Stop the Clocks

stop the clocks. boy diving into ocean as asteroid crashes with clock foreground

My heart races against the clock. As 17:59 becomes 18:00, it looks like the word ‘Boo.’ Mum says a swear-word and I jump. My swimming lesson starts now but we haven’t even parked the car.

On the radio, the newsreader says an asteroid will narrowly miss Earth tonight. I picture myself riding it, flames shooting behind me, and diving into the pool just in time.

Mum stops the car so suddenly that I jolt forward. ‘Jump out here, Thomas!’

My bag is wedged in the space in front of my seat. I tug while another clock inside my head counts down until Mum explodes. Beside me, she inflates like a balloon. Three, two, one…

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The Nexterday Pot Affair etm.

Inspector Camden Ironbell glared through the taxi window. He sighed and stroked his long beard. It would have been quicker to walk, he thought. He turned to his sergeant, who had her head stuck in a magazine.

“What are you reading, Lightwarble?”

Umros Lightwarble held up the magazine so he could see the cover. “Scientific Gnomus.”

“I see.” He raised an eyebrow. In his opinion, young Gnomes spent far too much time on human science and not enough on old-fashioned magic. “And WHAT is the article about?”

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The Black-footed Hero

Trowel in hand Felix bends down over the charcoal. It’s dark down here. Orange-filtered head torches are the chosen form of illumination; more authentic at replicating the flickering firelight of old and less harmful than arc lights for the delicate surfaces of excavated artefacts.

“Enough! Eight hours running! We’re off for a jar. You coming?”

“No, must dust Him off first. Catch you later”

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Hero Wanted

Are you:-

  • Heroic
  • Energetic
  • Robust
  • Organised

If you can answer yes to all of the above and have a superpower, we want to meet you!  Interviews here, commencing at 9.00 a.m. on Tuesday, 3rd May.

Henry and George were both seated in front of the stage.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” asked George.

“Yes, a Superhero will be someone the common people can look up to, someone they can believe in, it is exactly what we need right now.  We need a big distraction to stop them focusing on us.”

“Can’t you just bribe them? That’s worked well in the past.”

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The Hero’s Revelation

“This is all of the candidates?” I heard him ask his advisors, sotto voce.

His gaze swept me dismissively, no more interested than had I been a speck of lint on his finely tailored collar. I took no offence; clients who have underestimated and tried to double cross me in the past have regretted it, albeit very briefly.

“This is most irregular.” An acolyte was addressing me directly now.

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When You Scratch the Surface

An obituary published in the local paper caught Martha’s eye.

“Poor Mr. Aldridge has passed away.”

Martha’s husband hid behind his Times, “Humph” his reply.

“Do you think we should attend his funeral. He doesn’t have any friends that I know of.”

“Humph.”

Martha knew Mr. Aldridge enough to say hello, him not being very social or active in the neighbourhood. The thought of his funeral being unattended was unthinkable. On a chilly but bright morning Martha wandered down to the church with a bouquet of flowers from her garden. Walking up the path of the churchyard, she noticed a crowd of military men all in full-dress uniform. She hesitated slightly, and a gentleman behind her urged her on. Walking into the church, she marvelled at the beautiful flowers; half the pews were full of military men. Sidling into the back pews, she watched the ceremony.

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Define Hero

“Woe to the warrior, woe to the woman of the street, and woe most all of all he who hears but does not believe!”

The braying, bleating voice was once again calling out in the square. People came to trade and gossip, often from ten miles away and the last thing anyone needed was the shaming voice of a pious preacher.

So, Herndon, retired but still a respected war hero, decided to talk some sense into the young Christian, and if not sense, perhaps a little muscle.

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Scottie the Brave

On his haunches outside the toilet, whimpering. Of course his mistress would return. But what if she stayed there for ever, studying the face she saw reflected in the tiny pool fixed on the wall above the sink?

            Anxious? Indeed. He hadn’t forgotten his first eight years, had he? Living in a shed, Mr Phillips cursorily leaving him food, then ignoring him. Occasionally the house dogs, big as buses, would come out and get angry with him. ‘Outsider!’ they would snarl. ‘Stay out of our house. Not welcome!’ One of them, an Alsatian called Farage, the head on him the size of his shed, bit him once him on top of his skull. Mr Phillips had put a bit of rag over the cut, muttering, ‘Now what’ve you been up to? Flipping nuisance!’

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Behind the scenes

I met with my hero twice a day, everyday. Morning and night. He wasn’t your average hero, he didn’t wear a cape, or fly, nor did he have highly advanced technology. He was small, white, round and tasted of talcum powder. He did have superpowers, he could fight against illness, look after me and was very strong.

Yes, he was a tablet. My hero was a tablet.

We first met when his fellow tablets couldn’t handle me. He was recommended by the doctor because he was so strong. I did some research on him. Found out what his strengths and weakness were. If I were to work with this fella, let him into my life, I needed to know who he was.

He seemed suitable.

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Your Friendly Neighbourhood GP

Mavis Potter reclined in her seat, her body visibly deflating.

‘That’s such a relief, Dr Parker. I was certain it was a brain tumour. Thank you for seeing me out of hours again. You really are a hero.’

            ‘Just doing my job. The migraine should subside soon, and the tablets will help. In future, remember that stress can be a trigger – that includes googling symptoms.’

            Dr Paul Parker’s smile reached the corners of his eyes, kindness radiating out of him. Mavis basked in it for a moment. A visit to the GP was as good as a holiday.

            She floated out of the surgery. ‘Thank you, Dr!’

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Killing time with Papa Tony

The family last got together at their family ranch in the spring of ’06. Mike Profaci, tired from a three-hundred-mile drive along I-15 from Calgary to Great Falls, pulled his RV into the yard fronting the house just as a warm May-wind whipped through the Engelmanns lining the packed gravel driveway that cut through the forest from the Interstate to the Lucchese casa-di-famiglia.

His mother stepped onto the porch, her familiar gingham apron flapping in the breeze, a warm smile on her face and arms opened wide.

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The Gentleman’s Magic

The fellow smoked his pipe, stroked his messy mane of a beard, and Johnson who it must be said lacked insight was unsure of what to make of him.

The man was intelligent yes, or at least, confident, and all around the walls of his innermost chamber, (a converted garage in truth) showed a life well lived. Framed photos proudly depicted the gentleman, shaking hands with Andy Warhol or standing in front of the pyramids of Giza.

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Breaking the third law

The syringe went in. As small wisps of raw power arced between her fingertips, she let out an involuntary gasp. She’d been expecting something of course, just not… this. Her entire life she’d been told she was special. “One in seven billion,” said the very serious looking people in white coats, who’d crowded round her prodding, poking, and doing all sorts of other tests, then shaking their heads.

Now, those same men stood back, as awestruck as she was, before turning to shake each other’s hands.

“We’ve done it!” one of them whispered reverently. “We’ve tamed Clarke’s Third Law.”

She didn’t know what that meant, and then… she did. Information was there for her instantly; every electron that had ever passed through any electronic storage device available for her to access at will. Some of it was fascinating, some too disturbing to contemplate, but suddenly she understood what she was. Who they were. What they’d done to her. Her brain and body felt truly alive… electric.

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An Interesting Evening at the Wizard and Slipper

Our team turned up at the pub ready to challenge our old rivals, the reigning pub quiz champions of Little Nedding. They are notorious cheats of course, what with concealed smartphones and friends planted around to covertly signal answers. But we were in great  form, brain cells bristling, which is more than can be said for the stand-in quiz-meister ( the usual one had covid­.)

The stand-in chap seemed a bit furtive. He clutched the answer sheets like a symbol of power and made a great show of concealing the pages. Definitely something peculiar about him.

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The Magic of Auto-correction

Hubert was struggling. Progress on the Business Improvement Plan requested, rather mandated, by the Directors of News Wales Live Radio was tortuous. Analytics had diagnosed a 25%  audience fall -off after the third quarter- hour. Perhaps change the bumper music. Done. Replace the liner front-selling the next guest…. possible. Could be a one hour programme was simply too long. Rearranging the playlist would address the former. The latter was frightening, heralding a possible cut to his hours and a corresponding reduction in salary. With the legally- enforceable  encumbrances of 3 ex-partners and 7 children to support, a Bentley Meteor to maintain and fuel, plus his 10 tank collection of non-native reptiles and amphibians to feed, house and heat, Hubert had decisions to make. He compiled a list of friends and professional acquaintances and started.  

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Fairytale 22

The credits rolled over the screen as he stood to turn off the television after their normal Saturday night animated film, as if it was a routine action.

“Do you think we need fairies?” she asked jokingly as she stretched after lying awkwardly for the past half an hour.

“No of course not,” he smiled as he started tickling her feet. “Our fairy tale consists of takeaways, laughter, cuddles and adventure.”

She giggled uncontrollably as she tried to wiggle away from her tickle monster.

—————————————————————————————————

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Secrets from Beyond the Grave

With the use of her nail file, Fiona finally pried open the bureau drawer.  It had been out of bounds for all of her childhood.  Even now, she felt that she was defying her mother.  She slid the drawer open with reverence and found the key to the glass cabinet.

Even at this sad time, she felt a smile creep across her face.  The long felt desire of handling her mother’s favourite possession made her body shake.  She picked up the old lamp and held it close to her chest.

To her astonishment, a genie materialised before her.  It stretched and yawned, and finally opened it’s eyes.

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A Different kind of Magic

Packing up his dad’s old kitbag, Billy excitedly rushed downstairs. The camping trip beckoned. The gang had finally persuaded their parents to let them sleep over at Devil’s Cave near their home.

Summer holidays had started. Most of the boys had jobs for the holidays but this weekend was a boy’s right of passage. His mother had laid out food for them, some bread, a bit of dripping, and some jam tarts. That was my contribution.

Gathering at the end of our road we set off. It was quite a climb to the cave but there was a stream bubbling away alongside the path, so we stopped to fill our pop bottles frequently.

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Magic Moments

She comes once a month with her weeny plug-in keyboard. A pair of legs are attached to them, taken from a long solid case. Then she sits on a borrowed chair, as battered as her audience, and holds her hands above the three octaves, poised like a concert player, as if the large room were the Albert Hall, as if the old dears with food stains on their mouths and tops were aristocracy in tiaras and gowns.

            Ta-ra-ta-tum! The opening notes of I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside, in an electronic tinkle, and she is singing in a pleasant tenor, smiling at the half-ring of armchairs and wheelchairs. Slumped heads lift, minds which exist in a fog have moments of clarity, return to childhood holidays, recall sandcastles, brylcreemed fathers in turned up trousers with braces, and shirts with ties, mothers with fat red legs spread in deckchairs, the sun roasting them stealthily.

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The Joker

Man holding up a joker card

Laughter echoed around the kitchen, bouncing off gleaming surfaces and easing the tension. Andy had been right. A get-together was exactly what the community needed at this difficult time.

Across the marble island, her face protruding from behind a vase of lilies, his wife, Kat, barely cracked a smile. Not that the Botox permitted much facial expression, but the sparkle had been absent from her eyes ever since their neighbour, Mark, had gone missing. Andy took a swig of beer, drowning out one bitter taste with another.

He was launching into his next comical tale when the doorbell rang. Andy excused himself and weaved through the guests to the front door, listening out for gossip. Did anyone suspect anything?

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