This tale from the Split Worlds follows on from A Fair Exchange.

Mickey’s fingers twitched over the open pouch. The cherry red Ferrari gleamed in the afternoon sunshine. With only ten marbles, he had to choose wisely.

He picked one out, feeling its weight in the palm of his sweaty hand. He rolled the marble across the pavement fast enough to make it shoot off the edge and hit the rear tyre.

Nothing happened.

He frowned and looked in the gutter, but he couldn’t see it. Perhaps it had rolled down the drain. Maybe he should have aimed at the car itself, rather than the tyre?

“Oi!” A middle aged man shouted from across the street. “Get away from my car!”

Mickey stuck a finger up at him and ran off, stopping a street away outside a game shop. He didn’t want to give up hope yet. He knew there was something weird about these marbles.

He stepped inside the shop, pushing past a cluster of spotty geeks and went straight to the back shelf. A row of consoles triggered a familiar longing, the PS3 drawing him close like a seductive lover. He plucked another marble from the bag.

Mickey rolled the marble along the shelf. It hit the side of the console, but nothing changed. He retrieved the marble, noting its dull interior.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “I’m a bloody idiot.”

He stomped out of the shop, chucked the marble down the nearest drain and caught the bus home. He found his mother leaning against the back door, blowing her cigarette smoke out into the back yard.

“What’d you get for it?”

“Sod all.”

She sighed and flicked the ash outside. “Well, it’ll look pretty enough on the mantelpiece.”

“I haven’t got it,” Mickey said. If he told her that he’d exchanged it for a bag of marbles that turned out to be as magical as a toilet brush, he’d get a hiding. “The bloke in the shop gave me a quid, I used it to get back home.”

“Oh Mickey!” his Mum slapped him on the arm. “You’re useless; you should’ve kept it and walked home!” She flicked the cigarette butt into the garden and slammed the door. “I’m goin’ out, stay and look after Jack; I won’t be back till tomorrow. And do the washing up for God’s sake!”

She grabbed her handbag and left him with the scent of cheap perfume and smoke.

“Where’s Mum gone?” His brother lurked at the door.

“Dunno.”

“You need to do the washing up.”

Mickey looked at the dishes piled high in the sink. “Get lost.” Then he had an idea. “Look,” He fished the pouch out of his pocket. “If you do the dishes for a month, I’ll give you this pouch of magic marbles.”

Jack came over as Mickey pulled one out and held it up for him, sparkling and magnificent.

“Blimey!”

The boy’s eyes were wide. Mickey smirked. When Jack reached for it, he pulled it away. “Washing up for a month, then they’re yours.”

Jack frowned. “How come you don’t want them?”

Mickey drew in a breath, buying himself some time. “These marbles only work for sprats, like you. I’m too grown up for them. You roll one at whatever you want to have, and then it’s yours.”

“Cor, really?”

“Would I lie to you? Deal?”

“Yeah!”

“Cool. Do that lot in the sink and you can have the bag.”

A loud pop woke Mickey early the next morning. As he opened his eyes, a terrible smash made him yell and sit up in his bed.

The bedroom wall was bursting outwards, pushed out by the red Ferrari that was parked impossibly at the foot of his bed. The bricks and plaster above the newly made hole rained down on its bonnet, the front wheels teetering above the front garden.

“Christ!” he yelled, scrabbling out of bed.

There were footsteps on the landing, then a second pop. He turned to see a brand new PS3 in the middle of his bed, price tag still taped to it.

Jack peered in and there was another pop. A kids bicycle appeared next to the Ferrari, teetering for a moment before tipping to rest against the car door.

Jack whooped. “My new bike!”

A fourth pop, and a large trampoline materialised a few feet above the bed before landing on it with a crash.

Jack jumped up and down. “My new trampoline!”

By the time the next pop came, Mickey was cowering in the corner. The dawn light was streaming through the hole in his wall, local dogs barked at the noise.

The marbles. Oh God the marbles were really-

A row of shop shelving appeared next, breaking the bed frame as it fell on top of it. Mickey dived for cover as it fell on its side with a crash, spilling hundreds of packets of sweets all over the demolished bedroom.

Jack was now weeping with delighted laughter.

“Jack!” Mickey yelled. “What else did you roll them marbles at?”

“Only a bou-”

The pop was the loudest yet, the room rapidly filling with a massive bouncy castle that Mickey had seen secured in a garden down the street. He was briefly crushed against his wrecked chest of drawers before the plastic was punctured on a sharp shelf corner and began to deflate.

“Awww,” Jack moaned. “My bouncy castle!”

Mickey scrambled across the car and ran to Jack’s room. The pouch was partially tucked under his pillow. He grabbed it, feeling the remaining four marbles inside.

“That’s mine!”

“Deal’s off,” Mickey said, retrieving clothes from the bathroom laundry basket. “I’ve got to sort some stuff out Jack. Might be a few days, but I’ll come back for you, okay?”

He left his brother and ran out of the back door to avoid the crowd collecting at the front to gawp at the car. A plan was forming, and he couldn’t stop himself grinning. Life was looking better by the minute.

To be continued…

This flash is part of a year and a day of urban fantasy stories set in the Split Worlds. There is an index of the the stories here and some more info on what the year and a day is about here. And if you liked it, you can subscribe by email if you like, so you get the rest delivered to your inbox.

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This tale from the Split Worlds was inspired by a prompt sent in to the Short Story Club by the lovely Joanie. I hope you like it Joanie!

A Fair Exchange

“Mickey?”

He looked up at his mother. She was standing in the doorway to the living room, hair tied under a scarf and covered in dust.

“What?” he said, turning back to the television.

“Turn that thing off,” she said.

He sighed heavily and pressed the remote.

“Look what I found in the loft.”

She held out a figurine of a fairy on her palm, even more dusty than she was.

“Isn’t it pretty? I’ve never seen one so nice. I’m going to clean it up, I want you to take it to the pawnbrokers.”

“Aw Mum,” he moaned. “I’m knackered. Can’t Jack do it?”

“He’ll only break it,” she said, heading off to the kitchen. “Stop being such a lazy bugger and do something for your poor old Mum for a change.”

“It won’t be worth anything,” he said when it was placed in his hand, sparkling clean and brightly coloured. “They want gold and jewellery and stuff, not tat like this.”

“It’s not tat! Look at it, she’s beautiful.”

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Give us a quid for the bus then.”

On the way into town, he sank low in his seat at the back and inspected the fairy. He couldn’t deny that it was well-made. Its tiny features were perfectly described and he had no idea what its sparkling pink dress had been made of. Certainly none of the figurines at his late grandmother’s house looked like this. He shook his head, smirking at the thought of his stupid mother rooting about in the loft, hoping to find a lost masterpiece like on The Antiques Roadshow. He knew the pawnbroker would offer a fiver at the most. After the bus fare back home again, they’d be three quid up.

That’s what his time was worth; three quid an hour. He scowled at the shoppers walking past, dressed in their fancy clothes and designer shoes. Life sucked.

Mickey first noticed the man when he got off the bus, mostly because he was dressed like a prat. He wore a dark red jacket that was tragically old-fashioned, looking like it was from the kind of rubbish his Mum watched on TV.

He saw him a second time when he was crossing the street, striding along the pavement behind him, using his large umbrella like a walking cane. He had long dark hair tied back in a ponytail and stank of money.

Mickey trudged towards the pawnbrokers, glowering at the Saturday afternoon shoppers out with their screaming kids and depressed husbands. It felt like every old person in London had chosen exactly the same time to walk the same street as him, conspiring to walk in front as slowly as possible and tag each other in as he dodged them. He was so busy tutting at a stooped old man that he didn’t see the fancy-dressed prat until he was standing right in front of him, blocking the way into the pawnbrokers.

“Excuse me,” he said, his smile revealing perfect white teeth. “Forgive my intrusion, but may I ask whether you intend to take that statuette into the pawnbrokers?”

“Eh?” Mickey asked, confused by the man’s words. They sounded like English, but they didn’t make much sense.

“Are you planning to sell that?” the man said, pointing at the figurine.

“Yeah, what’s it to you?”

The man smiled and reached into his pocket. “The pawnbroker will not offer you a substantial amount of money for it, I can assure you of that. May I offer an alternative?”

Mickey frowned, not liking the way the man spoke. It made his head feel woolly, and it reminded him of English Literature class. He hated English Lit. “D’you wanna buy it?”

The man smiled again, Mickey felt light-headed. “I’d like to offer you these in exchange for the statuette.” He held out a pouch made of the same burgundy velvet as the man’s jacket. “They’re marbles, but unlike any marbles you’ve seen or played with before.”

“Marbles?” Mickey snorted. “My Mum won’t want marbles.”

“No, you don’t understand,” the man said, leaning closer as the tie at the neck of the pouch seemed to work its way loose. He plucked a marble out and Mickey couldn’t stop himself from gasping in amazement. It was made of the same stuff as the fairy’s dress, sparkling with such depth that he felt he could stare into it all day. “These are magical marbles. Roll one towards something you want, and the object of your desire will be yours to keep.”

Mickey couldn’t take his eyes off it. The wool between his ears thickened. Magic marbles? Yeah, they sounded a whole world better than some poxey fairy.

“You’re on,” he grinned and held out the figurine.

The man dropped the marble back into the pouch. “What’s your name?” When Mickey told him, the man held the open pouch up to his lips and whispered; “Hear me now, these are Mickey’s Marvellous Magical Marbles.” He blew into the bag and it closed and tied itself, making Mickey blink in surprise.

The fairy was plucked from him and the pouch dropped into his hand. It was heavier than he thought it would be. “So I just roll these towards whatever I want, and then it’s mine?” he asked, shaking his head in an effort to clear it.

The man nodded, wrapping the fairy in a silk handkerchief pulled from his pocket. “Indeed.”

Anything I want?”

“Anything you want. Good day to you, young man.”

The man gave him a curt nod and strode off down the street at a fair clip, the Saturday crowds posing no problem as they parted in front of him.

Mickey looked down at the pouch and grinned. He knew exactly what he wanted first. He just had to find it.

Read the next installment: Mickey’s Marvellous Magical Marbles.

This flash is part of a year and a day of urban fantasy stories set in the Split Worlds. There is an index of the the stories here and some more info on what the year and a day is about here. And if you liked it, you can subscribe by email if you like, so you get the rest delivered to your inbox.

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A tiny flash of 300 words this week, again inspired by the five minute flash fun hosted by the lovely Leah Petersen with the prompt “Flying” and the prize draw for your June Friday Flashes :)

Flying

“You were in it, and Jack, but he didn’t look like Jack, he looked like a dream Jack.”

“Yeah,” he said, barely taking in the nervous gabbling that flowed from his friend.

“So anyway, we were all in this car, and the sky was really red, like, I dunno, like the most intense sunset, like, ever.”

He looked up as the seat belt sign came on and checked the clasp. He glanced into his friends lap. “Seat belt time.”

“Oh God, I don’t think I can do this.”

“You can, just remember to breathe, in, out, in, out.” He squeezed her hand. “That’s good. I’ll do your belt. Carry on with the dream.”

“Errr… yeah… we were all in this car and there were these signs by the side of the road saying there’d been an accident- oh God is that noise normal?”

“Yes, it’s just the engine warming up. Then we’ll start moving slowly towards the runway, okay? You were telling me about the signs.”

“Yeah… and I tried to stop the car, but the steering wheel didn’t work, and the brakes didn’t work. There was a traffic jam up ahead, and we were going to crash – why is that steward talking on the phone? Is there a problem?”

“No, he’s telling the Captain that the cabin crew are ready.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah, the car crashed, and I went through the windscreen, and it was so vivid – it didn’t hurt – but it was like I could feel the glass breaking on me and I thought, this is it, I’m going to die, but I felt really calm. And I thought about Freddie, and who would feed him, and then I was flying!”

“Flying?”

“Yeah, I went up in the air and – what was that bang?”

So, just like last month, I am going to record a Friday Flash written by someone in the community (for free), publish it here to showcase their writing and of course, send it to the flash author to do with it what they will. I get a chance to practice producing other people’s work, and the winner gets a professionally produced audio version of their story. The only thing I ask is that at the end I get to say that I recorded it and give out my URL in case someone who listens would like me to record something for them.

Here’s how it works:

• You look at the Friday Flashes you wrote in June and pick your favourite one
• Leave a comment below, telling me that you’d like it to go into the draw, and include a link to that flash so I know where to find it if it wins, and your Twitter name too
• I’ll pick one at random using the random.org number generator (I’m not going to judge or pick a favourite as I don’t want to get tangled up in that)
• Over the following month I’ll record it and produce an MP3 which will get posted here with a link to the original flash and send you the file.
• Then you can put it on your own site, and if you link back to me to spread the word, that would be great.

Sound good? If you don’t follow the instructions above be warned that I won’t have a chance to chase you for details.

Here is the recording of Katherine Nabity’s ‘Wicked Witch For Hire’ that was last month’s winner. (Bottom of the page)

So if you want a chance to have me record one of your stories, you’ve got a week to submit – starting now. Please spread the word!

And if you can’t bear to wait (or you want to have me record one as a present for a fellow writer), you can always commission a professional story recording by me – the details are here.

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This tale from the Split Worlds follows Meeting the Parents. The first installment of this mini-serial is The Audition.

Luke woke in the back seat of a car. A blanket was covering him, hot and damp over his mouth and nose. He ripped it off and sat up, seeing countryside zooming past the window. The sun was low in the sky and it felt like a small creature had crawled into his mouth and died.

The last he thing he remembered was drinking a cup of tea with Anna’s stepfather, Vincent. He recalled being told that she was feeling ill, and having a strong impression that Vincent didn’t like him.

“What’s going on?” he asked, seeing Vincent in the passenger seat. The butler was driving.

Vincent twisted round to face him, appraising him in some way and then nodded to himself. “Pull over,” he told the driver.

Luke didn’t like his tone, nor the way he looked at him. He sucked in a deep breath, his chest feeling like steel bands had been riveted shut around him. The car pulled into a lay-by and Vincent got out, and went straight to the rear passenger door. He opened it and beckoned to him.

“Get out.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“I want to explain it to you out here. Get out of the car now.”

Something in the man’s voice sent a cold flash down Luke’s back. He got out, standing on legs like rubbery corned beef that had just slid out of its can.

“You’re in a lot of trouble,” Vincent said. “But not because of the reason you think you are.”

“I’m so sorry she’s pregnant Mr Iridaceae, I really am. I’m going to take care of her, make sure that-”

“Please, do shut up. This hasn’t got anything to do with that. She isn’t pregnant and you’re not going to get married.”

“Wha-”

“We’re on our way to a train station. You’re getting on the next train to Manchester.” He produced an envelope from his jacket pocket and pressed it into his sweaty palm. “Here’s five thousand pounds, enough to get you somewhere to stay whilst you tie up your affairs in Bath.”

“Manchester? But I don’t want-”

“You will never leave that city again, and you must not pursue any interests that could result in you being in the public eye. Don’t attempt to get in touch with Annabella, nor any of the people or places you have previously associated with her. Do you understand?”

“No!”

“Look, you’ve got caught up in… some difficult business between two families, and I’m trying to save your backside.”

“Families? Oh my God, are you in the mafia?”

“We make the mafia look like a bunch of school children, believe me.”

Luke wobbled, leant against the car to brace his shaking legs. “I don’t want to go to Manchester. I have a life, I-”

“No, you’re dead,” Vincent said and went to the back of the car.

Luke wanted to run before he had a chance to get out a shotgun, but his legs were uncooperative. He simply stared dumbly as Vincent opened the boot, then came and grabbed his wrist and tugged him around the back of the car.

“Look,” he said, pointing into the dark compartment.

Luke looked down at his own face, his own body, lying in the boot, eyes closed, cheeks and lips milk white. He wanted to laugh, cry and throw up all at the same time. Instead, nothing but a strangled noise escaped his tight throat.

“This will be found tomorrow morning,” Vincent said.

“Is it wax?” Luke finally managed to say as the boot was slammed shut.

“No,” Vincent replied, but offered no more information. “If you ever leave Manchester, or are stupid enough to gain any attention there, this body,” he jabbed a finger into Luke’s chest, “will be found dead. Do you understand?”

Luke couldn’t make his lips work, so he merely nodded.

“Good. Get in the car. Your train leaves in an hour. Annabella would suffer the most if you were found, don’t forget that. I may be ruining your life, but I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my family.”

Luke nodded and got back into the car. Something was wrong with him, he couldn’t fathom what it was, but something was missing. He looked down at the envelope in his hand as the car pulled back onto the road and thought of Anna. There was only one thing he was certain of now. He would never let himself fall in love again.

This flash is part of a year and a day of urban fantasy stories set in the Split Worlds. There is an index of the the stories here and some more info on what the year and a day is about here. And if you liked it, you can subscribe by email if you like, so you get the rest delivered to your inbox.

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“I think he was the last one.”

“Oh God, I hope so,” he said, slipping his trigger finger out from under the shotgun and flexing the cramp out of it. “I don’t know how much more I could take of this.”

She looked at him, frowning at his chattering teeth. “Don’t crap out on me.”

“I’m fine,” he said, soothing his male pride with a puffing out of his chest. “No harm in being truthful. You’re just hanging on too, admit it.”

She rolled her eyes and peered out from behind the post box. “I’m cool and the gang, granddad,” she couldn’t resist the dig. “I’ve been training for this day for two and a half years. The world is finally making sense.”

His jaw dropped as he scanned the suburban street. “Making sense?” He looked at the headless bodies, the smattering of small fires, the police car on its roof with its siren broken and wailing like a deranged walrus. “Jesus, where did you grow up?”

“Online,” she whispered back. “I was doing important things like learning how to kill them whilst you were busy making money and screwing everyone over.”

“Shut up,” he said, putting in two new cartridges and snapping the gun closed. “Bumming off the state to sit and home and play ‘Left For Dead’ is not a worthy pursuit, don’t dress it up.”

“Saved your ass though, didn’t it?” she winked at him, grinning at his grimy, ripped suit.

“Now listen here young lady-” his lecture was interrupted by a mournful groaning that ended the bickering.

She pointed at a garden towards the end of the street and began to pick her way through the debris. He sighed, hefted the shotgun up and followed her.

For once, he got there before her, having chosen a better route. He peered through the fence, seeing the zombie (who looked like he was once a fireman) dashing a poor woman’s skull against the garden path. He would have vomited, but there was nothing left inside him. The fading blush on the woman’s cheeks suggested a recent kill.

He could hear the girl, whose name he still didn’t know, swearing at a piece of car wreckage that had snagged her jeans. The zombie was too set on his task to notice, digging into the gash he’d made and parting the woman’s skull like it was nothing more than a stubborn walnut shell.

He knelt there, shotgun across his knees, fixated on the horror playing out in front of him. The zombie scooped out the brain, but then contrary to everything he and his annoying fellow survivor had seen that day, he didn’t just shove it straight into his mouth. Instead, he swayed back up onto his feet and lurched towards the house, holding the brain in outstretched hands ahead of him.

“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed, almost crashing into him as she arrived. “Drop him!”

“Wait!” he pushed the barrel of her shotgun to one side as she levelled it at the zombie. “He’s different; he’s taking the brain somewhere.”

“So he’s a zombie and a weirdo with it? Big deal; still gotta die.”

“For God’s sake,” he said, pushing the barrel again. “It might be important. I’m going to see where he takes it.”

“Fine, it’s your funeral granddad,” she shrugged. “But when he turns on you, I’ll drop you like all the rest.”

“You’re all charm,” he muttered, and vaulted the fence.

He followed the zombie up the path, noting how it hadn’t turned towards them, even when their whispers had got louder. It was more focused than any of the zombies they’d dealt with that day.

It stepped into the house and he followed it inside, gun pointed at the back of its head like she had taught him. It moaned a little as it entered the living room, he jolted when he heard a second moan as if in response.

He edged up to the doorway and peeped inside to see the male zombie offering the brain, still dripping, to a female zombie reclining in one of the armchairs. Even though her eyes were glassy and unfocused, she tilted her head towards him and – could he be imagining it – seemed to smile at the gift with spasms at the corner of her mouth.

He ducked back into the hallway as she devoured it, wiping the sweat from his forehead and leaning against the wall. Shooting the ones that had been desperate to eat him had been easy. Well, easier once he’d met the teenager and she’d shown him the best way to do it. But could he kill them if they still retained emotions and the capacity to care?

Then he remembered what the zombie did to the woman in the garden.

He raised the barrel again and stepped into the front room. She was on her feet now, they were locked in an embrace, with no chewing involved. Both were making soft noises like his rumbling stomach, and neither had seen him.

A thunder crack from a gun broke his voyeurism, the shot hitting the man in the back of his head and dropping his body just like all of his fellow victims. The female zombie roared in distress but before she could move a second shot finished her too.

“Haven’t you learnt anything?!” the teenager yelled at him. “Hesitate and you’re dead. God, you’re rubbish!”

“They were in love.”

“Whatever,” she said, reloading the shotgun. “They’re the last ones, I’m sure of it. Let’s get moving.”

She left but he couldn’t take his eyes off the couple lying dead on the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said, and left the lovers’ blood mingling on the carpet between them.

—-

This is my entry for the Zombie Luv Flash Fic Contest. I hope you enjoyed it! In accordance with the guidelines, here is the info about the contest.

Guidelines:

  • Word count: maximum 1.000
  • The story must be a romance between two zombies. Make it as horrific as you like. ;)
  • Stories containing animal cruelty, torture, graphic sex or violence, any form of exaltation of violence, racism or other forms of prejudice will be immediately disqualified.
  • Post your entry on your own blog, with a title resembling this:
Zombie Luv Flash Fic Contest: Story Title
  • Leave your story title and a link to the story entry post as a comment at mari’s randomities: http://marisrandomities.blogspot.com
  • Copy and paste the contest logo and the guidelines at the end of your entry post.

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