Blue Jeans by James D. Irwin

The jeans were executed without trial. Everything had dyed, and it was his fault.

Broken Doll by James D. Irwin

They treated her like a plaything in her teens. By twenty-five she wasn't much more than a broken doll.

Speechless by James D. Irwin

Everything was black and white. Lloyd thought he must be dreaming. Usually he dreamt about appearing in another sort of film altogether, but this was almost as good. But Lloyd wasn't dreaming. He pinched himself, and it hurt. His monochrome dream had become an absurd reality.

Lloyd got up. He had always been a big fan of old black and white films, and found it all quite exciting. He dressed, and stepped out onto the street. At one end of the street was a Model T Ford. Although it was only a milky silver, Lloyd knew it was gleaming fresh cream. Everything was quite and peaceful. Even the man dangling from the clock tower wasn't screaming for help.

As he walked down the street he heard occasional bursts of jaunty piano music that seemed to come from nowhere. Outside a restaurant there was a dishevelled tramp. Lloyd felt the inside of his pocket, and threw the character a few coins. He entered the restaurant. The place was nearly full, but no-one was eating. A waitress showed Lloyd to a table. She was beautiful--- glamorous like a movie star. She brought Lloyd a menu, and whilst he read it he imagined himself doing obscene things to the waitress. He decided on the Salisbury steak, because he didn't know what it was, but heard people mention it on TV shows.

The waitress returned, pencil and pad ready to take Lloyd's order. He opened his mouth and made all the movements that should have resulted in him saying 'I'd like the Salisbury steak, please, and a glass of beer.' But no sound came out. He tried again, the waitress waiting patiently. Lloyd tried again and again, failing each time. After twenty minutes the waitress began to get impatient. After half an hour she got angry and left. After forty minutes it occurred to Lloyd that he could point at the menu, like you do in foreign restaurants when you can't pronounce anything. About an hour and a half after first walking in, Lloyd finally got his Salisbury steak. It had not been worth the wait. As he left the restaurant he noticed it was now a lot busier. The silent, skeletal customers had followed Lloyd's example and were now frantically gorging themselves on long overdue lunches.

The sun was shining brightly outside, and the whites and creams and dark greys were blurring into each other. Lloyd tried to adjust his eyes as he crossed the street. He never made it across. His body, stained black with blood hit the grey asphalt, the witnesses cried out silent screams, and the milky silver Ford continued on it's noiseless journey to nowhere.

The Sound of Silence by James D. Irwin

The last two days had been hard for Jakob. But now he was finally home again, and the sound of his own front door was faintly reassuring. But then he was hit by the thunderous, deafening silence. It was impossible to ignore. Jakob missed her, and thought he probably always would.

Family Man by James D. Irwin

'No, no--- we're not saying Familyman is a bad idea. We like it. We think the character has a lot of potential. We're just saying that, for the time being, we're going to go with Superman. We just feel he has wider appeal--- I mean he can fly and stuff. As far as we can tell--- and correct me if I'm wrong--- the only power Familyman seems to possess is 'the supersonic guilt trip'. We're just thinking about what the kids'll want to read about...'

Hysteria by James D. Irwin

The gathered crowd didn't seem very excited. In fact at least one man seemed to be yawning. Everyone else was gazing at little tiny screens in the palms of their hands. He thought maybe the site of an alien from a distant planet might provoke some hysteria, but nobody much seemed to care.

The unearthly traveller wondered around for a while, and tried unsuccessfully to get into this Game of Thrones show everyone seemed to be talking about. After two weeks he got bored of waiting for someone to show any interest in him, gave up and went home--- taking the secrets of life with him. He was halfway to Jupiter before he realised he'd been under a cloaking device the whole time.

Nerdy by James D. Irwin

Alvin settled on legal action. It was the only way for them to take his application seriously.

Alvin considered himself a bad-ass motherfucker, and didn't see why the LOBAM (League of Bad-Ass Motherfuckers) kept denying him membership. Alvin thought he was just as cool as some of the League's best known members, such as John McClane, Samuel L. Jackson, and three James Bonds.

As a young boy Alvin had seen his parents murdered by street punks. He then joined the unsuspecting gang, learnt their fighting secrets, and used the skills he learnt to brutally avenge the death of his parents. He was also a cop, whilst hating authority. He regularly traded tense insults with the older, more traditional Police Chief. He always wore sunglasses, whether it was sunny or not. He chain smoked, dressed in battered leather jackets, and held all the vaguely misogynistic views required by the LOBAM charter. He treated guns like toys, and women like... also toys. He was a casual alcoholic, a mean card player, and the driver of a 1973 Plymouth Fury.

Once LOBAM heard Alvin was considering legal action against them, they decided to give him a chance to apply in person. Alvin was excited. He thought he'd really nailed it this time, and even had a new catchphrase--- go fuck yourself, hombre!

Alvin presented his case to the senior members of the League. He outlined his case via powerpoint presentation. After he was finished he looked eagerly at LOBAM's President, Batman.

'Application denied' said Batman.

'B...but why?' asked Alvin.

'You're too much of a nerd.'

'Too much of a nerd?' Alvin couldn't believe what he was hearing.

'You gave a powerpoint presentation. Like a nerd would' said Batman.

Alvin was heartbroken. He started to cry.

Batman murmured how very bad-ass, motherfucker but he was being sarcastic.

Build God, Then We'll Talk by James D. Irwin

I built the Genesis device in seven days. I only stopped to rest once. The whole time I just heard her voice echo around my head over and over and over… build God, then we’ll talk she said.

She— Eleanor— was a fellow student at the Andromeda Academy. Obviously she was beautiful. Nearly everyone thought she’d be Miss Universe sooner rather or later. Her people never aged, which was a distinct advantage. Anyway, I fell in love with her as soon as I saw her. Most of the students did. For the first seven years I was at the Academy I was too nervous to approach her. Most of the students were.

Eventually I couldn't take it any more I just walked right up to her, like I would a sales assistant in a discount shoe store. I nervously coughed, but before I could say anything she just looked at me dismissively and said ‘build me God, then we’ll talk.’ I was hurt, but distracted by how pretty she looked when she looked dismissive.

I took her remarks at face value, and set to work. I thought if I could pull it off, she might pull me off. I didn't have a clue as to how to build a god. You can invent gods easily enough, but building them into a physical presence is generally quite tricky. Most gods exist in ethereal forms, if you even see them at all. Gods also, as a rule, need a domain to rule over. That’s when I came up with the idea for the Genesis device. If I built a world I could declare myself God. It wasn't quite what Eleanor had asked of me, but she’d probably still be impressed. Also I’d be a God, and that’s the sort of power girls are supposed to find attractive.

Building the Genesis device wasn't that difficult. We’d be learning all about them in Terraformology class. The next step was obviously finding a planet I could terraform. I got pretty lucky and found one in a nearby galaxy. I fired off my Genesis device and BANG, the process began. Things evolved a lot quicker than I’d anticipated.

As soon as sentient life appeared I declared myself God. It was good to let my inner-authoritarian out for a while. I handed down a list of simple rules, although I got bored of enforcing them after a while.

Really my biggest mistake was boasting about it all over school. That’s when the problems began. All the older students would visit the planet and declare themselves to be the one true God. A lot of people on the planet believed them. I was never entirely dethroned, but it was still heart-breaking to see the creatures I’d created slaughtering each other.

Maybe things would have been different if I’d kept quiet and just shown Eleanor in private right when I first became God. I tried to put a positive spin on things, but she just laughed at me for not being god of my own world. I took this to be a rejection.

I cried for a long time— floods of tears. I abandoned the whole planet after that and hoped everything would just sort itself out. I’d forgotten about it for the last several thousand years, until I saw Eleanor on TV. She’d been crowned Miss Universe. She was just as beautiful as ever.

Lullabye by James D. Irwin

I only remember my dad a little. He left when I was about five. Mum said he was full of empty promises. I knew what she meant--- every night he'd sing to me about buying me mockingbirds, and diamond rings, and looking glasses, and billy goats... He never followed through.

Holland Road by James D. Irwin

A lot of the fans get it wrong. They think Marco died at the studio on Holland Road. He died in his apartment just up the road. I was the only one there when it happened. I still live on Holland Road--- right opposite the studio. Sometimes I watch the fans come by and leave flowers and stuff. It happens less now, but then the band split back in '74 so it's really a surprise anyone shows up at all. But they do. Mostly it's tourists and die hard fans. Usually on the anniversary.

It's nice though... it's nice to see people leave flowers and it's nice to know the band are still remembered. It's kind of funny though, the way they all come out to grieve for some dead rockstar. It's funny, because if they looked across the street they'd probably see me and realise that Marco isn't dead at all.

Accidentally in Love by James D. Irwin

I always thought of her as a sister to me, so it came as dizzying but pleasant surprise when I realised that I had--- quite accidentally--- fallen in love with her. But now, about three years later, it just hurts. It hurts, and there's nothing I can do about it.

Gatsby threw parties for the same reason I write stories-- I write them just for her.

She reads them, I think. But I don't know if she ever realises that they are all about her.

Two Worlds by James D. Irwin

Our romance was doomed from the start; we were from two very different worlds. There she was, the beautiful daughter of a senior officer, and here I am a lowly and insignificant sentient gas cloud from the outer reaches of the Quantark Nebula.

Eyes on Fire by James D. Irwin

Tricia didn't know it, but Jon had been in love with her for several years. Jon had decided Tricia didn't really need to know, because the idea of expressing his feelings about her made him feel ever so faintly ill. Frustration, he felt, was better than rejection. However, one evening in June he found himself full of Courage--- not to mention numerous other ales that he had been steadily sinking over a seven hour drinking session.

It was around eight in the evening when Tricia entered the bar. Jon was half-way through pint number nine when he noticed her. He knew he had to play it cool, and immediately stumbled towards her with all the grace and elegance of a new born foal.

'Tricia' he said, slurring slightly. 'You are so beautiful I want to tear my eyes out of my skull and set on them on fire.'

Tricia, obviously stunned by this bold and eloquent declaration of romantic affection, ignored Jon and joined her friends at a nearby table. Shortly afterwards Jon heard very loud and raucous laughter. He didn't mind--- he'd made progress. She knows who I am!

Several days later Jon received a letter. It was from Tricia. He opened it with nervous excitement and read the message over and over again. He took long sniffs of the paper. It smelled of her. Jon carefully folded the letter, tied it with an elegant red ribbon, and placed it gently in the box with his other romantic correspondence.

 Jon vowed to show Tricia just how deeply he cared for her by respecting her formal request to stay at least one hundred yeards away from her at all times.

Search and Destroy by James D. Irwin

It had taken four years, but the search was over-- this was the house. I kicked in the front door and went upstairs.

Nuclear Family by James D. Irwin

We look out for each other in the shelters. We're not a traditional family, but those of us who survived have a saying: radioactive waste is thicker than blood.

The Fear by James D. Irwin

Danny joined a support group to confront his crippling phobia, but suffered a panic-induced heart attack as soon as the group leader spoke to him. 'Welcome to Hippopotomonstrosesquipedialophobia Anonymous' was the last phrase he ever heard.

Wild One by James D. Irwin

I moved into the flat about three years ago. The landlord had warned me that I would be sharing with another tenant, and the he was ‘a bit of a wild one.’ I was grateful for the warning, but I assured him that I had probably had worse in my university Halls.

However, to call my new room-mate ‘a bit of a wild one’ proved to be something of an understatement. To my great surprise I found myself living with the famed feral child of the Utomugo River. He had been discovered living amongst panthers or cougars or something in the early 1990s. He had been brought back to Britain to be civilised and properly cared for. Of course he was a little older now, but it was unmistakably him. He wore only a loin cloth, and a soiled but fashionable t-shirt.

I extended my hand in friendly introduction. The feral child (I never did learn his name) sniffed my palm nervously, whimpered, and then urinated in the far corner of the lounge. This was apparently something of a favourite pastime for him.

Whilst he had been taught to walk upright, and could grasp and enjoy basic cable television, he was in all other areas distinctly feline in attitude and manner. In many ways he was the worst chap I ever roomed with. He was a messy eater, completely uneducated, and prone to defecating on the furniture. Of course you couldn't say anything because it was the way he’d been brought up. He was also incredibly poor company on the social scene--- unable to hold neither conversation, nor his drink.

But somehow I can still only look back fondly at my life with ‘the wild one.’ We were clearly both two very different people, but in time we developed something that was a vague approximation of a friendship. In my first few months at the flat he would try to eat me an average of twelve times a week. By the time I came to leave that was down to about three times a month.

I don’t know if he was sad to see me go, but as I was leaving he brought me a freshly dead bird and dropped it at my feet.

Within the Grove by James D. Irwin

My father was a habitual liar. He was also a habitual drunkard and drug user. Mostly that was what he lied about, but he also told a lot of ‘tall tales.’ It was a polite way of saying ‘outright bullshit.’

But for years I always believed in his stories. He was a liar, but that didn't make him a bad father. Most of his lies were innocent— at least the ones he told me. And not many kids in my school could say that they learnt to fire a shotgun before they learnt how to walk. I could, because dad was cool and irresponsible and too fucked up to care about the possibility of being shot at by a toddler. We both survived, more or less.

His bullshit stories varied. Sometimes he’d tell us he’d been drinking with the guitarist from Rush, or he’d run into Matt Le Tissier at the all night petrol station. I don’t know if I was supposed to be impressed. Mum wasn't  He had different stories for her. She wasn't impressed by those either. They weren't much more plausible.

Other stories included his time in the army; the fact he could fly a plane; that he had swum with a half shark-half octopus creature in the Gulf of Mexico; and that Santa had crashed his sleigh and that’s why he hadn't brought any presents yet.

The truth was we were a poor family. There was no sleigh crash. It was a lie. I still don’t know if it wasn't just as much for his own benefit. Life was good in his madcap fantasy world, and reality could go fuck itself.

His favourite story to tell was about the treasure chest he found with Andrew Wilks when they were fourteen. He claimed only he and Andrew Wilks knew about it, and Andrew Wilks was dead— if he ever existed. He repeated it so often and he spoke with so much sincerity it had to be a lie.

Dad left when we were in our teens. Mum had insisted. She wanted me to endure my adolescence without the influence of an adulterous drunk fantasist who owned a shotgun. Dad seemed to take it quite well. He told me he’d re-enlisted in the army to help his old buddies out. I knew it was a lie, and he knew I knew it was a lie.

A few months after that, he died. He was hit by a truck whilst trying to save a small child. A witness told us his last word was ‘mango.’

No one went to his funeral— not the guitarist from Rush or Matt Le Tissier or any of his old war buddies. Just me and mum. He had left a Will, which only asked that he be cremated and his urn buried under a specific tree within a mango grove.

Mum wanted to ignore this wish, but I persuaded her. He was still my Dad and for all his bullshit it was still a final and honest request. He had died a hero. We owed him at least that much, whatever he might have owed us. So a few weeks after his cremation we took the little ceramic urn up the hill to the mango grove. It was warm— too warm really. I started digging. Mum watched, wanting no part in it all. I guess dad and hurt her more than he’d hurt me. I didn't resent his lies, I pitied him and hoped I’d never end up like him. 

I dug and dug and eventually I hit something. I thought it was a root, so I dug around it. But there was more solid wood. It wasn't a root and eventually it was just easier to dig the thing out. It turned out to be a box— a huge chest. I prized it open. Mum was a few feet away shouting that it was just another one of Dad’s silly little games and the box would be empty or filled with something useless.

But it wasn't  It was filled with treasure. Pinned to the roof of the chest was a note asking that the profits be equally shared between us and the mother of Andrew Wilks.

We placed Dad’s urn in the hole and buried him. His request was fulfilled. 

My son doesn't believe me. 

Smoke and Mirrors by James D. Irwin

I was fourteen when I took my first smoke. It was the summer and I had a job— of sorts— working at the funfair. There were a few of us— me, Rob, and Johnny. What we did was go around all the carnival games every now and then and ‘win’ so people thought they had a chance.

The work wasn’t strenuous and mostly we just got to spend all day running around a funfair and causing trouble and getting paid for it. And then there was Georgie. She was an older girl, sixteen or so. Georgie worked the House of Mirrors and wore cool clothes and sometimes smoked. We were all in love with her, of course.

One afternoon in late June or early July we found ourselves hanging out behind the small and run down House of Mirrors. I don’t think it was a conscious decision, at least not on my part... after an hour or so Georgie suddenly appeared out of a hidden door. A slim cigarette hung from her bored, insolent mouth. Our presence didn't startle her. She looked annoyed more than anything, before breaking out into a cruel smile. She sat down with us and asked if we smoke. We all lied and said yes. She called our bluff and offered us each a cigarette. Rob and Johnny ran away. I accepted. Georgie laughed. She lit both and I coughed and she laughed some more.

But I kept going back, and sooner or later I stopped coughing and got to being something of a professional. Georgie and I became friends that summer, if nothing else.

I think about that summer a lot, sometimes with fondness but usually with regret. I'm sixty-three now. I'm about to take my last smoke, if I haven’t already.

No More Sorrow by James D. Irwin

Sometimes you get to feeling that drink tastes sweeter for sorrow-- 'least sorrow is sweeter with drink if you ask me.

I’d been at the drink so long I’d got to forgetting what I was feeling so blue about, almost. She walked out of my life, but they all do sooner or later. I liked her a lot, and I think the girls did too— and the girls don’t always do.

There’s a lot of sad talk amongst them now. But nothing lasts forever, I guess. Not whiskey nor sorrow, nor careers at the Ranch.

They’ll be a new girl come along in time and they girls’ll like and they fuss and fawn over her and forget about Celeste. And there won’t be no more sorrow or sad talk in the cat-house.