Fifty Egg Timer Stories

By Richard Bunning

Fifty Egg Timer Stories is a collection of short stories by one author, all of between 600 and 1000 words. They are written across a mixture of genres without any central theme except being entertaining 'flash fiction'. Actually, the stories cover all the ground between non-fiction and fantasy. This range includes historical fact, far fetched speculative fiction, romance, philosophical reflection and humour. Many of the stories originated from friendly competition amongst other writers of short stories, so these have appeared on-line within social media groups. None of these stories has been 'published' prior to inclusion in this book. All the stories are intended to be complete and totally independent, although some are more rounded than others. No reader is going to be a fan of all these stories, though it is hoped that most appreciate the deliberate attempt at providing a diversity of interest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Bunning
• Release date: Feb 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310628115

Richard Bunning

I am currently a writer of speculative Science Fiction. Thank you to all who read my books. I review other peoples works in many genres, specialising in helping promote self published and small publishers authors. My main reviews site is at http://richardbunningbooksandreviews.weebly.com

Book preview

Story 1: INTRODUCING EGG TIMER FLASH FICTION

or soft boiled embryonic chicken

(Introduction)

Most of these short/micro stories are of around 750 to 800 words; roughly the amount that an average person reads in three minutes. Three minutes is also about the time taken for sand to flow down from one bulb to another in a traditional egg timer. Such timepieces are designed for the single purpose of measuring how long it takes to produce a suitably boiled egg, as measured from when the water first bubbles. I don’t actually know if I am the first to connect egg timers and short fiction. That seems highly unlikely. My hope is that my stories spark less obvious connections, or at least raise a bubble or two of interest.

On first reflection, I felt that the constraint of writing a story in roughly 750 words would impose too stiff a structure. Despite my doubts I was content enough to give the idea a try, and I’m glad I did.

I was inspired to attempt this length of flash fiction by Heather Marie Schuldt, and in particular by her short story contest that deserves to still be running in a Linkedin.com writers group. Without her invention this book would never have come into being. Some of my shorts that first appeared in her competition are found in anthologies and some are in this collection.

A number of my stories have varyingly real locations. I have visited some of these borrowed settings, while others are imagined and so possible totally inaccurate. Even when the locations are real the majority of the stories are complete fabrications. There is everything here from truth, to the most strained of Science Fiction.

Some will like that I skip about the genres, and some I’m sure will hate it. I sincerely hope you find enough that you enjoy. Anyway, each is only three minutes of pain, pleasure or indifference.

As this introduction starts to develop I am drawn away from the yolk of an idea, to the metaphorical container, the egg. Having made the connection with soft boiled hen eggs a few other egg-inspired formats spring to mind. Apparently, it takes 40 to 50 minutes to boil an ostrich’s egg. Using this information and simple multiplication, while allowing myself a certain laxity of rigor; I deduce the name of soft boiled ostrich egg for 10,000 word scripts.

What then of the biggest eggs, those of the now extinct Elephant Bird. Its embryo vessels, which were quite a bit bigger than a rugby ball, are estimated to have weighed about 12kg. By comparison an Ostrich egg weighs about 1.5kg and that of a hen about 50 grams. A straight line on a graph then gives a time of about 6 hours to soft boil an Elephant Bird egg. Of course, as any student will tell you, the real graph wouldn’t be a straight line, but I will ignore that scientific stuff. Using my crude formula, soft boiled Elephant Bird books are those of about 100,000 words. A hard boiled elephant egg would then be a very solid holiday read. For the sake of my classification we can say that a hard boiled elephant egg is about 200,000 words long. A book of Elephant Bird egg stories would be a heavy encyclopaedia.

So now I have invented a whole new system for classifying book lengths. Forget all that confusing novella, short novel, long novel stuff. We now have soft boiled hens, hard boiled hens, soft boiled ostriches, hard boiled ostriches, soft boiled elephants, hard boiled elephants and I guess ‘Clarissa’ by Samuel Richardson, at about 1000,000 words is the sort of egg that an actual mammalian elephant would lay, if elephants laid eggs?

I decided that I wanted a book of about 35,000 words, full of soft boiled hen eggs. Doing some quick research led me to conclude that as a collection this would amount to a soft boiled Moa egg; in other words about fifty, 750 word stories. This felt right, because it so happens that the Moa is my favourite bird. I even have a Moa on the cover of one of my speculative science fiction books. That work is really a soft boiled ostrich, in which the yolk has mostly set, as is its similarly named sequel.

The observant, may notice that I actually ended up with over 40,000 words. So quite clearly, in some pieces the yolk is really starting to set.

Story 2: EXPOSED EDGES

(Romantic Suspense)

Amy and Stella have taken this path before, both alone and together. Between them they’ve walked out to Aughris Head, from their lodgings in Sligo, at least a dozen times. Both of them are blow-ins that has stuck around into a second season, working at the Castle Hotel, each staying on partly for the other. Need has drawn them close. Stella is more interested in Amy than in Ireland, whilst Amy tolerates Stella’s intense closeness in order to avoid feeling isolated. Recently Amy has started to feel that Stella might be hoping for rather too much, this being compounded by her friend’s lack of interest in men. She also knows that she has selfishly encouraged a tight bond, so as to be able to feed off a self-confidence she lacks.

It is blowy today, gusty, regularly dropping only to blast out again a minute later. The friends are arguing, moody as the weather. Amy has been out with the boys, leaving Stella with only her own company. As it happens, Stella’s jealousy may for the first time have some justification. Neil and Amy got on particularly well last night. Amy has struggled all morning to hide her bubbling excitement from her friend.

The argument started, as so many do, from just a throwaway comment, a light rebuke.

You might have warned me before leaving me at a loose end on Saturday night. You know how much I enjoy going for a drink together.

Yes, Stel, but you don’t own me. You often say no to the gang, but that doesn’t mean I have to. It was Byron’s birthday. You never have anything nice to say about him.

Well, that is no reason not to talk to me. We always do something together when we have Saturdays off.

Come away from the cliff edge. You’re making me nervous. Are you deliberately frightening me?

Why don’t you come here, you big wuss, so that you can grab me if I slip?

And send us both over the edge, to be smashed together like strawberry jam.

Look it’s safe, I can walk the edge with my eyes shut, come on hold my hand.

No Stella, cut it out. You’re frightening me. Stop it please. I promise I won’t go out with the gang without telling you if you cut it out . . .Stop it! It’s dangerous, what if you fall?

I’ll step back if you give me a hu . . .

As a tufted knob of grass gives up its long held grip, even as the safety net of an onshore blow suddenly eases, then backs, the boot slips over space. Gravity wins slowly at first, but inevitably. The scream is soon absorbed in another gust as Stella’s body fast closes on the rocky scree. Amy moves unsteadily forward, sinking to her knees and peers over to see her friend’s battered body being shifted by a suddenly surging wave.

Amy stares, unable to draw her eyes away, stunned, already dizzy. Fighting her numbing shock, she seeks for a way down to the friend she perhaps only now fully comprehends. There are easy, longer ways to the shoreline but she fights her fears to take a direct route, pushing her legs, then her tummy over the edge. Her brave descent only lasts until she glances down between her feet to again see the broken body, being tossed like a rag doll against the rocks so very far below. Her nerve snaps. There is no way Amy can move either up or down.

Long hours pass; muscle-aching, trembling hours. Hours filled with sadness and blinding terror. Sometimes there is a little slip, another surge of adrenaline, a tiny bit of warm damp between her legs. She is too scared to cry. However, irrational her fear, however ergonomically easy the descent, Amy isn’t going anywhere.

Amy doesn’t know it, but Stella has been seen some time ago, and though badly shattered, broken perhaps beyond good repair, she has clung to life. Just the bravery of a little turn of the head would have provided some hope.

If only I hadn’t played so with Stella’s emotions. I knew, didn’t I? I knew just how much I meant to her. I shouldn’t have let her believe in more than friendship. I needed her support, her bravery, her strength to live so far from home. Now look where my selfish manipulation, my lack of honesty, has left us.

At some point all awareness, except the need to hold on, disappears. The primal brain takes over as the conscious mind shuts down. Amy doesn’t even know she is safe until Neil has his arm wrapped tight around her waist. I’m not sure whether she senses his kiss, his quiet words, ending so many long hours of pain, on the thinnest of emotional edges.

Story 3: I SPY ANOTHER CASTLE

(Historical Fiction)

On the French side of Lake Geneva, behind the town of Thonon-les-Bains, there’s a long hill shaped a bit like a beached whale. Looking from a bird’s eye view, as at a topographic map, its head appears to point east, towards the middle of the hexagon of France. On the steep-sided, defiantly raised tail of the creature is not one, but two, castles. Right at the tip where the terrain is at its steepest stand the majestic remains of Château Vieux. In the spring of 1325 the castle was at the height of its grandeur, looking every bit like a prosperous, classically imposing, mediaeval castle. Only 150 metres away, across a steep defile, is the great western wall of Château Neuf. In the year in question this ‘new’ castle stood as proud and rampart strong as the ‘old’. These are the famous Castles of Allinges. You may well ask how two castles, existing in a state of almost constant hostility, could have been built so close to each other. But they were! The reason why is a story for another time. At this moment we are looking back into the donjon, the keep, of the Old Castle on Saturday 25th May, 1326 as a light lunch is being served.

Guigues Dauphin of Vienna, Baron of Faucigny, is enjoying his food. Last August, aged only 16, he defeated his enemy, and sometime resident neighbour, Edward of Savoy, at the Battle of Varey. With Guigues around the table are his Uncle Hugh de La Tour du Pin, Amadeus of Geneva, Hugh of Anthon and Guillaume of Rougemont. They were looking forward to finally overrunning the defences of the ‘Burgundians’ in the New Castle. For days the archers with their recently improved crossbows had been in control of the deep gully and sweep of land between the two castles. In addition, Guigues’s siege engines were throwing heavy stones further than those employed by the New Castle.

Victory through advantage must be sought quickly, as Guigues has received word that Edward is in the process of mustering reinforcements to break the siege. Guigues trusts that for now the Château Neuf’s supply lines with Annecy have been cut by the troops of his ally, Amadeus.

Charles IV of France has been busy making alliances to aid his planned invasion of Flanders, and part of that involved bribing the opposing Savoyards and Genevans to support him. Amadeus’s pockets are heavy with newly acquired gold.

The leaders of the two armies share blood more intimately than that ever mixes in the closest hand-to-hand battles. Amadeus is Edward’s nephew, and several other protagonist lords are just as closely related. Hugh de La Tour, is a half-brother of Edward. Titled lineages are so often incestuously close and none more so than amongst the gentry of these castles.

Last night, a very heavy load was secretly brought through the temporarily deserted lines held by Amadeus’s troops, and wheeled along the southern, chapel-side battlement, of the New Castle.

Now midday, the Old Castle diners are about to be interrupted. All of a sudden what had seemed to be a certain impending victory vanishes. A huge explosion, reverberating like a nearby clap of thunder, shakes the ground. Within a second the diners know that this is no sudden storm. A large round missile penetrates the louvered shutter of the donjon banqueting hall and drops into the lap of Hugh de La Tour.

Reviews for Fifty Egg Timer Stories

[anka_reads · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

"Fifty Egg Timer (Short) Stories" by Richard Bunning My Twist:

Favorite story: “Pray for Mabinty’s Dream”. In a note at the end of the story the author mentions that he has not had first-hand knowledge on the subject. Well, dear Richard Bunning, I have. I have met and heard the stories of people travelling from the south of Africa, on foot, thousands and thousands of kilometers, for years on end, with nothing more than the clothes on their back, to get to the promised land: Europe. Your story is “very real”.

Favorite quote: “There is even a sort of ‘Wi-Fi’ I’ve invented, Why Fly, so that I have creatures to chat to. I pull off flies’ wings, so that they can’t abandon me.” (“Pink’s Reflection”) Dark humor is my cup of tea; need I say more?

Least favorite story: “Generic Hospital TV Drama” - no matter how short the story was, I couldn’t finish it. If I were a soap-opera kind of ‘gal, I might have liked it.

Least favorite quote: “roasted cat organs are great in sandwiches” - eww, just eww! ("The Fixer - Dinah Paltrow's Job Story").


Aspirin of the book:

Word to writers everywhere: no matter what kind of author you are, what types of books you write, the amount of research that goes into your creation, or how long it takes you to finish a novel, in the end, you have written nothing more than an egg.

As usual, you can read the entire boring review here: Reviews with a Twist.