Misplaced

By Justin Tuijl

14 Stories of different genres. Flash fiction, reimagined fairy tales, and deep cuts examining the psychology of hellos and goodbyes. Not to mention a little satire, fantasy and sci-fi. Many people do not understand the stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Justin Tuijl
• Release date: Oct 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005115401

Justin Tuijl

Justin Tuijl writes shorts, novels, poems, scripts, non-fiction. Has a BA and MA in writing.

Book preview

MISPLACED: 14 SHORT STORIES

JUSTIN TUIJL

www.justintuijl.com

©2021 Justin Tuijl

Cover by Justin

Image from Pixabay

Also by Justin Tuijl:

BURNING WOLFHOUND

CODENAME WOLFHOUND

CAFFINATED IN WOOLWICH

Find out more: www.justintuijl.com

Please note:

I feely admit that I got the politics wrong on Project Icarus and the Age of Thump stories. I listened to the mainstream media without researching and forming an opinion. Sorry, I’m fairly ashamed of the politics, but the story is ok, just ignore the incorrect narrative.

Justin

Contents

Project Icarus

Rupert

The Viper

Cold Coffee

Rattle Ghost

The Good House

The Gimp

H.M.S. Serendipity

Ead’s Invisible Bin Spaceship

Departure Gate

Bert

High Princess

The Recovery Centre

Captain Clarkson and the Age of Thump

Project Icarus

I arrived at the secret RAF base somewhere in the heart of England, on a rainy evening in December. The guard looked at my NUJ press permit as my 911 purred at the checkpoint. I surveyed the tall barbed wire high-security electric fences both sides and the giant, hard metal gate ahead. No red and white poles across the gate here, I thought.

You can’t come in, said the guard from behind his riot helmet. We’re on full security lockdown.

I know, pre-launch Red Alert lockdown, I replied. Air Chief Marshal Strickland will see me. I was unable to see his face through the riot mask and the heavy armour gave no clue as to his body language.

I’m sorry but you have to leave, he said, his hand resting on the holster at his hip.

Strickland is going to be very cross if you turn me away. We are personal friends.

The guard was quiet for a moment. I could detect the slightest misgivings: no guard would want to upset Air Chief Marshal Strickland. Wait there, sir, he said and returned to the concrete guard box. For a moment I was unable to see him but he returned quickly. Ok, sir, you are clear to enter. There was a clanking of bolts and the great security gate started to open.

--

I drove through and parked the 911 by the low grey bunker. Usually, I would have been escorted but now there was not a soul to be seen. Rain lashed across the old airfield. The heavy clouds hid the moon and the lack of lighting made the dark bunker seem all the more foreboding.

I crossed quickly to the heavy door. There was no shelter here from the rain. I held my hand over my head, stupidly. I had expected someone to be waiting for me. There was no way to alert those inside. No doorbell on a high-security bunker.

I stood wondering what to do when I heard the tiniest noise from the great slab of the door. Then the bolts thumped back and the door started to hum open on electric motors. Gradually the space beyond was revealed. Fluorescent light spilt out. A figure stood inside.

The figure was not what I had been expecting during a high-security lockdown. He wore a white lab coat, held a clipboard and perched on his face were almost comical bottle top glasses. A perfect example of a scientist, I thought.

Hello, he said. Strickland sent me along to get you. I’m Rupert Feynman, hum, Professor. I’m Chief Scientist for Project Icarus. He held out his hand.

--

Feynman and I walked along the dim concrete corridors. I asked him about the project. He stopped and turned to look at me, gripping his clipboard. For a few moments he was unable to speak, clearly an inner struggle was happening. I really shouldn’t say this, he finally ground out, but they are crazy. Strickland, the World President, Project Icarus, it’s complete madness. Then he went quiet and a worried frown suggested he thought he’d said too much.

Anything you say to me will be in strictest confidence.

Oh yeah, you and your readership.

Maybe.

I don’t care anymore, he said recklessly. I’ve been locked up alone with Strickland and it’s driving me mad.

What about the World President?

Yes, they are constantly talking over video conference.

The World President is still in America?

Yes, he’s in the White Towers, I-

The Tannoy boomed, cutting him off. I recognised Strickland’s voice. Will Professor Feynman and the visitor report to me immediately!

Feynman turned his anguished eyes to me. We’d better hurry.

--

The lift dropped like a stone down into the bunker. There were no floor numbers on the control panel, just up and down. My heart was left far behind as we seemed to drop miles into the ground. Finally, it stopped and brought up so quickly that I felt faint. Feynman just stood there unconcerned, with his worried frown; the drop had meant nothing to him.

We hurried along more drab concrete corridors and then arrived at some gold plated doors. Feynman punched a code into a keypad by the side and the doors slid open to reveal a plush office. Strickland was standing behind a fine mahogany desk, staring at us.

About time too, she said. You’re late.

Sorry, I said. Security wouldn’t let me in.

Don’t make excuses. I needed you here.

It won’t happen again.

No, it won’t.

Little did I know then how prophetic this was.

Strickland wore an RAF uniform with a row of ribbons on her chest. The Air Chief Marshal uniform left one in no doubt as to how important she was. Her desk was amazingly clear; in fact, there was nothing on it at all. The right-hand wall contained a huge screen. The main picture was of another desk, which I recognised as the World President’s desk, empty. There were also three floating video feed windows. One showed the vast Project Icarus silo, the second the Project Icarus spacecraft command cockpit and the third was from the screen’s own webcam showing the office we stood in. On the cockpit feed there were several space pilots engaged in launch preparations. On our feed: we three looking at the screen. I looked again at the silo feed; vast space rockets ranged underground as far as the eye could see.

Strickland turned to me and saw my gaze resting on the screen. "Project