THE MAN WHO TOOK HIS SECATEURS TO THE PUB - FLASH (MICRO) FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

 

Freddy’s daily stroll included a narrow footpath by a pub. Overgrown flower baskets hung outside, forcing pedestrians to dodge dangling stems. Freddy decided to act. 

One day, he took his secateurs. He stopped to snip off the stems. The new landlord came outside.

“What are you doing?”

“Snipping.”

“You’re a vandal.” 

“I’m doing you a favour. Someone could have a nasty fall. You’d be liable.” 

The landlord bellowed that Freddy was barred for life.

Back home, he told his wife. They giggled.

“How can he bar you,” she said, “when you’ve never been inside that pub in your life?”

 

NEVER CAUGHT BUT RUMBLED - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

 

My name is Harry and I am a shoplifter, working this morning in a department store. I call it work because it is how I earn a living. 

Shoplifter. Such a meaningless word. I am a thief. I have been a thief for nearly twenty years, proud that I have never been arrested. Think about that. In this era of CCTV overload, of security tags and bleeping exit barriers, I have not been caught. Ever. On some occasions, it was a close-run thing but what’s the point of doing a job like mine or any job if there aren’t thrills along the way.

Most of my possessions are stolen property. You should see my wardrobe and my kitchen appliances. The smallest object I stole was an engagement ring, the largest was a television set. No kidding! There’s always a way. If I want something, I just go out and get it. No money necessary.

Today, I need a birthday present for the lady who lives next door. Sadie is a good neighbour, very kind, quietly spoken. She used to work in fashion and shoe shops many years ago but is now retired. She does not have much of an income, so I try to give her little treats throughout the year. She has no idea that my gifts have not been paid for, but to see the delight on her face as she rips away the wrapping paper, warms my heart. If only she knew what a scoundrel I am.

In conversation, Sadie told me she would like a diary to keep in her handbag. I was browsing the stationery department for something elaborate. I know this store very well. I have studied its routines and escape routes. I have identified patterns of activity – when it’s busy and when it’s quiet. Managers, staff and roaming security people are creatures of habit. I have pinpointed blind spots where cameras are useless. Diaries and notebooks are displayed close to one such spot.

I am careful not to look suspicious, moving my eyes but not my head to see around me. The band of idiot thieves who get caught stick out like sore thumbs. I look normal, nondescript, never furtive, guilty-looking or nervous. Twitchy people attract attention. Years of experience have given me confidence. I know what I am doing and I am good at it.

Of course, rather like a member of the Magic Circle, I will not divulge my sleight-of-hand techniques. Trade secrets. 

A diary is in my hand. I sidestep three paces to the blind spot. The diary is secreted. I spend a few minutes browsing several displays before making my way to the front doors. Mission accomplished.

Sadie’s eyes light up when she unwraps the present. 

‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’ 

She beckons me over for a hug. The hug goes on for several moments longer than a hug should.

‘I know what you do,’ she whispers. 'It takes one to know one.'

 

 

 

THE 40TH ANNIVERSARY OF A DONE DEAL - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

‘If we make it to our fortieth wedding anniversary, then we call it a day. We go our separate ways. We spend the rest of our lives doing our own thing. We draw a line and become free spirits.’ 

 

That was the deal made in 1981 between Michael and Gwen. She had insisted they write it down, sign it like a contract

.

On the eve of the anniversary, they sat in the pub, avoiding the subject. 

‘An hour to midnight,’ Michael said.

Gwen looked away. He held her arm.

‘We don’t have to go through with this silly agreement.’

Gwen faced him. 

‘At first, it was lovely. Eyes across a crowded room. I fell for your charm, but that ebbed away. You had a crush on me, but the novelty wore off. I want to honour the agreement. I’ve wanted to leave for years but I am too much of a coward.’ 

Michael released her arm.

‘I thought we were happy together. Kids. Grandkids. Nice home.’

‘We were content,’ she said. ‘Comfortable. Not always happy. I felt there must be more to life than being married to the same person forever.’ 

Michael was close to tears. 

‘I feel faint,’ he said.

The walk home was awkward. When they reached their front door, Michael held Gwen by the shoulders. 

‘Let’s not do anything stupid. Let’s sleep on it.” 

Gwen backed away. 

‘No, Michael. It’s what I want. I’ll finishing packing the suitcase, and. I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight. In the morning I’m going to my sister’s. She said I could stay for a while.’

‘You are packing a suitcase?’ said Michael.

‘I want to be ready for a quick goodbye.  No point in lingering.

Once inside, they went to separate rooms without saying another word. 

Michael lay awake all night in their double bed. From time to time he ran his hand over Gwen’s side. They had made love here, comforted each other here, laughed and cried here at various times in their long marriage. He could hear Gwen tossing and turning in the next room. 

She thought about what she was about to do, but refused to succumb to any remorse. It was an end and a beginning. 

Her alarm clock sounded at six. She got up, showered, dressed and had breakfast. Michael appeared at the kitchen door. He looked exhausted.

‘I never thought this day would actually come.’ he said.

He poured himself a cup of tea. As he sat down, Gwen stood up. 

‘I’ll be off now. I just heard the taxi. We have to make this amicable. Goodbye love.’

 

Michael stared at the table. He heard the front door close and the taxi drive away. After a few moments, he walked to the living room and looked in the mirror. Gradually his frown turned to a faint smile and then a teeth-baring grin. He clenched his fist, punched the air and shouted a triumphant:

‘Yessssss!’ 

SWEETHEART - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning at ten o’clock before closing the front door Bill would call out: ‘I won’t be long’. The supermarket was a short walk to the end of the street. The grocery list hardly changed. He was a creature of habit in his eightieth year and he would always take his time shopping, walking the same route around the aisles on every visit, buying no more than ten items. He became frustrated very occasionally when products were moved to different parts of the store but he muttered to himself not to get too cross with the staff. They knew him and he knew them. It was a friendly place. Bill did not want to upset anyone with petty complaints. The girl on the delicatessen counter was used to him asking for three thin slices of ham and a small pork pie. The fishmonger always cut his piece of cod fillet in half and bagged each piece separately. Bill liked to keep one in the fridge and one in the freezer. The lad on the fruit and vegetable section would always help Bill find the best quality potatoes and bananas. Nothing was too much trouble. Bill thought of himself as ‘old school’ with regard to good manners. He was polite to everyone but he had noticed a decline in people of all ages saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. It doesn’t cost anything, he thought and it’s not difficult to be nice. So this supermarket suited him very well with its courteous employees. They were good company.

In particular, there was one checkout operator, a nice lady called Diane, who always greeted Bill by saying, ‘Hello sweetheart’. In his younger days, Bill had found the overuse of chummy words like love, pet, darling, sweetheart and other variations to be quite irritating. But as he got older, he grew to like it, especially if it sounded sincere. Some shop assistants would say the words on automatic pilot without any warmth but Diane was genuinely friendly. She was his favourite. It was a bit of a let down for him when she was on holiday or off sick.

But on this day, there she was, sitting, waiting for the next customer. ‘Hello sweetheart,’ she beamed as Bill approached. He smiled back and the two chatted as the groceries were scanned. Tuesday and Thursday mornings were good mornings.

Back home, Bill opened the front door. ‘I’m back,’ he called out. ‘It’s a cold morning.’

He put his carrier bag on the kitchen table and walked to the living room. He looked at his wife, Betty, and blew her a kiss. He felt his eyes watering. ‘That Diane called me sweetheart as she always does, Betty. I think she fancies me. It always reminds me of you calling me sweetheart from the first day we met, all those years ago. Diane says it like you. She means it.’ Bill smiled at his wife’s face looking at him from the framed photograph. ‘I do miss you, Betty. I really do, sweetheart.’ 

First published 2018 by Fairlight Books

 

PREDICTABLE BURTON COGGLES GOES ROGUE - FLASH FICTION HUMOUR BY JOE CUSHNAN

It was too beautiful a morning for a conventional dismissal.  Burton Coggles, senior office clerk, was a model employee, strait-laced, no trouble, to some a little dull, a fixture like the exotic plant next to his desk. He was well known for his impeccable timekeeping and a full attendance record. He kept his head down, worked hard and always enjoyed high scores in performance appraisals. He was predictable. But all of that was about to change. 

Burton pressed the elevator button for the sixth floor, home to Human Resources. He had been summoned to a meeting with a manager about half his age and with less than one tenth of his years of service. He knew his time was up. He knew he was for the chop but felt relaxed and ready for mischief. 

Forty years in the job counted for nothing after the takeover. Loyalty and zero absenteeism were worth zip. The company, once fair and noble, was now owned by a conglomerate and staffed in the upper ranks by whizz kids sporting tiny but noticeable MBA lapel badges. It was not the company he joined decades ago. 

Burton exited the lift on six and approached the reception desk.

‘Burton Coggles, ten o’clock, if you please.’ The assistant ticked a schedule and asked him to take a seat. Almost immediately, Della ‘Dizzy’ Heights appeared, shook hands with Burton and escorted him to an interview room. He thought she was a bit too jolly for an executioner. 

Let the mischief begin, he thought, and as Ms Heights began speaking, Burton started to hum. When she paused, he paused. When she started speaking again, he started to hum again. He did not hear much of what she was saying. He could see the irritation and slow burn of frustration on Della’s reddening cheeks. Time for a change of tactics. 

Every time he was asked a question, he gave ridiculous answers.

‘Do you know why you are here?’

‘Ham sandwich.’  

‘What’s the matter with you?’

 ‘Sliced salami.’ 

‘Why are you being silly?’

‘Shish kebab.’

Della twisted in her chair and rolled her eyes.

‘Burton, I have important things to say.’ 

At that, he broke wind, and in the entire history of bodily gas incidents, this was epic, this was Ben-Hur times a thousand. It was noisy and noxious. Della shot up and threw open a window. Burton was giggling like a naughty schoolboy. 

‘Well,’ he said, ‘when you’re being dismissed, all bets are off.’ 

Della had a perplexed look on her face. 

‘Burton, no one is being sacked. I was trying to discuss a new opportunity with you. With all your experience, we have been considering offering you a general consultancy role to improve the wider business.’ 

Burton scrunched his eyes tightly. 

‘But, after this behaviour, I’ll have to report back to the directors. I don’t know what they’ll decide now.’ 

*

Burton Coggles pressed the elevator button and headed for the ground floor. Outside, he noticed that in an otherwise clear blue sky, a lumpy black cloud had formed just above him. He caught sight of his reflection in a shop window and he and the reflection both shook their heads in total disbelief. On this too beautiful a morning for a conventional firing, he had triggered his own dismissal.

 

---

  

THE GIRL WHO HAD NEARLY EVERYTHING - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

 

 

Shona had been born into a wealthy family.  She thought she could just cruise through life. She wanted for nothing and always got everything she asked for. Pre-teenage, her mansion bedroom was like a retail store, overstocked with toys, books, gadgets and jewellery. Many items hadn’t been touched since delivery. Shona had little interest in the stuff. She just liked to own as much as possible and, rather than sprinkle her affluence humbly, she flaunted it haughtily to the few awestruck friends she had.  She would stamp her feet and scream if she was denied anything.  She could rely on her soft parents to give in to her endless demands.

 

As she blossomed into an attractive young woman, Shona set her sights on expensive holidays, flashy cars, haute-couture and playboys. She lived the high life and the greed gene continued to drive her endless obsession with glitz and ostentation. This was the only life she knew. She was rich and she made sure everyone knew it even just by her appearance. On the rare occasions when she walked the streets, albeit with a bodyguard, she would physically turn her nose up at beggars and give them nothing. The beggars were probably well aware that Shona, bedecked in designer gear, was a heartless snob. She ignored them and they reciprocated.

 

At twenty-three, keen to grab a slice of celebrity fame, Shona married a famous rock singer and embarked on even greater and more expensive adventures. She dabbled in cosmetic surgery, frightened that she would lose her beauty, worried that her youth was ebbing away, aware that money could not control time.  The rock and roll life suited her and she joined her husband in all the before-and-after gig activities associated with fame and stardom. He taught her about drugs and booze, and she scored and got drunk with abandon.  In this heady phase of her life, there was no off-switch.

 

She toured the world with her husband, believing in her own celebrity but unaware that she was nothing but arm-candy for a sex symbol. As the months evaporated, she felt more and more isolated as media and fan interest were increasingly directed at the band and its music. She was not used to being ignored and here she was being ignored in public. It hurt. She grew tired of life on the road. The relationship began to crumble. There were arguments and tantrums on both sides. But, for reasons she could not explain, she stuck by her man.

About a year into the marriage she saw photographs of herself in a gossip magazine and they horrified her. The images were not the same as looking in the mirror where she could tilt her head and pull attractive poses. These photographs showed a haggard woman, stoned and wasted. Shona realised something that had never occurred to her before. She was the girl who had everything up to that moment. The only thing she had never possessed was any sense of remorse. 

 

WEDDING DAZE - FLASH FICTION BY JOE CUSHNAN

 

Imelda loved the atmosphere of a wedding, especially the fashion, with everyone making an effort to get spruced up and look magnificent. Men seemed to be stuck with suits, but ladies could be as extravagant as they dared, and a wedding was one of those rare occasions when hats could be worn without the wearers becoming too self-conscious. Imelda’s was a yellow pillbox number while her friend Penny sported a crimson fedora with an enormous spider brooch pinned to the left-hand side. The whole event was perfect, a beautifully turned-out congregation, in a delightful old village church on a wonderful summer’s day.

‘Perfect, perfect, perfect’, thought Imelda, except for the groom standing near the altar waiting for his new bride to arrive. He was facing away from the pews, straight ahead towards the glowing stained-glass of the Resurrection. As well he might.
Charlie MacIntosh was the human resources director of a large retail company, successful in his career, fun-loving, a wine buff and general all-round good egg, and very, very handsome to boot. He was, as the kids these days say, ‘fit’. There he stood, on this very important, very special day, waiting for his gorgeous wife-to-be.

‘She’s the luckiest woman in the world, Penny’, Imelda mused in a low voice. ‘The only trouble is, dammit, she’s not me.’
Penny looked at her friend, grimaced a little and whispered back:
‘Oh Immy, you are a one. Anyone would think you have the hots for old Charlie.’
Imelda let out a tiny chuckle, trying to give the impression that she was only joking.

Charlie and Imelda had shared an apartment for a couple of years in a purely platonic, best-mates kind of arrangement. They lived their own lives, but often spent evenings together in the flat watching television, listening to music, and occasionally wine tasting and chatting about everything and anything. Imelda had introduced Charlie to a couple of boyfriends, although she was now free and single, and Charlie had done the same with his girlfriends. But his latest squeeze, Helen, seemed to be a bit more special than the others. He was enchanted by her, and when she came round for dinner for the first time, Imelda could feel the intensity of their relationship just from their body language and eye movements. This relationship was serious.

Imelda had never let on to Charlie that she was falling in love with him. She feared rejection and didn’t want to risk upsetting their apartment arrangements; she certainly didn’t want to ruin a great friendship. In any case, it was Charlie who rocked the boat, the night before the wedding. In the tradition of the husband and wife-to-be spending their last pre-wedding night apart, Charlie had opted to stay at the flat. Imelda cooked a spaghetti Bolognese and uncorked the first of a few bottles of Chianti. It was a nice evening. They talked and laughed for hours, and Charlie seemed relaxed. Imelda kept trying to resist any amorous feelings or any drunken slips of the tongue that might ruin the night.

But when Charlie said: ‘Immy, I have something to tell you, something I need to get off my chest.’
Imelda raised her eyebrows and wondered what was coming next.
Charlie said, ‘I need to whisper it in your ear.’
Imelda laughed: ‘You’re a right Charlie, Charlie! There’s no one else here but us chickens.’

Charlie moved over and sat down next to Imelda on the sofa.

‘I know that, but I need to whisper it because it’s a secret and I can’t say it out loud.’

Imelda waited for Charlie to declare his undying love for her at last, and then kiss her for hours.

‘Imelda,’ breathed Charlie, ‘Helen, my soon-to-be-wife, has been having an affair.’

Imelda recoiled and her head hit the wooden corner of the sofa.

‘Ouch! What? Are you mad? Do you know what you are saying? How do you know she’s been having an affair?’

‘Crikey,’ inhaled Charlie, ‘so many questions! But the real question is, should I go ahead and marry her?’

Back in the church on this nearly perfect day, Imelda’s eyes locked like laser beams onto the back of Charlie’s head. After his whispered confession, they had talked about it for a while before Charlie declared that he had forgiven Helen and that his love for her far outweighed any feelings of betrayal. The wedding would go ahead as planned. The new future which beckoned erased any past indiscretion. Over coffee the next morning, they had clinked mugs as Imelda wished Charlie good luck for the ceremony.

The organ signaled Helen’s arrival at the church, and Imelda thought that for a cheating, two-timing bitch, she looked stunning in every way. She was indeed the luckiest woman in the world. As Charlie waited for her to walk up the aisle, he continued to stare at the Resurrection window, maybe thinking that he had risen above a potential disaster.

The service washed over Imelda’s distracted mind, the words drowned out by the wrestling between her conscience and her desire. She was trying to be rational; trying to not feel spurned. Yes, she was jealous, but her next actions would require a cool head and a huge dose of courage. The minister addressed the congregation:

‘If any person here present knows of any lawful impediment to this marriage, they should declare it now.’

As usual, at this point, heads swivelled as people glanced about looking for any takers, but all seemed to be well – except for a movement from a lady in a yellow pillbox hat. Imelda stood up, prompting expectant gasps from the congregation. Charlie, aware of something going on, looked around and saw Imelda standing nervously halfway down the church.

‘No!’ he mouthed at her, but Imelda took a deep breath and started to speak.

First published 2021 by Spillwords