The first time Rik did it it was for a dare. His mates had fed him a bottle of White Lighting followed by a good third of the pinkest Watermelon 20/20, so Rik was fully prepared to take on the deed.
The brick had been one discarded by a former building left for too many years to decompose, aided by the odd storm and occasional vandal. It wavered on the edge of the once wall. It was dirty orange with patches of black. Rik didn’t consider where the black had come from. Neither did his teeth as they bit into the sharp clayey edge. His mates laughed, expecting a spluttering of broken mouth appendages, possibly followed by a trip to A&E. But that didn’t happen. They expected a lot of blood, mixed with some gum and bits of yesterday’s dinner. But that didn’t happen. They expected painful cries of why the fuck did I do that, even with a blood alcohol level of numbness. But that didn’t happen. Instead, Rik crunched his way through the unuseful construction material with relative ease, and even a bit of enjoyment. He took another one home for later. A post drinking session snack.
Since then Rik had found it difficult to give up his brick addiction. Building merchants began their regular fortnightly delivery of fresh bricks, wondering how such small batches were being made into nothing at all. Different bricks gave off different flavours. A plethora of tastes and textures. Rik became quite the expert.
As he sat in the green room of the prime time 30 plus market segment chat show, plate of complimentary pebbles next to the other guests’ boring sandwiches, Rik considered his new found fame. You never know what you’re good at unless you have a go, and sometimes going on the piss with your mates is just the place to begin.
Eight pints later, the only thing he wanted was food. On his walk home he’d hazily remembered the block of mature cheddar sitting in the fridge and the last of the bread in the cupboard. Cheese on toast. Like a beer sponge, it would soak everything up nicely.
After fumbling with the wrong key for ten minutes, tripping over the same doorstep he’d tripped through for the past five years, he made straight for the kitchen, to the fridge, and wrestled the door open. The bright light glared. His gloopy eyes took a while to adjust. He searched with them. Both of them. He searched some more. His brain told him that even though it wasn’t functioning at full capacity it still couldn’t see the cheese it had been promised.
In front of fridges across the land people sat staring, looking, eager to satiate the late night craving with the reliable foodstuff of decades before. But they all agreed, it wasn’t there. No cheese. Continue reading “Cheesemass”
Garrison Hodge sat in the doctor’s waiting room wearing his best suit – a used teabag colour with various historic holes and stains – and a nicotine coloured shirt, mostly tucked in, with an unnoticed tomato sauce spot accompanying the second button down. This was okay though, because he was wearing a matching tie, which would have covered the tomato blob up, had it been straight, and had the last three buttons of his shirt not been left undone so that the bulging neck of Garrison Hodge could expand fully. The amalgamating neck-a-chin, thick with unbothered stubble of differing lengths, met his huge wobbly mouth within which sat remnants of last weeks’ meals. This was overseen by a substantial nose and bulging eyes with lids eager to get that bit closer to the sagging under-face, consistent in its gravitational pull. His rhythmic heavy breathing and unusual odour had detracted a small child’s attention away from the sticky wooden train he was once so enamoured with. The child’s curious concentration abruptly snapped into a wailing cry, and his mother lifted him to her comfortable jumper.
Continue reading “Garrison Hodge”
I heard Ray Bradbury used to aim to write a story a week. He’d ponder an idea over the weekend with a view to writing an outline on Monday. He’d allow himself a couple of days to flesh out that outline, and then by Friday expected a finished product of around three to four thousand words. Great if you’ve got nothing else to do with your time. And I’m certainly no Ray Bradbury. So with the limited time I do have to write I’m starting my first ever writing challenge: to write 52 stories, one a week, during 2017, (preferably with some kind of illustration to go with it)