Floater ... and other short stories

By Malcolm Twigg

Prison planets never had much going for them and when the prisoners themselves start running it you can expect it to go to Hell in a basket. That’s why the Angel in ‘Floater’ is so good at his job, because he has to be. But he never expected that he would be so good as to be thought capable of sorting it all out. High powers did, however, much to his consternation.

Children the world over are much the same and ‘Now Children’ shows how kids in the classroom haven’t changed over millennia, and no matter how advanced a civilisation, scratch a kid and there’s a heathen just under the surface with an unhealthy leavening of racism thrown in.

In ‘Smile Please’ you’re in line for a soul exchange unless you’re very careful in this madcap exercise in bottling souls for posterity. Does it go wrong? Of course. It wouldn’t be Eugene Budd if it didn’t.

You might expect ‘A Stitch in Time’ to be something of a saviour, but then, you probably haven’t factored in an officious robot programmed as only a bureaucratic nerd can where things don’t belong unless they tick boxes.

An anthology of four short stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Malcolm Twigg
• Release date: Apr 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458045249

Malcolm Twigg

Malcolm Twigg has been writing in some form or other for most of his adult life, much of it in local government circles where he put a bit more of the 'creative' element to writing minutes of meetings than was actually warranted. However, it kept the madness away.He discovered science fiction at a very early age and started writing his first novel at the age of 18. He promptly consigned it to the bin and concentrated instead on reading stories by the legendary greats of Science Fiction who actually knew how to write, such as Fred Pohl and Algis Budrys. Both of those authors and many others he was later to meet when a short story he submitted for the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future contest got him into the finals of the contest, and a trip to Florida to boot.A short time earlier, a novel had won the Peter Pook Humorous Novel competition in England (To Hell with the Harp!) and was published through Emissary Publishing (he was a second place winner the previous year). In that same year he had a small collection of science fiction stories published in Chapbook format by Piper's Ash and was also actively publishing in small press genre magazines and well as writing mainstream feature articles for various magazines.Shortly after he attended the L. Ron Hubbard event, he was made redundant from local government and what should have turned into a burgeoning writing career took a bit of a left turn when he was (fortuitously) offered a position as launch editor for a local county magazine (Cornwall Life), followed by another magazine (Young at Heart) building upon a series of freelance articles published in Devon Life.Under his unfailing leadership, both of those new titles folded within a few months (a fate that, alarmingly, befell a number of genre magazines as soon as they had published contributions from him). However, he was kept on as Chief Writer for Devon Life, went on to successfully launch Cornwall Life again and then Wiltshire Magazine, taking an already extant Wiltshire magazine head on and winning.This second career left little time to pursue the more creative element however, leaving a number of unfinished works on the back burner for ten years or so, despite only working (ostensibly) part time.He retired last year and started researching his family history. As always suspected, his wife seems to have married beneath her. Whereas her family history (purportedly) includes the Duke of Wellington and can (some say) be traced right back through William the Conqueror to Cleopatra (via King Frosti of Finland - yes, really!), his includes more than a few liaisons outside the marraige vows and an ancestor whose suspected relationship to his daughter was closer than was really necessary.After a period taking stock (and learning his place again), he is starting to dust those old manuscripts off and show them the light of day once more. He was persuaded to join 'Smashwords' by recognising the name of co-member Hank Quense, an author whose work he admires and who was once, with him, a member of 'Critter-Litter' an informal spin-off from the online critiquing Workshop 'Critters'.Malcolm also runs a social Badminton Club and participates in Field Archery on a regular basis. He used to run a sword fencing club. An innate clumsiness, however, makes all of these extra-curricular activities highly suspect.He also has an interest in the UFO phenomonen and, together with his wife and son, once witnessed an unexplained incident immediately over his home - an experience that was subsequently corroborated by another family across the other side of the valley where he lives. The experience comprised two balls of light, spaced about ten minutes apart passing silently overhead and (as resported by the corroborating family) apparently returning on a different path before disappearing, one shooting off, the other fading out. Subsequent enquiries of various sources revealed no other aerial activity in the neighbourhood. The event took place during a weekend of unexplained phenomenon across England and the wider world. The jury is still out on that one.

Book preview

FLOATER …and other stories

An anthology of science fiction short stories

By Malcolm Twigg

Copyright 2011 Malcolm Twigg

Smashwords Edition

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referred in this work of fiction which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Floater

Hingis was on the street corner again, pushing whatever it was he was pushing today. He was doing a deal with a group of Off-worlders, and doing a good deal too if his face was anything to go by. He favoured me with a curt nod as I pushed by and I flipped him a 'phet. He must have thought it was Christmas, but that's the kind of guy I am.

The biggest of the Off-worlders turned as I pushed past and jabbered a mouthful of consonants at me. You don't have to know the language to recognise a good curse. This was a doozie. I hauled off and smacked him in the mouth and he went down like someone took the bones out of his legs. His lip split in three places and there was dirty ochre blood everywhere. You'd think life-forms who damage that easy would put their brains in gear before the mouth motors off. He was lucky I was in a hurry.

The others made a half-move towards me and then thought better of it as I waved a psycho-probe at them. The guy on the floor was bleeding all over Hingis's shoes. I nodded at him again. You need a better class of customer, Hingis. They're bringing the neighbourhood down I said. Then I knocked the 'phet out of his hand again, caught it and put it back in my pocket.

I don't take kindly to having my morning disturbed I said, staring at him hard The look on his face was almost worth the bruised knuckles. I left him hauling the Off-worlder to his feet and dropping his price just to keep him interested. Hingis is a fool.

The down-roller was out again. That meant the side-walks were crammed. You go down in a crush like that, you stay down. I got better things to do with my time than spend it elbowing jerks in the face just to defend my space so I hooked a left into Marthold's place.

As a place of business it qualifies ... just. He's got a brass plate on the wall and a sign, except today he's just got the brackets for the sign and an impromptu new paint job where the brass used to be. The wording is an improvement. He gave up taking the metal shield down years ago: you got to hammer real hard to make him hear. I don't know how he keeps running. But he's got a side-line he keeps locked away, of course. Everybody in this mother-fuckin' city's got a side-line.

Marthold himself slid the grill aside. Angel! he said. That's me: they call me The Angel. At least, those who got any sense do. Door, I said.

The bolts shot like Marthold was in a hurry to get the damn thing open. He was. I stepped inside. If anything, it was dingier than the street outside. There was one fly-specked low energy bulb and a smell like cabbage cooked in stale urine. The desk had seen better days when better days were a distant dream. There was a sign above it: it said 'Marthold's Floaters. We Get you There!' A bum was stretched out in the corner snoring with a bottle clutched to his chest - a Rigellian - they don't come much bummier than that, but that's maybe the reason Marthold keeps going - they also come cheap.

I need a floater I said. That your driver? nodding to the bum. Marthold nodded. Then I'll drive, I said. I reached out a toe and hooked the bottle away. It clattered onto the floor. It was empty. The bum stirred and grunted and then started snoring again. "Beats me how