Welcome to the Monthly Short

- a chillout section where you can put your feet up and relax for a precious few minutes. This part of the site gives you the chance to comply with the fictionfest tag line and ...escape into a short story. Each month you'll find some five minute fiction - all you have to do is sit back and enjoy... 

September's short story sees us slip into a little modern gothic... 

                                            Talk to the Hand                     

Gary Lafferty threw out an arm and knocked the cardboard box from Austin’s grasp. It tumbled through the air, spilling twin rolls of white kitchen towels onto the stockroom floor.

Austin said nothing; he avoided eye contact and dropped onto all fours to gather the stock back in. His body tensed, anticipating a kick or a smack from the back of Lafferty’s hand. Sneddon and Carnegie stood by the doorway sniggering but a slick rasping noise brought a hush to them. Then it hit him, a rushing sound, a dull force against the shoulder of his coverall before it leapt spattering onto the back of his neck, running beneath his t-shirt and furiously down his arms to form puddles around his hands. The acrid smell more than the warmth told him what was happening. He shot forward and spun to see Lafferty shake the last drops from his dick before stuffing it back into his trousers.

The walls reverberated with Sneddon and Carnegie’s laughter.

Lafferty just grinned. “Well? You’ve got wads of kitchen towels there, get that fucking mess mopped up.”

                                *********                                                                                                                                   *********

It was almost 3am. Austin Merryweather lay stripped to the waist, outwith the covers, on the bed of his darkened flat. The day’s events swam on the surface of his thoughts. It’d been bad, the worst. Sneddon and Carnegie would tell the others. Soon everyone would know him for the coward he was. How long before they too picked on him and called him retard?

He targeted a point in the vacuous gloom above and tried again. At first his stomach had gurgled and groaned in protest, starvation his punishment upon himself. And when it fell silent the frantic rise and fall of his chest and the hum from the fridge at the far end of the room distracted him. But gradually his breathing settled and the hum became a rhythmic aid to his focus. 

He emptied his head and imagined himself floating slowly, steadily above his body. Further and further he rose until he reached that black space beneath the ceiling. He turned to gaze at the pathetic wretch below. Thin, spindly arms stretched out from its pale and concave chest. The head was framed by lank, matted hair. The long face, with round eyes set uncomfortably close together astride a crooked nose, gave the owner a look of permanent surprise.

Austin hovered over the prostrate form and with a scalpel sliced open the chest from north to south, ribcage to abdomen. Then he forced his fingertips into the seeping, pencil-slim wound and tugged at the blubbery skin until the thin red line became a gaping pit. A festering stench leaked from the bloodied hole; he held his breath, turned his face away lest it infect him, then pushed his hand in up to his elbow. The blood bubbled and spat – bad blood. His fingers probed, he touched something cold, something inorganic. He pulled it out and held it up allowing the blood to drip from it. On the spanner was etched ‘fear and anxiety.’ He threw it away and with renewed vigour thrust his arm into the wound again. This time he withdrew a rock, the words ‘self doubt’ visible on its uneven surface. He cast it aside and drew the zipper from the base of the abdomen to the tip of the ribcage. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he slid back into himself.

Austin sat up with a jolt and leapt from the bed. In the bathroom he flicked on the light and glared at his reflection in the mirror. His mouth sagged. Inside he pulsed with positive enthusiasm yet the same fearful, spot-ridden face stared back at him – with that stupid ‘surprised to see you’ expression. He scowled at himself, his breaths coming in short bursts as a flush of anger coursed through him. He pulled a pair of scissors from the bathroom cabinet and drew the open blade across his left palm in a single movement. He whimpered at the sweet sharp shock, until it ebbed away to be replaced by a dull ache. His anger resurfaced and he made a fist squeezing the dripping blood into the sink. “I can’t cast out self doubt and fear, it must run through me in the blood. Bad blood, that’s the problem.”

            His left arm began to shake uncontrollably and one by one the fingers of his left hand uncurled to reveal the cleft he’d made in his palm. The skin either side of the gash was bloated, like two ruby-red lips. The power in Austin’s legs perished as the lips quivered then spoke.

            “You worthless piece of shit, show some spine for Christ sake,” the hand scolded.

            Austin sank to the floor. “How can this be? A hand has no life of its own.”

“Ah,” said the hand, “You wouldn’t be the first to wonder how I got here. Each time you cower and skulk I wonder why I course the blood with a weakling like you on the outside. You blame ‘bad blood’ but it’s you who’re gutless and feeble.”

Austin rocked back and forward, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’d stand up to them if I could but I’m not strong enough.”

            “Then let me,” said the hand, “I won’t let them push us around.”

                                                      *********

Austin   re-priced tinned fruit on the shopfloor but when the label gun ran out he headed for the stockroom to reload. A few nods were exchanged. Lafferty followed whilst Sneddon and Carnegie again covered the door.

            “Hey, retard, we’re kinda bored, we were hoping you’d liven things up.”

            Austin froze. His eyes rolled as he abandoned himself; sinking to the lower regions of his consciousness, passing another rising to the surface. He dropped the label gun and reached into the pocket of his coverall.

Lafferty quickly covered the distance between them and stood at Austin’s back. “We need a little sport, Merrywhatsit; I thought you could be our punch bag,” he said, laying a hand on Austin’s shoulder and spinning him around.

Austin’s balled fist slammed into Lafferty’s chest.

Lafferty smiled at the impotent slap. But the smile withered on his lips as blood wept from between Austin’s fingers.

Austin unclenched his fist and pulled his hand away leaving the scissors protruding from Lafferty’s chest.

Carnegie was first to scream.

Austin sat quietly against the stockroom wall and watched the commotion unfold with a grin upon his face. The wimp could bask in the glory he’d earned for him – they’d show him some respect now. He let his eyes roll...