Friday the 5/13th of November

Ah, Friday the 5/13th. The day I realised my calendar had several typos. Also, the day my dog died. I mainly remember the 5/13th for the first thing though - my memory's weird like that.

Anyway, I'd come downstairs, stepped over Rover's corpse, and glanced at my Daily Fake Fact calendar (today's - 'despite his name suggesting otherwise, Guy Fawkes was not, in fact, a guy.') because I wanted to know how long it was until Mumday (thanks to some cockup at the printers,  my wall planner says weeks begin every Mumday).

I was looking forward to Mumday as months ago I'd bought Bustin' Jeeber tickets. Not so I could go though - for some reason the idea of having a whiny racist haircut pout at me for three hours didn't appeal -  no, I wanted to ensure others couldn't. Hence why I'd snapped up every last one. Parents everywhere would be frantically appealing to scalpers and overpriced sites so they could try get some for their tweens but to no avail. At ten o clock on Mumday, Jeeber would be playing to an empty stadium.

Amused by this thought, I looked back at the calendar. Preoccupied by both imagining the look on Bustin''s face and reading the faux Fawkes fact, I'd completely forgotten to register today's date.

Friday the 5/13th of November.

Okay... This could mean several things.

1) Today is Friday 5th November.

2) Today is Friday 13th November.

3) Today, Friday, is only five thirteenths of November (unlikely).

4) Today is actually neither Friday, the fifth or thirteenth, because the calendar is completely wrong (very likely).

I decided to get a second opinion.

'What day is it, Dad?'

'Tuesday.'

'The...'

'The... day after Mumday?'

I sighed. He'd been really into bad jokes since he'd fallen down the stairs.

'What number day is it?'

'Right! It's the ninth.'

'Thank you.'

I went to put my hand in the toaster (I hadn't got anything to retrieve from there - I just wanted to see what it was like to perform exploratory surgery on a robot) but then stopped short of dipping it in.

'Hang on. Tuesday ninth?'

'Yep.'

'Tuesday the ninth of November?'

'Sure is. You need me to write it down?'

'No, that's fine.'

The concert was scheduled to take place on Mumday the eighth. Did that mean -

I flung open the kitchen curtains. Outside, houses burned, cars had been flipped, and posters bearing the smug punchable visage of Jeeber had been ripped down from every lamppost. Evidently the news there was no room in the concert hadn't gone down too well...

'Uh, son?' Dad beckoned me over to the table.

'Yeah?'

'Can you explain this?' He held up his copy of the morning paper. On the front page was a picture of me. Apparently hell hath no fury like a Bustin' fan denied and they'd managed to trace all the tickets back to my server. Oh crap...

That totally reminds me - Friday the 5/13th of November is also the day I had to change my identity and skip town for fear of being torn apart by an angry mob! I'd completely forgotten. As I said (or maybe I didn't), my memory's weird like that...

In The Murder Room

'In the Murder Room, you can make a killing. No pun intended. I hate puns and will wallop anyone if they do something even resembling a double entendre.

No, believe me, the Murder Room is no joke. It's where despicable killers such as moi bump off those too cowardly to off themselves themselves - for the right cash of course. We couldn't let you leave the world for free now, could we? That would be unfair to all the sadsacks with the stones to sit in their car with windows up and the engine on.

Now, obviously ultimately your God or Gods will pass verdict on you but that sure as Hell won't stop me judging you when you're alive, so - '

'Why are you telling me all this?'

'Because, sonny, I'm obliged to give you this spiel lest you misunderstand what the deal is here. That way, if your demise is traced back to us - which it won't be cos we're thorough - we can hold our hands up and go 'hey, we knew full well what the game was; we gave him the speech'.'

'That won't hold up in court.'

'Course it will. We've got tapes as proof.'

'You record the killing?'

'What? No! We're executioners, not perverts. We only film the preamble.'

'I see. Well, I think I've heard all I need to.'

'Great.'

'You're under arrest. I'm D.C.I. Harry Strong and I'm bringing you in on multiple charges of premeditated murder.'

'Hey, it's only premeditated because they asked us to do it!'

'That's a technicality. Our lawyers will soon find a way round that.'

'Unbelievable...'

'Not really. You boast about your chopping block job long enough, you get caught. What's hard to understand about that?'

'You'll regret this.'

'I'll regret this? You're the one in the risky business of mutilating people. Seriously, talk about going out on a limb...'

'Did you just do wordplay?'

'Why, you allergic to linguistic tricks?'

'Nope. I just really hate puns. And do you remember what I do to people who crack them?'

'Uh...'

He hit the ground before he could even blink. I picked up my phone and dialled.

'Oi, Terry? I've got another one for you. He's heard the speech and is definitely up for it. Be here in five minutes? Ta.'

I love my job...

The House of Gross Acquaintance

'You don't have to live up to your name, you know', I said carefully wading through the mess in search of a clean patch of carpet, 'That nominative determination thing is a load of bollocks'.

Gross smirked. 'Yeah, but you would say that, wouldn't you, Woodcock? Don't want people to think you've Pinocchio's nose instead of man meat.'

'I don't want them to think I've a nose or meat down there. I'm a girl!'

'Oh.' He pulled his greasy hair out of his eyes. 'Sorry Holly.'

I stopped and leaned on a fairly staple pile of newspapers. 'My name is Poppy.'

He waved a dismissive hand. 'Eh, doesn't matter. If my name was Gross Best Friend, maybe I'd bother to remember, but it's not, so I don't.'

'You can't keep using your name as an excuse for everything, Gross.'

'Can't I?' He sneezed, farted, then belched. 'Huh, what do you know? Looks like I can.'

'That's it!' I turned around and carefully started to make my way to the front door.

'Wait - what - where are you going?'

'I'm getting a hoover and a hose! From now on, at the very least, your house will be clean.'

'No!'

'Yes. I'm doing it and you can't stop me. If you try, I'll spray you with the hose.'

He hissed. 'You wouldn't...'

'I would.'

We glared at each other. Eventually he threw his hands up in the air. 'Fine. Go ahead. Clean my place.'

'I will do. And Gross?'

'Yes?'

'We are no longer acquaintances.'

The Skylight

When I have nothing better to do, I lie on my bed and look up at my skylight. I've watched rain fall, lightning illuminate the sky, and snowflakes slide down the pane, but mostly my ever-changing canvas shows clouds.

Clouds are odd. I wouldn't classify them as their own weather condition but rather as a transitional state. You cannot go from a sunny day to a storm without it having being overcast in between. The white wisps above act as a signal for us to move indoors, a warning that what we knew is, for now at least, over.

It was you who first taught me to look up and start appreciating the world outside my bubble. Beforehand I was very much stuck in the city mind-set: stare ahead, don't interact, and if someone asks you a question, they must be after your phone. Now I see everything anew. Anything can be amazing.

And then you left. Having converted me to your way of thinking, you went to preach to another. I struggled to find solace in the small things for a while but then one day whilst in the garden I looked up. I saw one small solitary cloud and then it hit me: what I'm feeling is temporary. This mood, like a cloud, will pass. Once it's rolled away, normal service will be resumed. The sun will come out.

To remind me of this very fact, I ordered a skylight for my room.

A (Probably Not At All Much-Anticipated) Sequel

Almost two whole years ago, I asked friends to provide me with titles for stories. Would I give them one per cent of the royalties if I made money off of the pieces? It was never discussed.

Anyway, they gave me suggestions that were evocative, intriguing, or just plain silly and I turned them all into stories. This year, to mark National Flash Fiction Day, I decided to repeat the game and consequently have a few new works to share very soon.

The first one will be up within sixty minutes and they will continue to be posted every hour on the hour until you bring the money in full to the prearranged location.

*Ahem*.

Apologies, wrong forum. Correction: They will go up until I've run out.

TIHSPITFOAL: Barcelona Edition!

I went to Barcelona and saw...


A terrible attempt at the Micky Mouse silhouette



 The wrong sort of buoy

 A lizard having a breakdown

A winning combination

A shop with a very specific item for sale

and the Tenth Doctor missing half his head. No wonder he was so mopey.