect makeup seated in the window had everybody's attention.

I took my place at a table and tried, without being too obvious, to see why.

Was it the delicate way she was eating her cake? Or perhaps the romance novel she was reading? Or was it something special about the designer store shopping bags she'd neatly placed on the shiny floor.

Then I understood!

It was the masculine way she'd crossed her legs.

The End

(Rob Hopcott - online author - fiction - news)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this very very short seven sentence postcard fiction story about body language and other short story romances, romance short stories, free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Turtle Dove Winter Love - a very short flash microfiction story about bird migration by Rob Hopcott

2007-11-27T07:48:00.000-08:00

I still remember how sad I felt when my friends took off for the long flight away. They soared and wheeled around the tree where I was perched and they looked so fine. My children were among them and their wings were beating so strongly that I was full of pride.

For a moment I almost took off with them but I'd made my decision and knew that the flight was too far for me now and I didn't want to hold my friends back or force them to land in mountains or cities where there was danger.

Also, I'd not seen my love for some time and needed to find her.

I still remember how her feathers were so glossy and how she bowed and cooed when we first met. The sun was high in the sky and there were places to fly and hide in together. We danced and kissed and I followed her all day, from tree to tree and hedge to hedge, until she crouched low for me to come to her.

Since then we have never been apart.

Each time we became restless and took the long flight to our other home we would stay side by side as we soared over the mountains and through the valleys.

I still remember how proud I was when our children first took the flight with us and how we feared for the youngest and smallest. But he made the journey and even returned to find a fine lover of his own and reared young ones who also made the flight to our other home.

Staying here in this place will be an adventure and I am looking forward to finding what it will be like. I have never seen it here when the sun is so low in the sky and the trees are dropping their leaves.

I've noticed that the light has a new, strange way of glinting off the ground which is very beautiful. It looks good to drink but is hard to my bill. The wind is cold too and I have to ruffle my feathers up to keep warm. I wish I could find my love so we could share the light glinting.

We could snuggle together and keep warm.

We could look at the soft white leaves that have been falling from the sky and are now lying on the hedges all around. The leaves taste wet. I knew staying in this home would be an adventure. I wish my love could be here to taste the white leaves.

The darkness is coming early today, although the sun is still high in the sky.

Perhaps my love will come home to me when the sun rises again.

The End

(Rob Hopcott - online author - fiction - news)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this short love story about birds who migrate for the winter and other short story romances, romance short stories, free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Whispered Sweet Nothings - a short flash microfiction confession about Christmas and infidelity by Rob Hopcott

2007-11-26T02:46:00.000-08:00

I never expected to be unfaithful to my wife. We always had this thing about telling each other everything that might affect our relationship, however small, and, I had always stuck to it.

But I'd had this growing obsession, this growing love secret, for nearly a year, and I just couldn't bring myself to come clean. Perhaps it was because it wasn't a small thing for me. It was huge. I felt as guilty as heck and it caused me sleepless nights.

It had all begun just after last Christmas.

I was out on the open road as a sales rep every working day and I got into the habit of getting together with her on the edge of the motorway out of town, just about where the commuters leave their cars for the car share to the City.

I've often picked up hitchhikers there just for the company but this was something different. She stayed with me and didn't mind where I went. I just got used to her company and suddenly realised I was growing fond of her.

She never complained. She would always wait patiently for me to pop in and see my customers and then be there for me when I returned - never a word of reproach about how long I'd taken.

I liked her company so much that I soon found I didn't want the bother of visiting my customers. It was just more pleasant to stay in the car and enjoy the sound of her voice, which I loved.

Soon it affected my work as a sales representative. My boss warned me several times saying I'd be out of a job unless I improved my results. But I was in love and carried on regardless.

Then the axe fell and my job was gone. For a while, I still left at the same time each day and drove around aimlessly, just as an excuse for us to be together.

Finally, my money ran out and, after a huge argument with my wife full of recriminations, I confessed everything.

I must admit, she was more understanding than I ever expected, once the truth was out. She even admitted to being partly to blame for bringing us together the previous Christmas.

But, quite reasonably, she demanded that I stop these daily meetings at once and get help.

We found a very understanding therapist who says it's all about loneliness and the common need to feel someone is always there for you.

He says my love affair is not at all unusual.

Apparently, there have been quite a few men who have fallen in love with the female voices on their satellite navigation systems, which have often been given as Christmas presents without any understanding of the hidden dangers.

The End

(Rob Hopcott - online author - fiction - news)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this humorous short Christmas sales representative love story and other short story romances, romance short stories, free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Anna's Love Reborn - a hotel short story about relationships and marriage counselling by Rob Hopcott

2007-11-23T05:59:00.000-08:00

It was just as the marriage counsellor had advised.

We booked separate rooms at a London hotel and spent the day apart. I visited the shops and bought a fantastic pair of cream shoes with gold coloured buckles, a gold handbag, monogrammed 'Anna', and a slinky black dress with a low cut back that perfectly showed off my long black hair.

Don't get me wrong, I love my kids but to spend a day in the Oxford and Regent Street boutiques with their bright lights, magical scents and soft music, amongst people who are there just for me, reminded me again, after so long, I was a woman besides being a wife and mother.

I must have looked happy because even the taxi driver gave me a cheeky smile - and me a married woman!

My en suite was lovely with the largest bath you've ever seen. It looked so pretty with scented candles all around and bath salts in the water which made me sleepy and excited, all at the same time.

I got dressed slowly and could hardly believe I was the elegant woman in the long bedroom mirror. I actually pinched myself to see if I was dreaming - and then giggled like a little girl.

Maybe, the marriage counsellor really did know a thing or two, after all.

We'd said we'd meet up in the lounge besides the restaurant. When I arrived, I didn't spot Robert so I took a seat and watched the people go by. My, how the other half live!

My elbow was touched by a bell boy who presented me with a rose from the gentleman at the bar who'd asked if he could join me.

Robert had bought a bright floral tie to go with his new blue suit which matched his blue eyes. He looked rested, happy and very handsome. It put a thrill inside me just to see him.

"I'd love him to join me," I said, trying to keep my smile sophisticated and cool

"You look so beautiful," Robert said, as he sat down next to me and gazed into my soul. He leaned over and his kiss just brushed my cheek, ever so gently. I actually blushed! It was wonderful.

He asked me if I would like something to drink but I was already glowing all over from the large glass of champagne I'd sipped in the bath.

"Shall we just take a table and eat. I've walked miles today and I'm actually quite famished."

I felt like a Queen as we walked into the dining room. We must have been a good looking couple because lots of those well dressed wealthy looking people smiled at us, as if we were celebrities. I smiled back as we sat down at our table for two, trying to appear as if I ate there every day.

Robert told me how he'd spent the day at the National Gallery and listened to some really great street musicians in Trafalgar Square.

"You should see the Impressionists, their paintings are beautiful - almost as beautiful as you. I'd like to take you there sometime."

"I'd like that too," I said, feeling unsettled. I needed to get used to receiving compliments again.

"Perhaps tomorrow, if you like."

"I'd like that."

Later, after we'd finished our meal, Robert reached across the table and let his hand rest gently over mine. He was strictly following the rules and being on his best behaviour, not taking things too fast. Then we were holding hands. His hands felt strong and I was beginning to wish the table would melt away from between us.

I soon got my wish because the band started playing and Robert said "Shall we dance."

The music was slow and we danced even slower, cheek to cheek, not caring about the beat. Roberts arms held me tightly. I felt safe and desired. When he at last kissed me, even though he just brushed his lips to mine, I felt as if I would burst into flames right there on the dance floor.

He didn't kiss me again until we were standing outside my hotel room. His kiss seemed to come from far away and took me to a place where I'd never been, that was atmospheric, luxurious and timeless. Our kiss went on and on, with his arms reaching behind my back, pulling me urgently to him.

"Let me open the door," I said, breathlessly. "My room's wonderful. It's got romantic views across Hyde Park."

"I'd love to see your views," he whispered into my ear, making tingles run up and down my spine.

"Then you shall," I replied, gazing into his eyes.

My permission was given and Robert was now in charge.

Time slowed. He kissed my shoulders and each part of me as it was gently revealed with words hardly above a whisper.

Then his rippling muscles carried us together to a paradise of sweet clouds, blue skies and sensations that overwhelmed me until my whole being relinquished control and sleep finally came.

In the early hours of the morning, I woke feeling content. London was already beginning to bustle with the sounds of people going about their lives. Robert was breathing quietly besides me with a small boyish smile on his face. I knew instantly from the wave of tenderness that welled up inside me that I was in love again.

The marriage counsellor had been right. Even after years of living without romance, the door to a loving and fulfilling relationship was still open.

My husband didn't believe in marriage counsellors.

Which is why I came to this hotel with Robert instead, my recently divorced next door neighbour.

"I loved you from the first moment I saw you," Robert had said, over dinner.

Moving next door wouldn't be so hard.

I leaned across to Robert, pulling aside my long hair and kissing him lightly on his lips.

Quietly, I whispered, so not to wake him.

"Thank you for helping me rediscover how good a loving relationship feels."

But he was awake.

He opened his eyes, dreamily.

"Thank you Anna for allowing me to love you, please never send me away."

Then he held my face with his hands and pulled my lips to his.

The End

(Rob Hopcott - online author - fiction - news)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2008. All characters in this romantic short love story and other short story romances, romance short stories, free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Random humorous thoughts about artists, musicians, authors and dating by Rob Hopcott

2007-11-22T00:41:00.000-08:00

It's a funny world but sometimes it's best to see humour in everything and, as a creative person, slightly mad (often more than slightly), I usually do.

Here are some very random thoughts, loosely based on news stories and current affairs.

An artist, when asked why he looked so depressed after his painting had made one million at a contemporary art auction, despite being previously stolen then dumped on a pile of rubble, explained "Because the pile of rubble made two million."

I often hear how difficult it is for people to find the perfect partner. How much more difficult is it if you are looking for a partner with highly specific compatible interests.

Author single, good looking, wealthy with large house (no mortgage), athletic (gsoh), kind, considerate and caring would like to meet (wltm) attractive female author or writer looking for a man who likes to write fiction.

Folk musician, male, likes to play folk music ... Well that's about it really ... Would like to meet (wltm) similar folk musician, female, ... Someone really interesting...

Well, these random thoughts made me chuckle :-)

Have a good day

Rob

(On-line author - fiction - news)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in these very short humorous stories or jokes about art and artists, authors or writers and folk musicians and other free on-line humor, short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions, post card fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Singing songs and telling stories about the Land of my Fathers - a very short flash fiction story by Rob Hopcott

2007-11-21T06:17:00.000-08:00

James remembered the cold room where he took his first singing lessons, the draughty casement windows, the smell of coal smoke and the old oak tree that banged it's branches against the grey school house where his teacher lived on the edge of this Welsh valley.

"Let your body be the reed that vibrates as you sing, open your mind to the music and let it flow out to the world through your voice," Mr Jones had said.

"And, James, will you be paying me this week?"

"Ma said I was to promise it for next week. Work stitching clothes has been slow but Ma says it's likely to pick up soon."

"And what about your Da', James, is he in work?"

"I don't have a Da'!"

"OK, pay me when you can. Your voice has a special quality, James, it would be a crime not to help you make the best of it."

The old music teacher was retired, he had his pension, he wouldn't go hungry and he knew James and his mother often did.

So the years rolled by, money was always hard for James and his mother but opportunities for James to sing, in contrast, were easy to find.

In the school choir, he would be picked out for the solo part in the Christmas nativity play.

Then, later, as he grew and his voice matured, in the churches of the Welsh Valleys, his voice would soar above the combined male voice choir multi-part harmonies of the miners.

"My God," they would say, afterwards, in their lilting accents, "it's as if we've dug for coal in the mines and found a jewel, James."

He won some singing competitions and then a scholarship to the London School of Music and was soon getting paid engagements enabling him to send money to his ma who'd long since become ill and unable to work.

Then he was alone in the world. The funeral took place in the small church on the side of the black grimed hill above the village where his mother had been born, raised, worked, lived her life and was now laid to rest.

Loneliness penetrated James' whole existence, blocked his mind and his music ceased to flow.

"It's not your voice," his College tutor explained. "Your heart just isn't in singing any more. You need to take time to find yourself. Unless you do, you may never sing again."

So James returned to the smokey valleys of his childhood and visited the local town records of his birth and eventually his quest brought him to a small suburban street in London and to the front of a large town house where he stood listening to another voice singing.

Although not yet out of College, James was already acclaimed as one of the finest baritones of the day but instinctively he understood that the soaring baritone coming from the back of the house was his equal. Indeed, the tonal quality was so similar, it could almost have been James himself.

James pushed the garden gate open and moved slowly around the side of the house, his face brushed by wisteria. The smell of roses in the sunshine was pungent and exotic against the rising and falling of the hidden voice.

Closing his eyes, James let the sound of 'Land of my Fathers' flow through his body and then his heart opened and his voice soared out making a duet in perfect harmony.

Briefly, the voice in the house faltered, then continued flowing on and on and mingling with James' like two rivers reaching for the sea.

The man called David that James found in the back room of that suburban town house in London was not James' father but he was able to tell his father's story.

James' father's crime was to love two sisters. If he'd stayed, the local people of the Welsh Valleys would have exacted their own form of retribution. So he chose one of the sisters and escaped from Wales to seek his fortune in London. After many years, and, almost immediately, after his wife's death, he, too, had recently died.

With the sounds of their shared duet still ringing in their ears and the scent of the roses from the garden, the two young baritones, James and David, briefly held each other in their arms.

United by their common blood, an inherited passion for music and singing and their shared grief, their bond was immediate and powerful.

"Do you think it's time for your Ma and our Da' to come home?"

"I think they'd want to be buried alongside your Ma very much and I'd like for us to sing together at the service."

"I would like that too."

James and David sang on the Welsh hillside at the small re-burial service and from that day on, their voices were rarely apart in public performances that brought them fame in the pubs and clubs of England and Wales.

Finally, after many years, when their voices became cracked and unable to carry a note and the music finally left their bodies, in their turn, they too were laid to rest by their own grown families in the small graveyard, on the side of the green Welsh valley.

Legend has it that when two sons from the new generation took their place at the front of the church, with their perfect baritone voices, to sing 'Land of my Fathers', they were joined in perfect harmony by James and David whose voices soared one last time together across Wales.

The End

Rob Hopcott

(On-line author - fiction - news)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this very short story about songs, singing and the land of my fathers and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Shops and Retail Therapy - an Author's Antidote - very short humorous story vignette by online writer Rob Hopcott

2007-11-20T05:20:00.000-08:00

My wife likes to go shopping. For her it's the equivalent of a round of golf or a game of tennis. She loves the hustle and bustle, the smart ambiance and the new smells and scents. For me, it's like taking a bath in creosote.

But I try to show willing every now and then, and off we go to the local shops mecca. We usually take the camper van because it's got more room in it for the low priced bargains she's confident she'll find, whether or not we actually need them.

The problem is that, being an author, whenever I go somewhere different from my usual haunts, my creative writing mind goes into overdrive.

As we enter shops, the witty quips just burst out of me. (Well I think their witty.)

For example, I go up to the ladies at the checkout and ask them loudly:

"Am I right there's special discounts today?" The shoppers all around prick up their ears with interest.

The ladies look puzzled. Sorry sir, what do you mean?

"Oh, I heard that today you're doing two smiles for the price of one!"

They usually decide that I'm a secret shopper, testing their customer relationship skills, so they smile demurely (even the blokes) and say they will always have a smile for me.

My wife, by this time, being a shy person who likes to melt into the background, is about ready to fall through the floor with embarrassment. I can't imagine why, although I do, on account of being an amateur saxophone player, have an extremely good pair of lungs and a loud voice.

I also have this maddening (for her) habit of stopping dead in the middle of the street and pulling out my writer's pocket journal to record my latest story idea. If I don't, it's usually quickly replaced by a new one, causing me to forget both, when I'm next staring at a blank keyboard. So, while I'm happily scribbling, the crowds are crashing into each other around me and my wife is dying a million deaths again of embarrassment.

Her usual strategy is to carry on walking and pretend not to be with this excitable, tall, curly-haired man with a wild look in his eye, who's madly writing and talking to himself.

Of course, I've taken her to task for this completely disloyal behaviour.

"You'll want to know me when I'm famous and internationally regarded as the best on-line author on the Internet. You'll want to know me then! You'll want to be there when I get invited to Buckingham Palace to be knighted."

To give my wife her due, she did try to stay with me when I stopped dead and started scribbling the last time we visited the shops in the High Street.

But her support for me didn't last long.

Unfortunately, I get this rush of excitement when I think the idea I've just written down for a story is really good.

Loyally, she stood waiting besides her husband, even though I wrote feverishly for a whole five minutes.

Then I think I broke her spirit.

I started laughing with joy and punching the air!

The End

Rob Hopcott

(On-line author - fiction - news)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this humorous shops and shopping very short story humorous vignette and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Teeing off the Doctor - a humorous very short golf story from Rob Hopcott's collection of humor stories

2007-11-19T02:58:00.000-08:00

"Doctor, Doctor I want a new body on the National Health!"

My Doctor looked at me, as he prepared his golf swing on our local golf course.

"What's this crazy idea you've got?" He's a bit dour and Scottish - but keeps funny hours of work and so is ideal for an itinerant author who keeps no working hours of any consequence.

I waited a bit until he was almost ready to swing his golf club and surgically sky the ball, usually far into the distance beyond mine. As a Doctor, I always maintain he should take a caring attitude and let me win. He doesn't agree and likes to rub it in at the bar that his record against me is still 100%.

"Doctor, Doctor, I want a new body on the National Health. This one's worn out, been to too many parties and, if you don't mind, I thought I'd skip the spare party surgery such as new, kidney, new heart or whatever and go for the whole works. So please may I have a new body as soon as possible or, preferably, sooner."

Doctor Fred doesn't like to be reminded of his work when he's off duty and playing a round of golf, so he lowered his club to the ground, leaned on it and fired a quick Scottish salvo.

"Will yer let me hit this ball or will I go and find someone else in the club who can keep 'is mouth shut?"

His view of my creative ideas is usually disdainful and this one was obviously no different, although I did think it had some merit.

So I was undeterred. Many times before, he'd rejected my ideas. I treat his rejections in the same way as I treat rejections from agents, publishers and magazine editors. They can't help their lack of taste and it is my job to educate them.

He rejected prescribing my humorous short stories on the National Health for depressive patients to cheer them up.

He even rejected putting extracts of my horror stories on the waiting room walls to scare away patients who weren't seriously ill.

On a day when I was hitting optimistic lows, he even rejected using my short stories as table mats in the waiting room of his surgery.

"There's no coffee machine in my surgery," he said, "and I'm not gonna start ta make 'em coffee just to satisfy idiots like you!"

But this latest idea had special merit so I pressed my point, just as he was in mid-swing. At the last microsecond, before he hit the ball, I blurted out.

"The only reason why you won't prescribe me a new body on the National Health is because you are afraid that, with my new body, I would be able to beat you at a round of golf."

He almost fell over trying not to half hit the ball and the look he gave me would have curdled the blood of a thousand virgin student nurses at ten thousand paces (assuming you could find any). So I dropped the subject.

With his record of unbroken wins intact, Doctor Fred shot me a parting comment through the window of his new silver sports coupe in the club car park, before he roared off.

"With reference to your earlier thoughts about changing yer body, we've a few bodies at the local mortuary you could swap with - it might improve yer game. Goodbye!"

I reckoned he should keep to doctoring and leave humor to those with some talent!

The End

Rob Hopcott

(On-line author - fiction - news)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this humorous golf short story and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Stripped to the Waist - a very short gardening story from Rob Hopcott's collection of short garden stories

2007-11-16T06:27:00.000-08:00

I know she watches me because, when I get the tools from the shed by the vegetable garden, the curtains in her thatched cottage opposite always twitch.

Once, she was cleaning the inside of the window, and she'd drawn the net curtains back so I was able to see her. She was not young or pretty. But I liked her brown hair, even if it was going a bit grey. It was tied in a bun. If she let it down, I reckon it would look really nice. Even though the net curtains were drawn back, she still stood half hidden to the side of the window.

I noticed she watched me longer one day when I took my shirt off. The gardening work I do for the Manor keeps my body strong and I don't feel the cold. But it's the end of the year and the sun doesn't come out over the hill until later in the day. So I do jobs around the estate until the sun is up, then I work in the vegetable garden with my shirt off, which I think she likes.

It makes me happy to think she's looking forward to seeing me.

In fact, I think she is the only one who really likes to see me each day. I only got this job as a gardener when my mum took me to see the Estate Manager.

"He's slow," she said, "but he's a hard worker and won't let you down."

The Estate Manager seemed very friendly with mum. They laughed and joked a lot. He said he'd see her later, after she'd taken me home, to 'tie up the loose ends'.

When my Dad heard about me getting the job, he said "He'll never keep it up, you mark my words. He'll break all the tools and the plants will shrivel up and die."

But I haven't broken anything. Mrs Yates, the cook at the Manor, even told me yesterday that she'd never seen such good cabbages out of the garden as this year.

I suppose, perhaps, Mrs Yates thinks I'm worth something too. And I've always turned up on time.

Yesterday, the lady behind the curtains came out and brought me a cup of tea. She was very nice. She said she'd seen I was working hard and, because she is retired from working at the Manor, she gets to eat some of the vegetables that I'm growing, so it's her way of saying thank you.

She also said she would make me something special and did I like carrot cake. I said I did, especially if it was made with carrots I'd grown myself.

She said for me to come and see her after work today and I said I would. I've even got a change of clothes and shoes in the vegetable garden shed so I won't mess up her clean furniture and carpet.

My mum said I should watch out and not get into trouble with an older woman.

My dad said she was probably trying to get some jobs done in her garden for free.

Mrs Yates saw me arriving with the carrier bag full of clothes and asked me if I was meeting a sweetheart.

I'm really looking forward to seeing her.

She said she'd show me some photos of her son who'd been my age when he was killed in the war.

The End

Rob Hopcott

(On-line author - fiction - news)

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this gardening very short story and other free on-line short stories, flash fictions, micro-fictions, sudden fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Kiss Audition - an actress short short story from Rob Hopcott's short stories collection

2007-11-15T06:40:00.000-08:00

"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.

Creative Writing Tree - by Short Story and Flash Fiction Author Rob Hopcott

2007-11-14T03:37:00.000-08:00

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.

Mirror Mirror On The Wall a short modern Christmas pantomime fairy tale by Rob Hopcott

2007-11-13T01:51:00.001-08:00

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.

"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.

Haunted Dreams - a short flash fiction haunted house mystery story from Rob Hopcott's collection of online stories

2007-11-09T08:53:00.000-08:00

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.

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.

We Three Kings - a science flash fiction very short story about scientific discovery, politics and first contact by Rob Hopcott

2007-11-08T07:45:00.000-08:00

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.

Dead Certainty - a gambling short story from Rob Hopcott's short stories collection

2007-11-07T06:50:00.000-08:00

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.

God Spoke To The President - a free online Science Fiction short story by Rob Hopcott

2007-11-06T06:25:00.000-08:00

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.

Living or dead? A micro-fiction short short story by Rob Hopcott

2007-11-05T06:56:00.000-08:00

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.

Wedding Crasher - a short short flash fiction wedding story about a bride, bridegroom and a lover by Rob Hopcott

2007-11-02T06:43:00.000-07:00

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, Luke even came back to her after his stag night, saying he would always love her no matter what and would be back soon. Unlike the others, the money he left she put in a special account knowing some day it would put the child she was certain they'd together have through schooling.

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 or Always Loving but Never Lovers.

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 Human Kindness Virus - a virus short story or flash fiction by Rob Hopcott

2007-11-01T07:23:00.000-07:00

In the beginning was the word. I discovered this word when I was researching ways of putting people under hypnosis faster. It was part of a PhD paper I was preparing. Anyway, this word really worked.

The special word seemed to act like a sort of login that immediately made the subject susceptible to suggestion and cut out the need for couches and long routines of preparation.

In the origins of humanity, if ever the human mind had been programmed, this would have been the programmers quick access system that gave absolute control for urgent program modifications.

I'll call the special word blabberpop. The word isn't blabberpop but, if I told you the word, believe me, it would be a really bad thing for the world.

Using this special word was as simple as this:

"Blabberpop. You will pick up any rubbish that you drop. Blabberpop."

The first use of the special word hypnotized the subject and enabled the suggestion to be effective. The second use of the special word unhypnotized them and then they would act on the suggestion at a later stage.

Anyway, I got to thinking about the wider possible uses of this and came up with a master plan which I set into action last month.

The idea was that I would use the secret word to tell someone to do a random act of kindness each day but also tell them to use the secret word themselves to require someone else to do a random act of kindness each day too. The special word would then be forgotten by both.

I thought the idea was brilliant. Doing random acts of kindness would seriously make the world a better place for everybody. I must confess the idea of promoting random acts of kindness wasn't original. There were already lots of sites on the Internet promoting the idea. All I was doing was making it, sort of, more efficient and mandatory.

The hypnotized command would effectively program people not only to do an act of random kindness each day but also to pass on the requirement for others to do random acts of kindness too.

So it was self propagating. It was truly a human kindness virus and I was very proud of myself for thinking of it.

That was last month.

I'm not so proud of myself this month because everything has gone horribly wrong.

The drive in front of my house is littered with several unwanted cars and a basket of stray kittens has just arrived.

I dare not go down into town for fear that I will be forcibly helped across the road by lots of strangers, whether I want to cross the road or not.

The Government Tax department has already contacted me three times this week asking me where the large sums of money from mysterious benefactors has come from. The clear suspicion seems to be that I'm involved in some sort of money laundering.

The same sorts of problems are already happening to ordinary people across the whole of the Western world, according to what I read on the Internet.

The human kindness virus has proved so virulent and so disruptive that, yesterday, in desperation, I threw it into reverse and started another viral command to counteract the previous one.

I used the secret word to tell someone not to do a random act of kindness each day and also told them to use the secret word in their turn to require someone else not to do a random act of kindness each day too. The special word was, of course, then to be forgotten by both.

Thankfully, I think it's working. Admittedly, crime statistics are up across the UK and America this morning, according to the News Channels, which could indicate perhaps it's working rather too well.

Hopefully, everything will soon return to normal.

So what is the moral of this story?

Well, personally, I still believe Random Acts of Human Kindness are a good thing but perhaps it's not such a good thing to force people to do them.

Perhaps the most fundamental human act of kindness is to leave people with their own freedom of action to do kindness as they will.

The End

Rob Hopcott
(online author - news - fiction)

Copyright this Human Kindness Virus short story flash fiction is Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other flash fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

3 of the best of my one line stories by Rob Hopcott

2007-10-31T04:42:00.000-07:00

One line stories, sometimes called one sentence stories, as a particular form of micro fiction, have always fascinated me.

Here are three one liner stories. I hope you like them.

School one line story

1960, playground fight, not involved, unjustly caned.

Work one line story

25 years married to my job, unconsummated.

Crime one line story

Passing Bank, robbery in progress, got seven years

So there they are. What do you think. Contribute your one line story or one sentence story below. I'd love to see them

Bye for now

Rob

(online author - news - fiction)

Copyright this one line story and one sentence story article is Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and flash fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Highland Beginning - new global warming and climate change short fiction by Rob Hopcott

2007-10-30T10:06:00.000-07:00

The Scots Pine glades of my Highlands valley glowed green and gold beneath me in the gentle Spring sunshine.

Strongly fortified against the social consequences of global warming and climate change, our small log cabin perched like a sentinel on the valley's edge .

The resinous wood once used for masts and timbers of Scottish built ships had been hard to cut but the strong balcony that now stood proudly in front of our new home was like the bridge of an ancient galleon and ideal for viewing the fortifications below.

It was 9.30 in the morning, 2015. Methane flares arced between clouds above the Isle of Skye. Last week, Aberdeen, Dundee, Glasgow and Edinburgh had exploded into flames. Most English and Welsh cities had been lost to the food riots the previous month. News from further afield only came from word of mouth through short wave amateur radio. There was no world news.

But we were safe. Our single story log cabin merged securely into the tree lined hillside of the Western Scottish Highlands. We were armed. The rock strewn hillside below formed a perfect killing zone. Electricity from our well camouflaged windmill with it's large array of batteries was instantly transferable to the lethal electric fences below.

Natural spring water bubbled up within our stockade. Trout and other fish swam contentedly in a protective artificial moat around our home until needed to sustain the family as food.

They all laughed at me when I bought this land. Melanie, my wife, showed Jim, the next door neighbour and friend, my detailed map of the fortifications. Jim said I was a dreamer who had nightmares and Melanie's kids put the map on their dart board for target practice.

They totally believed in the suburban idyll. I still remember Jim laughing "See you soon", as he waved us off on our Highland holiday. This was my last ditch effort to get us here ahead of the fuel riots that I'd secretly predicted but dared not mention.

But global warming proved for real. The floods that now covered most of the UK lowlands were real. Millions of angry, displaced and rioting middle class Britons were real. Now they realized they'd all been wrong but, for most of them, it was too late.

The wooden balcony creaked as Melanie joined me. Slim, blond and pampered, she was a designer babe. A party girl who loved shopping. Completely gorgeous in her totally inappropriate high heels, careful makeup and cocktail dress. Even the crossbow that I taught her to use yesterday looked sexy when she was holding it.

She pecked me on the lips, temporarily distracting me from my survey of our defences which was not a good thing because I just thought I'd seen some movement below.

"I think we may have unwelcome visitors, dear," I said cautiously.

She wrapped her arms around me again.

"Rubbish, It's all in your over-fertile imagination."

She rubbed herself against me some more, demanding my undivided attention.

Cooing huskily, she said.

"At least, in this God forsaken place, a girl should get a cuddle now and again."

She slipped her hand inside my pocket persuasively.

"Cuddles are all right as long as we are safe."

Removing her hand, I swept the hillside below with my binoculars. Unaccountably, the hairs on the back of my neck were prickling. I was now completely sure that there were people below.

"I'd better load the crossbow," my voice rasped with tension.

This was the moment I'd dreaded. The people were probably ordinary and decent but the stockade was built for one family. One perfectly formed social group to live in harmony with the countryside. Maybe later on we might have been able to expand but, in these dark days, survival came first and survival would be hard.

I could now see a line of people struggling up the hill. One man and three children. He had a bushy beard and his kids were skinny with clothes in tatters. They moved wearily as if they'd travelled on foot for many miles.

It occurred to me that the children were the same age as mine and, absurdly, could even be family material for when my children grew into maturity.

But, in my carefully conceived master plan, no man must be allowed to join my encampment. To survive, my control had to be absolute.

Melanie suddenly screamed excitedly.

"I think it's Jim."

She reached over, clicked off the electric fencing and started jumping up and down, waving her welcome.

The prickling at the back of my neck was joined by an icy chill down my back. It was crystal clear what I had to do.

"I don't care who he is. He's not coming here. If you want, his children can stay, even though they will be a burden. I don't care if it is Jim or not, he must go. I'll shoot him, if I have to."

To show my determination, I primed my cross bow with a bolt and placed it within easy reach.

Cupping my hands around my mouth, I yelled:

"Go away, you are not welcome here!"

Letting them leave would still mean that they could tell others who could return and attack. But killing them in cold blood would be too hard.

"Harry, it's Jim, your old mate Jim," came the weary voice from below. "Let us come up"

"I'm sorry Jim, times have changed. Send your kids up, if you like, but there's only room for one man up here and the jobs taken. You laughed at me. You had your fun. You made your bed and now you've got to lie in it. There's no room for friendship these days. Sorry!"

My throat was dry. I could hardly speak. Even though he'd been my best friend for years, he'd always been a bit too friendly with Melanie. Sometimes, he and his kids seemed to spend more time with Melanie and her kids than I did. Especially as more and more of my time was taken building the Highland retreat.

A couple of times, I'd even secretly wondered whether he and Melanie were having an affair.

I reached over to the bright red switch which would reactivate the electric fencing but Melanie suddenly pushed my hand away. Her face had become grim. Her blue eyes were ice cold and the crossbow was suddenly cradled in her shoulder and pointing at me.

"I'm truly sorry, Harry. I didn't want to have to do this." Her voice was even, lacking in emotion, almost as if she didn't really care.

"So my suspicions were right that there was something between you and Jim. How could you, when I was working so hard to look after you and the family."

"I could because I had to," Melanie stated flatly. "Like you said everything is now changed. The whole world's got a new beginning."

The crossbow arrow caught me in the throat. Melanie dragged me whimpering and retching across the balcony and with a scream that seemed full of hate pushed me down into the waterfall below.

I lay on the rocks besides the waterfall still alive for some time listening to the sounds of their reunions above.

Perhaps Melanie was right.

Everything now was a new beginning.

The End

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other flash fictions, very short stories, short short stories and micro-fiction stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

What's so attractive about my rear end?

2007-10-29T06:18:00.000-07:00

I'd like to know what's so attractive about my rear end? It's curvy and lies at the back of me, minding it's own business. It's not special, except that it's all mine ... And I don't want it whacked!

So why do so many other cars want to squeeze up behind me so you could hardly fit a size zero model between us?

If I suddenly stop, the chance of these tailgaters stopping is hardly better than a blind hedgehog surviving a vacation trip across a busy intercity road?

And there are so many of them.

Yesterday, I'm driving through the beautiful West Somerset, UK, countryside minding my own business. The road is wet from overnight rain and lots of skiddy oak leaves have fallen, not to mention the odd tree branch.

At intervals, there are patches of mud from local farm tractors using the highway to travel between their hard working green fields.

A bean brain could see conditions were slippery. A half witted dodo who'd failed first year at high school could see that the road was more like a skating rink than a race track.

Whoops, there he is, a 4x4 with bull bars and he's latched onto my tail.

It's a beautiful sunny day but he's got his headlights full on.

There's a line of traffic ahead as far as I can see, which on this narrow, twisty road isn't far. So, if he passes me, he will only go for a few feet before being slowed down again.

He's so close I can almost lip read the obscenities he's hurling at me for daring to get in his way.

Hey, I'm naturally nervous. I'm the one everybody loves to bully. I love life. I don't want to die!

He edges nearer to me. Perhaps he's lassoed my bumper and has his engine switched off.

I can almost feel his breath on the back of my neck. My eyes are glued to my mirror and every move he makes. Briefly, I flick my eyes forward again. Just in time, I brake gently because the car ahead has slowed down. I daren't brake sharply because Mr Bull Brain is right behind. My normal distance to a moving vehicle ahead is about three street lengths so slowing down is not a problem, even with the distraction of All Engine and Chrome.

Incensed that I dared to hit the brakes, even gently, Mr Bull Bar Buffoon, blares his horn to show his contempt. Presumably, the chances of him ever using his brakes on a country road are about the same as me not dying pretty soon unless I get out of his way.

I give up and pull over into a lay by. Idiots are better ahead of me than behind.

Riding his horn again, he immediately shoots forward and latches onto the next car ahead.

So maybe my rear end wasn't so specially beautiful, after all. I briefly feel mildly disappointed, then, after the stream of traffic has gone by, carefully, pull out into the road.

The green fields stretch all around and in the distance lies Exmoor with it's wonderful walks, deer, foxes and other dangerous wild life.

And, talking of danger, there's another car attached to my tail. It's a small blue convertible driven by a rather good looking blond woman.

Ooh, but she's better than the last driver.

Hello dear! Maybe we can exchange telephone numbers after we've exchanged insurance details when you dent my bumper!

Your car isn't so big as the last guy's so I'd probably live. You might not look so pretty though after they've scraped your face off the windscreen.

Nevertheless, I'd rather get close up and friendly with this damsel than the mouthy bull bar guy.

But, oh help! She's applying her make-up as she's bumper hugging me.

Fear washes over me again, even faster than the make-up she's applying.

There's only one solution. I pull over to a lay by again to let her pass. Immediately she roars forward and latches onto the next car up the line. I think I can now see her eating some yogurt.

Trembling gently, I dimly recollect that the West Somerset Railway has now been connected between Minehead and my local town of Taunton.

Perhaps I'd be better off taking the train!

Bye for now

Rob
(Rob Hopcott - news - fiction)

Ultimate Christmas Kiss Confession - an Xmas party flash fiction very short story by Rob Hopcott

2007-10-26T06:48:00.000-07:00

It was a remarkable confession from a total stranger, completely unsolicited and very personal. I can do no better than to tell the story exactly as it was told to me. It went like this:

For as long as I could remember, I'd been obsessed with the desire to kiss and be kissed. I mean really kiss. To take someones lips against mine. To crush my face against theirs and to engage our tongues in a fearsome battle of the sexes.

That is not to say that I'd never been kissed by another person. Naturally, I'd been kissed by my long term partner. But those were respectable kisses. They were kisses of duty. Kisses that said 'Good morning dear' or 'Pleased to see you'. They were pleasant enough in themselves but they were not the racy, debilitating, devastating kisses for which I longed.

Of course, in theory, to kiss someone other than my partner would have been an act of infidelity and certainly I didn't want to be unfaithful or cheat. A simple kiss was the beginning, the end and the sole purpose.

In my dreams, it would go like this.

"Hello". Eyes lock. Gorgeous kiss. "Goodbye." The End.

Surely, in the grand scheme of things, just kissing wouldn't cast me down into the fiery depths of hell? And, even if it did, perhaps it would be worth it!

So it was with mounting excitement that I suddenly realized that I might soon have the opportunity of experiencing my ultimate Christmas kiss.

I raised the matter as gently as I could.

"There's a fancy dress Christmas party. Someone at work has inviting us. Do you want to go?"

Fancy dress meant the unknown. Fancy dress meant no repercussions. Fancy dress meant my mouth could feel the kiss of another. The kiss would be secret. Snatched at the top of winding stairs. Grabbed 'en passant' in the hall as my partner snoozed on the sofa. The kiss would be gorgeous, long and passionate. I'd remember it into old age.

My mouth was dry with anticipation and fear. Would the idea be rejected out of hand? Could this wonderful opportunity be lost as soon as it had been conceived.

"OK, if you like!"

My legs turned to water. My heart raced. I struggled to keep my voice even and hide my excitement.

"The party's tonight. I'll pop into the local fancy dress shop and get something for both of us, shall I?"

"Tonight? I was thinking of doing something else. Oh alright! As long as you sort it all out."

The day flashed by in a frenzy of anticipation. My choice of fancy dress was easy. The red Father Christmas outfits were warm to wear and came complete with even warmer Father Christmas gloves but there was enough facial hair for complete and utter anonymity.

Clad in our Father Christmas outfits, we arrived early. The large private house was brightly lit with fairy lights romantically strung around the patio and the Christmas party was already buzzing with guests. Many of the other guests were also in Father Christmas outfits. I breathed in deeply to try to calm my racing pulse.

We danced, drank and ate our way through the evening but always together because finding each other amongst so many Father Christmases would have been quite difficult. It was the best party I'd ever attended. We chatted, we laughed, although I could not now remember a word of what we said.

But, through the alcoholic haze, my mind was focused on one thing and I was urgently aware of how the evening was ebbing away.

Then, suddenly, it was time to go and my world disintegrated. Struggling to keep the disappointment out of my voice, I said my goodbyes. We collected our coats from the spare bedroom and headed for our car.

It was cold and dark outside. The stars seemed to mock me overhead. We walked silently, arm in arm, seeking warmth in each other rather than company. I felt glad that at least it was not my turn to drive home.

As we climbed into our car, I decided to take one last throw of the dice.

"Drat! I've left my gloves behind. You turn the Ford around and I'll be back in a moment."

In fact, the gloves were safely in my Father Christmas coat pocket so I knew they wouldn't take long to find. Instead, there was one last chance that the time could be spent fulfilling my secret dream.

It was easier than I could ever have anticipated.

I'd observed that the room containing the guest's coats was lowly lit and it was to this place that I quickly returned.

I was absentmindedly rummaging amongst the discarded coats when, out of the corner of my eye, a particularly handsome Father Christmas appeared, completely alone.

I immediately turned holding a sprig of mistletoe above my head with what I hoped was a cheeky look in my eye.

Our eyes met, we both gazed at the mistletoe then again into each other's eyes.

To describe the kiss would be impossible. It was everything that I'd ever dreamed of. Our lips met in a frenzy of whiskers, tongues and passion. It seemed to last for an eternity although it was only for minutes. It was chaste. Our arms wrapped around each other but our hands didn't stray. Briefly we parted, eyes met, gazed deeply, then our mouths once again locked together.

Breathlessly, we parted. Then without a further word, I left the room and escaped with pulse pounding back to the car. I knew my secret Kiss Santa was close behind but I didn't dare to turn.

Safely back in my passenger seat, I gave a secret glance out of the corner of my eye. My whole body still luxuriated with the memory of recent passion.

My very own Santa Claus was climbing into the car next door. Whiskers had been removed and the face that was revealed was truly as handsome as I'd expected.

But, under the street lights, with feelings of sudden panic, I knew I wouldn't be removing my whiskers as I realized how far I'd strayed.

If I was going to passionately kiss someone who was not my partner, at least it could have been someone of the opposite sex.

The End

Every year, instead of sending Christmas cards, I write a Christmas story for all my friends around the world to read online. The Ultimate Christmas Kiss above is the Rob Hopcott Christmas story for 2007. I hope you enjoyed it and have a wonderful Christmas and a prosperous and peaceful New Year wherever you are.

Previous Christmas stories from Rob Hopcott

2006 Christmas story 'Three Christmas Lovers'

2005 Christmas Story 'Christmas Wishes'

2004 Christmas Story 'Christmas Notes'

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other flash fictions or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

An affair? Are you thinking of having an affair? A flash fiction very short story by Rob Hopcott.

2007-10-25T06:30:00.000-07:00

"Claudia! Have you been thinking of having an affair?"

The question was out, almost inconsequentially.

She stared ahead more intently at the open road, eyebrows slightly arched.

Then she shifted in her seat. The knees that I'd always loved peeked out from beneath her chic black dress, but now they were pointing away from me. It was a simple, small, defensive movement but it filled me full of fear.

The Ford still smelled new but now, instead of filling me full of pride, it made me want to retch.

She reached up and pulled her raven hair into a pony tail. In the half light, my eyes were drawn to her delicate ears and swans neck that I still longed to kiss.

Outside, suburban street lights glittered. All around, the rush hour traffic hummed indifferently with fellow travellers rushing home from work.

Still no reply.

She reached into her hand bag and checked her face from a small mirror, then applied a delicate touch of lipstick to the most kissable mouth in the universe.

Were those the lips she now dreamed of pressing against another's? Why didn't she reply? Was her silence already an implicit confession?

She gathered her hair again into a pony tail then let it cascade free across her shoulders. Were these the shoulders that soon she hoped would be caressed by a new lovers hands?

"Claudia! Why don't you reply? Have you been thinking of having an affair?"

Her voice drifted across to me, faintly, as if it had been travelling for a thousand miles.

"Yes!"

The End

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2007. All characters in this and other flash fiction or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.

Serenity and Happiness - a flash fiction very short story by Rob Hopcott

2007-10-24T06:08:00.000-07:00

“I control you … You’re mine to do as I like. You move when I kick you. When I squeeze your throat, you speak!”

Eyes wide, slate blue and sleeked back black hair, his face contorts in a snarl.

All around, the busy market place bustles with safe people, happy people, busy people.

A scruffy, yellow VW camper-van covered with hastily painted flowers roars by nearly catching his elbow.

He whirls around as it disappears into the traffic and yells. “Up yours!”

—————————————————————–

“I can’t understand why you watch all these TV soaps, Amelia,” I say.

“They’re harsh, violent and just plain unpleasant.”

She doesn't even turn her head but gestures with her hand for my silence.

Slowly. I climb upstairs to my home office, turn on my computer and start to type … Eventually, serenity and happiness returns.

The End

Copyright Rob Hopcott 2008. All characters in this and other flash fiction or very short stories on this site are fictitious and no reference is intended to any person living or otherwise.