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Flotsam and Jetsam

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Flotsam and Jetsam

Tag Archives: Flash Fiction

Speed Awareness

06 Sunday Jul 2014

Posted by Paul Christopher Walton in Fiction

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Flash Fiction

 

 

The confirmation had arrived. The authorities were allowing him to avoid points on his licence in return for his attendance at a speed awareness course at Wroxton Airfield.

 

Ed was to report at 8am and be available for a minimum of six hours. The paperwork told him to bring food and drink if needed. It also made it quite clear that he was to concentrate fully on the course. Any lapses such as surreptitious texting would result in immediate expulsion.

 

The day arrived dismal, dark and freezing cold. Wroxton consisted of decaying Nissens, fractured concrete and tumbleweed. The car park was already full of boy-racer brands to which he added his Subaru.

 

He found the waiting room reeking of sweat and damp and glanced at his bung- eyed mean looking co-students.

 

Suddenly a neatly turned out gentleman appeared with a clipboard:

‘You are all here because you have broken the law and society has seen fit to extract its penalty by your spending time here with me. I’m Mr Lightber, the facilitator; and remember, keep your mobiles switched off.’

 

They took their seats and so began hours of listening to lectures and answering questions.

 

First, the course became restive because of the relentless barrage of Highway Code Trivial Pursuit and then aggressive when Mr Lightber announced he wanted to start the next module.

 

‘Now listen, you lot, you’ve not only broken the law but have killed and injured other people. Some of you have even managed to kill yourselves. That’s right….you’re dead.

 

And for those who thought hell was all cauldrons and boiling oil, you are now discovering that we are more sophisticated with our guests

 

You may as well calm down now, because you’re going to be doing this course for, ahem, eternity!’

Ed looked at the Subaru through the window and closed his eyes.

 

Close to Cold

08 Thursday May 2014

Posted by Paul Christopher Walton in Fiction

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Coors Lite, Flash Fiction

Close to Cold

We were at the base of the staircase and walked the corridor gloom into the sepulchre. Glints of frost flickered in the stones, our eyes scanning. This was the moment the Professor had warned us about, when our resolve would be tested. Without question we had the knowledge, and thanks to him we had the kit. Even so, I looked down into my canvas bag, our eyes were still shifting between the darkness and each other, the cumulus of our breath emanating like ectoplasm. There it was. We had found it: a monolith, horizontal and menacing. We walked towards it. We felt its chill that threatened a cold that bites and burns. Behind us, a voice, understated but taunting:

‘Gentlemen, thank you for joining us.’

Then light filled the room with faces we knew. The Coors Stag weekend had begun.

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