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.

I came up with this title all by myself.

Well, I'm done. I asked for people to give me a title, and they did. I got ten great prompts, and so was able to produce ten great stories. Some, despite their titles (few would have thought Blu-tack would have been hinted towards a break up) were downbeat, others were out and out silly. Surprisingly, one reader found the fate of the naked role rat to be both. Each to their own, I suppose. In the end though, it was a useful exercise all round that allowed me to include a bit of everything from talking animals and topical figures to foodstuff and street signs. I will definitely do this again. Until then, I'll put down my pad, take a break, and go enjoy the simple things in life, like a good meal or a sunrise.

Thanks to everyone who contributed a title. Without you, I'd be sat just waiting for ideas.

Silver Dollar Sunrise

Staring into the campfire, I wonder if it has all been worth it. Was it really a smart move to leave Mary, little Zeke, and a house full of comforts to come out here and pan for gold? After all, all I get is a couple of silver dollars a week. Sure, there’s promise of more if we find something nice and shiny of course, but so far I’ve been sieving nothing but plain ole rocks. Oh well, at least the sunrises around here are spectacular. Honestly, they’re beautiful. I like to think of them as my reward for getting up.

Every time I rise in the morning, that big flame ball that we call the sun is peeping up over the horizon as if checking that I’m awake. Once he’s ascertained I’m up and about, he slowly flies into the sky, ready to redden my cheeks and lighten my hair throughout the day. Naturally, he’s hot as well, but swinging pickaxes into mountains was already a strain without him coming along and making us sweat, so I try not to resent him for that too much. Besides, I know that soon he’ll be retreating and I’ll get to go to bed. It’s the perfect arrangement.

There are times I think about leaving here though. Someday I will probably just chuck it in and return to Mary and little Zeke. I miss them, but right now, for the moment anyway, I know I would miss those silver dollar sunrises even more. Until that changes then, my life is going to be just me, Mr Sun, and a mountain load of rocks, and that sounds pretty good to me.

Butts Wynd

Jamie leads me round a corner. He giggles all the way.
‘What? What? What’s so funny? Where are you taking me?’, I ask.
Jamie laughs.
‘Oh, you’ll see.’
We run across the high street, then down a steep hill. Jamie stops to catch his breath, and then we’re off again. Eventually we stop outside an alley.
‘Here we are’, says Jamie, laughing.
‘What am I meant to be looking at?’
There’s nothing here. Jamie points.
‘The street sign.’
What? I turn around and I see it. BUTTS WYND.
‘Yeah, so?’
‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’
‘Why, because it contains the word ‘butts’?’
‘Yeah. And ‘wind’.’
‘I see. You do know the origin behind this place name, don’t you?’
‘No. Why, do you?’
‘Sure. Dad told me. Wanna hear it?’
‘Okay.’
I clear my throat loudly and somewhat overdramatically.
‘Right. Well, Tobias Butts was a Roman foot soldier who, pretty much by accident, ended up leading the legion to victory in the Battle of Badoink. He’d just been messing around, trying on his commander’s helmet, when someone mistook him for the actual leader. The real one was probably elsewhere, I don’t know, peeing behind a tree.
Anyway, rather than admit that he was an ordinary soldier playing a bit of dress up, he, out of fear of being found out, gave the men their orders. Luckily, it turns out that Butts had got wind of the enemy’s position via eavesdropping, and it was this knowledge that meant the plan of attack he formulated won them the Battle of Badoink.’
By now, Jamie is sat captivated and open-mouthed.
‘Wow… Is that true? Is that why the street’s called Butt’s Wynd?’
‘Course not’, I scoff, ‘some builders probably wrote up some graffiti by mistake. Come on, let’s go home.’
Helping him up, I laughed at the ridiculous notion that Butts Wynd could ever me named after an actual person or an actual butt when suddenly there was a low rumble below us. A burst of gas wafts in from nowhere. Now, I’m not entirely sure what it was, but it smelt distinctly like…
Farts.

In with Anger, Out with Love

Today, I hate you.

I BURN ALL OF YOUR CLOTHES.

I SHRED ALL OF YOUR PHOTOS.

I WISH YOU WOULD DIE…

Tomorrow, who knows? I might regret this or feel strangely at ease. That’s what’s so fun about being in a relationship.

Please don’t sue me.

The Naked Mole Rat New Testament

St Peter was pretty sure he’d never seen an arrival quite like it. As he peered over his desk, he could swear he was looking at what appeared to be a penis with teeth. Not only that, but it was accompanied by a tiny book. Eventually it spoke – the penis that is, not the book.

‘Is this Heaven?’

St Peter looked around at the pearly gates, the angels beyond them, and the clouds under their feet, and decided not to dignify this with a response. The talking phallus, met with this frosty silence, tried again.

‘Am I dead?’

Now, this was a query to which the answer wasn’t always apparent, so Peter nodded.

‘Excellent!’ The little pink thing started to do a celebratory dance. St Peter stopped it.

‘Sorry, why is your demise something worth celebrating?’

‘Because it means I can bring you our book, of course.’

‘“Our”? “Book”? What are you talking about?’

‘I’m here to bring you a new version of the Bible. A new New Testament if you will.’

‘I see. And you bring this on behalf of who?’

‘The naked mole rats.’

‘What’s that – some sort of punk band?’

‘Nope. We’re burrowing creatures from Africa.’

‘Right. God must have created you on one of his off-days. Come on then, let’s see this Bible of yours.’

St Peter picked up the creature’s book.

‘So what exactly have you put in this new New Testament? You haven’t changed much, I hope.’

‘Uh, well, we’ve, er, altered the odd commandment.’

‘You changed some of the instructions laid down directly from God?'

‘Yeah.’

‘Which ones?’

‘Well, er, adultery. That’s gone. We reason we’re so ugly that it’s a miracle anyone will shag us, so why keep that to the confines of marriage?’

‘Right. What did you replace that with – “thou shall shag around”?’

‘No, of course not – that’s what we put in place of ‘thou shall not kill’. No, instead of adultery, we wrote ‘thou shall not wear clothes or grow fur.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, we’re naked mole rats, aren’t we? We’re meant to stay nude.’

‘You can’t grow fur.’

‘Exactly. That’s why it’s in the rules.’

‘No, I mean it’s impossible for you to do it, so there’s no need to ban it. It’s never going to happen.’

‘Oh… still, better safe than sorry.’

‘Better safe than – forget it. Is that all you guys have changed?’

‘Yeah. Ah, no, actually we might have changed Jesus to a mole rat.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, how else are we going to get the kids to read it?’

St Peter glares at the creature, who, despite this, continues talking nonetheless.

‘So, when can we get this published?’

‘When Hell freezes over.’

‘Great! And when will that be exactly?’

St Peter kicks the mole rat off the cloud.

‘You’ll have to go find out for yourself.’

The Glow in the Dark Ladybird

‘Dave?’
‘Yeah?’
‘What’s that over there?’
‘Where?’
‘By the cabbages. That fluorescent thing.’
‘That?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s just the Glow In The Dark Ladybird.’
‘Of course.’
‘Why, what did you think it was?’
‘A very very small torch.’
‘Ah. Now, that is stupid.’
‘Tell me about it…’

The Dentist's Yoghurt

Dental hygienist Dr Stewart was highly strung. Few would think that dealing with teeth, which neither bleed nor unexpectedly multiply during operations, would be so stressful, but it long has been rumoured that dentists have a very high suicide rate. However, it was not issues with overcrowding, plaque, or crowns that so bothered Stewart today. No, what he was more irate about was that someone had nicked his lunchtime yoghurt.

This meant his assistant, Cat, now had the incredibly difficult job of trying to calm the good doctor down. After all, his patients would hardly want him this wound up during their extractions.

‘Maybe you just forgot to take one this morning’, she offered, hoping this explanation would placate him. It did not.

‘Don’t be ridiculous! I’ve been working at this surgery for eight years, and in those eight years, every single day I’ve brought a yoghurt from home for lunch. It’s no longer a question of remembering for me, it’s now a matter of routine.’

‘Well, maybe you should change the routine. Shake things up a bit. Have a peach.’‘HAVE A – Cat, are you listening to yourself? Having a yoghurt every day is hardly a destructive habit. It’s not like I’m having an hourly dose of crack, or swallowing fire for a living, it’s just a little snack I’ve had in my lunchbox since I was five, and, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to maintain that tradition.’

‘Fine. Whatever. Keep having your yoghurt.'

‘Well, I can’t, can I? Why? Because somebody’s taken it!’

‘Look, do you want me to get you another one?’

‘What?’

‘The corner shop down the street. I could go there and buy you a new yoghurt. Would that make you happy?’

‘Yes. Yes, it would. Thank you, Cat.’

‘You’re welcome. I’ll see you in ten minutes.’

With Cat gone, Dr Stewart calls in his next patient. In walks a mother and her little boy, Sammy. Sammy is eating a yoghurt. The dentist looks at his suspiciously whilst his mother gets in the chair.

‘Wh – Where’d Sammy get that, Mrs Allen?’

She looks, then waves her hand dismissively.

‘What, the yoghurt? It was just lying around in the waiting room, and I said if nobody claimed it in twenty minutes, he could have it.’

‘I see… What did you say you’re in for again?’

‘Oh, just a routine clean. Nothing special.’

‘Ah, very well.’

Dr Stewart smiles, lowers the chair, and reaches for his pliers. This is definitely one cleaning that is going to hurt. To be fair to him though, she did deprive him of his yoghurt.

When my Blu-tack Stopped Sticking

When my blu-tack stopped sticking, the poster you got me fell down. At the time, I didn’t realise that it was the perfect metaphor for the state of our relationship. It was only many months later, after we’d struggled to stay together before finally calling it a day, that I knew I should have given you back the poster there and then.

I’ve since thrown the blu-tack away.

Give Me a Title

Dear Queen Liz,

I am writing to you to be honoured. By this, I do not mean it would be a privilege to hear from you (which it would be), I simply mean I am looking to be given an OBE or MBE or CBBC. Hell, if you’re feeling generous, I’d even go for a knighthood.

Bruce Forsyth’s got one of those. What’s he done to deserve it – say a bunch of catchphrases and date a Miss World? Pathetic. I’m much more worthy than he is – after all, I’ve spent most of my life in Britain’s favourite soap, and brought the nation to tears with my character’s frequent drinking, and troubled relationship with a speccy son. Bringing drama to people week in and week out should be enough to warrant me some of those little medals, surely? Honestly, it’s harder than it looks, this acting lark, especially when you do it on such a regular basis.

Anyway, attached is a recording of last week’s omnibus edition. I’ve got some good scenes in that; make sure to check out the one in which I almost cry. Watch that and get back to me, alright, darling?

Cheers,

Steve “Phil off Eastenders” McFadden

Julian Assange ate my Hamster.

Of all the clichés I expected to hear in this job, ‘stop the press’ was not one of them. There I was, writing up yet another bonny baby competition when Bill, our permanently agitated deputy editor, ran past my desk and shouted that immortal phrase you only ever hear in the movies. Naturally, I put down my pen, got out of my swivel chair, and caught up with him.

‘Bill, what’s the problem now? Look, if it’s the missing page numbers, I’m pretty sure nobody reads those anyway…’

He stares at me incredulously as if I’ve just told him I was abducted by a tribe intent on making me their king.

‘Oh, no, it’s not the numbers, Sam. Dear God, I wish that it was. No, what’s wrong is the headline.’

‘The headline? Come on, what’s  the matter with it?’

He thrusts a warm copy of our latest edition into my hands.

‘See for yourself.’

I look down and the first thing I see is the headline:

JULIAN ASSANGE ATE MY HAMSTER.

Bill’s now staring at me for a response. Clearly he wants me to agree that this is a major issue that should be rectified immediately.

‘Well?’

‘Uh, yeah, I see what you mean. Something must be wrong.’

He looks satisfied. I continue.

‘I mean, usually we put the pet consuming stories before the funny pages, right?'

He looks exasperated. Result.

‘Nooo…’, he snatches the paper back from me, ‘if you’re not going to take this seriously, I’m going to find someone who will.’

‘Ah, I think I can help you on that front, Billy boy.’

‘Oh really?’

‘Yeah. Talk to Freddie Starr. He’ll want to know that Assange is muscling in on his schtick.’

Bill throws his hands up in the air, just about restrains himself from hitting me round the back of the head with the newspaper, and storms off. I laugh and return to my desk. Putting aside the beautiful baby piece for a moment, I get to work on my next headline: VLADIMIR PUTIN ANNOUNCED AS X FACTOR JUDGE.

Man, I can’t wait to see Bill’s face.

The Cat Flap Bandit

As soon as I saw the lights go off upstairs, I seized my opportunity and headed for the panel in the door. This is where all the waiting pays off. See, I’d snuck in unseen hours ago, but the stupid giggly young couple here hadn’t even thought about going to bed until I was almost dozing off myself. Luckily, they were gone now, so I could finally get to work.

I started by undoing the screws. As each of them bounced off the tiles, they made a tiny metallic tinkling sound, but nothing that would rouse the sleeping unsuspecting above.
A thud from the lounge. Damn, rumbled.
I turn around to see who or what has caught me in the act. Eventually, a weedy grey kitten plods in. Oh, for the love of –
‘Dammit, Larry! I thought I told you to stay outside and keep watch!’
Seriously, where do I find these amateurs?
Larry tries to look all timid by putting on the big ole watery eyes, evidentially forgetting that I’m immune to them because I too am a cat.
‘I’m sorry, Rover. I just got scared. It’s dark out there and I ain’t too good when there’s no lights on.’
‘Hey, if you don’t like the dark, you shouldn’t have come out tonight. You know we only nick the silly flappy panels when humans are super-snoozing, so you should have expected a late shift.’
He starts to paw the floor nervously, and deliberately avoids my gaze.
‘Sure, but, see, I kinda forgot how dark the dark is, you know? In my mind, I’d be able to see.’
‘You can see fine. There’s street lamps past the fence.’
He looks – despite the fact we’re on the kitchen floor and nowhere near window height – in the direction of the front garden as if to check whether I could possibly be wrong. I sigh.
‘Look, Larry, it’s great that you want to get into the flip-up door removal game, but perhaps you could follow someone else for a change. I’m not looking to be a mentor any time soon. Plus, you’re sort of slowing me down.’
‘Am not.’
‘Yes, you obviously are! Right now, I’m talking to you when I should be taking another panel out. Clearly, you’re a distraction, so scram. I don’t need you screwing this job up and getting us caught by Tibbles.’
‘Tibbles? Aw, you don’t think he’d actually make an appearance, do ya? We’re petty thieves, not bird bath poachers. We’re hardly worth his time…’
‘We’re in his territory hitting up the doorstops where his gang get good grub. I think we’re definitely a threat.’
‘Still, we’re taking cat flaps, Rover, cat flaps! They’re hardly worth working up a furball over.’
‘Maybe so, but we can’t take that chance. He already knows that, thanks to some lone ranger, every feline now has easy access to previously exclusive meals. All he has to do is find out who it is, and rub them out.’
Larry gulps. I’d do the same, but for his sake, I feign nonchalance and return to unpicking the screws with my claws. Suddenly, behind me, Larry hisses and scampers off.
‘Jesus, what now?’
I turn around and see a plump well-groomed tabby looking extremely pleased with himself standing in the doorway. Tibbles.
‘Evening, Rover.’
This time, an air of nonchalance is much more harder to come by.
‘Hey, Mr Tibbles. Long time, no see. What have you been up to? Great. Bye!’
I head towards the lounge, but he pins down my tail with one of his round paws.
‘Not so fast. I believe you can help me with something that’s been troubling me lately.’
‘Er, sure. Anything for you, Mr Tibbles.’
‘Excellent.’ He releases my tail and pulls me round so we’re face to face. ‘Rover?’
‘Yes?’
‘Who’s been taking the little doors off my hangouts?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Wrong answer.’
He bats me to the floors. He puts his paw on my chest with his sharpest claw poised to stick into my heart the moment I give any further responses deemed incorrect. He continues.
‘I’ve been having young Larry follow you. He asked around the neighbourhood where to get bandit work, and voilà, he was sent to you. Funny that.’
Oh no. I really should have suspected that – after all, no kitten can truly be that stupid.
‘Looks like your cat flap capers are over, Rover. In fact, I’ve heard you’re going to retire – permanently.’
This does not look great. I nod in the vague hope that I’m going to be let off on a promise of good behaviour.
‘Say your prayers, Rover.’
Ah, no such luck.
‘One last question though before I kill you. Why the name?’
I smile weakly.
‘My owners wanted a dog.’
‘Ah’, the fat cat considers this, ‘well, now they can get one.’
And with that, my nine lives are extinguished. To think, I died for a cat flap. Oh well. At least there’ll be none of those in Hell.

What are (Facebook) Friends for?

Recently, not satisfied with producing a weekly story for the Flashnificent 7, I've been going to coffee shops with my fellow flash fiction colleagues, and producing pieces on titles supplied by them. This has proved a very useful exercise, both in terms of forcing me to cover subjects I wouldn't choose myself, and seeing whether giving me caffeine is a good idea.

Anyway, I've since opened up the idea one step further. Earlier this week, I asked for titles from my Facebook friends, and boy, did they deliver. Each of their eight prompts were quirky, interesting, and a joy to write on. Consequently, I'm publishing all of the tales here, once a day, for a week, starting with The Cat Flap Bandit.

Enjoy.