Some Of This Is Fiction: Redwell Writers Anthology, #2

By David Viner, Linda Anne Atterton, Alice Bagnall and 6 more

A lover's secret. A mysterious neighbour. A woman scorned. A best friend's promise. A man on the edge of sanity. These are just a few of the tales for you to relish in this second tantalising collection of short stories and poetry from the Redwell Writers Group (Norwich). There are nineteen well-crafted works from authors of all walks of life brought together to tease your emotions and demand your attention.

Please be advised, some of this is fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Viner
• Release date: Jan 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9781913873905

Book preview

some of this

is fiction

The Second Redwell Writers Anthology

edited by David Viner

(with assistance from other members of Redwell Writers)

ebook edition published by

Viva Djinn (Horde) Publishing

in association with

Timbuktu Publishing

Published for Redwell Writers by

Viva Djinn (Horde) Publishing, Norwich, UK

www.vivadjinn.com

www.redwellwriters.org

ISBN: 978-1-913873-90-5

All stories are the copyright of their respective authors.

Publication History

First edition ©2020 Redwell Writers.

This edition ©2024 Redwell Writers.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form other than that supplied by the publisher.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

Design and layout: David Viner

Fear

Mark Humphries

Fear looks like puke

Heaved onto a city pavement,

Remnants of Saturday,

A night on the town.

It sounds like the drone

Of a busy motorway,

Cars in the distance

Invading your head.

Fear feels like slime-

A wall infested with slugs

Slithering towards you.

It smells like piss

Running down the concrete steps

Of tower-block stairwells.

It stings your eyes

‘til you cannot see.

Fear burns your nostrils

- scarred by its aroma.

Fear has a taste

That will tear your throat:

Mustard powder and chilli flakes

Boiled in a pan.

It is the colour of snot

Mingled with blood

Spued onto fresh towels.

Fear is all around you

Like the air that you breathe.

Stare at it…

…it will run and hide.

But…

Fear will be back.

The Dangerous Mr Roberts

David Viner

I opened the front door and dropped my suitcase in surprise. Bloody hell, what had happened here?

A head popped around the door of the lounge. It was slightly chubby, the close-cropped hair dark, except for a few flecks of grey around the temples. He was about my height, maybe an inch or so taller, and I recognised the t-shirt he wore as one of my own, though it hung looser on him than it would have done on me.

Who the hell are you? I shouted. What are–?

He put his fingers to his lips and shushed me.

Don’t you dare shush me in my own–

He shushed me again, harder, and furrowed his brow. His eyes darted over his shoulder back towards the lounge. Then his fingers beckoned me into the room.

Normally, I would have had to step over piles of unopened letters, shoes and discarded socks but the hallway had been tidied. Two piles of post, neatly stacked and sorted by category, sat on the narrow table – the large stack of junk mail, obvious by the gaudy colours, and the smaller pile of grey, brown or white envelopes indicating the more important stuff. Sitting alone in between the two larger piles was the spare list of the conference workshops – I’d wondered where that had gone. It was the one where I’d circled the workshops I wanted to attend, especially the one titled, ‘Is Your Neighbour An Alien?’ When I had left for the conference, the table had been buried under the accumulating detritus of my life.

In the background, just audible over the sound of the TV came the noise of the washing machine churning away with a load. This surprised me as it had broken down months ago and I had been forced to use the local launderette ever since.

The lounge, too, had been tidied almost beyond recognition. The coffee table stood on a carpet that must have been cleaned, so much brighter was it now than when I had last clapped eyes on it. Not that it had been conspicuous before I had gone on holiday, lying, as it had, under piles of magazines, books and other stuff. The magazines, I could now see, were neatly stacked against the wall. I could even see that they had been grouped into titles – the Nexus mags were stacked separately to the New Dawn issues. The books were now in alphabetical order of their authors’ names. The von Danikens I could see at one end, with the Graham Hancocks closer to me.

You might want this, he said, offering me a contraption.

What is it?

His answer was to place a similar device upon his head and plug the wire into a box.

He knows we are on to him, he said, nodding towards the wall. I stared at the wall indicated – the one I shared with the next door neighbour. I turned the TV on to conceal us.

You mean Mr Roberts?

Yes, Mr Roberts. He is not what he seems.

I had to agree. Mr Roberts was a strange man. He lived all alone and hardly ever spoke. I’d always thought there was something weird, almost reptilian about him. The conference workshop had been about identifying such beings and how to confront them should they reveal their true selves. All the way home I had been wondering if Mr Roberts fitted one of the categories that had been discussed – after much thought I had finally concluded that at least three covered him.

I still held the contraption in my hands. He took it from me and positioned it on my head and plugged its wire into the box.

We can talk freely now, he said, switching it on. He can’t pick anything up with this turned on.

I looked at the box – it appeared to be one of my old train set controllers. Hadn’t that been in the loft?

Is that–?

Yes, I modified it – added a Tesla shield to the circuitry. It’s got a range of about ten feet.

He reached into his trouser pocket. Well, my trouser pocket, actually – he was wearing a pair of my old jeans. Admittedly, they looked cleaner and far less wrinkled than I remembered. I also recalled the tear in the knee, which I could see was now sewn up.

He passed me a card – it was thin and quite flimsy. The edges were rough and I recognised the type – it had once been part of a sheet so that multiple cards could be printed together and snapped apart. I had a small pack of sheets left over from when I had printed my own a few months ago, not that I’d managed to hand many out since then. I read it, not easy as the printing was streaked where the cyan ink was low, which reminded me, I needed to buy a new colour cartridge for my own printer. The card said ‘Earth Guard’ in large green letters surrounded by occult symbols and a few cartoon UFOs – underneath was the name ‘Carl Wilkinson’ followed by ‘UK Division’.

Carl Wilkinson? I asked.

That’s me, he said. We’ve received several reports about your Mr Roberts over the past few months and I have been allocated to you in case he decides to, er, shall we say, take things further.

Further?

Wilkinson’s face set in a frown and he nodded slowly.

Further, he said again, following it up by exhaling, meaningfully.

But what has he–?

You really don’t want to know, he cut in. I could hear my heart beginning to thump in my chest as he replaced the nodding with equally slow and meaningful sideways shakes of his head.

It’s really too gruesome, he whispered. We’ve lost two agents so far... He stopped and grimaced, No, I shouldn’t be telling you this. The less you know...

He broke off and I felt a shiver run down my spine. His face clouded even further as he leant towards me. I could feel his hot breath on my face – it smelt of pizza.

We have, of course, been watching you as well. Mainly for your own protection, you understand. But, from our investigations, it appears that you can be trusted.

There was a pause.

You can be trusted, can’t you? he said, his face only inches from mine.

I