Showing posts with label energy drink. Show all posts
Showing posts with label energy drink. Show all posts

Tuesday, 13 January 2026

Why Do I Still Sleep? by Mike Lee, energy drink

 The fragile space of uncertainty beckons through dreamed skies outside a modern frame window. Margie lives in a world of breathless work, one and all, all in one, feeling adrift and weary as the demands press upon her.

The day plods on as Margie makes her way from the office to the terminal, where she eats breakfast and lunch, which are humdrum and sometimes lost in the electronic stacks of emails and other tasks, as she responds, ignores, and forwards.

The day ends. Margie stops. Fingers resting on the keyboard. Eyes staring ahead, a dull ache settling in, uncertainty and fatigue clouding her expression.

The night shift is arriving. Each arrival walks to each cubicle and wheels the workers on Margie’s shift in their chairs to the wall closet set. Each one pulls the cord from the plate on the floor and plugs in a charger under their left armpit.

Afterward, they close the doors.

That’s it for the night until morning, before Margie begins again.

 

About the author 

 

Mike Lee's work appears in or is forthcoming in Blood+Honey, Bristol Noir, Roi Faineant, Wallstrait, BULL, Drunk Monkeys, and many others. Also is in the latest CafeLit anthology 

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Saturday, 13 May 2023

Saturday Sample: Weird Science by Doug Hawley, energy drink

 

BETTER LIVING THROUGH ELECTRONICS

1

We are playing LA.  Since LA beat us in the finals last year, it’s always great to beat them.  I would not be surprised if we meet them in the finals this year.  No question, we will win in four.  Tonight, we are playing in LA.  Clearly, the game will be decided at the end.

No surprise, we are down a point with ten seconds to go and we have the ball.  I think that we have the best point guard in the NBA.  Will Jackson is third in the NBA in assists, gets a few rebounds and scores in double digits.  At 6’5” he has either height or speed on every opposing guard.  Stan Novack, a Polish import, starts at small forward.  Damn fast for a white man, and holds his own by doing the little things – setting picks, getting some rebounds and playing good team D.  Our shooting guard, Steve Goodman is two years out of high school and fifth in the league in scoring.  He doesn’t do much else, but the rest of us handle everything else.  Center Keith Daniels is a 7’4” center from Brigham Young.  He is so white, he is almost invisible, but he is tops in the league in blocked shots and fourth in rebounds.  He doesn’t have much shooting range, but unlike Shaq, he is an 80% free throw shooter, so he gets his share of close in shots and dunks as well as making lots of free throws.  The bench?  Well, the bench is what management could afford after paying for our superb starting lineup – some guys on the way down, some on the way up, and some who were available.

Oh, yeah that leaves the power forward, ME.  James (not Jim or Jimmy) Jones.  Based on my size, a lot of people think of me as the next Shaq.  No way.  Shaq used to tell Karl Malone not to take his shirt off in the locker room because Karl was so ripped.  Based on my physique and the way I play (except for not hurting so many other players), I think that I am the natural successor to Mr. Malone as THE power forward of my generation. Tim Duncan and Kevin Garnett are good, but they are at the end of their careers, and I’m the future.  Don’t believe, look at the numbers.  No brag, just facts.

I know that I said there were just ten seconds left, how can I be saying all this?  Times like this, things slow down. It’s relativity or something that I can’t explain. Will drives, but is covered on the way to the basket, so he kicks the ball out to Steve.  My man turns his head, Steve makes one of his rare passes in to me, and I dunk.  If the backboards weren’t reinforced, it would have shattered.  Thunder and lighting, man.

Three seconds on the clock.  LA takes their time out.  Being LA, most of the crowd has left.  They get the ball to Kobe, Keith stuffs him, game over.

Back to the hotel, feeling good.  Much as I hate LA as a city and as an NBA team, I love the women, and the feeling is mutual.  Most of the team get their pick of the women, but Keith is a married straight arrow and Steve, well we wonder about Steve.  I try to alternate the races as an affirmative action kind of guy.  White – black – white – black – whose turn is it?  Holy Moses, think I’ll have Chinese tonight.  She’s big – maybe 5’10” and built like a porn queen with a beautiful porcelain skin.

Got myself a winner.  We discussed life before, during and after.  She had rebelled against her parents and wishes to marry a nice Chinese boy.  While in college she developed a taste for black athletes.  She is pretty athletic herself.  Obviously studied the Kama Sutra.  She is currently a college professor in English lit.  She is widely traveled and very sophisticated.                      

    2

Horace Cram cleared 5’ – barely.  His moustache was visible – barely.  Legs – hairless.  Charisma – none.  Intelligence – fairly high about unimportant things.  All this in a pear-shaped package.   His bifocals make him look like an illustration of a nerd in an encyclopedia.  Imagine a short, even uglier Bill Gates. Behind his back, people joked about his assberger’s syndrome – a play on the word for a high performing autistic.  By a stroke of fortune, he also had some of a nerd’s ability at electrical engineering and is employed testing new media products at Electrowiz.  He has hopes that his stock would explode with Electrowiz’s new product.

 “Hey Jane, join me for coffee.”

“Sorry, Horace I’ve got a ton of work and can’t leave my desk.  No time to talk, no time to walk.”

Jane is 3” taller than Horace before the puts on her heels, makes more than he does, is classically attractive without trying, in short way out of his league.  She has turned him down ten times, but Horace rations his attentions so as not be in the total obsessive stalker mold.

Horace does a quick calculation and decides he can ask about an after-work beer in two weeks.       

3

We are jamming in Cleveland.  I know, I know, I know.  Cleveland.  But we are always out of our heads in Cleveland.  Out of body, out of mind.  Crazy.  We are tighter when we should be tight, looser when we should be loose. 

As always, we are mixing it up.  Segues are for kids or the anal retentive.  We switch from our Afro-Cuban signature “TimbucHavana2” to our “Honky Tonk Women” cover.  More horns on the former, more guitar on the latter.  Got to have our swing medley later.  Hot lights, hotter music.  We are all virtuosos, but my name and piano lead the way.

I’m Gonzales.  People like to guess about me.  I think that a little mystery is a good thing.  I’m from Cuba, but my Ingles is pretty good.  I picked up a good university education along the way.  Although I have stuck with music all the way, my curiosity led me into courses on physics, literature and politics.  With my shaved head, brown goatee and light brown skin my “race” is unclear to my fans.  It is to me as well, but I suspect there are some African, European and Indio in there.

I grab a saxophone.  I only do this when I’m really feeling good.  It is time to cover Ray’s “The Nighttime is the Right Time”.  We learned so much from him, I wish he were still around.  We could, and have, played Ray all night.  There were a few months after he died when we did nothing but tributes.  The good stuff, not much of the Country stuff (some exceptions –“I’m Movin’ On” and “You Are My Sunshine”).  We worked with Drown In My own Tears, Hard Times and “Tell the Truth”.  We had to augment our backup vocals, but we had some great singers along.

After a little experimentation with mind-bending drug and drink, I’ve limited myself to a couple of drinks a night.  Despite what I thought I was doing after grass or coke, the recordings always showed that the band sucked.  I’ve had to can a few players, who would not walk the line, but we are the better for it, and I don’t want to be an enabler.  Being sober allows the band to do something different than any other group that I know – we go for a short run or walk after our final set.  This has cut us off from some who think that a popular band has to be into weird stuff, but it works for us and has connected us to a lot of fans who might not otherwise notice us.  We move to some Santana covers, some old Fats Domino, and close with the obscure, but stone groove “Goin’ Home Tomorrow” by Little Richard.  We get a lot of love from the audience before we take off for the Big Apple tomorrow.

4

Horace is not connecting with humans.  Maybe a cat would help his loneliness.  If a cat worked, he might work his way up to a dog.  If not, he could retreat to an amphibian or reptile of some sort.

A trip to the pound gives him plenty of alternatives.  First, he eliminates the aloof cats.  He has had enough of that with people.  He finally picks two sisters so they can entertain each other while he is at work. 

The cat thing turns out pretty well.  Caring for the cats distracts Horace somewhat from his dismal waking hours and gives him something to do besides his work.  The two tabbies have intriguingly different personalities.  The orange one, Sherry, grows a lot and is very placid and clingy.  The black one, Beelzebub (usually Bub), is wiry, loud and independent.  Bub tries to run the whole house.

The cats are working, maybe he can try people again.

5

Pretty damn good for a small-town boy from Springfield.  In my second term as U. S. Senator, I’m given credit for balancing the budget and bringing peace to much of the world.  There that seems to be little question Joe Jackson, (great political name and what is on my birth certificate) will be the next president.  The incumbent, that hypocritical, incompetent Samuel Dyer probably won’t run again.  He has so discredited the Repubs with his deficits and his foreign wars right out of “Wag the Dog” that they will probably run some sacrificial lamb even crazier than he is.  Dick Cheney has been mentioned and he hasn’t been out of the hospital for six months.  The only democrat talking about running against me is Hillary and she is so unpopular that Dyer beat her last time around.  The idiot war criminal Bush is being asked not to say anything for fear of cutting out the last few Republican members of congress. 

After Dyer won by the slimmest of margins, the Republicans had completely run out of gas.  They would have been better off to have lost because as the opposition they would have had some support.  When Dyer started to talk about invading Iran, he lost almost all of his dwindling support.  The few Republicans left in congress after the midterm elections wouldn’t even support him.  Business was hurting so bad from the Republican deficits, they told him to raise taxes.  He is now a sick, beaten fifty-five year old man who seemed so young and strong just two years ago.  He was the Republican John Kennedy in terms of charm.  Now he is the stupid, ugly Ted Kennedy of Republicans.

The public wanted a new voice.  Hillary was a loser.  The rest of the pack was old, old, old news and tied to unpopular interest groups or ideas.  Joe Jackson the previously unknown is in the right place at the right time. 

The public was finally ready to quit the Republican imperialism, but it was my legislation that reduced military expenditures to those of the European Union.  My legislation got our troops out of the Far East, the Middle East and Europe.  If South Korea did not want us there, why should we be there?

Rationing medicine was very unpopular at first, but when the public learned the percent of expenditures on people 80 and up, and for babies that would never have much of a life; I was able to push through laws limiting payments for lost causes.  We will save billions.

With these political breakthroughs, my plans for reforming energy and cutting the trade deficit as a consequence are eagerly awaited.  I’m John McCain, only much better.  It’s hard to be humble, but I have to work on it for the news conferences.

6

Horace says his work on Dream Ware is ready for Beta testing. There are hundreds of male nerds and fat chicks lined up for testing. To make it simple, the first version has a short menu for directed dreaming:

            Sports star

                  Football

                  Soccer

                  Tennis

                  Baseball

                  Basketball

                  Cricket (only outside the Americas)

            Politics

                  Senator

                  Representative

                  President

                  Prime Minister (non-US)

            Entertainer

                  Singer

                  Musician

                  Actor

                  Celebrity

                  Rehab

      The usual gender and orientations choices

 

If the tests are successful, Electrowiz expects to sell 500 million units for $3,000 each at a profit of $500 million.  Horace is given a $10 million bonus and allowed to work his own hours.  “Total Recall”, at least during dreaming, is now an affordable reality rather than science fiction, but most users don’t look like Arnold Schwarzenegger in his prime.

7

The next day Jane asks Horace out for coffee.  He gladly accepts.  During the coffee date, Horace says to Jane, “You know, you are looking really good today.  May I take your picture?”  Jane says “Sure.”

As they go back to work, Jane tells Horace, “Say, why don’t we see each other outside work?”  Horace says “I’ll have to check my schedule, but I’ll see you in my dreams.”

8

In the future, Horace only shows up for work about three hours a day, saying that he’s working on something at home.  He avoids Jane and buys a lot of sleeping pills.

                                             

Tuesday, 4 August 2020

They Said

by Amanda Jones

a natural energy drink

They said the pain was all in her head. She had struggled since being a tiny baby due to a mishap which damaged her bowel. But, no-one would listen.

Moving away and renting her own flat in Blackpool in the 1960s gave her time to think in her late teens. Somehow she found the strength to approach the hospital.

They sent her to the psychiatric hospital after tests were ‘fine’.

And so, she experienced electric shock treatment. The sort once used to ‘cure’ homosexuality. The treatment was approved for stimulating seizures to get rid of depression. All of her pain was blamed on mental illness.

Subjected to intensive electric shocks two to three times a week and kept in the secure mental health unit she saw terrible things. People were severely mentally ill here and she forced herself to think she was imagining her pain.

Tightly pressed on either side of her head she dreaded the next session, and the next and the next. She was awake throughout and felt the shocks passing through her, convulsing her body.

Then she was discharged, back into the community, no explanation, still in pain.

Strong, loving lady.

How did she get through? How did she survive so long in pain?

About the auhtor 


My Books are available from the links below through Missy’s Matters and through Kindle. Please follow me through my profile and social media channels to keep up to date with my work. Thank you.

Thursday, 30 April 2020

Alone

by Henri Colt

energy drink 

I’m alone in the patient compartment of our rig, separated from my driver, who’s also a paramedic. He can only hear me through the thick glass window.  The ventilator fan is set on high, just like we were told to do after the World Health Organization declared the coronavirus a pandemic with fatal repercussions. We’ve been out since six this morning. I just chucked the last disposable gown in our emergency kit, and I’ve been wearing the same N95 respirator mask for three days now. Three 12-hour shifts, three days in a row, but I consider myself lucky. Friends of mine just have surgical masks, which we know provide no protection. Funny how some bosses suckered us into thinking they did some good, and besides, they said, what else are we to do?
            The 60-year-old diabetic woman we just picked up is pasty-looking and wheezing. Her daughter claimed it was a bad asthma attack and she was out of inhalers, but when we called it in and said the gal’s got fever too, they told us it’s probably the virus.
            I double-check her oxygen mask. Her breathing is getting worse, and she can’t talk. I take another blood pressure reading—it’s low.
            I can’t feel a pulse.
            “What did the dispatcher say?” I shout to my driver.
            “It’s a forty-five-minute wait at the ER, and we’re still ten miles away!” he yells back to me over his shoulder.
            “We’re screwed,” I mutter under my breath, knowing he can’t hear me anyway with the sudden yelp of our siren and the screech of our tires on the road.
            “I’m giving her a breathing treatment,” I holler. He needs to know what I’m doing.
            “That’s against regulations, remember? No nebulizers in infected patients. It might spread the virus.”
            “Well, those were guidelines—we never got a written order. Besides, I don’t know if she’s infected, and she sure as hell doesn’t have COVID-19 positive tattooed across her forehead.”
            “You’re gonna get us fired.”
            “Just drive,” I say.
            I break open the nebulizer bag and prop the woman up on the gurney. For a moment, I think she’s looking at me, but then her pupils roll up under her eyelids, and her eyes go white. “Damn, she’s coding.” I jam my fingers over her carotid and can’t feel a beat. A lead from the electrocardiogram monitor falls off. I start chest compressions. The rig lurches forward. I can almost feel my driver leaning on the accelerator.
            “Let her go,” he shouts.
           “I’m not giving up no matter what the boss might say.” I tear off my fogged-up goggles. “Maybe it’s not the virus, maybe. . .”
            She perks up. She opens her eyes. I reconnect the EKG lead and see a waveform.
            She’s alive.
        We pull up to a special entrance of the emergency department. The doors swing open. A doctor and two nurses wearing hazmat suits start dragging the gurney out of the rig.
            “What happened?” the doc says, not taking her eyes off my patient.
            “Just an asthma attack,” I say. “Nothing more.”
            “You sure?” she says. I can tell she sees the nebulizer. I can tell she knows. I swallow hard.
            “I’m sure.” We’ve got another call. I’ll file the paperwork when we get back.
            “Stay safe,” the doctor says, pointing at my goggles before swinging the vehicle door shut, “and...” but the rest of her words drown in the wail of our siren as we take off.

About the author

Henri Colt is a physician-writer and wandering scholar. His stories have appeared in Rock and Ice Magazine, Fiction on the Web, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Active Muse, and others.

 


Sunday, 18 November 2018

A Remedy for My Doctor

by Nanette Tamer 

energy drink

                                                                          

            My dog and I got sick at the same time.  She got well very quickly.  I’m getting there.  Dogs are different, to be sure, and so --- I have learned---are dogs’ doctors.
            I began to notice a difference, beyond the obvious, while sitting with my dog in her doctor’s waiting room.  One whole wall was a cork board covered with notes and cards thanking the veterinarian for curing a pet, accompanied by photos of the animal fully revived, or thanking the veterinarian for helping the parents of the incurable to cope with the loss.
            No such thing in my doctors’ waiting rooms.  On their walls were only standard issue pseudo paintings.  My doctors’ offices had, like most doctors’ offices, a row of diplomas on the wall. 
            Except for one doctor, my surgeon.  His office wall was completely covered with ALL his diplomas: preschool graduation, kindergarten graduation, on through medical school and related accomplishments.  What could possibly motivate him to display a kindergarten diploma?  Surely his patients would assume he had passed kindergarten, if it ever occurred to them to think about it.  Perhaps his young children, young at least in the only family photo on his shelf, thought they belonged on his wall, and he indulged them.  Perhaps he thought it was a funny thing to do and would make his patients aware of his sense of humor which was never otherwise in evidence.
            I began to think that a change was needed.  In my dog’s doctor’s office or examining room a few diplomas would be encouraging.  I would like to know that that my dog’s doctor was truly a doctor and had undergone rigorous training somewhere.  Conversely, I would like to know how many people my doctor had cured or at least eased into the next world. 
            The only information available about doctors for people is on websites for evaluating them.  There I find only complaints about the office staff or, in a few cases, compliments about the doctor’s manner of speaking.  Where were the testimonials from humans they had cured?
            I decided to start a new trend, so while my dog and I were waiting for her check-up, I chose a thank you card for the excellent care given to Ralph who was now happy and healthy, as opposed to a card from the parents of Fifi who wrote a little too specifically about the ailment that had plagued her tail.  I slipped the card into my pocket along with its tack.
            On my next visit to my surgeon, when he turned to his computer to type me up a prescription, I tacked Ralph’s owners’ thank you card to his wall, among his multitudinous diplomas.
            On my subsequent visit, still being unrecovered, the card was still there.  Perhaps it had gone unnoticed, or perhaps the doctor thought the office staff had posted it and they thought the reverse.  Thus encouraged, I added another, heisted for that purpose from my dog’s doctor’s waiting room when I stopped by to pick up her usual anti-flea treatment.  This card was about the remarkable rehabilitation of an animal named Fred, apparently an iguana from his depiction in the accompanying photo which I left tacked to the cork wall with a nearby card so that I could bring along the tack.
            My dog was totally well and needed nothing from her doctor, so I had no more opportunity to purloin another thank you card.  Instead, I had to write one of my own, thanking my doctor for his persistence and patience in trying to determine my diagnosis and a cure.  This one I sent through the mail in my own name.
            During my next appointment, when it was my turn to go into his office, I saw my note tacked up next to Ralph’s and Fred’s under his Eagle Scout certificate.  But not a word did he say about it before or after examining me and prescribing my next set of treatments.  Perhaps he had not seen it if a receptionist or assistant who opened and sorted his mail for him had observed the other two notes and assumed he had made the decision to display them and added it to the others.
            Soon enough, on my next return visit, I saw two notes on display that I had had no hand in.  Still, the collection was skimpy compared to the vet’s.  My convalescence was clearly an opportunity to right an injustice in the world of medicine.  I began construing patient names and vague maladies from which my doctor had rescued them in various ways.  I mailed them sporadically to maintain the illusion that they were from actual patients.
            I was eager to see my doctor’s office wall at my next visit.  There were the cards I had brought or mailed---along with many others joining the collection and beginning to crowd out the diplomas that preceded medical school.
            Some of my friends prodded me to seek a second opinion about my illness from another doctor.  After all, if the thank you cards were any indication, my doctor had not cured nearly as many patients as my dog’s doctor, surely a better basis for selecting a doctor than a Junior High Honor Society induction certificate.  Though as for my dog’s doctor, I have to assume that her cards are bona fide and not written up by her aunt in order to inspire patients’ confidence.  Surely my idea was unique.
            Now I am nearly as well as my dog, and my illness was not in vain. I hope that I might have started a trend.  If other patients join my thank you card method, human patients will have a better means of deciding upon a doctor than the internet complaints about long waits or ugly carpets.  If not, at least I am buoyed by my accomplishment of advertising that my doctor was almost as good of a doctor as my dog’s. 
                     

Monday, 6 August 2018

Young Tom

by Amanda Baber

 energy drink

Young Tom was a peculiar character. His most distinguishing feature being that he wore a very ill-fitting bicycle helmet which wobbled up and down as he wobbled to and fro peddling with all his might. He was never without his bicycle; a fifteen-gear mountain bike with a broken spoke from that large rock he collided with and a rather mottled paintwork caused from rust from the moist, salty, sea air. Generally always in overalls, ragged and torn, but nothing else except his swimming trunks; Tom would be easy to sum up. Young at nineteen, carefree, perhaps to the point of lack of proper personal care and permanently attached to the seat of the tatty bicycle from which only the sea or a surgical procedure could remove him.
“You can’t do that!” yelled Cynthia, as Tom attempted to jump off his bicycle in motion, propelling himself from the peddles, catching his already torn overalls on the broken spoke. Sending himself into the pile of old, broken bricks in the corner of the garden, he was lucky to avoid the pit to the left of them which was full of slurry and sharp pieces of splintered wood.
Tom, you see, was an attention-loving, tragic hero relishing the fuss of his old Aunt Cynthia whilst protesting about her concern to enhance his so-called courage.
“My poor dear! Come on let’s get you inside and mend those scratches,” cooed Cynthia.
“I’m OK Cyns, don’t worry about me,” said Tom brandishing a wide smirk and limping badly for effect.
The pair of them waddled and hopped until they reached the shabby piece of loose board hardly fixed to its hinges called the front door. ‘Cyns’ proceeded to wipe the scratches with antiseptic wipes and fix sticky plasters to the very minor cuts.
The door was not fixed, despite the fact that Cyns, her husband Bill and young Tom earned enough to afford antiseptic wipes and all the things to keep them comfortable. They insisted and persisted to keep the outside begging for pity whilst the reality was as sparkling as the fine set of bone china locked in the glass cabinet, out of sight. Sympathy and attention was what they thrived on as a fix for survival; a high on other peoples’ guilt for being ‘better than them’ when all along they knew it was all a show, an act, a lie.
Tom, although unique, was also a typical student. Studying ‘Retail in the Leisure Industry’ he was lazy, drank a lot of alcohol and made no effort to keep the inside looking its best, indeed he did his utmost to keep the outside looking its worst.
He was a loner with an elder sister who had left home, married and had kids, living in Manchester. Tom had remained with those who had brought him up in Poole and his parents remained in far less desirable positions; his father in a grave, his mother in a secure mental home being described as ‘dangerously suicidal and schizophrenic’. So, I suppose Tom could not be blamed for being the self-centred bastard he actually was he just chose to follow suit rather than rebel against family tradition.
His parents had deserted him when he was a two-year-old, his aunt and uncle had corrupted him as only they knew how and Tom had lapped up the lack of not knowing ‘right from wrong’ with the delight of a spoilt child.
As the afternoon approached Tom decided to reattach his bony buttocks to his bicycle seat and rode off into Parkstone on the pavement dutifully abandoning his aimless attempt to clean his muddy boots and leaving them for Aunt Cynthia to do. As usual his totally useless bicycle helmet slid up and down, covering his eyes now and again and delivering a rather solid knock to the bridge of his nose causing a rather loud exclamation of ‘shit’ or a similar word. Thus, his wobbly ride past the shops over the uneven paving slabs went something like this:
  • Wobble
  • Tilt head backwards to avoid undesired blindfold
  • Swerve to avoid pedestrian
  • Wobble
  • Tilt head forwards to avoid helmet strap strangling
  • Heavy thump on the nose causing darkness to descend heftily
  • ‘Shit, you stupid piece of plastic’
  • Swerve to avoid pedestrian
Only this time swerve was absently disconnected from his brain.

Ploughing straight into a nearby A-board and catching a woman with his broken spoke in the nylons, it ripped a hole which immediately laddered all the way from knee to crotch in an instant. This spilled out the once controlled layers of cellulite and Tom began to wish he’d finished cleaning his boots.
A large, heavy shopping bag was thrust into his chest by a rippling, muscly, gristly object; also known as an arm.
‘You stupid, idiotic, senseless, little, precocious brat!’ yelled the rather large African woman, mustering more words into one sentence than Tom had learnt in his entire lifetime.
‘You fat arsed tart!’ was all he managed to say, before wrenching himself, his bicycle and part of the A-board (a letter ‘E’ from ‘Reptile and Aquatic Centre’ to be exact) from the pavement. Riding off down, what was to Tom, the newly discovered tarmacked surface, called a road.
Now, this little incident, was soon wiped from Tom’s brain and soon he had remounted the pavement happily beginning his whole routine again. Wobble, head up, wobble, head down, wobble, swerve; then, it happened. While performing his ‘head down’ procedure, inadvertently staring at his groin, a lamp post emerged from out of nowhere, namely the footpath.
Thud, shatter, crack, snap, whoosh, Ah!!!!!! The bicycle helmet hit the lamp post whilst in its proper position – halfway between head up and head down. It shattered, thus serving its purpose and avoided Tom’s skull from doing the same thing had he not been wearing it. What followed was Tom falling to the ground, landing on his bony buttocks but also on his arm which cracked as it broke under the pressure of his weight on it.
The broken spoke then made contact with lamppost as the bike sailed over Tom’s crumpled form. Then it snapped completely off from the wheel. It soared through the air narrowly missing Tom’s nose and then, and only then, pierced the same woman he had collided with earlier in the chest.
The shoppers stopped shopping. The tourists stopped looking like tourists and became an astonished audience of people with gaping holes in their faces as their mouths dropped open. Tom lay on the ground moaning with pain. The woman fell to the ground causing vibrations. Then, there was silence. She didn’t move. Tom twitched occasionally from the sharp contact of shattered bicycle helmet pricking his bony buttocks. The audience started to stir and talk and then panic.
One person called an ambulance. Another attended to Tom. One knelt by the woman and covered her and the spoke protruding from her enormous breasts with their jacket making her look like a miniature marquee. The others either stood in the background trying not to get involved or became embarrassed and tried to appear inconspicuous and uninterested even though they were highly visible and very interested.
Sirens sounded and an ambulance pulled up. Tom was stretchered and taken inside it. The woman was studied and investigated and prodded and probed until the female paramedic cut open her silky dress carefully revealing the sight beneath. A pool of blood had formed around the woman’s head where she had cracked it open on the pavement. The other paramedic was administering oxygen and examining the nasty wound. Suddenly the female attendant put her arms around the voluptuous chest as though enveloping the woman in a sympathetic hug. But when she came up for air she brought with her a piece of plastic as the woman’s breasts totally came off. Her transvestite’s clothing was revealed in the paramedic’s arms with straps for fastening round the back.
Broken spoke had impregnated himself in the piece of plastic, so the death defying rascal hadn’t injured the woman (man) at all. Indeed, it seemed the only injury was the blow to the head.
After six weeks in plaster, no bicycle and no bicycle helmet, Tom had begun to take a look at his life from a different angle. Eight weeks from the accident he had got a proper job, given up his aimless student life and begun to rebel against his family. Ten weeks passed and he had become a respectable, young gentleman and had completed his community service.
Christmas approached. Tom was now living in his own flat, working in an up-market restaurant and learning to drive. When Christmas day was upon him he dug out his notebook, went to the local florists and performed his annual ritual. Two years ago, you see, he had been in an accident and it had changed his outlook. As he carefully picked his way through the grassy mounds with his flowers and note in hand he came to a halt before a stone which said: ‘Alex Donald Henry Silver, murdered in an unusual incident 5th May 2000, aged 52’. No word of love, no word of personality, just dead and forgotten. Only Tom remembered him. The lovable transvestite killed shortly after he had recovered from his accident. In the short time he had spoken with Tom, there had grown a loving friendship. Placing his note and flowers upon the grave Tom walked away with tears trickling over his flattened nose.
‘Dear Alex,
Christmas is upon us once again. I am a success now, I’ve smartened up my act, I’m living independently and I am falling in love with a beautiful girl. I think I can say that I have grown up. That’s what you taught me. All the best. I loved you.
Tom’
It flitted in the breeze, the flowers shone in the sunlight and the grassy mounds glistened in the snow. Young Tom had learnt a valuable lesson and as his bony buttocks disappeared into the distance you could tell that he was now a decent fella.


About the author

Amanda has been writing since she was a child with ongoing work in horror, poetry, short stories and non-fiction. Author of the Missy Dog series for good causes, her book ‘Missy and the Whitts’ is the first one, about her dog Missy who dreams about real history.