The Gifts

A short story by Colin Devonshire

The Gifts

“Answer the door will you?” said Rod.

“Yeah, yeah, who are you expecting?” answered Johanne.

Johanne feeling somewhat underdressed in battered boxer shorts opened his mate’s front door with only his head showing.

“There’s no one here. Wait a minute, what’s that?”

He peered up and down the street, quiet, not a soul in sight. He stepped onto the porch and reached under the scruffy bush.

“Hey, what is this?” he reached just under the broken branches and pulled out a package. Proudly, marching to the kitchen, placed it in front of his host.

“Is it your birthday?” he asked. “We celebrated something last night.”

“You know it isn’t,” said Rod, laughing. “Who left it?”

“I couldn’t see anyone, but it’s got your name on it. It says, ‘Dr Rod’, premature, don’t you think!” laughed Johanne.

The package was gently unwrapped, Johanne stood back, Rod carefully peeled the colourful paper. He used his skills as a trainee doctor as if he was making a bomb safe. A card dropped unnoticed to the floor.

“What is that?” he said, pointing at a varnished cube of hardwood.

He shook it, then handed it to his friend.

“It’s a puzzle,” exclaimed Johanne, “you have to dislodge sections of the wood, eventually it falls to bits. Then you have to reassemble it.”

They both poked and prised nothing budged. Rod grabbed it and squeezed opposite corners.

“There look,” he fiddled some more. His thumbnail edged a long thin narrow wedge of wood. It freed itself. Then it moved no more.

“Right, now you’ve shifted that piece, another bit will move into its place, and so on.”

Sure enough, sliding one piece freed another. Finally, they could see the cuts, straight and diagonally across each section. Bit by bit they dropped to the table.

“Have we got time for childish games? We’ve got to get to the hospital. The professor will have our guts if we’re late for his lecture.” 

“Wait a bit, I want to open this,” said Rod. He rushed and fiddled. At last, he pulled the cube to pieces.

“My God, what is that?” he asked as something dropped from the centre.

“Some kind of sick joke?”

“That looks like a painted toenail?”

“Yes, with a bit of toe still fixed to it!”

“Jesus. Come on, we had better get going.”

The gift was left on the coffee table, including the little extra.

“At the back there, the hope to be a doctor, you have been staring at the ceiling, can I assume, you know the answer?” the professor asked.

Johanne nudged his friend.

“Uh? Oh, sorry sir, I’ve things on my mind.”

“You carry on daydreaming while the others learn something useful,” said the lecturer.

“I can’t get that bloody toe out my mind,” Rod whispered.

Ten minutes later the professor swept out of the theatre with a jaunty, “Farewell.”

“I’m going home, are you coming?” asked Rod.

“You have another gift. Are you sure it’s not your birthday?” asked Johannes as they reached the front door.

“Not another toenail hidden in a cube?” 

The package was the same size and similar weight. They rushed inside to open it.

“Not a wooden cube, this time I have a glass globe. What the hell is this?” asked Rod.

“It’s a birthstone wishing ball. At least that is what it says on the box.”

A golden glass ball stared back at them, its glinting flecks of light blue gave an attractive appearance. The clear patches were big enough to see through. Johannes grinned at his friend in gold and blue.

In the packing was a sturdy round base to balance the ball, and a note. The ball rattled as Rod placed it on the ring. There was something inside.

“Is this another game?” asked Rod.

“What does the note say?”

“We didn’t get a note with the first present? That’s odd?” said Rod as he looked around.

Under the table was a square card, its colour matched the carpet. “There,” pointed Johannes.

 Rod looked at both pieces of paper, turning them front and back, neat handwriting on the first card said, “Tippy toe!” And the second in the same hand it said, “Hop along”.

Rod snatched the ball and shook. Inside, a small bone rattled.

“What the…” breathed Rod.

The men looked at each other, “You’ll have to break it you want to find what’s inside,” said Johanne.

They took turns to find a way in; it wasn’t a puzzle they agreed. Rod smashed the ball.

“What do you reckon?” he asked.

“It’s a bone.”

“Brilliant, you’ll make a surgeon one day,” grinned Rod.

“I should have said, it’s a whole bone, not a broken bit.”

“Yes, yes, but what bone?”

“It’s a patella,” suggested Johannes.

“A child’s knee cap?”

“Too small to be an adult’s.”

“Yes, I agree. Let’s see the toe again.”

“What do you think?”

“I think I’ll run some tests at the hospital tomorrow, let’s see if they belonged to the same person? Want to help?”

“Sure thing, see you bright and early before we study?”

Rod could not think, he started watching the news, murders and a massive riot in America came and went with no interest. His beloved team was playing the early game. It was on, but not watched. He barely noticed as the first goal hit the net.

“Is that you Johanne?” he called as the front doorbell rang.

It was not. The club crashed into Rod’s skull. He went face-first to the concrete slab entranceway. His head bumped as he was dragged up the low step and into the living room then strapped to his office swivel chair. The computer was as cold as his assailant.

Rod’s eyes focused on the dated wallpaper. He was facing the corner like a naughty schoolboy. He heard a swish behind him. Not the dreaded head-teacher’s cane. It sounded heavier. He sensed movement to his rear; it was painful to turn his head, his neck ached. But swivel he did. She was beautiful, slight, and Asian. Glaring with the Devil’s own eyes. Lasers burned deep. She then smiled. The heat was gone, leaving icicles stabbing deep. He tried to talk, to plead. The bandage allowed no sound. She laughed at his mumble. 

“You see this,” she started speaking as she banged it into her open palm. “This is my sister’s hip bone.”

Her English was flawless, her accent cast him back ten years.

“Do you remember me?”

Rod would never forget Lalita. She was his first love. His family moved to Bangkok when his father was offered the chance to oversee the building of a new hospital. It was the move that set Rod’s dream of becoming a GP. 

“You told us, your dad was a doctor,” she said. Loosening his gag.

“No, I said he worked in a hospital.”

“That was a lie.”

“He was building one,” Rod said.

“We trusted you.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Do you remember my little sister?”

“Sure. She always wanted to play with us,” said Rod.

“Do you remember the skateboards we played on?”

“Yeah, they were new in Thailand. You were pretty good on yours.”

“Yeah, but my sister wasn’t, remember?”

“That’s right, it’s coming back to me. How is she?”

“You said, that as your dad was an English doctor, you knew how to stitch wounds.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember.”

“And then you and your ‘doctor’ father returned here.”

“Yes, that was a sad day.”

“It was sad for us too. My little sister’s foot started changing colour. Grey at first, then a light purple. The skin on her toes bubbled. We were too scared to show my mum.”

“You should have seen a doctor.”

“We thought we did.”

“How could I have been a doctor at that age?”

“Your dad was a doctor, or at least we thought so. You said, ‘it was only a couple of stitches under her toes. Anyone could do it. But don’t tell you mum’, you made us swear.”

“But…”

“Her blood couldn’t get to the wound, the colour got darker, and it stank.”

“She had gangrened you mean?” asked Rod.

“The first operation they took her foot.”

“Oh, God.”

“Then they cut above the knee. They acted too slow, she died.”

“I’m so sorry, I was young and thought I was helping.”

Lalita tightened the gag.

“You have my sister’s hip,” she tapped him, first right then left cheek. She dropped the bone in his lap. “You have my sister’s patella and her little toe. Now I’m going to remove yours. Burn them as any good Buddhist would, and mix the ashes with my sister’s.”

The needle stabbed into his neck as she pulled out her saw.

The END

Silent Shadows

Short story by Colin Devonshire

Silent Shadows

“Come on, don’t be a scaredy-cat,” said Bobby.

“You think it’s a good idea to break the law?” said Gemma.

“It’s not breaking the law, I’ve got the keys,” he answered.

“Yeah, right, and that makes it okay?”

“I want to buy this house.”

“You are fourteen.”

“I know, my Dad is selling this place, and I want to have it.”

“Your Dad is a sales agent, that doesn’t give you a divine right to own. Not now, nor in the future,” she said.

“Come in and you’ll understand.”

Bobby unlocked the front door and pushed it back.

“Look at that,” he said.

“It is nice,” said Gemma, as they twisted their way to the lounge. “Wow.”

“Look at the view,” he said, pointing across the uncut lawn to the distant woods.

Bobby loosed his backpack, “Sit down.”

“On what?”

“On the floor, what else?”

“I expected some furniture, if your Dad has any hope of selling it, he should make it looked lived in,” suggested Gemma.

“So, you’re an expert?” he said, proudly showing his wine bottle.

“We’re too young to drink.”

“Technically, yes, come on enjoy it.”

“You had better open it first,” said Gemma as Bobby went to the kitchen.

“Oh, there is no cutlery, no corkscrew even.”

“Are you surprised? Why would there be a corkscrew when there’s no furniture?” sighed Gemma, grabbing the bottle.

“How did you do that!” yelled Bobby.

“Do what?”

“I felt the shadow.”

“Hilarious, are you trying to scare me? You scare me because you are so stupid,” she said, unwrapping the foil on the neck of the bottle. “It’s a twist open, you need nothing but strong fingers,” she laughed.

“There, there,” he stammered, looking around. “No glasses,” Bobby said recovering his composure.

“What’s the matter with you?” 

“Nothing, cheers,” as he unscrewed the top holding the bottle for her checking dark corners.

“Cheap plonk,” she said.

“What do you know about it, I thought you didn’t drink?”

“I do share a glass with my Dad sometimes. We drink decent wine.”

“This is what my Dad gives customers.”

“I can believe that. Anyway, what shook you up?” she asked.

“It was weird. As a cloud passed over the sun, I felt something on my arm, then my face. I thought, somehow, maybe you did it?”

“You think I have power over clouds?”

“Drink up, then we can look around,” he said, taking a deep swig.

He stood and took her hand, led her to the stairs.

“Don’t tell me you hoped for a bed?” she asked.

“Nothing here,” he breathed, looking from door to door. “Nothing in the whole place.”

“As I said, it would be easier to sell with full furniture.”

A golden reflection flicked the handrail then followed them.

They moved from the master bedroom to a second large room. They looked inside the fitted wardrobes, nothing.

“My God look at this,” shouted Gemma.

The third room was carpeted and packed with modern-looking chairs, stocked cupboards housed jeans and t-shirts, heaving bookshelves with teen love stories, a wide-open bathroom and on the far side, next to the window was a steel desk. On the black plastic top sat a MacBook Pro, open and glowing.

They edged their way into the room, opened mouthed. The sun blocked by clouds darkened the room. They rushed across to the laptop. As the room darkened, the desk glowed gold. Google was open at ‘teen pregnancy’. Gemma read the page titles and gasped.

“What does this mean?” she looked at Bobby, then moved past him looking back. “We didn’t shut this door, did we?”

She ran the few paces and tried the handle; it was locked.

“Okay, who is playing tricks? Did you set me up?” she glared at Bobby, who was now standing next to her fiddling with the stainless steel grip. He answered with a grunt as he tried forcing the lock.

They both felt a shadow push between them. The shadow breathed gold. A new colour on the cream carpet caught Bobby’s eye.

“Look, look, Gemma, blood on the floor,” he said.

Brownish red footprints disappeared as they moved towards the bathroom.

The pair stood rigid for minutes, then Gemma broke away from Bobby’s grip on her arm.

The bathroom door was now shut, it would not open. They tapped, then hammered on the wood. Nothing, Bobby ran to the bedroom door, still locked.

“Let’s wait and see what happens,” said Bobby hopefully.

“And how long are you prepared to wait, and for what?” said Gemma.

Bobby tried the easy chair, moving a novel to the bedside cabinet, as Gemma leafed through a volume of medical miracles next to biology textbooks on the shelf.

“Look at this,” she said, tapping a headline, “Dangers of youth pregnancy!”

Then the bathroom door opened slowly and silently. Footprints padded silently to the desk.

A girl’s face appeared on the screen, pretty blue eyes peeked from under a blonde fringe.

“Hi,” she said from the screen.

Gemma and Bobby were leaning on the desk.

Gemma was the first to speak, “Who are you?”

“Just a young girl like you,” said the Mac.

“What happened? Are you a ghost?” asked Bobby.

“Do you believe in ghosts? You surprise me,” chuckled the computer.

“I don’t, someone is pranking us. I want to know who? And how they do it,” said Gemma.

“Do you enjoy playing tricks on people?” said the Mac.

“It can be fun,” suggested Bobby.

“Oh, really? Like telling a morbidly depressed man his daughter is pregnant?” said the Mac.

A golden shadow flicked at Booby’s hair. Teasing, poking, prodding and gently stabbing at his face.

“Leave him alone, let us go,” said Gemma.

Bobby was silent, standing rigid.

“Ah, now you remember me?” said the Mac.

Like a melting snowman, Bobby slid to the floor in a heap.

“What is going on?” asked Gemma.

“I don’t think your friend is up to telling you. So I shall. You are in my new house. My father was a talented, but tender scriptwriter. He had landed a tremendous job, hence the new place. We were happy for the first time since my Mum died.”

Gemma, transfixed, breathed, “Go on.”

“My new school was not welcoming to a shy girl.”

It went quiet except for Bobby weeping.

“He teased me, I did not want him as a friend. He told his mates that he had made me pregnant. The word spread, it got back to my Dad. My father was, how should I say, unable to cope with such news.”

Gemma glared at her ‘friend’ on the floor.

“My Dad killed me, trying to dig the non-existent baby from my womb. And then killed himself.”

Across town, a doorbell was ringing.

“Okay, okay, enough with the bell.”

“Where is my daughter?”

“Hey, calm down. Who are you and who is your daughter?”

“Gemma, my daughter, said she was coming here to see your son. She hasn’t returned home. Is she here?”

“When I got in from work, the house was empty. Now my wife and Bobby’s brother are here.”

“Where are Gemma and Bobby?”

“How should I know?”

“I like to monitor my little girl.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Never mind. Where can they be?”

“Why all the fuss? It’s not late.”

“It is when we have a dinner engagement.”

“Okay, let’s see. They can’t be far. It can only be walking distance?”

“Unless your son has an illegal motorbike?”

Bobby’s Dad stalked to the garage to check, “His bike is here!”

“So they walked, got a taxi or went with others?”

“Have you phoned her?”

“Of course. She didn’t pick up.”

“Let me try Bobby.” He grabbed his mobile and tapped in an important number. “Ringing, but no answer.”

The men went back into the house.

“Did Bobby tell you of his plans,” his father shouted up the stairs. Negative answers were returned. They moved to an office-like room.

Bobby’s Dad sat and offered a chair to Gemma’s Dad.

A phone sang out, “No, she is not here, have you heard anything, any ideas?” said Gemma’s father.

Both men were shaking their heads, Bobby’s Dad looked up and noticed a keyring missing from its hook in a line of ten others.

“Come with me, I think I know where they are.”

Car headlights flashed as they raced the short distance to the modern, ‘For Sale’ house. No room lights on show, but an odd golden glow from upstairs.

After hammering on the door, they looked through the windows.

“Look, come shine your torch in here.”

A wine bottle stood alone in the middle of the lounge. Bobby’s Dad raced to the back door, retrieving a key from under a rock, and went in.

The men ran from room to room shouting. They entered the last room, pushing back the door. It was empty like the rest, no carpet, no furniture, no Mac and no teenagers.

The END

You can read more of Colin’s short stories at Medium.com @dark-novels

Kith and Kin

by Colin Devonshire


She took a deep breath and said to her boss, “I quit!”

“But you just begged me for a raise,” said Travel Tim.

“Yes, and I thanked you. Now I want to see the world,” Tina was panting. Her managing director thought she was about to have a fit, another fit.

“Sit down and relax, please don’t get worked up.”

Tina took a gulp of tea, swept her hair away from her overlarge glasses and started a three-minute monologue. She then smiled at him.

“I am sorry to let you go, but as you’ve explained at length, great length, that you are fed up with booking other folk’s holidays, you want to take one yourself. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“How about we extend your leave?”

“No, thank you,” she stammered. “I want to feel free.”

“Fine, and I understand that, what about your epilepsy?”

“I have pills for that.”

“What about last week?” he asked.

“I forgot to take them, that’s all.”

“You forgot them and…?”

“Okay, I was dealing with a difficult customer.”

“And?”

“Don’t go on, I was having my period and yes, I had a hangover, okay?”

Tim puffed, “Where are you planning to go?”

“I’ve worked here, three years and have not set foot on a plane,” she started with another long speech, Tim cut it short.

“So, France? Spain? Maybe Italy?”

“No, Thailand!” she beamed.


She worked her month’s notice and set off to Heathrow. Tim and her Mum went to see her off.

The flight was twelve hours, the time difference confusing. Her mobile phone calculator was needed to judge her medicine timing.

“Oh, bollocks to it,” she said as she swallowed the pills.

The elderly Thai lady next to her looked puzzled, “Are you okay, my dear,” she asked.

“Oh, sorry, yes fine thanks, I’ve never felt better,” smiled Tina.

From then until they reached Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport they didn’t stop talking, when they bumped onto the tarmac they were best of friends.

“Forget hotels, they are so expensive, come and stay with me,” Khunying Far offered.

The Thai Air staff were polite and efficient to Tina, but they fell over themselves when aiding her neighbour. Not just because she was in her seventies.

For all the chitchat on the Jumbo, the kindly Thai had failed to mention that Khunying is a Thai title much like ‘Lady’ in the UK.

The immigration queue was longer than Bangkok’s Chao Phraya River. Tina gasped. 

“Come with me,” Khunying Far signalled.

Ten minutes later, with a Mercedes saloon waited outside, a polite ‘wai’ greeted them as the rear doors opened. 

“This is Khun Daa, my driver. He is yours to use when needed. Can I suggest we skip a Bangkok tour? I’m tired, we’ll go straight to my home in Hua Hin?” asked Khunying Far.

“Yes, of course. How far is Hua Hin?” she knew from the travel brochures it could take three hours.

Both ladies dozed in the luxurious German leather. Sleeping most of the way south. As excited as she was, Tina’s head dropped before leaving the city. 

“Nearly home,” nudged Khunying Far, as they skirted the seaside town of Cha-Am.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous, everyone is smiling,” said Tina.

“The weather helps, unlike London,” her companion said, smiling. “You must be hungry?”

“Are we stopping?”

“No, dear, what would you like?”

“Oh, I don’t know, something Thai?” answered Tina.

Khunying Far chatted at her mobile.

Khun Daa took the bags to the bedrooms. A middle-aged woman came out to help him.

“This is Pi Yah, she can help you find anything you need, towels etcetera,” said Khunying Far.

“Can I wash and brush up before we eat?” asked Tina.

“Of course, take your time. Don’t forget your medication.”


Much refreshed, Tina studied her room. The house appeared old and made of teakwood, polished planks on the floors, painted in creams and light browns elsewhere.

“Gorgeous, like a dream house,” breathed Tina as she moved to the open windows. “Oh my, look at the view!”

Below her window was a sandy lawn with rocks dividing small rose gardens leading to a low wall. Beyond were a handful of fishing boats gently bobbing on the waves.

“This is heavenly,” thought Tina as she planned her first email to her Mum.

There was a tap at the door.

Pi Yah pointed downstairs, “Can you speak English?” asked Tina.

A lost look was her answer. Tina followed her to the dining room.

Aromas met her as the door opened.

“Come in, Yah is a superb cook, I think you’ll agree?”

“It looks and smells wonderful. What is it?” asked Tina.

“My favourite, green chicken curry. I hope you like it. Yah always cooks this dish if I’ve been away.”

Pi Yah backed away through an open door on the far side of the room. Tina sat down and copied her hostess, using a spoon and fork to attack the feast.

The women heard a car on the gravel. Then cutlery dropped behind them.

“Khaw mah, chan ja pai noow!” said Pi Yah.

“Pai, pai,” signalled Khunying Far, flapping her arms. The driver took his wife the maid home.

The front door opened and slammed against the wall. An immaculately dressed man burst in firing words like splinters from a rotary saw.

“This is my son,” said Khunying Far.

He spotted Tina, halted his torrent of Thai, staring at her, then turning into the gallant charmer he could be when needed.

“Oh, hello, who are you?” he said in accentless English.

“Hello, I’m Tina,” she stammered.

The man stared at his mother. 

“Meet Khun James. As you’ve seen, he scares away my staff, and I’m sure he’ll try to scare you too.”

“Not me mother, I would never scare a friend of yours, especially one so beautiful.”

Tina blushed and wished she could hide behind her glasses.

“What do you want, James?”

“Can I eat? I’m sure your cook would have added a little something if she knew I was coming,” he laughed, reaching for a plate. “I want what I’m due, that’s all. And I’m not talking about food.”

Tina thought she should leave, slid her chair back, “I’ll go to my room if you’re having a family discussion.”

“Stay, where you are, I want you to see James at his worst.”

Tina hid behind her spoon shrivelling.

“Mother dearest, you know this is my house. I’ve offered to allow you to live here. But I want what is mine.”

“Dearest son, I could not live in the same house as you, here or elsewhere. That is the end of the discussion.”

“I am not prepared to wait for you to die and bequeath it to me.”

A smirk turned into a giggle then a full belly laugh.

“What is so funny?” asked James.

“I have willed this house to a dog’s charity. All the ownerless beach dogs can live out their lives in peace,” she roared with laughter.

“But you can’t,” stammered James.

“Can and have,” stated his mother.

“Show me the will.”

“You can see it when I die,” she snorted.

James grabbed the serving spoon, pulling his mother’s short hair backwards, thrust the cutlery in his mother’s stretched jaw.

Tina, frozen to the chair stared at the nightmare scene. Looking around for a weapon, finding nothing, she took the curry bowl from the centre of the table in both hands and crashed it against his head. Curry splattered everywhere, but the china was not strong enough to stop him in his mad quest. It burst into shards. He turned and grabbed Tina’s throat and squeezed. Khunying Far, choking and coughing fought to clear the spoon from her mouth. She ran to the kitchen behind her and pulled open the first drawer. Grabbing a cleaver, she turned and plunged it into her son’s unprotected back. He arched and screamed in agony, stretching backwards as he dislodged the steel. Kneeling, he stared with unfocused eyes, “Why mother?” he croaked. “Everyone thinks you are perfect, but I know better. I remember what happened to Dad.”

He collapsed forward and bled to death.

Tina coughing and panting started shaking from head to toe. Khunying Far had seen somewhere that people suffering a fit could swallow their tongues. She knelt next to Tina pushed on her side, then grabbing the cleaver and using the rounded corner of the spine she gently forced her teeth open pressing the tongue down. Slowly the tension lifted, the woman relaxed and began thinking.

She removed the blade, tipped Tina onto her back, then using the cleaver’s handle poked the tongue down Tina’s throat. Now there were no witnesses.

She considered burying the bodies in the garden next to her husband. 

“No, too much like hard work, I’m not as young as I once was,” she thought with a smile.

She hunted for her phone, “Police please,” she said with a quivering voice.

Before two minutes had passed, she heard wheels on her gravel.

“Thank God you’ve come,” she said, showing the officers through. They showed the Khunying the respect she deserved, then got on with their task.

“I was dressing for dinner upstairs, we had a lovely meal planned, my wonderful son was going to introduce me to his new girlfriend. Then I heard shouting and screaming. I rushed down to this…” she collapsed in tears.

The END

Read more of Colin’s work at Medium.com @colindevonshire

So Many Books, So Little Time!

A short humorous story, here, Anchor.fm and Medium.com @colindevonshire

So Many Books, So Little Time!

“Get out of my library,” screamed the librarian from the doorway. She would never raise her voice inside. The two young lovers had tested her ability to keep her blood pressure from bursting veins. Their crime? They were fiddling with each other under a desk.

“Whatever next, this is a place of learning – from books!” she yelled after the giggling teenagers.

The young couple ignorant of other footpath users forced a lady and her two children onto a grassy verge.

“To think I was like them a few years ago, now look at me,” talking to herself was becoming a habit.

“Come on you two,” she urged. “You know I’ve an important meeting,” breathed their Mum. 

She needed a job and needed it urgently. Her ex-husband ceased paying the agreed maintenance, she couldn’t track him down, now her pitiful savings had dwindled to nothing.

Twin brothers skipped merrily behind. Flicking at leaves, kicking dandelions, and giggling at the groping lovers going past.

“Please, boys. This way, up here,” she led them into the library. “Christ, now it’s spitting with rain. Have you got an umbrella in your bags?”

“No, Mum,” they answered. The boys had plenty of vital belongings, torches, crayons, glue and Lego pieces.

She marched them up the sloping path. It appeared the drooping daffodils were reading the posters splattering the glass doors and plastering the windows. ‘Book Sale’ boasted one.

“If you are coming in here, clean your shoes!” said a woman looking left and right, ensuring no pranksters were lurking. 

“How loud and gravelly can a lady whisper?” wondered the twins poking each other.

“Not you two,” the grey-haired women said, glaring at their mother.

“Oh, sorry,” she stammered. “I wondered, would you be so good as to monitor them for me? Just for a short while. I have to go for a job interview. I won’t be long.”

The woman pointed to a sign. ‘No unattended children!’

“Oh, no,” the mother cursed under her breath.

A gangly, ginger-haired man popped his head from the thriller section. “I’ll watch them for you, as long as you’ve got a light, I’m gasping for a fag.”

The librarian looked ready to disintegrate as she fired her finger to one of the many ‘No Smoking’ signs.

Ginger grinned, “Only joking.”

The boys liked this man, their mother did too. She scurried to her appointment.

“Let me show you the children’s section,” said the stout librarian boasting ‘Miss Prim’ on a badge lodged above her ample bosom. The smirking boys followed her marching army fashion. Leaving Ginger smirking at Lee Child’s photograph on the back of his latest novel. He flicked the pages before grabbing Stephen King’s ‘Misery’ from the shelf.

“Sit here boys, I’ll fetch some suitable reading for you,” said Miss Prim.

“Hey, it is good in here,” whispered Tom.

“Yeah, love the nautical theme,” answered Jerry, studying the decor.

Their father had been more of a cartoon fan than a literary expert. The only things he gave the boys before walking out on the family were their names and smirks from everyone they met.

They had redecorated the upstairs of the library to make reading more welcoming for younger folk. The idea was to change the theme regularly, but the budget ran out. The first layout was popular, so they kept the anchors, the ropes and the cardboard canons, with stunted paper pirates reading children books and leaning lopsidedly against the walls.

Miss Prim thrust books at the boys.

Tintin beamed from the cover of ‘The Crab with the Golden Claws’ drunken Captain Haddock earned a hidden thumbs up from Ginger, now perched on the stairs. Tom and Jerry giggled silently. 

Bernard Cornwell’s books didn’t grab the imagination in quite the same way, the only pictures were on the covers. The twins started fighting over Captain Haddock and his Belgian mate.

“Stop that!” spluttered Miss Prim as she snatched the book, leaving the boys with a copy of Jack London’s, ‘The Sea Wolf’ and the battered hardback, ‘Classic Sea Stories’. It did not impress Tom and Jerry.

“Read those,” said Miss Prim as she turned to the stairs, Ginger quickly trotted back to his thriller.

The boys, being twins, didn’t always need to speak, they knew each other’s plans; they sensed mischief like the stink of a month old kipper. They searched through their bags, finding their tubes of ‘superglue’ they then grabbed one heavy dictionary and a giant colourful atlas from the shelf. Preparing themselves, they headed to Miss Prim’s desk.

“Excuse me, Miss Prim, I want to check the word ‘erudition’ but can’t open the book,” said Jerry.

“What do you mean, can’t open the book?” she asked.

“And I wanted to know where ‘erudition’ is in the world,” asked Tom.

Miss Prim guffawed, “Erudition is not a place.”

“Oh, I thought if they called you erudite you must come from Erude?” they sniggered as they handed over the weighty volumes. 

“Anyway, we can’t open the pages.”

“Let me see,” she barked, snatching the tomes.

Jerry slid behind Miss Prim as she stood to take the books. 

The glue worked instantly, Miss Prim’s fingers stuck to the covers, the weight caused her to overbalance, now sitting firmly on her chair’s small puddle of clear liquid. Glued to the seat. Not wanting to break her own ‘keep it quiet’ rule, she gulped.

Ginger realising something was happening at the front desk wandered across. He smiled at the boys. Soon all three were giggling. Miss Prim’s eyes were molten, as if firing hot needles at the boys. 

Heads together, the boys planned the next stage of their scheme. Ginger calmly lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the woman.

“I ban you from here,” she croaked.

The twins bounded and bounced up and down the stairs, armfuls of rope and posters landed on Miss Prim’s desk.

Soon, her ankles tightly fastened to chair legs, they looped the rope around her neck. Next, her cheek securely glued to her blotter. They cut words from the carefully written posters, they too glued to her eyelids and cheeks, Jerry jumped up on the desk and lobbed the rope over the rafter. He pulled the rope tight to appear taut.

The messages stuck to her face, handpicked, to carefully fit the situation.

‘I can read with my eyes shut’ it said above her closed eye.

‘If my book is open, your mouth should be closed.’ They firmly glued her own mouth shut.

And hanging from the rope, ‘The suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.’

The boys were laughing and back-slapping as their mother burst through the doors.

“I’ve got it. I got the job!” she shrieked.

“What job, Mum?” asked Jerry.

“I’m the new librarian, Miss Prim is retiring and…”

The END

A Darker Forest

FREE short story by Colin Devonshire

A Darker Forest

A darker forest paints with blood in the sun sliding down its trees

“Here we are, kids. I used to play hide and seek with your auntie when I was your age. Lovely old tree, isn’t it?”

His memory, like Movietone, pictured his black and white sister grabbing the biggest and best conkers from the ancient horse chestnut, branches bowed with the weight of prickly inedible fruit.

The family Alsatian, Bruno, tail wagging, ran around in circles, begging for a ball to be lobbed into the trees. Bounded to and from child to trunk.

“When are we going home?” asked Sadie.

“Yeah come on Dad, there is no connection out here,” said her twin brother, Rog.

“We’ve only just got here. There is more to life than games or TikTok on your mobiles,” said Johnny, their father. “We played conkers or hide and seek.”

Clarice, Johnny’s girl friend busied herself spreading a rug on a flattish area of grass, laying out well wrapped sandwiches, biscuits and a flask of tea.

“Come on gang, sit down and enjoy your picnic,” she said.

“I wish Mum was here,” said Sadie. Her brother nodded. 

Their step mum to be hoped she would get accepted by the children soon, “She would have loved to be here with you too,” she said, glancing at Johnnie.

“There are your Mum’s initials in the middle of the big heart I carved, mine next to it. We dug them out with small pen knives them when we first fell in love,” said their Dad. 

Johnny, again lost in memories was staring high into the branches, “If only?” he thought.

It was two years to the day she died. Twelve years since they fell in love. Twelve years of hate between their families. “When will it end?” he wondered.

Clarice passed laden paper plates to the children, Rog nodded as he accepted his, Sadie knocked hers in the air.

“I don’t want your sandwiches, I don’t want to be here. It feels funny,” said the girl.

“Sadie!” shouted her Dad.

Clarice leaned over to hug the girl, “Don’t worry. I understand.”

Rog ducked his head to hide his tears.

“We don’t like it here,” stammered the boy, as he stood and stepped hid behind the enormous truck.

Johnny glared at his daughter as he started clearing away the uneaten picnic.

“Look what I’ve found,” shouted Rog, holding aloft his treasure. “It’s a gold ring.”

“Let me see,” called a brighter Sadie. “It’s Dad’s,” she squealed.

Johnny walked around hand out. He studied the simple design before looking at the engraving inside.

“It’s its,” he stammered. “Mine is in the drawer at home.”

“See, Mum’s and your initials either side of a heart. Just like on the tree,” stated Sadie.

“Mine is at home!” insisted Johnny.

“It must be your wife’s,” said Clarice. “Try it on, then you’ll know.”

Johnny snatched it back.

“It won’t fit. It must be someone else with the same initials?” he said.

“That’s pretty unlikely, don’t you think. The letters, the heart right next to the tree you love?” said Clarice.

Johnny shook his head slowly. He sank to the grass. Clarice hugged him, not understanding his grey mood.

Another memory tormented him. “I trust my brother far more than you,” she had screamed at him. Her stare like molten lava burnt him to this day.

“What’s the matter, maybe she lost it well before she died?” said Clarice.

“No, she didn’t,” he answered.

Sadie and Rog ran around throwing the ball for Bruno. His barking and jumping cheered all except a sullen Johnny.

“Come on, stupid dog, here is the ball,” Rog shouted, showing the once hidden ball pulled from behind his back.

“He doesn’t want to play with us,” said Sadie.

Bruno had other things to do. A scent he could not ignore twitched his nose. Busy scratching at the base of the tree. He bounced, jumping excitedly, front legs digging, rear legs splayed, he dug up sod after sod of loose grass.

“Get away from there,” shouted Johnny. “Here, have this,” he handed a ham sandwich to the dog. “Don’t you want it?” he asked, wagging the treat at the dog’s wet nose.

The children and Clarice watched open-mouthed, as Johnnie stamped after the dog.

“Dad, Dad, calm down he is only playing,” said Rog.

Johnny grabbed a hefty stick and slashed it at his pet, who yelped away.

“What is up with you?” screamed Clarice.

A red faced father was on hands and knees, patting down clumps of turf, shaking his head and mumbling. Bruno in a wolf-like stance crept behind his owner, low to the ground. Wary, careful, he edged closer.

The children watched in horror as Bruno bared teeth, growling with intent. He leapt and bit deep into Johnny’s throat.

Clarice pulled the children behind her before slowly walking forward, “Okay Bruno, leave your owner. Come on, good boy,” she soothed.

Bruno released his grip, turned away from the wounded man and continued with his digging.

The children rushed to their blood-soaked father. Clarice tried calling emergency numbers. No signal.

She used the rug as a pillow and checked his carotid artery. It was leaking. Blood seeped between her fingers.

“Kids run as fast as you can to the edge of the woods, try to contact anyone you find or if you can, phone an ambulance. Go quickly,” she said.

The children ran off clutching their mobiles.

In a panic, Clarice’s first-aid knowledge remained deep behind stacks of other information. She clamped her hand over the jagged wound, blood kept leaking through her fingers.

“Don’t die on me, please!” 

“It was an accident!” Johnny croaked. Tears were watering blood as they reached his throat.

“Don’t speak, the ambulances are coming. Hang on,” she cried.

Minutes passed, Bruno didn’t slow his digging.

“Thank God, here they come,” Clarice breathed. She spotted flashing lights in the distance. A pair of stretcher carriers battled branches.

A chunky lady dropped a case next to Johnny, immediately started working on him. The ambulance driver put his arm around Clarice, leading her a few steps away.

Clarice turned back as Johnny spat out a brief sentence, “I didn’t mean to, it was her family.”

Johnny’s head twisted to one side. The lady shook her head slowly. Clarice wailed. The children ran up, collapsing at their father’s side.

Bruno kept digging, deeper and deeper.

Police arrived, taping off the area. An officer attempted to lead Clarice and the children away.

“Where is the dog that caused all this?” he asked.

Clarice pointed to the tree trunk.

Bruno sat behind it, proudly wagging his tail, showing off his treasure. He had bits of a skeletal arm in his mouth. Rotted muscle hung loose. A hand with a ringless finger.

The END

Oh, September!

FREE short story by Colin Devonshire.

Oh September!

“Babe, only a month to go. Thirty short days, and then you’ll be Mrs Pippa Peters!” said Mike Peters as he stroked her bare muscled back.

“Are you trying to sing?” asked Pippa.

“I can’t sing, but if I could, I’d sing for you.”

“You are sweet, are you murdering my favourite Johnny Winter song? ‘Gonna give you thirty days to get back home. Gonna talk to the gypsy woman gonna tell her so, She gonna put out a worldwide voodoo, That’ll be the very thing that’ll suit you, Gonna see that you be back home in thirty days’. Is that the one you mean? Am I a gipsy with the power to entrance you?” she laughed.

“You’ve got me wound around your little finger, is that what you mean, even if I can’t sing?”

“Even if you are full of cliches, and can’t sing! I can’t wait to be your wife.”

The duvet pulled over their naked bodies once more.

“Mrs P to be, and no, that is not the first line of a new song. I’ve work to do, and so do you.”

“I’m ticking off the days, soon we’ll be together every night. Don’t hate my Dad, I know he’s old-fashioned,” said Pippa as she stuffed her overnight bag.

“He is my boss, I can’t afford to upset him, and he accepted me as a son-in-law,” they laughed together.

“I’m sure he knows I spend the weekends with you. But he has to keep up appearances.”

“What would they say in the House of Lords?” said Mike.

“They would have something to chatter about if they spied my hen night!” she giggled.

“Why are you having it so long before the wedding?” he asked.

“Because I want to look wonderful on the big day. No ugly bags under my eyes. Don’t forget the press will be there, and they would love it if Lord ‘The Most Hated’ lawyer’s daughter looked like a dragon,” she answered.

“I try to forget the following you father’s cases attract. Thank God I don’t have to deal with gangsters, murderers and heaven forbid, pop stars.”

On Thursday night the ‘hens’ gathered at their favourite Soho pub.

“Hello girls, you all look simply spectacular,” the barman minced.

High fives all around, deciding on whose skirt was shortest.

“A couple more here then we move to Xplode, okay girls?” called Pippa. 

Samantha, the maid of honour grinned and winked a secret to the bubbly gang of professional girls. Taxis dropped them outside London’s famous club.

“Rainbow slammers for ten,” Samantha ordered. The bar only offered five colours, two of each shade were downed, the girls weren’t fussy about what colour they got.

The vodka slammers knocked back as soon as they hit the bar.

“Ah, ha, now the show starts,” screamed Samantha. They shoved a leather office recliner to the centre of the dance floor, muscly dancers circled the chair, soon their discarded clothes draped the chair arms.

The hens carried and shoved their friend to the hot seat. The lead dancer dressed only in clingfilm started his performance. He discarded sheets of thin film as more vodka tipped down Pippa’s throat. Screams and wails of delight followed the dancers’ nimble moves.

Pippa turned away from the show’s star and fought hard not to throw up. She gagged. The experienced showman grabbed her upper arm and pulled her to a door at the back.

“Do not spew on my props,” he said, leading Pippa to the toilets.

The hens carried on dancing, laughing and slamming.

“Where is Pippa?” asked one, “She’s been out of sight a while.”

“Last chance for a bit on the side?” laughed the girls.

Samantha knew her friend better. She disappeared through the door at the back.

“Pippa?” she called at the door to the ‘ladies’. Opening door after door, knocking on the locked ones, “Pippa, are you okay?” No sign of her. She went to the men’s toilet.

“Sorry guys, don’t wish to disturb your pee, is my girlfriend in here?” she asked. 

“No, we’d love a few young ladies in here, darling. You can stay and join us for a snort?” grinned the well-dressed banker. As he kicked aside sheets of clingfilm. “Who left this rubbish in here?” he asked.

Samantha suddenly sober, ran to a bouncer.

“Mike, did Pippa come to your place?” asked Samantha.

“Christ, what time is it?” he said, disturbing the sleep from his eyes.

“I’ve called her dad’s place, the butler said she hasn’t come home,” said Samantha.

“She’s not here,” said Mike, “Where the hell is she, it was your job to look after her?”

Samantha told Mike what happened. 

“Fancy a coffee?” she asked.

“I’ll meet you at the Starbucks near the club.”

As Mike sat opposite Samantha, his phone bleeped.

“We don’t want to disturb his Lordship’s slumber, you can pass a message.”

Mike drove the short distance to Mayfair.

“Come in Sir, I’m afraid Pippa is not here,” said the butler.

“It’s his Lordship I need to see, can you wake him?”

“It is very early.”

“I well know the time, this concerns his daughter, oh never mind.” Mike pushed past the man and bounded up the stairs.

“Sir, sorry to wake you. They have kidnapped Pippa.”

Lord Greyson-Tonkin instantly awake pressed a button by his bed, “Toast, honey and two teas, thank you.”

He swept his November cloud coloured hair behind his ears, “Tell me, full story,” he ordered.

Mike finished his report and handed the unruffled lord a burner phone.

“You’ll have a full minute only to listen to the kidnapper, the number will be untraceable.”

“Yes, I am aware of how they work, thank you.”

He snatched the mobile and tapped in the number.

“Tell me who you are, and what you want.”

“Dear lord, listen only. We have your daughter. If you care at all for her, you will lose the rape case. We want Mr Jordan Jacobs put away for good. Simple enough? We will return your charming girl unharmed. Just in time for her wedding.”

The phone was dead.

“They want me to throw a case. Impossible!”

“What case, sir?”

“The idiot, Jacobs, better known as Laughing Lobo. The police charged him with the rape and battery of a young girl, sadly she took it badly.”

“Took it badly? She is now a vegetable, all the papers are full of it. Everyone thinks he is guilty.”

“Yes, but I’m his lawyer. They will find him not guilty.”

“I don’t care what happens to him, I want Pippa back safely.”

“I have never lost a case. I am not willing to start now. You have a job to go to, I suggest you get to the office. Good day.” 

Mike trudged slowly to his car. His fists hammered the roof as tears fell. 

“What now?” he called silently as he drove home.

Shaved, showered and suited, he sat at his office desk and stared at the ceiling.

“Coffee, sir?” his secretary asked. 

An unknown man stared through the office window. He had seen this person from time to time outside the Lord’s office. He came in unannounced. 

“I trust you are not considering something stupid? The Lord has it under control. Leave it.”

“Who are you? And what has it to do with you? I’ll call security,” said Mike.

The man laughed, “I am security.”

Mike checked Google, Facebook and LinkedIn, he built a file on the defendant, information that would not get revealed in the case. The daily papers covered the case at length, the Lord’s underlings, pictured smiling broadly. The press opinion had changed during the week, from stone bang guilty, to not so sure. The rape victim had become a ‘possible’ rape victim. She of course could not speak for herself. 

“Who is that girl?” Mike asked Google.

“She has a sister named Samantha? Different surnames, how come?” he muttered.

Mike grabbed his phone, “Samantha, have you heard anything from Pippa?”

“No. Have you?” she answered calmly.

“Are you in court today?” asked Mike.

“Why would I be?”

Mike’s Google search continued, now he was looking for a Samantha.

His phone signalled an incoming video.

“Oh, my God, Pippa!”

The message read, ‘Pippa’s jail, life gets worse as the case rolls on. Now show her esteemed father’. The film showed a skinny girl in torn underwear, bruises and a blood-covered face and body. They had chained her inside a cage. Dog’s bowls with slops and water next to her filthy legs.

Mike ran to the vast office on the top floor. 

“Where is he?”

“In court, where do you think?”

“I must speak to him, now!”

The middle-aged secretary dialled a number, “You’re lucky they are breaking for a short recess,” she handed the receiver.

“My Lord, they are torturing Pippa. We must get her out.”

“Calm down, boy. I thought I made myself clear? I do not give in to threats, particularly from kidnappers. I have a case to win.”

Mike stared at the phone before returning it to the secretary. He walked back to his room feeling like a child spanked.

He scratched his head as he went through everything he’d read. Then he watched the frightening clip over and over.

“What is that?” as he zoomed in. “Is that an Akita puppy?” He could see the white and gold hair in the background as Mike fiddled with the enlarger.

“You crafty cow,” breathed Mike as he slipped on his jacket.

Neighbours could hear police sirens as Mike pulled up outside Samantha’s mews cottage.

“Open up, or we’ll break the door down,” bellowed the bullet-proofed officer. His colleagues pulled Mike away from the entrance steps as they prepared to smash the door in and blocked any escape.

The slowly opening door revealed a pair of scruffily dressed girls.

“Mike, what have you done?” said Samantha as both women turned and went indoors, leaving the door gaping.

The police piled in, Mike sheepishly followed.

Pippa’s carpet slipper hit him on the head. A police officer’s pistol followed Pippa’s movement as she broke down in tears. Samantha, hands-on-hips glared at the police then heatedly stared at Mike. If her eyes could burn, Mike would be ablaze. The officers checked each room. The only danger they found was a yapping blonde and gold puppy.

Two officers remained to take statements, the rest filed back to the station. Mike elated at seeing his fiancé safe, turned to shock then puzzlement as what the girls were doing dawned on him.

Samantha and Pippa were honest with the police officer, then pleading with him to lock up the rapist.

“Sorry, ma’am, that is not my case,” answered the senior man. “They will charge you with some serious crimes, no doubt your father will get you both off with a warning,” sneered the police officer as he went to the door.

Mike desperate to hear what happened and why?

“Thanks to you, Mike, a hideous low-life, so-called entertainer Laughing Lobo, will get away with a rape that has left Samantha’s step-sister permanently mentally scarred. How do you feel?”

Mike shook his head slowly. “Your father has no intention of throwing the case. Whatever happened to you. How do you feel about that?”

Wedding preparations continued, not exactly as either imagined and much cooler than expected. The wedding would go ahead without the lord, he was no longer invited. Mike’s search for a new position would wait until after the honeymoon.

On the Friday before the big day, Pippa needed to go through last-minute plans with Samantha. She tried calling.

A message blinked on her mobile, “My wedding present to you both is my adorable puppy.”

“Mike, get in the car, now. We must go to Samantha’s!”

They raced across London, Samantha did not answer the door.

“She’s gone to court!” screamed Pippa as a thought hit like a cannonball.

Mr Laughing Lobo, star to the young, only managed a sneer. He was laying in a spreading pool of blood; the press were snapping shots, the court police were holding Samantha, whose smile grew each second the entertainer remained motionless as his life faded.

The END

Mr Mrs, Mr Mr!

Mr Mrs, Mr Mr!

“Good morning my dear, would you like a cup of tea?”

“I could kill for a cuppa, thank you.”

A croaky voice answered through bandages. The flowery quilt covered most of the escapee from a pyramid. I sniggered at the thought. 

I busied myself in our new kitchen, hunting for my favourite mug and its matching pink sister. Two bags of Lipton tea tossed accurately into the cups, proudly grinning at the unseen skill, then added the boiling water. All I needed was the milk jug.

“Where is it? It is in the fridge,” I answered myself.

Not only was the kitchen new, but I was also new to it. It would take a while to get used to its layout. Not that I was a regular user of the old one. 

“Must have a look at the cooker later,” I said, reminding myself gently.

Plodding upstairs to the bedroom, then leaning on the doorknob and pushing the door wide, “It’s a lovely day, sit up and enjoy a brave new start.”

The pain was clear, elbows used to lever a bruised back against the crushed velvet headboard. I positioned the bed tray, tested it, and placed the pink mug centrally.

“Are you hungry yet?”

“No, tea is fine thanks.”

“I’ll see you later, I’ve some shopping to do this morning.”

“Don’t forget to get what I asked for?”

“Top of my list.”

Marching to the high street, across the road I spotted my old mates, preferring not to start a conversation, ducking my head pretending to study a hairdresser’s shop window.

“Don’t know why you’re looking in there!” one of them shouted.

A coarse laugh accompanied the back-slapping mirth from the opposite footpath. Pretending not to hear the two old friends who stood hands on hips.

“Oh, hi, guys.” I relented.

Dreading their next comments, I scurried into the newsagents as a bus rumbled between us.

The newsagent loved to talk; He enjoyed a good gossip, offering more tittle-tattle than The Sun’s front page. He was the last person I needed in my life right now. But any port in a storm, as they say. Maybe he doesn’t know yet?

“Morning. Oh, it’s you?” Accompanied his lecherous grin.

“I popped in to get my usual rag.”

“I guess you’ll be cancelling the lady mags?” He was trying not to laugh.

Slamming coins onto a pile of papers, snatched The Telegraph and accidentally bowled into an elderly neighbour collecting her lottery tickets.

“Sorry,” I stammered.

Both she and the shopkeeper were chuckling as I returned to the high street.

“Oh God, this is harder than I feared.”

Next, bills to pay.

“Your wife usually deals with this,” she giggled.

Last on the list, and grateful that no snide comments followed me from the ‘men’s products’ shelf in Boots chemists to the cashier’s desk. A young Indian girl politely bagged my purchases and offered me my change.

“Next time take the car, save the walking to places where I will go unnoticed,” I said to myself.

“Home. Do you want any breakfast yet?” I shouted up the stairs. No answer, so I raced to the bedroom.

Gentle snoring, all was well. Peaking from between the bandages were a pair of black eyes reminding me of an animal, not a panda, a racoon, slimmer and more angular. Luckily the tea tray was still standing on its legs, the half-empty cup still centralised in place. 

“Ha,” I said to myself, “That would have been ‘half-full’ a few days ago.”

Lifting the tray, there was a grunt and sluggish movement.

“Are you awake?”

“Yes, I’m starving.”

I bounded down the stairs to toast some bread.

“Honey or jam?” I called.

“Marmite.”

“You don’t like Marmite.”

“I do now.”

“Things will change, some small and some large, be prepared,” the doctor’s lecture echoed between my ears.

Both of us eating Marmite in the house wasn’t too bad.

Repositioning the bed tray, with its brown sticky toast, a glass of water and a handful of painkillers, plus other medication, still wrapped in silver foil.

An hour later we were on our way to the hospital. We didn’t have to queue up straight to the consultant’s office.

“Please sit outside sir,” they directed me to a seat outside the surgery. I could hear no sound through the door. Images of bandages unwound, stitches being clipped open. Who knows what else?

The door opened, “You can come in now.”

What was I scared about? No one had operated on me.

“And how are you?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“Really? How about your mental health?”

“My mental health? Why ask that?”

“Let’s say people in your situation, rare as it is, need some guidance.”

“Not me, I’m fine.”

A pair of nurses finished re-wrapping, we were ready to return home.

Back in the car and trying to make light conversation, the chit-chat fell on closed ears. Racoon eyes studied the folk outside without comment.

Deciding to try again, “How about I pull up outside the travel agents, I’ll dash in and grab some brochures we can pick out a holiday. Then, as soon as you get your stitches out, off we go, sun, sea and…?”

“And, where are you thinking of?”

“Anywhere you like. You always fancied Venice, how about that?”

“Haha! Hilarious.”

“What?”

“I need a new passport. Idiot.”

My brow creased, but I said no more until we arrived at home. 

There were people outside our front gate.

“Sir, sir, can we have a word?”

“Who the hell are you lot?”

“We are reporters, local and national.”

“Bugger off. We’ve got nothing to say.”

Opening our gates, cameras clicked and flashed. I turned and closed the wrought iron as quickly as I could, shepherding my white-clad passenger to the front door.

Arms spread wide, the patient turned and faced the press, soaking up the fame, “Come back in two weeks, bandages off, stitches out, a new me.”

Shocked, I stammered, “Get inside, and up to our bed, you must not tire yourself.”

“Do not order me. I am not tired. I will rest when I feel like it. Now, I want to watch a replay of last night’s game.”

“But, you don’t like football.”

“I do now.”

The warnings were clear, things would not be the same. 

“And I could do with a coffee if you’re near the kitchen.”

That’s what I used to say?

“My wife is now a man. I still love… him.”

The END

If you liked this short story, you can find Colin’s full-length novels at amazon.com/author/colindevonshire or iBooks.

The Sound Of?

Colin Devonshire – Very short story!

The Sound Of?

“Where am I? What has happened?” I thought to myself.

“Darkness, soundless, senseless. And, painless.”

“It feels as if I’m floating in the black.”

“Black what?” I wonder.

How much later? There was no way of telling, but grey emerged from the centre of black. The grey circle grew slowly, but it got bigger. I could not stop it.

“Do I want it to stop?”

It grew, becoming less grey as if light broke the morning. I could see! A white ceiling stared down at me, motionless, shadowless. But something.

I could not speak. My mouth did not open. A shadow moved across the ceiling, then another. My head moved sideways. Everything was pristine white, a gurney, a cabinet, clean and shiny, empty shelves and a white wall. My head, once again staring ahead at the ceiling. But what is that? A white-coated armpit stretched across my vision. Then a talking head appeared in front of me. His lips were moving, opening and closing, not chewing, speaking.

He was talking to me, asking something. His clear perspex facial shield moved aside to be replaced with another. This time a female. She was talking too.

She signalled with her fingers, one, two, three. I tried to nod. Maybe my eyes glinted, I don’t know. As a reward, they turned me to the right.

“What is that?”

A headless body, motionless, lay relaxed.

“Where is his head,” I wondered.

Blackness swamped me. 

“What happened? Was it something I did?”

The grey reappeared, spreading quicker this time. I could see again. And I could blink, not slowly and soft one eye as in a wink, but more mechanically, up and down, both eyes at once. At least I could see.

“What is that feeling?” 

A mouse silently moving in my head, I have moved again. This time I could see a desk. On the wall was a clock, eleven-fifty-five, I noticed and a date. Twenty-first of the fourth month, of the two thousand and seventy-second year.

“Christ, where have I been?”

Once more they lost me in black. As if awakening, I looked at legs and a lithe body, not mine.

The two faces were mouthing at me again. Mouthing and pointing.

I nodded, Christ, I can nod?

They smiled. The female grabbed an iPad and scrawled a question.

“Can’t you hear?”

I shook my head.

The two heads bobbing in deep conversation. They helped me to a sitting position.

I had arms, legs, they moved, my fingers waggled, under my control. I smiled. Then I felt my face. It wasn’t me. Soft, rubbery, and hairless.

They were talking again, excited children on Christmas morning.

The iPad thrust in my face.

“Welcome back to the world!”

“What about my ears?” I typed.

“A hitch, we are working on it,” hastily typed.

“I thought I would be hungry or thirsty after an operation?” I typed.

“No need for food or water,” she typed.

“What?”

“Look in the mirror, over there,” she pointed.

Unsteadily I wobbled from the slab, one leg in front of the other, I made my way across the room.

“No drink? No food? No sex? Can I go back to sleep?”

“No need for sleep,” she mouthed.

The END

The Colour of Lies

Story for the young at heart!

The Colour of Lies

The author’s note: “This story was written in good faith, only meant to be read by ‘little people’ under the age of fourteen. And under no circumstance admit to reading it. If you do by chance, lie about it.”

In a cramped and ugly room, the brickwork, sloppily painted and crumbling, dust littered the bare concrete floor.

“Do you know why you are here?”

“I know nothing.”

The lie detector continued with its job. The black line jerked up and down. Scrawling its route to the truth.

Aoife, young and beautiful studied Ciara the frumpy policewoman who had her chained to the chair and clipped to the infernal blinking machine. Unblinking, Aoife asked, “When are you going to release me?”

“When I get some truth from your cute pink little lips,” the experienced woman had heard it all before, guilty children lying as if their lives thrived on falsehoods.

Aoife bounced her ginger ringlets and smiled, sunbeams flicked across the ceiling, illuminating the room as outside the window, storm clouds parted, the sun had a clear route to earth, the girl’s eyelashes caught fire as the sun turned them to liquid gold, the smile broadened as if Aoife controlled the weather.

Ciara walked around behind the girl’s glimmering hair.

“When will I get the truth?” she said, cracking her knuckles.

“I always tell the honest and full truth.”

“There you go, that is a lie, I can tell even if this machine cannot.”

“If you are so clever, why not unplug it?” asked Aoife.

“Are you scared of it?”

“I am afraid of nothing.”

Her heartbeat was steady at sixty-five beats per minute, blood pressure unmoved at one-hundred and twenty swore the machine.

“I know you are lying,” said the woman in the unflattering plain clothing.

“Why do you think I’m lying?”

“Everybody is afraid of something.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“The chocolate factory owner complained to us. He was in tears, devastated. His pride and joy broken into, and forty-two cartons of their best confectionary stolen. It is my job to catch the thieves,” she snorted.

“I am only twelve. How could I carry that load?”

“You are eleven and a half.”

“And, at under twelve, you should not chain me up.”

“You are not chained.”

“Who is lying now?” smirked Aoife.

Ciara drew back her hand, then thought better of slapping the child. She walked around and knelt in front.

“Help me catch the criminals, and you can go,” she said.

“I don’t know who did it, or anything about the chocolate.”

“There are four colours of a lie. White, grey, black and red. White lies are told to help others, even if there may be a loss to yourself. A grey lie helps the other person, but it may help you too. Then we have black. A black lie is told by someone who wants to get out of trouble, to gain something, or to harm the other party. Last, we have the red lie. Spite and revenge. Carved in blood, maybe? Retributive lies told by someone betrayed.”

She waited to stare deep into her captive’s eyes, “What colour lies are you telling me?” 

The older woman’s eyes flicked to the detector, heartbeat sixty-five, BP one-hundred and twenty, straight lines. Looking back at the girl, no sign of panic, Aoife just smiled childishly.

“All children love chocolate,” the policewoman continued.

“Now you are lying, some children hate the stuff,” laughed Aoife.

“We are not here to discuss likes and dislikes. I have a serious crime to investigate.”

“What is so serious about a few bars of chocolate going missing?”

There was an urgent tapping at the door. “Come out here,” said a more senior officer.

“What? I’m getting there, okay slower than I hoped, but the girl is cracking,” said Ciara to her boss.

“Now you are lying. You are getting nowhere. Throw in a tidbit and get her talking.”

Ciara unhappily marched back in, “There is no good smirking at me, you’ll be here longer if I’m upset,” she said.

“I’m guessing, you are in trouble?” asked Aoife.

“Listen and listen carefully. They destined some cartons for England. The missing ones.”

“So?”

“The chocolate was… Tampered with.”

“And?”

“You need to tell your accomplices not to eat any, or give any to friends.”

“Why not?

“Because it is not normal chocolate. Do not eat it.”

“Now, who is lying?” the young girl grinned as if a clown dropped his trousers.  

“Please, believe me, there is a good reason that chocolate was to be sent to England and only England.”

“Oh, yeah, and what is that reason?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you, but you must believe me. We need it back.”

Aoife was enjoying herself, smiling, sitting relaxed and keeping eye contact with Ciara.

“You are looking stressed,” said the older woman. “Would you like a drink before we continue?”

“You must release me, I’m feeling the strain,” she smirked. “And yes please, I’d love a hot chocolate,” she laughed out loud.

The door burst open, two angry men hurried in.

“We are taking over the interrogation, you are getting nowhere, get out!”

Head ducked Ciara stomped to the door, “Good luck, Sir,” as she slammed it shut.

“Right young lady, we’ll be straight with you. We need you to be honest with us, okay?”

One man stood on either side of Aoife, both peering closely and directly into her face. The girl’s head turned to look at each man. The smile gone disappeared as the sun ducked behind a cloud.

“What is this all about?” she whimpered.

“The stolen chocolate contains a falsity drug,” one of the stern men said.

“A falsity drug, whatever is that?” she asked.

“Dear child, you will not be aware of the problems our neighbours across the Muir Éireann, or the Irish Sea they know it. They are struggling with something that has never happened before, English kids only ever tell the truth!”

“Image, how could a parent cope with that?” said the other man. “None of the ‘I’ve got a headache’, on school mornings, ‘I’ve forgotten my homework’, or worst of all, ‘It wasn’t me!’ Picture the agony mums and dads are going through,” he said shaking his head from side to side.

The men both stood back, hoping for an answer.

Aoife looked at both men again, shook her head and said, “We Leprechauns never lie. Especially about the English! Let me out and I’ll take you to the chocolate.”

It was then the officers knew they’d never recover the chocolate!

The END

All At Sea!

Here, Anchor.fm read or listen. Comedy for April Fool’s Day.

All At Sea!

“Not now, Samantha, thank you, can’t you see I’m thinking.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chief Jones flapped his fingers at the door behind her, Samantha ducked her head and backed out to her desk in the adjoining room. Chief Jones was not the chief of anything, but he was managing director of Westwing Lines and had more than his fair share of problems.

“How can I see if he’s thinking?” she muttered to herself. She returned the bank manager’s call, “Sorry, Mr Arbib, he’s tied up, I’ll get him to call you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll call him, maybe I’ll be lucky and catch him when he’s less busy,” he snorted.

Samantha reread the jobs vacant section of the local paper.

Chief Jones threw his pen across the office. fuming but considering his next move. Slowly he crouched, his back arched as he bent to fetch the fake Parker, not because he was tidy, it was the only pen on his desk that worked. The bank’s letter glared at him as it bounced up and down on the desk as if it had a heart of its own, a black heart. It was not happy reading, not only that, but Mr Arbib used his actual name, Charles Jones. Which infuriated the Chief.

“That prat has known me for fifteen years, he still calls me Charles.”

He ignored the rest of the contents. The paragraph pointing out Westwing’s debt to the bank, in red numbers, the part about his lovely four-bedroomed detached home being used as security, blah, blah.

Slowly an idea was forming like a tadpole emerging from its egg. And like the tadpole, the idea could swim, its legs were growing and gaining strength. Chief buzzed for a coffee, his radiant face puzzled Samantha.

“Are you okay, sir?”

“Never been better, things are on the up!”

His pen scratched its way across line after line of scribbled sketches, misspelled words, and figures. He gave some huge ticks.

His smile grew as he flicked on LinkedIn. It confirmed the rumour he had heard.

“DeepSea Cruises were looking for new staff to crew the latest cruiser in its line,” he chuckled aloud.

Samantha got increasingly worried as she tidied the coffee mug and saw what he was reading.

“Excuse me, but why does good news for your enemy make you so happy?”

“Ah-ha, all will soon be revealed,” he answered, cleaning away imaginary crumbs.

Facebook’s home page saw DeepSea’s CEO shaking hands with the mayor. He cut the ribbons on the launch of a new boat.

“We are looking for a new crew for this magnificent craft. I wonder if there is anybody at Westwing looking for work?” his camera ready smile beamed confidence. It was only matched by Chief Jones’s own pumped up grin.

Samantha ducked out before there was an explosion. It never came.

Chief Jones busied himself with a press release, not from Westwing, but from the DeepSea company.

“Naughty me,” he chuckled as he edited the text before he sent it to a local journalist he knew was keen on tidbits of information.

‘The public will be aware, that DeepSea has launched its luxury craft with a highly trained crew to take cruisers to their dream destination. We are proud to announce a very special, once in a lifetime voyage. Those who keep their eyes on the news will know that the iceberg which sank The Titanic, has recently been discovered floating in waters north of Scotland. We and only us can cruise alongside the giant berg, our voyagers can take close-up photographs of not only the berg but some souvenirs of The Titanic. Deck chairs, the ship’s bell, and some of the passenger’s clothing became wedged in the ice. Incredibly, it is all visible as the ice melts. Take your only chance to see historic artefacts from the horrendous accident all those years ago.’

The release gave booking details, including a special price for the first one-hundred customers we will also present the lucky people with free souvenir t-shirts.

“That’s the local press, now to get tongues wagging on social media,” he smiled proud of himself.

“Samantha,” he called, “Your mate, you know the graphic designer girl, can I trust her?”

“Trusted to do what?” answered the secretary.

“Can she keep her mouth shut?”

“Sir, what are you up to?”

“Never mind that, can I trust her?”

“She’s been my friend since school, yes, she is completely trustworthy,” answered Samantha.

“Great, get her in, ASAP.”

Veronica slid her business card across the table, “Samantha tells me you have a ‘delicate’ job for me? What do you need?”

Chief Jones slid his laptop towards the designer, “Here we have some pictures of icebergs and a collection of debris from a shipwreck. Can you conjure up pictures that look like the ship parts are in the ice? And it needs to be with a rough sea in the background.”

“Sure, that’s easy enough, is that all?”

“I want the pictures sent to my email address and we will use these pics on t-shirts for another thing.”

“Again, easy. What about my payment?”

“If you can keep quiet about this until April the third, you get paid double. Okay? Is tomorrow too soon?

“The pictures by lunchtime the shirts a bit later,” said Veronica.

Samantha looked quizzically at her friend as she walked out with her finger to her lips.

Social media was buzzing with exaggerated tales of bergs, of Titanic memorabilia hitting the market at hugely increased prices, stories upon stories, tales of family members who were there, and those who just knew someone who was. Titanic fever burst.

Chief Jones leant back at his desk and called another contact, “I need some ice, can you help?”

“You having a party?”

“Haha, I need a bit more than just for our cocktails. Don’t ask why, but I want a truckload of filthy unusable lumps of the stuff. I want it delivered outside an office, so you had better use an unmarked vehicle. It may be sensible to cover the number plates too,” the chief smiled. Things were dropping into place.

Five am on April the first, Chief Jones was awake, he needed no alarm clock. He crept downstairs, leaving his wife peacefully unaware of the day’s events. Downing a too-hot coffee, he made his way on the quiet streets. He passed DeepSea’s offices as they dumped the ice in the road, spreading across the pavement.

“I wish to make a complaint. There is stinking ice all over the place!” he bellowed into his mobile.

He bounced up the stairs to his office and turned on Facebook.

Within minutes, someone had posted a short video of police arriving, all scratching their heads.

‘Police froze in plaice’ was the caption.

By seven o’clock his social media apps were buzzing, all making jokes at DeepSea’s expense. More fake stories concerning Captain Edward Smith the Titanic skipper and his link to DeepSea.

“Have you heard the news?” asked Samantha as she dumped her coat and bag.

“Wonderful isn’t it,” grinned her boss.

“Veronica was told to move along by the police, she even handed them a t-shirt each,” laughed Samantha.

 As the morning progressed, Chief Jones and Samantha were expecting calls booking cruises on their ships. As yet no changes.

“Give them a chance to cancel with DeepSea first, they can then book with us,” said Chief Jones.

“Oh, what’s this?” Samantha pointed to her mobile’s Line link. “There will be a press release from DeepSea at noon,” noticed Samantha handing her phone to her boss.

“Maybe they are going bust?” grinned her boss.

They turned on the local news channel at noon.

“Before we update you with the news, we have an announcement from the managing director of DeepSea,” the reporter said as she handed the mic.

“Here we go,” said Chief Jones, “He is going to apologise for all those who have lost their deposits and a big sorry to those who thought they had new jobs,” he giggled like a schoolgirl.

“I have to start with a big apology,” said the MD.

Chief Jones and Samantha shook hands in triumph.

The tv seemed to increase in volume.

“I know how important your news coverage is, sorry but I have to cut in. I really must thank Westwing’s staff and their owner. We didn’t expect you to advertise our new cruise in such a complimentary way. Wonderful job, they now overbooked us for our next half dozen trips.”

Chief Jones and Samantha stood and gazed open-mouthed.

“One last thing before we carry on with the rest of the day’s news. The police have released a graphic designer from custody and the council will be sending a bill to Westwing for cleaning the stinking iceberg from the street.”

The END

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