The Hangover by Carolyn Glass

It’s supposed to be a reminder that you had a really good time, even if you don’t remember it. Nowadays though, it is all too often a reminder that I’ve been drinking alone, hoping to forget everything, then the realisation dawns that there isn’t enough alcohol to make me forget. Might as well open the next bottle, got to keep trying.

The Hangover by Lesley Whyte

Last New Year's, we threw a party at the house. Music, friends, wine, food, tequila. It was great. A great night. A perfect night, maybe. We spent the whole week between Christmas and New Year preparing for it, I wasn't prepared to leave anything to chance. Hank probably would have preferred to just throw something together on the 30th - race around the crowded supermarket grabbing anything we could lay our hands on, but that's stupid. That's no way to plan a party. If you want something to be perfect, you have to put the work in. You have to put in time and thought and effort.

Hank doesn't like to put time or thought or effort into anything.

So the party was perfect. Of course, the next morning was less so. A pounding headache, a queasy feeling that wasn't confined just to the stomach, and then the mess. Oh, it makes me sick even now to think of the mess we had to clean up on January 1st.

Of course, Hank didn't mind.

This year was a little different.

No party. We stayed in. There was still a lot of preparation, naturally, though I didn't realise how much mess I'd have to clean up this morning. I look at it and frankly, it's funny. I can't seem to stop giggling. It started as a twinge in my stomach, something I thought might be guilt or regret, but now it all just seems so funny.

I step carefully over the messiest area in the kitchen, not wanting to get anything on my bare feet, and pick the phone up out of its cradle.

"999. What's your emergency?"

"I need the police, please."

"What's your emergency?"

"You need to come and arrest me."

There's an exhalation of breath on the other end of the line, the woman's irritated. She's probably dealt with hundreds of similar calls from drunken idiots in the last twelve hours. I'm not drunk, I'm about as sober as I could possibly be. Hank drank enough last night for the two of us. Enough to not notice I wasn't drinking anything.

I wait for her to speak.

"Really? What've you done?"

"Oh, I killed my husband."

Silence.

I can't say I blame her. I mean, what on earth do you say to something like that?

Day One

And the first prompt is...

The Hangover

Exit Wounds by Meg Burrows

Sometimes words don't get into their lanes. They turn a U bend and get stuck in one way traffic. Mine certainly do, you've always known this. This particular time its 6pm and we're cutting it fine. Discussions have split themselves into statements, one easy declaration after the other. We're sitting in the brake lights, fighting about little tittle tattle that battles with things we should have flung away with your thesaurus, you know, the one that made everything so damn complicated.

Exit Wounds by Solomon Blaze

The sky is so beautiful.

The sun is bright; hot on my face.

The grass is green; the refreshing scent of morning dew in the crisp, clean air.

:

:

:

- SMACK!

Derik - dark hair, caramel skin, bourbon eyes, blood soaked features - jolts awake with a horrifying shock, tied to a wooden chair and surrounded by the smell of rot and death, ‘What the fu-‘

- SMACK!!

Darkness and spots, Christ, what the fuck is going on, where the fuck am I?!

Derik’s eyes open themselves cautiously, with fear-filled anticipation and looks into the eye of the gun holding him hostage. The gun lowers it’s gaze, revealing the one person Derik had expected – and hoped not – to see: Jason.

Oh fucking hell…

‘J-Jason…I’msosorryJasonpleasedon’tdothis, I’M SORR-‘

Jason - dark hair, crooked nose, cold, colourless eyes - cocks the gun, ‘Shut, the fuck, up, Derik.’ He says in a nervously disgusted way.

‘Jason, pleas-‘

‘SHUT UUUUP!!!’ Screams Jason as he tries to shove the killer into Derik’s soul.

Derik cries.

Derik is hysterical; snot pouring out of his nose, tears streaming.

Derik gets a hard punch round the temple that makes his whole body ring with pain.

Derik groans. ‘Why?’ he whimpers like a dying dog.

Jason scoffs his laughter, ‘why?! Are you seriously fucking asking me why? WHY DO YOU FUCKIN’ THINK?!’

‘…it’s her right…?’

Another punch, this time in the stomach.

…gasping for breath Derik coughs up blood and feels true terror – taking this opportunity to scan his surroundings; it’s an abandoned asylum – the ‘Kraken Asylum for the Clinically Insane’ to be exact; I’m going to die here, aren’t I…here, really…?

The asylum is covered in rust, dirt, blood, graffiti and god only knows how many bodily fluids, dried and stained over the many years of empty isolation. The walls are a horrible grey – or would be if not for the tapestry of disease that makes up the decoration, there’s a dripping coming from somewhere behind Jason, meat hooks hang from the ceiling, swinging tauntingly with the draft that seems to whisper, ‘run…’

The sobbing starts.

Jason’s fuse blows. ‘I WILL SHOOT YOU IN THE HEAD IF YOU DON’T SHUT UP!’

Warmth spreads across the inside of his jeans; he’s shit and pissed himself, Oh God…

‘Jay, you have to believe me,’ chokes Derik in desperation, ‘I never laid a finger on her, I w-‘

‘And I’m supposed to just believe you?!’ barks Jason in frenzied outrage – he feels nausea to the point of vomiting…

Jason Vomits. All over Derik’s lap, leaning on his knees for support.

– BANG!!

The gun accidentally fires, causing both men to throw themselves instinctively away from the blast; Jason skidding on his back, the sting of rusty grit tearing its way through his jacket and skin. Derik has flung himself backwards, cracking the back of his head on the decrepit concrete floor.

A small cloud of dust has gathered around Derik. Jason is no stranger to the man’s sickening skills; with the gun still in his hands, he moves to kill a man he once loved, because of a woman he once loved.

Stepping over the helpless Derik, who writhes in pathetic agony, Jason cocks the gun, loading another bullet into the canon he carries, sticks the thing back where it belongs.

Derik stares into Jason’s eyes, those cold, condemning eyes, and feels his own pain reflected back at him, I did this…I deserve this…, he lies to himself.

‘Any last words, you backstabbing piece of shit cunt?’ Jason says definitively.

Derik tries to look through the rage and suffering; through to the soul of a man whom was once such a sweet boy, and says, ‘I’m g-‘

- BANG!!!

But there is no sweet boy; there is nothing anymore, nothing of a life that did so little to cause so much chaos, just blood; blood and loss...

...Jason’s breathing is shallow and rapid, as he starts to realize exactly what he’s done, ‘what?!’ he shouts to the faceless mess beneath his stature...but there is no answer, there never will be again.

‘What?! WHAT?! WHAT WERE YOU GONNA’ SAY?!?’

Derik’s skull has been blown away by the force of a Dessert Eagle, stolen from a father by a grief crazed son.

Jason cries.

‘I didn’t mean for this...’ he spits through flooded orifices, ‘I just...I...’

Jason wails, then vomits all over the decimated remains of a life long forgotten, that he now cradles in his arms like a still born baby;

Sobbing;

Whimpering;

Dying............................................................

Exit Wounds by Sara Travis

I thought I knew exactly what love looked like. Love looked like her collection of hair products lining the bathroom shelf. Love looked like the odd pearl earring I found down the back of the couch. It looked like the thick, red, bobbly scarf she left on the hooks by the front door, and it looked like the faint lipstick mark on the wine glass by the sink. Love was in the way she swished her hair as she walked, and the Raymond Chandler novels she read in the café around the corner. Love was the stack of glossy magazines on the coffee table, the freshly laundered lingerie on the radiator, the not-so-secret box of chocolates stashed under the couch.

Love was not who I was expecting, and it was not something I had predicted.

I hear the jangle of keys and my heart stops. She’s home. Where’s best to wait? I hadn’t thought this far ahead, the living room or the bedroom? Bedroom might be better, more romantic, element of surprise and all that, but I’d have to cross the hall to get there and now she’s coming through the door, I don’t have time, living room it is, and I’m fiddling with my tie, licking my palm to flatten my hair and left hand or right hand to offer the flowers? Right hand, does it even matter, because now she’s standing in front of me and our eyes meet and it’s everything I’d imagined it would be and more.

Silence. The keys hit the floor. She staggers back into the doorway and her eyes grow wild. I take a cautious step forward, proffering the roses and she … screams.

“Sophia …”

“How do you know my name? How did you get in here? Get out! I’m phoning the police!”

This isn’t going as I’d planned. I feel the panic rising in my chest, I don’t want to scare her, she just has to know how I feel.

“Sophia, please,” I cry, her screams drowning out my words, “I just had to let you know, I love -”

She throws a photo frame at my head, and I duck to avoid its impact. This is swiftly followed by a telephone book, an owl ornament, a potted plant, anything she can lay her hands on. I launch myself past her and sprint for the front door, desperate to get away from all of her. She slams it shut behind me, screaming and cursing. And then I realise my fingers are trapped in the door frame; an almighty yelp escapes my lips. My very own exit wound. Cradling my crumpled, bruised fingers along with my ego, I turn to leave.

Exit Wounds by James D. Irwin

He stood on the balcony smoking a slim cigarette, and watched her walk away. It was an early morning, typical of Spring, that creates an illusion of warmth and sunshine, but ultimately reveals itself to be bitter and cold.

Appropriate he thought, and then wished he hadn't He still loved her. He thought he probably always would. But he thought that about every girl— the ones who’d left him, the ones who never loved him back, and the ones he’d never met.

He gazed down at the empty streets and cursed silently; it must be Sunday. He’d have to wait. The shop would open tomorrow. He could go then—early. He wouldn't get a fair price, but it didn't matter; he just wanted it out of the house. Even hidden away he’d know it was there, thumping away like the tell-tale heart.

The cigarette was dead and the girl was gone. He stepped back inside. Girls had left him before, and they probably would again. They always left a wound, and some were worse than others. Some were just bite-marks... he smiled at the memory and reached for a bottle.

He was an old hand with wounds like this now. He sat back and sterilised it with alcohol. It wouldn't heal, but the bleeding would stop... for a while, at least.

Exit Wounds by Lesley Whyte

"Nobody in the history of the world has ever felt like I do now. You just don't understand, how could you possibly understand? You've never loved like I have. Nobody has ever loved you like Pete loved me. You just don't get it. Nobody else has ever hurt like this. It's like I've been shot. Shot right here." She slapped her hand against her chest. "And there's no exit wound. The bullet's still in there, twisting around when I move and just causing more and more pain. Nobody has ever felt like this before."

"You know, stuff like this is why he dumped you. Get over yourself."

Exit Wounds by Ben Hayward

“Nan, where’s Geoff?”

“Oh, it’s his time of the month.”

“You didn’t tell me... Wait. What?”

“Long Story.”

“Where is he then?”

“Out, in the woods probably. You’re welcome to wait for him if you would like.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, sure. Would you like anything to eat?”

“I’m not staying too long.”

“You’re looking thin. How about a pie?”

“Fine.”

“Oh that’s him now. Could you just get the door while I make some tea?”

“Ok.”

“Geoff, what big teeth you have.”

Exit Wounds by Nick Trussler

God damn it. God damn that son of a bitch. That’s all he could do now; swear. Call upon some false idol to curse the man that had shot him. He staggered, like a man drunk, a man whose vital organs are failing him one by one, like some cruel game of dominos.

“Motherfucker,” he whispered. Damn it. That couldn’t be his last word. But it felt good to swear. No, not good. Nothing felt good anymore. It was a relief. No. Damn it, his thoughts were becoming confused now. Obscure memories floated in his head, songs from a wild youth cascaded and broke their melodies apart in the blinking of an eye. Was this his life flashing before his eyes? A broken kaleidoscope of thought, not the fluid chronological progression you saw in films. Damn those films. They never showed dying as it really is. A man staggering, grim faced before turning and saying one final line through gritted teeth before falling to the floor. A hero’s death. It was not his death.

He felt numb. The sickening pain wanted to make him crawl in a ball and shed his skin like some snake. His mortal flesh destroyed and wounded but his soul would live on. But he was numb, numb inside his head. The pain as something separate, to be confronted later. He leaned one hand, palm outstretched against the damp underpass wall. The smell of urine hit his nostrils. He looked down. Thank God, it wasn’t his own. Not yet. That would come later. When Death finally cut him from this world then his body would void itself of all the slime and of all his humanity. An animalistic orgasm in the throes of death. His body would become a carcass, no different from any other animal. That higher intelligence that separated his species from the rest of the world would matter not one drop.

He hand slowly slid down the wall and his face gently fell forward, pressing his forehead against the damp of the wall. He breathed deeply, causing a trickle of blood to weep from his mouth. His eyes closed. He wanted to feel alive and indeed he did feel alive, more alive than he could ever remember. At least, in recent memory. He allowed himself a bitter smile. At the very moment of death he felt more alive than he could have ever thought possible. Death was ironic.

“Fuck you all, and damn you all to hell,” he murmured to the wall. Good last words, he thought. In one simple, perhaps crude, phrase he summed up his attitude to the world and to those that had now brought his demise from it.

His knees were the first to fail him. They buckled, like a tower collapsing from the inside. He fell, his hand still clutching the exit wound that the bullet had made.

Day One

And today's prompt is...

Exit Wounds

Have fun!

High Society by Meg Burrows

The Smiths
‘Bloody Hell! Not another one of your fucking nip – tuck, plastic pushing, botox spunked Barbies! No Harold, No! I won’t have it again!’

Here they were, in the middle of the Salt House Restaurant, having yet another discussion about Harold’s tendency to jump ship of the marriage boat. This time, he had dive bombed splendorously into foreign waters.

‘Oh Sandra, please, let’s not make a scene…’

‘Make a scene? Sorry, sorry…. You think I’m making a scene?’ Sandra spat out a tiny bit of the Salmon she had been eating. It landed a few centimetres away from Harold’s pudgy hand. ‘Oh, I can get a lot worse than this, believe me!’

Harold, reaching for his brandy glass, sighed.

He didn’t understand Sandra’s behaviour at the moment. This had all been happening for years. And she knew about it. So why all of a sudden is she starting to mind?

‘Darling, darling – why are you getting upset about this? You knew that I liked her.’ He took a sip of his drink, watching his wife carefully. ‘Besides, I can’t go back on my word.’

Sandra flickered her eyes to his. She could feel her face and neck growing hot.

‘What do you mean? What have you done?’ Sandra gripped tightly to her knife. If he’s got her pregnant I am going to castrate him right here, right now.

‘I felt sorry for the poor girl. I, well, I like her. I think it’s for the best, she needs looking after.’ Harold emptied his brandy glass. ‘I didn’t think you would mind, seeing as you’re going to be away in Italy and that.’

‘What did you say to her Harold?’

Stretching back into his chair, Harold’s shirt stretched alarmingly across his round stomach.

‘I told her she could stay.’

High Society by Ryan Kane McGuire

“Ponsonby!”

“Yes, sir?” His pathetic voice wobbles from down the corridor.

“Fetch my masque.” I admire my buttocks in the standing mirror. Rarely do I have the chance to see it in such fine garments, but tonight is a special occasion. There is a party to attend, on the pretense of business.

Ponsonby pokes his shrivelled little head around the door of my chamber. “I wasn't aware you had a masque, sir.”

“It was recently... procured. A business gift. It should be on the mantle.”

“Very good, sir.” Ponsonby shambles off. The old dogs brain shrinks hourly, it seems. Perhaps a sharper manservant would have noticed something by now.



I give myself a little twirl, green coat-tails flapping, and I approve. I've had my harder days, and my hair is still thick and dark, my features strong, my eyes deceiving. From the box sitting under my bed I find my valuables. Gold, silver, diamonds. Valuable to certain people, but not to me. They were just a thrill for me. A rush.

“Your masque, sir.” I kick the box shut before the old hobbling prune has a chance to see its contents. “It's lovely, if I may say so, sir.”

“Yes. The prior owner was loathe to part, but they found me rather charming, I think.” Even I think my uncontrollable grin looks smug.

“You do seem to have a way with people, sir.” Ponsonby slides the mask over my head, and I give my form one last admiring scan. Other peoples' trinkets, the baubles of my trade, dangle from my neck and wirsts, and I feel the flintlocks hammer bite into my thigh. I love high society.

“Ready my horses, Ponsonby.”

High Society by Samuel Gore

Stuart Messlebrush, a stoic figure of fifty three visited McDonalds for the first time today. He was with his wife Irene, and as they had made no reservations, they thought they should experiment. On the table next to them sat a young man eating a wrap that was quite obviously listening and was making no attempt to hide it.

‘Is he still looking at us,’ Irene whispered in her native Winchester accent.

‘Don’t look at him, dear. Just enjoy your meal, and we’ll head to the theatre with the more refined folk. This evening can still be salvaged.’

‘He looks so thin, maybe we should talk to him.’

‘No dear, he’s just a stray; you don’t know where he’s been. Leave him be. Remember the last one?’

Irene looked down at her food and sighed. ‘I was so fond of little George.’

Stuart looked at his Big Mac and wished he had brought some silver cutlery with him. ‘Yes, for a month. Then we came back and the rascal had stolen your jewellery. No doubt pawned it for heroin.’

‘Now, now dear. We don’t know that for sure. Maybe one of his many siblings had leukaemia and couldn’t pay the hospital bill, or the vet or where ever these people go. I’m sure he wouldn’t have gone without saying goodbye unless it was urgent.’

Stuart spluttered on a lump of beef, coughing the meat into a napkin. He folded it into a neat triangle. ‘Fine talk to the critter. But don’t blame me when he takes all your brooches.’

She turned to face the young man, who was looking down at his phone, pretending to type.

‘You there, do you have a home to go to?

The boy looked at her with wide eyes and a blank expression on his face, clearly exasperated. ‘I do, yes.’

‘Oh, well that’s good. Tell me, have you ever been to the theatre?’

Again the boy looked at her wearily. Stuart coughed and gave his wife a questioning look.

‘I’m sorry son; my wife get’s carried away. You go back to your phone.’

Grateful of the gentlemen’s offer, his gaze returned to the screen.

‘See dear, not everyone wants to come with us.’

Irene picked up one of her fries attentively. ‘Oh I guess so. It’s a shame; he’s such a pretty little thing.’

As the boy left, she watched him with sadness. They ate the rest of their meal in silence until there was nothing left.
‘He would have made such a good pet don’t you think.’

High Society by Ben Hayward

Cocaine dust was wiped across the sleeve, poorly disguised by a collection of unspent notes. Some of the dust had been gathered on saliva covered twenty pound note. Comparatively clean, but crumpled monies filled the woman’s brassier. Her partner had left in a hurry without probably dressing himself and had forgotten his jacket. Given the state of the room she is at liberty to relieve herself of its contents if she wishes.

We have given her a short period to leave the premises and to collect her belongings before we attempt to salvage the area and its contents. The girl is not to blame, well not in a legal sense; her name is not on the bill.

After she leaves the decision is made to place the jacket in lost property. The carpets are torn up, the beige colour has turned much deeper, now more closely mirroring maroon. It is damp, soaking my oxfords with each and every step. The maids are then instructed to rip of the rest of it, dry the floorboards out and roll a new one down.

Beneath the carpets we find bags of white and brown powder stuffed tightly in to the knots of the underlay. Some of them are burst, further scarring the rug’s thread. The man will receive an even higher bill as a result of the exponential damage to the property and the subsequent lack of space that we have for our customers.

Contact has been made with several fitters and upholsterers to help resolve some of the issues, especially with the fixtures. We have been having difficulty getting hold of a plumber, not one with a comprehension of our sanitation at least. The cleaning isn’t much of an issue, however the heavy aesthetic damage is.

There is a significant overflow in the bathroom which has drained through the linoleum and damaged the floorboards and the ceiling of the room below. That area happens to be leased by the same company, and unlike this apartment will continue to be for the next fortnight. If the occupant refuses to pay the fee then his colleague will have his rates raised accordingly.

On visiting the downstairs apartment we find that it is in a similarly desolate state. The occupant is fined and asked to leave. The police have been notified about the group’s illicit activities. There was little response.

High Society by Sara Travis

“Frederick, darling – whatever’s the matter? You look as though you might have seen a ghost!”

Loretta gave a tinkling laugh, raising a thin, gloved hand to stroke the sapphires threaded around her throat.

Blinking away the remnants of his daydream, Frederick shook his head slightly, his previously misty eyes resting on the face of his betrothed. His vision was blurred, his brow moist with perspiration, and somewhere behind his eyes, a dull ache grinded away at his skull. Slowly, his vision came into focus; the faces of his peers, friends and relatives who sat around the table, staring at him, amused, scornful. Raising an unsteady hand to dab a handkerchief at his face, he knocked at the silver cutlery adorning the table, the loud clang reverberating around the room.

“I - I’m sorry, my dear ... What were you saying?”

Loretta’s smile faltered slightly, her eyes narrowing in disdain. “I was talking about the wedding, dear. What on earth’s gotten into you?”

Casting a furtive glance around the table, Frederick was all too aware of the wide, suspicious eyes that stared back. He stood suddenly, the force knocking over his chair. Ignoring the gasps and whispers, he leant in close to his fiancée, breathing heavily over her painted face.

“I’m not feeling all that well,” he said in a hurried whisper. “I think some air might do me good.”

“I’ll come with you,” Loretta replied, pointing her napkin into the corner of her lips.

“There’s no need,” Frederick replied, placing a clammy hand on her shoulder, partly as an act of authority, partly to steady himself. “I’ll be fine.”

Striding across the dining hall, Frederick swallowed down the bile in his throat, fumbling with his handkerchief, trying to ignore the muffled conversation still audible through the dining hall’s thick, ornate doors. Closing his eyes and resting his head against the flowery walls, Frederick did not see the young scullery maid approach, and was not aware of her presence until she touched his hand. His eyes flew open and he staggered backwards, colliding with a side table and struggling to right the vase he had knocked over. The maid leapt forward, scooping the flowers from the floor.

“Freddy, I’m sorry – I never meant to startle you,” she said, placing the flattened blossoms back into the vase.

Frederick shook his head. “No, it’s alright, Mary. I’m just ... on edge, tha’s all.”

Mary nodded. “I know. I saw yer in the dining hall. Not that I was prying, or nothing – I’m ‘sposed to be servin’ the drinks, an-”

“Mary, s’alright!” Frederick said, placing a hand on her cheek to calm her. “Don’t you be worrying yourself. It’s just ... every day the weddin’ draws closer, an’ ... I know I’m not doin’ right deceivin’ her like this, but ... well, we both know she wouldn’t look twice at me if she knew who I really am.”

Mary held his hand against her cheek and tilted her head. “I know, Freddy. I know. It’ll be alright though – once yer married, an’ all.”

“Frederick?”

He dropped his hand as though it had been burned, and stepped away from the maid, turning to face the doors through which he’d entered. Stood beneath the curved archway was Loretta, her eyes narrow and murderous, hands balled into tight fists. Without a moment’s hesitation, the young maid curtseyed and disappeared through a side door, her bowed head doing little to mask her flushed, red cheeks. Frederick watched her leave, avoiding Loretta’s gaze. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, her tone clipped.

“Who was that?”

Frederick sighed wearily, rubbing his eyes. “It’s not what you think.”

Loretta laughed her tinkling laugh, though this time it was slightly too high to be natural. “Oh, really? And tell me, Frederick – what do I think?”

“Fer God’s sake, woman – she’s me sister!” Frederick yelled, all pretence of decorum forgotten. He clapped a hand over his mouth as he realised he’d let his accent slip. Loretta stared at him a moment, her eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

“What did you just say?” she asked in barely more than a whisper.

Frederick groaned, and made towards her, but she defensively took a step back.

“Alright – look,” he began, raising his palms in surrender, ignoring the small of crowd of diners who congregated behind Loretta. Abandoning any attempt to conceal his thick, northern accent, he took a breath and started to speak. “Me name’s Freddy Lambton, and I – I’m not really an investor. I’m not really anything, to be frank. Me family are farmers, I’m from a small village in Harrogate. That there were Mary, me sister. She’s been in your employment for near on three years, now. I ... I saw a picture of you in one of the papers, an’ ... well, I thought you was the loveliest creature I’d ever set eyes on, an’ I knew – I just knew you were the girl for me. Well, I also knew you’d never look twice at a penniless farmer’s son who can’t hardly string a sentence together, so I moved down here with the last of me savin’s, and I watched you. I learnt all about you, Loretta, the way you talk, the way you walk. I studied you, and other gentlemen about town, I learnt how to be one meself. An’ when the time was right, when I thought I’d learnt enough, I approached you – that day in March, you remember? At the tea room in town? I knew if you got to know me, you’d love me – as I love you. An’ you did. Loretta, you an’ I – we’re the same, really! What difference does it make where I come from, who me parents are? We love each other!”

Silence. And then,

“We are not the same. I could never love the son of a farmer. Collect your things and go.”

And with that, Loretta turned on her heel, leaving Freddy gaping after her.

High Society by Kim Warren

“Alright alright, I personally believe that green and orange go well together but whatever.”

Jed flicked his hair over his shoulder and flounced back into the changing room, leaving Mark massaging his temporal lobe.

“I still don’t see why I have to go to this stupid thing anyway,” Jed’s high pitched voiced projected over the rail of the curtain, causing Mark’s headache to increase.

“Because it’s my rehearsal dinner and I want my brother there, even if he does look like a bubble gum explosion most of the time.”

“I’ll have you know,” Jed announced reappearing in the room, “I wear nothing but designer.” He turned on the spot, examining the suit in the mirror. “Now you can’t complain at this.” He turned to face Mark, who was sitting with his eyebrows raised.

“Jed.... you cannot go in a pure white suite.”

“Why?” He whined, stamping his foot like a three year old.

“Because I said so, now go and put on the suit I picked for you.”

Sticking his nose in the air, Jed stumped back into the changing room and pulled the curtain shut.

“You’ve changed you know, ever since you met that girl. You’ve gone all posh and presentable. You never used to care about how you looked, or how I looked for that matter.” Mark let out a sigh.

“It’s not her, it’s her family. They’re very upper class and I don’t want to start this marriage with them thinking we aren’t good enough. We can prove that to them after the wedding.”

“Marcus Anthony Yates,” Jed screamed flying out from behind the curtain, this time only wearing his boxers. “Don’t you dare think you are not good enough for this girl, she is lucky to have such a loving devoted man in her life and I’ll tell you this now! Tomorrow night we are going to show them just how upper class we can be, then they’ll be wondering if they are good enough for us” He then turned to present the room with the giant hole that was ripped into the back of his underwear and strutted back into the cubical.

* * *

The room was abuzz with excitement and pleasant chatter as the two families were finally introduced after two years of their children dating.

“Mark darling,” Susan’s mother called across the room. “Your parents are a delight,” she beamed at him as he moved to stand next to his father. “Why on earth have we not been introduced before?”

“Yes Mark, why has it taken until the day before your wedding?” his mother asked with a touch of ice in her voice. She had been bugging him to meet the Rickwoods since he first brought Susan home to meet them.

“Well,” he laughed, “I thought this way there is no time for anything to go wrong.” His audience laughed politely while Mark took a swig from his glass and gave the room a nervous glance. Still no sign of Jed, he wasn’t sure whether this was a good thing or not. He had promised to buy a proper suit when Mark left the shop to get back to work but his brother wasn’t famous for sticking to his word. Mark felt himself start to sweat a little at the thought of Jed turning up in parachute pants and a vest, he had a feeling his future in-laws would call off the wedding there and then.

“Hi everyone, sorry we’re late,” Mark swung around at the sound of his brothers voice and felt his draw drop. Jed was standing before him wearing none other than a tux, complete with bow tie and had a very pretty blonde girl, wearing a full length ball gown, holding his arm. Now the several months that Jed had spent living in his big brothers spare room after the coming out conversation had taken place with their parents, made Mark question the purpose of the women standing before him. However he was unable to bring this query into the world as the appearance of Jed looking like a proper English gentleman had left him speechless.

“Jed,” his mother managed to squeak. “You’re looking very, “she paused, “handsome.”

“Well thank you very much mother,” Jed answered in a voice that was most defiantly not his own, “and might I say you are looking simply lovely this evening.” He leant forward and kissed his mother’s hand, while she eyed him suspiciously. Luckily for everyone involved, Mr and Mrs Rickwood seemed oblivious to the shock that surrounded them and looked at Jed with expressions of delight.

“And you must be Susan’s mother,” Jed suddenly announced swooping down to kiss her hand as well, while she giggled like a school girl. “Only you could have passed down such beauty to Susan.” Mrs Rickwood blushed, deep scarlet, as Jed shook her husband’s hand.

“Oh, and of course may I present to you all, the lovely Miss Elle Gold,” Elle Gold glided forward to take Jed’s hand and actually curtsied to her audience.

“It is so nice to finally meet you all,” she sang, putting on display a set of perfect teeth. “My fiancé has told me all about you...” Mark could stand it no more.

“JED,” he barked at his brother, “may I have a word.”

“Pray, excuse me.” He bowed to the Rickwoods and strutted past Mark towards the bar. Mark waited only until they were out of ear shot before exploding.

“What are you up to? He snapped, gripping his brother’s arm.

“I’m making an upper class impression,” he scoffed, turning his nose up.

“Stop that,” Mark snarled, “you are deliberately taking the mick out of them, to their faces. You promised to behave.”

“I think I am behaving more than adequately, you said this event was upper class and I am conforming to that theme, as I shall do tomorrow for the theme of the wedding. Now if you can excuse me, my fake fiancé is in need of a drink.” He strutted off back towards where their parents still stood in shock, leaving Mark in a state of panic as he remembered that the wedding theme, was Hollywood.

High Society by Alison Wink

As she skipped out of the offie clutching a plastic carrier bag containing cans of Tennents Extra and White Lightening, Stacey hoped it was going to be a good night. Party at Jack’s– his mum was away for the weekend and it was always a good venue. His house is far enough away from any neighbours so they could make as much noise as they liked, and it was nice not to get hassled. She hated the thought of waking up someone’s baby. She knew how difficult it could be to get them back to sleep.

Stacey was bringing the booze and although she’d wanted to get something a bit more classy - she likely Smirnoff Ice - she couldn’t afford to buy too many. Tonight she was determined to get wasted, it had been a difficult week. Her mate, Amelia ... well, she said she could get hold of something a bit more exciting.

Stacey needed cheering up. She’d submitted her umpteenth job application today, and she didn’t hold out much hope. She knew she’d be lucky if she even got a rejection letter. Usually she heard nothing which was cruel really because it meant her hope held out for weeks. For the first time in ages her mum was able to babysit and, ever the optimist, Stacey was sure it was going to be a good night - she’d make sure she’d forget all her problems.

* * *

Daily Outraged Middle England
Unemployed mother-of-one Stacey Kelly, 21, from a rough old Nottingham housing estate dies after using legal high GBL, a Class C drug. The ‘legal high’ can damage the kidneys, liver and stomach lining and lead to psychosis.

A young woman and two young men were found unconscious at the address and were taken to hospital for emergency treatment. Police are investigating claims the friends may have taken the deadly dance club drug GBL an industrial cleaner usually used in cleaning products, solvents and paints. It is not illegal to buy GBL for cleaning use, but it is classed as a Class C drug if sold for consumption.

High Society by Matthew Tomlin

Richard had a headache; the kind that makes you grip your head in public. Maybe it was his body finally having enough of the smog that melded into the city air. Maybe it was the clammy brother of this air; the underground draft that signalled the arrival of the train. Regardless, Richard was half shoved into the capsule that opened up in front of him, the people around him having no concern for his creaseless grey suit and leather bound briefcase.

His hand seized up.

Glancing back to the platform while being herded into the corner of the carriage, Richard grimaced when his possession was absent from the place he had left it. Tax returns, board meeting minutes, contact details, company income charts, invoices… All gone. His job might be too. There was no better place to wallow in self-pity than the London underground. Pressed against strangers; two of which were blasting sounds Richard wouldn’t call music from headphones, and one who clearly needed much stronger deodorant. And a young woman that was staring at him.

Not in the mood to avert his gaze for just anyone, Richard stared her down.

“You dropped this?” She muttered, her soft voice nearly lost to the bass that thumped from the nearby headphones. From the tight space around her, she revealed a leather-bound suitcase. Richard was frozen for a few moments before an incredulous smile lit up his face. Awkwardly, and without breaking the woman’s gaze, he wrestled his arms free from their confinement. Only when his fingers wrapped themselves around the handle did he allow himself a sigh.

“Thank you. Thank you.”

The woman smiled in response. Something inside Richard clicked. Nothing more was exchanged between them except a few glances and the occasional grin. A final flash of those gentle blue eyes signalled her departure as she was washed away by the throng of Londoners rushing from the carriage.

Richard’s headache had subsided, but once his key slotted into the lock of his apartment, It started again.

“I don’t understand why you don’t just get a taxi.” A low, refined voice called as Richard entered his home. Lavishly designed though it was, none of it was to his tastes, but hers. “And our holiday’s been moved two days forward so we can attend Gillian’s 30th, I knew you wouldn’t mind. Four hundred and fifty pound cancellation fee is all.”

“Evening.” He grumbled, waltzing past the intricate glass coffee table that was too good to have coffee at. He pulled open the silver door of the fridge, letting the cool air soothe his head.

“Oh, and we were offered an investment into a solicitor’s firm, so I went ahead and booked a meeting for you. Tomorrow evening, 7’oclock sharp.” She sighed lightly, her sickly voice filling the room as she remained coiled up on the designer sofa.

“Good.” Richard replied. Taking a bottle of spring water, he sprawled himself over the breakfast bar, washing away the smog that clung in his throat.

“Don’t you want a cuddle, pet?”

Ooh, that high pitch. Unscrewed his sanity it did.

“No.”

“All I want it a minute with my man after such a hard day. I never get anything that I want.” She whined. She whined. And she whined.

Richard stood abruptly, striding across the room. As he came upon the coffee table, he raised his foot. Before his girlfriend could express her confusion, the sound of shattering glass set in. She shrieked, covering herself as the shards hurtled towards her. Once settled she glanced to see Richard’s leg, glistening red over his black trousers, standing in the middle of the coffee table.

“I’m going to hospital.” He said coldly, the adrenaline holding pain at bay.

“I-I’ll call Dr. Martin-“

“I’m going to hospital, now.”

To a hospital, to be treated like everyone else. Not to have priority, or to be swathed in luxury. Maybe the nurse would have blue eyes.

High Society by Emily Chadwick

Lady Hargrove was a plump, unlovely woman of short stature. Over the course of several (thankfully brief) meetings, Reth had discovered that her favourite topic of conversation was herself and her many cats. After all the small talk and artful forgetfulness, however, she would refer casually to her daughter. Then, she would smile, displaying all of her straight white teeth. Reth had been avoiding her all day.

Being the second youngest prince had its perks. Unlike his eldest brother, Soren, it was not imperative that he find a match in any haste. Soren had announced his engagement last month and all the mothers who had once been trying to marry their daughters off to him were now after Reth and his brothers. To be honest, Reth did not really know why Lady Hargrove was trying so hard to impress him and to gain his interest; even if he really truly liked Lady Hargrove’s daughter, it was his own mother who had the last say.

Lady Hargrove was not the first mother to approach him with a marital agenda, but she was certainly the most persistent. Reth could recall no less than eight ladies with daughters of marriageable age approaching him within the past fortnight. Desperate times call for desperate measures, of course, and finding a decent hiding a place had become Reth’s number one priority. He had tried the herb garden, the rookery and the shrine with no success; someone had always managed to find him. Lady Hargrove seemed to be particularly good at it.

Today, he was checking out the ballroom to see if it suited his needs. No one seemed to ever use it apart from for formal events, so he felt pretty sure that no one would think of looking for him there. The ballroom doors were tall and ornate, carved with a myriad of wooden vines and flowers. They also creaked. Reth winced as he pushed them open just enough to slip inside.

The ballroom itself was large, open and elegant, but, unfortunately, it was not as empty as Reth had been hoping. In the centre of the room, dancing to silent music only she seemed to be able to hear, was a young woman of about sixteen summers. She was wearing a simple green gown and her dark hair was straight and sleek, as was the current fashion at court. It seemed to Reth that he had intruded on a very private moment, and his cheeks coloured with embarrassment.

She had not noticed him, so it would be easy for him to slip away. Manners, however, dictated that he make his presence known and apologise.

“Forgive me,” he said, startling her into spinning to face him. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Oh, Prince Reth!” The girl blushed a deep red. “I’m sorry, I was just looking for a quiet place.”

Reth offered her a smile; this was the sort of girl he could see himself marrying.

“It’s all right. What’s your name?”

“Oh, excuse me, your highness, I should have said.” She gave him a rather flustered curtsey, peeking up at him through her lashes. “I am Lady Sana Hargrave.”