Tag Archives: Fiction

Son of my Father: Part Five

Back inside The Slumberer, everyone had moved away from the bar and were occupying tables tucked away in corners of the cavernous bar room. As Scott approached the bar itself, he once again noticed the door marked “Staf olny” and a bell rang in his head.

You’re Gemma, aren’t you?” He asked the young woman who had first startled, then puzzled him so much a moment before. She turned to him, her eyes wide in amazement.

I am. How did you know that?” He almost told her he was psychic, but was worried she might actually believe him.

Billy mentioned you. He described you perfectly.” Gemma smiled brightly, apparently pleased at being recognised. Scott thought it best not to repeat Billy’s description of her.

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Son of my Father: Part Four

Downstairs things had livened up a little, there now being half a dozen people in the bar area. Scott took a look at the locals and struggled to keep the shocked expression from his face. Ingleton had obviously been isolated for some time, judging by the very familial look about the people clustered around the bar. There was a tendency towards that same toad-like roundness as Alice from the shop, and more facial warts gathered in one place than the witches table at a Macbeth convention. He sincerely hoped they were all from one family rather than a random selection of locals. This seemed increasingly like Deliverance country and he had no desire whatsoever to end up as a reconstruction on Crimewatch. He wandered over to the bar and dredged his mind for something to say to the Toad-People. “Aren’t sheep a pain in the fucking arse?” wasn’t going to cut it, while “Has anyone seen the Wicker Man?” was probably going to give them ideas. Luckily the tallest of the locals saved him the trouble.

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Son of My Father: Part Three

Inside the pub light flooded from the fluorescent bulb overhead, making for a surprisingly bright and airy atmosphere for a place so far out in the country. The bar was at the very back of the room, facing the entrance, while the room itself was one large, open space with no kind of partition or dividing wall to separate a bar from a saloon or lounge area. There was no carpet, just slightly sticky beige linoleum that sucked a little at his trainers with each step, before releasing them with a small, but audible, squelch. Above the bar, the wall was covered with a huge collection of beer mats, some of them quite racy, advertising beers of all descriptions. The cheery look that the beer mats lent the place was offset nicely by the barman. A short, wiry looking bloke with a crew cut and tattoos, who glared at Scott’s every step of progress as if Scott owed him money. He was also devoting a lot of attention to Scott’s crotch, to the point where Scott was wondering what kind of pub he had wandered into. Then he remembered why his crotch might be the centre of attention. He pointed at the offending damp patch.

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Son of My Father: Part Two

Scott slowed down considerably as he entered the village, scanning the buildings as he went for some sign of a shop or other business were he could get directions to Carlisle, Penrith or somewhere else that he could find a motorway from. In the back of his mind was the thought that perhaps there was a bed and breakfast or a hostel in the village, somewhere that he could get a meal, a hot bath and sleep off the remains of an almighty hangover. Not far into Ingleton he spotted a small shop, obviously open for business judging by the lights and the grandmotherly shape behind the counter.

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Son of my Father: Part One

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Son of my Father by Daniel Brown is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at https://waffleandwrite.wordpress.com/2009/08/30/administrative-notes-about-the-license-my-work-is-attributed-under/.

It was a grey and miserable afternoon. It suited his mood perfectly. Scott had been driving his dad’s old estate car all day, trying to find a lake or reservoir to fish in without success. Two weeks after the funeral he had gone on a massive bender, waking up 48 hours later, inside his sleeping bag in the back of the Volvo, somewhere in the Scottish borders as it later turned out. After spending several minutes thanking God, Buddha, Allah, Gitche Manitou and any other deity he could think of, that he hadn’t killed anyone or been arrested, he looked around the car and besides empty beer cans he could find only his old fishing rod and a bottle of Glenlivet. The same rod his dad had bought him for his twenty-first birthday, and a bottle of the old man’s favourite tipple. Realization dawned, harsh and cold.

Dad was dead.

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News on new story, plus added childhood memory defilement courtesy of John Scalzi

First of all, I must direct your attention to this item of, well, this. Words fail me. (Link fully, 100%, safe for work and eyes of any age. Unless you live or work with fans of either Star Wars or Judy Blume, in which case you may want to show them this at some point in the future, should they ever offend you deeply enough that you wish to damage their memories irreparably.)

In other, far less disturbing, news, I’ve been working on  a new story,  which I ought to have ready to post by next week at the latest. If I don’t have a rough first draft version of it up by next Wednesday, you have my permission to come to my house and poke me repeatedly with a sharp stick (Home address will be provided on request, to people able to prove they have no access to sticks, stick sharpening apparatus or the means of transport to my home address). It’s a little bit different from my other works posted on here. Is that a good thing? Time will tell. Is the idea original? In the words of the immortal Will Smith, “Aww, hell NAW!”. Hopefully though, it’ll be as much fun to read as it was to write.

Oh yes, make sure to go over to the master of his domain (link in the sidebar), that comic really does get better and better with each passing week.

Archived fiction #5 In The Long Hot Summer

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In The Long Hot Summer by Daniel Brown is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at https://waffleandwrite.wordpress.com/2009/08/30/administrative-notes-about-the-license-my-work-is-attributed-under/.

IN THE LONG HOT SUMMER

By Daniel Brown

Most people have a spooky story to tell, something that happened to them that they can’t quite explain. For the most part they are all much of a muchness, thinking about their great aunt Mabel who they haven’t seen in years an instant before the phone call informing them that she just died; smelling their fathers aftershave around the house two days after the funeral. All very normal and all very easily explained, coincidence or grief, sometimes just mistaking something perfectly normal and their own mind filling in the blanks to make it something weirder than it really was. None of this explains what happened to me back in nineteen ninety five, although I sometimes wish it did, maybe then I would be able sleep properly. I might even be able to enjoy summertime again, but perhaps that season has been permanently tainted in my memory. The only reason I haven’t spoken about this, or put it down on paper before is the certainty that no-one, not even my wife or closest family would believe what I’m about write. I only ask that if you see me in the street or get involved in correspondence with me please, don’t bring it up. I’m only telling once and what I tell you is exactly what happened.

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Archived story #4 The Pathologist

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The Pathologist by Daniel Brown is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at https://waffleandwrite.wordpress.com/2009/08/30/administrative-notes-about-the-license-my-work-is-attributed-under/.

The Pathologist
By Daniel Brown

The pathologist looked at the corpse laid out on the table, neatly dissected with the internal organs properly positioned. He approved of the spotlessness of the lungs, the lack of inflammation or fatty tissue around the liver. It was obvious to his experienced eye that this young woman had enjoyed a clean, healthy existence. He had no doubt that stomach contents and toxicology would come back clear. He stripped off his apron, gloves and scrubs. His erection growing as he left his victims kitchen, he admired his work once more, certain the media were right to christen him the pathologist.

-END-

Archived fiction #3 Hanging Around

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Hanging Around by Daniel Brown is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at https://waffleandwrite.wordpress.com/2009/08/30/administrative-notes-about-the-license-my-work-is-attributed-under/.

HANGING AROUND

By Daniel Brown

Graham looked at the back of Becky’s neck and felt his breath catch. He felt like a bit of a weirdo for loving that particular area so much, but he just couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was on his mind when he went to sleep, it was there behind his eyelids when he woke up and all day when he was working his mind would drift onto thoughts of her pale, clear skin. He constantly imagined himself kissing it, feeling the wisps of stray hair that were always escaping her pony-tail caressing his cheek, the soft clean smell of her, mingling with the fruit scented perfume she wore and the scent of her shampoo. Her neck consumed him.

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Archived fiction #2 Redcap

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Redcap by Daniel Brown is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at https://waffleandwrite.wordpress.com/2009/08/30/administrative-notes-about-the-license-my-work-is-attributed-under/.

REDCAP
By Daniel Brown

Cold rain misted down over the barren Northumberland landscape, turning the country footpath Alun walked along into a treacherous quagmire which tried to wrong-foot him after every step. He glanced across the field he was cutting through, an unevenly furrowed marsh like expanse, dotted with the stubble of last season’s crop. Over in the distance, perhaps three fields away from where he walked he could see a solitary light shining in the window of a farmhouse, the only patch of brightness in the rapidly descending gloom of the late afternoon. He had no clue how far away the building was, the idea of measuring wide open spaces being as alien to him as he imagined writing HTML or coding a login page would be to a fifty-something farmer, all he knew was that the sign of human presence cheered him a little. He had wanted to be alone when he left the house but had never realised quite how isolating the edges of the moors could be.
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