A First Year of Random: A Collection of Short Stories Inspired by Social Media

By Juliet Boyd

This book contains a collection of over 360 very short stories and more than 80 micro stories.

Truly a coffee-table book for your eReader, these bite-sized tales can easily be consumed on your commute, in waiting rooms, or even in those five minutes while you're waiting for a friend to arrive. All inspired by pictures, comments and prompts on Instagram, they span a wide variety of genres and subjects. There truly is something for everyone within these pages.

Why not get your copy now, and find out just how inspiring everyday things can be

• Language: English
• Publisher: Juliet Boyd
• Release date: Jun 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386686279

Juliet Boyd

Juliet lives in Somerset in the south-west of England. She used to work in administration, but now writes full-time. Her main writing interests are fantasy, science fiction, weird fiction, horror and flash fiction. Details of her work are available on her website.

Book preview

A FIRST YEAR OF RANDOM

Copyright © 2017 Juliet Boyd

All rights reserved.

The stories in this book are inspired by pictures, comments and conversations posted by people who do exist. They all know about it and those were only the starting point.

For all my amazing Instagram friends. Thank you for following me, for supporting my writing, for providing me with inspiration and for being a great bunch of people to spend my online time with.

INTRODUCTION

This collection brings together the stories from the first three books in the Random series, spanning my first year of publishing them on Instagram.

Most of the pieces were posted in my own news feed, but some were posted in the comments on someone else’s post. I call this story bombing and this is indicated beneath the inspiration.

The stories are divided into sections. It’s true that many of them could’ve been put in more than one, but I went with my gut feeling. Some are also specific to a world, and those have been separated out.

It is probably true to say that this book contains something for everyone. It is not one specific genre or type of story. Inspiration, in my case, can’t be defined by any one thing. And that’s just the way I like it.

This entire book is a catalogue of memories for me. I hope it is as memorable for you.

Juliet Boyd, May 2017

LIFE

~ The Truth About Voices and Ears ~

The old woman took a step back. Her brow settled into uneven ruts. Her gnarled forefinger scratched at her chin. After a few moments of consideration, she lifted said finger into the air and gave her pronouncement.

Ear pox. That’s as I see it.

Huh? The young man narrowed his eyes. Pox? This isn’t the Dark Ages. We don’t have poxes anymore, we have viruses and diseases, not poxy old poxes. And anyway, he didn’t have any pustules.

Well, you’re the one who came to me, because, might I add, you’re too embarrassed to go to your new-fangled, fancy doctors about it.

She was right. His mother had suggested the consultation. Alternative therapy, she’d said. But there was alternative therapy ... and there was alternative therapy.

I propose, the old woman continued, a poultice of masticated nettle leaves, but you’ll have to prepare them. My teeth aren’t up to it these days. She gnashed them at him as if to prove the point.

You want me to chew up nettle leaves? You’re having a laugh. And how, exactly, is that going to stop the voice in my head?

If you don’t know that, you’re stupider than I thought.

The young man stormed out the door – he was sure he saw the old woman smile – and as he did, the voice got louder.

If you just got on and did the formatting, it’d be finished in a flash.

He thumped the heel of his palm into the side of his head – harder than he’d intended, if truth be told. The voice moved from his ear to his mouth, and grew and grew, until the only thing it could do was spew forth.

But, Hell’s teeth, I hate formatting!

He stood still for a moment, cricked his neck. He listened, fair strained his hearing, but the voice was gone. And even though he still had the work to do, he felt better for having got it off his chest.

***

Inspiration

Discussion about formatting documents, and ear poxes.

~ The Birthday Gift ~

A duck?

From the look on her face, he guessed she wasn’t impressed by the gift.

It’s a bath bomb. You know, one of—

I know what it is.

He could tell from the way she looked up at the ceiling that she was holding back. His confidence wavered. It had been the wrong decision. He should’ve chosen the champagne, but he couldn’t change that now.

I thought you’d like a soak. You should relax on your birthday. I’ll run the bath for you. What do you say?

She crossed her arms. Yes, you do that.

***

He closed the door behind him, as she threw the duck into the water. He leaned against it, his bottom lip taking the brunt of his nerves. He desperately needed to pee, but he didn’t dare go back in.

Just how long did one of those things take to dissolve?

He’d almost given up when she screamed.

Are you there? she said.

Uh-huh. He couldn’t manage anything more.

The door clicked open. She reached out her hand, the ring already in place.

***

Inspiration

Picture of a large plastic duck outside an office block.

~ Locked Forever ~

Arthur took Jean’s hand in his and pushed the back door open.

She scrunched up her face. It’s cold, Arthur. I don’t want to go out.

He almost told her it was her fault. That she was the one who’d wanted a winter wedding, which was why she’d had a winter anniversary every year. For fifty years.

He chose something else. You won’t regret it. He hoped that was true.

She stared into his eyes for a second, searching, before acquiescing.

They stopped under the apple tree and he pulled the lock from his jacket pocket. It was pink, with both their names, hers above his, a heart between them.

You know you’ve always wanted to put a lock on one of those bridges? She nodded. her glistening eyes flitted from the lock to the short length of chain hung on the branches before them. I thought we could do our own. That way, we can look out on it every day.

You know this is going to make us late for the party?

That one we’re not supposed to know about?

That’s the one. She grinned. I suppose they’ll have to wait.

He held his hand over hers and they reached up and clicked the lock closed as one. It was a satisfying sound. Solid. Like their marriage.

She raised a playful eyebrow as she looked into his eyes. Does this mean I’m stuck with you now?

Absolutely, unless you can find the key. He held said key to his parted lips.

Don’t you dare.

This, then. He threw it into the bushes, then wrapped his arm around her shoulders. We should go as we are, if we’re not supposed to know.

You’re wearing a tie.

Do I have to?

Arthur Bailey!

He held up his hands.

Another fifty years? If only.

***

Inspiration

Picture of a love lock.

~ Bad Hair Day ~

He stared at the mirror. The groan that left his lips was like a mournful beast calling out in the night.

He moved in a little closer.

Backed off again.

Shifted to different angles.

Left. Right.

Light on. Light off.

He ran his fingers over it.

It was no use.

Mortified didn’t even cover it.

It had gone.

The solitary hair on his chest had gone.

***

Inspiration

Picture of a person having a bad hair day.

~ Mayan Princess ~

The Mayan princess sauntered across the room. Hundreds of eyes followed her every movement. She held her head high, emphasising her regal status as she held back the smile she felt inside. She walked up the steps and took up her rightful place in front of them.

First place.

Was it ever in any doubt?

***

Inspiration

Picture of a child wearing a Mayan headdress.

Story bomb.

~ Spinning Out of Control ~

The web encased the entire house. A cocoon of strands criss-crossing in too many places for there to be a safe way out. It had been like that for days.

They weren’t going to survive, she was sure of it.

He waved his arms in the air as he spoke. It’s not my fault.

Oh, and I suppose that means it’s mine?

If the cap fits.

It was always the same, an impasse made up of tit-for-tat blame.

He had initiated the affair, because she no longer took any notice of him. She no longer took notice, because he wasn’t the man she’d married. He wasn’t the man she’d married, because she’d told him he needed to get his own interests.

She couldn’t breathe. The web was wrapping tighter around them with every word they spoke.

***

Inspiration

Picture of a large, man-made spider in a web.

~ A Proper Thought ~

Why not? he asked.

His mother screwed up her face. That always happened when she was about to tell a lie.

Because your thoughts aren’t proper thoughts, my love. If we did everything you said, then we’d be in a right pickle. Your thoughts are only mini-thoughts, because your brain isn’t fully formed yet. When you’re older you’ll start getting proper thoughts. Sensible thoughts. Things we can actually do.

Pah! Well, that was a load of rotten eggs. There was no reason in the world why they couldn’t all have a picnic in a tree right then. No reason at all.

***

Inspiration

Picture of a journal kept for mini-thoughts.

~ Sorted, Probably ~

The cataloguing system was simple. For example, anything that had a tree on it was filed under Trees. Unless it had something else on it. Then, it went under a subcategory.

Trees with dogs. No, never with dogs peeing, that was one of the rules he did follow.

Trees with crowds. Although, he tried not to take too many of those, because it was all about the trees.

Tree haloes. Okay, that was the second biggest category after plain trees. Oh no, actually, it wasn’t.

Anyway, his photos were organised. He could find every single one of them. No problem. Probably.

***

Inspiration

Lots of pictures of trees.

Story bomb.

~ Pantsing ~

With every key she pressed it got worse. It wasn’t that she’d dug herself into a hole, but the words were definitely floating in a quagmire and in need of rescue.

***

Inspiration

My own lack of planning for my novels.

~ Misheard ~

When the ladies from the WI invited him to open his garden to the public for Naked Gardening Day, he was a little shocked. He knew about the calendars, of course, but still. The look he got when he hesitated was so judgemental he felt guilty. It was for charity. And he was never one to back down from a challenge.

When the day came he put a sign up by the door directing visitors round to the side gate. He stood, nervously, behind the trestle table he’d laid out with refreshments, goose bumps forming on his skin. When the gate creaked open, his stomach lurched, but not nearly as much as when the two elderly women screamed.

They said he’d misheard, that Naked Garden Day meant something else entirely, but by the giggles he heard as they left, he wasn’t so sure they were telling the truth.

***

Inspiration

Picture related to Naked Gardening Day.

Story bomb.

~ Sand Cows ~

The sandstorm whipped up around them, nudging at the canvas of the tent like a curious cow that had strayed from the herd, lowing in tune with the wind when it found nothing of interest and continuing on its way.

***

Inspiration

An autocorrect that changed sans to sand.

Story bomb.

~ Made-up ~

Just how realistic do you want this to be? the make-up artist asked.

As realistic as you can possibly make it, the woman said. Blood. Skin peeling off. You know the kind of thing.

Yes, she did, but it was the type of make-up she usually did on set, not for private clients.

Are you going to a costume party?

The woman giggled. No. I’m going to surprise my husband. Then, the woman winked.

Well, she’d heard of some odd things in her life, but that was just ... Ugh! She must’ve been showing her feelings on her face – not the best attribute for a make-up artist, granted – because the woman’s eyes widened.

Oh, no. Not that. He bought one of those zombie survival kits. I just want to see if he’s prepared to use it. What do you think?

The woman put on her best blank-eyed expression.

What could she say? You‘re a complete psycho? That was hardly good customer relations. A feeble, Lovely, came out of her mouth.

She kept quiet after that. She really didn’t want to know any more.

***

Inspiration

Picture of some fabulous Halloween make-up.

~ Pincer Movement ~

Haku could hear the time bomb ticking in his head.

The annual awards ceremony of The Hawaiian Crab Society was only two hours away and Lulu, their mascot, had escaped from her tank. Being an economist wasn’t going to help him get out of this situation easily.

Or maybe it was.

He was good at hedging his bets and he bet that not one of the other members of the society could pick Lulu out in a crowd. It was worth the risk.

He took off his sandals and socks and padded down to the water’s edge. All he had to do was catch one. How difficult could that be?

***

Inspiration

Prompts: Hawaii, crab, Lulu, economist, time bomb.

~ A Marked Performance ~

Tim lifted his feet out of the way of the lawnmower. His dad was making stripes, as usual, but they were never straight. He took a bite of his slice of chocolate cake as he contemplated this effort. He gave it a four out of ten, which was better than the topiary attempts. The so-called tortoise looked like it had been flattened by a steamroller and the vase had so many imperfections, it was as if it were a badly cared for antique.

Tim was definitely of the opinion that his dad should stick to cleaning windows, or get rid of his artistic yearnings in private.

He got up and went inside. A second slice of cake was most certainly required.

***

Inspiration

Prompts: Lawnmower, slice of chocolate cake, tortoise, window cleaner, antique vase.

~ Gritty Reality ~

The lurid green walls made him want to vomit. They weren’t restful at all. Apparently, that was the point. The poet giving the reading wanted to make people feel uncomfortable, because his poems weren’t the feel good kind, they were gritty realism, about lives that had gone through the grinder and come out the other side.

The only other thing that made him feel this bad was eating pineapple. That caused a fire in his throat just from a sniff of its aroma.

He fixed his eyes on the back of the person in front and crossed his fingers that the follow through wasn’t the same.

***

Inspiration

Prompts: Lurid green, vomit, poet, pineapple, fire.

~ Keeping Things Straight ~

The red-checked tablecloth had a nasty green stain on it that smelled of mint.

Ambrose, she called out in what he termed her naughty-boy voice.

He walked into the room in his pink dressing gown, his hair still tousled from sleep, and mumbled something incoherent. He might be a neurosurgeon, but he wasn’t so good at looking after his own brain.

Were you at the Crème de Menthe last night? she asked.

He blinked three times, long and slow. His gaze flitted to the tablecloth and back to her.

"Not me, he said, innocent as pie.

She crossed her arms and tried to scowl at him, but it was no good. She couldn’t keep a straight face. She was never going to be able to get him back for the prank he played on her last April.

***

Inspiration

Prompts: Red-checked tablecloths, Ambrose, neurosurgeon, Crème de Menthe, pink.

~ Costume Trouble ~

The bowler hat rolled down the escalator at the train station as easily as an orange. John ran after it. Going down an up escalator was never easy, or advisable, but he was desperate. The only other costume they’d had in his size was one of a sad parrot and he definitely wasn’t going to the party as one of those.

***

Inspiration

Prompts: Bowler hat, escalator, orange, sad parrot, train station.

~ Living in the Shadows ~

He crouched down beneath the shade of the apple tree, careful to place his limbs in exactly the right place for maximum coverage. He looked like he was