Life In A Flash

By Geoff Le Pard

Life is fast, life is short. In a series of short fiction pieces, most under 500 words, we explore the world, its inhabitants and their trials and tribulations, their ups and downs and sideways shifts, with humour and decent grammar. You'll find something to amuse and intrigue here and if, unlikely as it is, one piece isn't for you, well, turn the page and start again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoff Le Pard
• Release date: Nov 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370410873

Geoff Le Pard

I have been writing creatively since 2006 when at a summer school with my family I wrote a short radio play. That led to a novel, some more courses, more novels, each better than the last until I took an MA, realised you needed to edit, edit and then edit some more; the result is my first published book in 2014. I now have 4 books and 2 anthologies of short fiction. I once was a lawyer; I am now a writer. When I'm not writing and thinking about writing, I'm blogging (which is a sort of writing); I cook, I walk, I read (but not enough) and I walk some more. The dog approves of my career choices. More novels are in the pipeline so watch out.

Book preview

Over the last few years, I have written a lot of flash fiction, often in response to a prompt. These pieces are mostly 500 words or less and cover pretty much every major genre apart from YA, MA or children’s fiction. Dip in and enjoy them; better still let them inspire you to write your own.

Copyright, etc.

Life In A Flash

Copyright 2017: Geoffrey Le Pard

Author/Publisher: Tangental Publishing and Smashwords

The right of Geoffrey Le Pard to be identified as author of this Work has been

asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs

and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author. You must not circulate this book in any format.

While the settings in this book are reasonable representations of real places, the characters and situations described are the product of the author’s imagination and any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, and situations past, present or future is entirely coincidental.

For more information about the author and upcoming books, please visit geofflepard.com

Contents

About This Book

Copyright, etc

Acknowledgements

About The Author

Final Appearance

‘Clouds? Are you ready for the Parting?’

‘Yes, Saint P.’

Saint Peter checked the three screens. Looking good, he thought. ‘Sun-Dazzle, ready to flood with Ethereal Splendour after the Parting of the Clouds? Big J wants Exceptional Awesomeness today.’

‘Er, Saint P. While we’re ready I’m not sure we should go yet.’

‘Big J is out of makeup in five. He’ll want to go at once.’

‘But, Saint P, he won’t be happy.’

‘Course he’ll be happy. Massive Cloud Parting, full Bicentennial Dazzle, a 4G Rainbow, Tumultuous Crowds, Glowing Upturned Faces…’

‘That’s the trouble. No crowds.’

‘No crowds? You’re kidding? Jehovah makes a special appearance to bring Comfort to Nations and someone’s forgotten the crowds?’ Saint Peter looked at the left-hand screen; Jehovah was having his hair dried into a tsunami of grey waves, his final preparation. He had no more than three minutes. ‘Ok, ok. What can we do? Can we shift the Parting? Is there anywhere we can go with a decent crowd of gullible people prepared for a big appearance?’

‘Well, there’s one spot, but I’m not sure I should suggest this…’ The Director of Partings tapped nervously on his teeth. ‘Big J might not like it.’

Saint Peter growled into his microphone. ‘If you want to avoid pushing snowflakes out of a dumpster for the next thousand years, matey-boy, you’ll set this up NOW.’

‘Don’t you want to know where?’

‘He needs crowds, and he needs them NOW.’ Saint Peter paused. ‘You really are worried, aren’t you?’

‘It’s just, well, Big J likes to be the centre of attention, right? The Man?’

‘Course - no one out egos the Boss.’ The silence had an unnerving profundity. ‘Come on, spit it out. Where are these crowds?’

‘The Republican Convention. Sure, they are gullible, none more so, it’s just I’m not sure about who’s got the biggest ego.’

Saint Peter took a deep breath and picked up the Golden Phone. ‘Boss? I think we need to talk postponement.’

Hard-Baked

Amy Potter knew with a cold certainty that her life was about to take a downward spiral as complicated and intricate as the much-vaunted sourdough noose she had made during Bread Week of The Great British Bake Off. The fact that it was an homage to Albert Pierrepoint, Britain's last hangman had caused a Twitter sensation and been mentioned during Prime Minister's questions when a right-wing MP used it to demand a new free vote on the death penalty.

Amy had become the media's darling, what with her hippyish dress sense, culinary excellence and warped ideas. The liquorish and mille-feuille concoction that won her Baker of the Week had stunned environmentalists with its life-like representation of the Deepwater Horizon disaster, but climate change naysayers had had a field day.

Rumour had it that her publicist had been behind a stunt when her effigy was baked in a mobile oven in Trafalgar Square. And here she was, in the final, ready to start her Showstopper. As four men manoeuvred the covered crate next to her workspace, she affected a coy smile.

Everyone turned to face the presenters, both of whom appeared unusually nervy. The first presenter managed something approximating to a smile. ‘Today it’s a nursery rhyme theme.’

The second took over, eyeing Amy nervously. ‘Yes, comfort food and happy memories, bakers.’

The camera knew who the watching millions wanted to see. The lens focused in on the crate. As the instruction ‘…Bake!' died away, it seemed a nation held its breath.

Amy tugged at the cloth, which seemed to have caught on the latch and in seconds the marquee filled with twenty-four highly-strung and far from compliant blackbirds.

'Shit,' said one presenter and seven birds obliged as they swooped over the work surfaces, adding an unusual limey twist to the eccentric flavours favoured by one contestant.

'Duck!' said the other causing a momentary confusion that Amy's theme was not pie-based but in fact about the ugliness of a late developing swan.

Amy lost it. She took her machete and attacked the birds. Blood and feathers rained down while the camera crew held her in the centre of their lenses, knowing they had TV gold. At least, she thought, just before she fainted clean away, she hadn't gone for her first idea: Little Red Riding Hood.

S’not Fair

Paul and Pauline, twins and competitors in life, looked at the fields across from their new home on Ithaca and sighed.

‘Dull.’

‘Dreary.’

‘Nothing to do.’

‘Boring…’

A voice from the kitchen called, ‘If you don’t want me to find a chore for you both, I suggest you go and explore. Do not mope.’

They didn’t need any more encouragement.

‘Field?’

‘Wood?’

‘Race you!’

‘Loser.’

The laughter followed as first Paul then Pauline led through paths and bridleways, over stiles and under gates. As the siblings hurtled round the corner, each straining to get ahead, neither saw the short drop. Both lost their footing and rolled and tumbled through the long grass before ending in a breathless tangle of arms and legs.

‘What’s that?’

‘Eyes?’

‘A giant Viking’s helmet?’

‘Let’s go in.’

‘I don’t know…’

‘Coward!’

‘Race you.’

Paul took the left opening, Pauline the right.

‘The floor’s all sticky.’

‘There’s branches coming out of everywhere.’

What’s that rumble?’

‘Did you feel that draught?’

*

Atlas began to wake from his doze. How long had he been out? Only a few eons. Something tickled his nose. He wrinkled it, but he knew the sneeze was coming. Best let it go; no point trying to hold it back. Even gods can rupture. He flicked some moss away where it had grown since he’d lain down and twitched.

*

‘It’s a volcano!’

‘An earthquake!!’

‘A Tsunami!!!’

*

Paul and Pauline shot back through the air some two miles before landing in a field. They were old enough to know it would hurt when they landed, but in fact they did not hit so much as sink.

‘What is it?’

‘Mud?’

‘Marsh?’

They wiped their faces free of the goo and cleared their noses. The colour, the consistency and the taste told them what they needed to know. As one, they said, not hiding their disgust, ‘Snot.’

The Painful Truth

Dearest Pricilla,

I had to write to explain why I am currently on the way to Gretna.

As you know, I’ve been walking out with Reginald for six months, despite Mummy’s reservations. We have ensured due propriety and modesty at all times and I had hopes of an early engagement.

Recently though things have become decidedly awkward.

First there was Clarisse Maxwell’s handkerchief. She dropped it in front of him, the little slut, and Mummy took exception to the way he lingered as he bent to pick it up. The sweet thing was mortified and assured her he had no more feelings for Miss Maxwell than he had for his father’s goats.

Then last week after church he forgot to take my hymn book and left me to hand it back to the sweaty-palmed verger with the boil on his neck. Mummy was livid and needed to be fanned for twenty minutes to regain her composure.

But today! Disaster! We attended the Jamieson’s musical soiree, but Reggie felt unwell after eating the mackerel surprise. Mummy decided to accompany us, and we were just approaching the coaches when Reggie had a little sulphurous accident.

Mummy, of course, swooned. ‘How dare you fart in front of my daughter.’

Reggie must have had a psychotic moment – much like his great-uncle Jeremiah when he ate that mongoose in Nagpur – because he replied with, ‘I’m so sorry, Mother, but I didn’t realise it was her turn.’

So, we were left with no choice. Elopement. Though I wish we had chosen a carriage with windows that opened.

Much love,

Hermione

Penny For ‘im, Mister

‘Blimey, George, you’ve excelled yourself this year. I thought, you know, you’d maybe give it a miss?’ Tina glanced sidelong at her brother, wondering at his mood.

George rubbed his eyes, tiredness showing through. He managed a smile. ‘Couldn’t miss Guy Fawkes night, could I, sis? Haven’t done so yet, have I?’

Tina stood and touched his hand, noticing the slight shaking. ‘Remember the Guy you made when Dad had that rant about Blair? We don’t burn effigies in England, boy,’ Tina mimicked their late father perfectly.

George nodded. ‘I was never sure if he was serious.’

‘Mum told him not to be so stupid, remember. What do you think a model of Guy Fawkes is if it’s not an effigy. Right, shall we get him onto the bonfire. Goodness, he’s a weight.’

‘I’ve filled him with firecrackers and some other fun stuff. Helped bulk him out. Maybe Ron and my hunky nephew can help?’

As the three men eased the figurine onto the stack of wood, Tina said to George, ‘So, things better? You and Maggie ok?’

George pursed his lips. ‘I think we both realised we’d come to the end, you know. Time to move on.’

Tina smiled and hugged her brother. ‘You’re well shot of her. You know what I think? At least she’s not going to be moping about here, casting a downer on everything.’

George smiled as he took out his lighter. ‘Oh, I think for once she’ll light up the whole occasion.’ He looked around at his family’s happy faces. ‘Ok?’

The Absence Of Fireworks

In life, he was a fizzing firework of a man, exploding with anger and good humour in the same moment, showering sparkles and emitting flashes in equal measure.

That isn’t the man in front of me, a reedy desiccated version of corrupted flesh.

Not long, they tell me, and I tell them I’ll stay.

Awake I watch for signs, flickering glimpses of light, of a fire within, but the matches are damp. Maybe that’s my fault: when I woke just now, my head on the blanket next to him, my drool had soaked into the fibres.

Speech, if you can