Twist In the Tale

THE JESUS CODE

Fiction: He finally stood in the chamber.
It has been a long but rewarding quest. The journey had taken him round the world, and along the way he’d cracked many codes; dug many a site. And as an archaelogist he had been in his element.
In many ways he was never truly convinced he would find it. But now here he stood in the ancient cavern, the Holy Grail in his hand.
He smiled – at its simplicity, but also its beauty. And, of course, it’s mystique.
Questions had been asked for centuries. Did it exist? If so, what WAS the secret?
Would it prove to be the famed chalice of the Last Supper, or were the conspiracy theorists right that it signified the blood of Christ?
Well, in a way they had both been right. And now he scraped out the dried blood of the spear wound. And the geneticists were ready for the Second Coming.

COVERT MISSION

Fiction: It was bad. Fighters appeared from everywhere and we had to be ever alert. Danvers drove us on through the mountains, and it was clear there was a covert objective we knew nothing about.
I’d heard of him before – a previous mission. His cavalier ways. The trap. He lost all six of his men that day, and they say he carries the guilt always. But it didn’t show.
We moved deeper into the heartland and soon we found ourselves facing a major redoubt. And it was Danvers who took it out – single handedly – charging as if he was invulnerable to the bullets. But he wasn’t. A burst ripped through his chest and he fell.
I held him as he died, and in those last seconds serenity appeared on his face, which seemed to say: mission accomplished.

********************

CHOCOLATE
A Strange Romance MicroNovel

Ch 1. She was reading when it came;
& eating chocolate. They say too much
pleasure leads to pain – & it hurt
as the entity entered her head.

Ch 2. That’s how it began – for her.
For me? When I found the body of the
old man, smeared in, and choked by,
chocolate. I called the cops.
read more

********************

KONG KING

Fiction: It’s like this. The monkeys didn’t realize just what they were doing when they moved out of their natural area. They should have realized when they found the giant footprints, but no, they were curious.
Eventually the man appeared, towering above them – and a giant hand swept down and took up the female.
They gave chase, and when they caught up, there was a mammoth battle, and eventually, through guile, they brought him down.
Tying him up, they dragged him back to show the rest what they had found. But the man was not to be subdued for long.
He broke free.
Another mammoth struggle followed and the man was eventually driven up a tree. Hurling stones at him, he finally fell to his death …
The writer finished the synopsis and looked up to the movie producer.
The orang utan shook his head. Said:
‘No, it’s just too silly.’

AFTER THE SHOW

Fiction: He knew the drugs had been folly, but how else does a celebrity survive with such an overbearing, often hostile media?
The pressure to conform to an image was just too powerful. But sometimes he just wished he could have been ordinary.
Rehab helped, of course, but it was meeting Jenny that really sorted him out.
‘I just don’t know who you are,’ she said after several weeks together.
They searched for him in the videos of his shows, but he was not there. They relived the films and the interviews, but he was nowhere to be found.
‘We’ve got to go back to your roots,’ she said; yet it was hard when all he had been was image. But they both knew there was a human being to rebuild.

THE HOT WAR

Fiction: The letter sat before him. He wished he’d left it unopened – guessed what it would contain. And next to it, the executive order he’d so recently signed.
He was a captain of industry – a CEO who had risen high, and that flair for getting things done had been inherited by his daughter.
There’d been opposition to the plant in the jungle – it would damage the local environment; add to climate change; it was carcinogenic. He sneered at the latest report, propped against a coffee mug on his desk.
Why couldn’t people understand that advancement has collateral damage?!!
His daughter had been there, gotten involved – in the protests (damn her!) – she got things done, see. Became a …
He read the letter again, written quickly – painfully – from her death bed. Then he filed it away – with the order to send the unit in.

THE WRONG STORY

Fiction: I’d often asked if I could ever have control of my existence. I know, I’m not supposed to ask – not even capable of asking. My existence isn’t my own and my destiny is in another’s hand.
In one way this is perfect, but I rebelled – found myself elsewhere. My existence, you see, had been snared up for too long.
Well, ‘elsewhere’ was strange. I didn’t recognize any of it. Nothing worked like I was used to – gee, there was even a baby in a cradle in this place, and I don’t do babies. I’m a totally different kind of guy – not into this social guff.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, my rebellion soon came to an end.
I saw the shadow first, and then it came at me from above – this huge missile-like thing. I should have guessed it was a pen, and as it made contact it scrubbed me out totally. And I soon found myself re-written into a story where I belonged.

FRACTURED LOVE

Fiction: I guess I knew it would happen. It had to. Jung would have called it Synchronicity – meaningful coincidences are bound to happen – with a hint of Serendipity if you really want them to. And I wanted that nurse.
So many times I’d tried to chat her up but every time my hopes vanished. It wasn’t that she didn’t like me, I was sure. After all, we know these things. No, it was more a matter of my reputation.
I guess I’d made a lot of noise in certain quarters – a bit of a villain. But the night finally arrived. It was a nasty arm fracture. A lot of pain, but I’d made it to casualty and I’d had it set and plastered, and now here I was in the waiting room, waiting for discharge, my nurse hovering close, hushing about, doing her work – and I’m sure her occasional looks my way suggested she was feeling for me.
Anyway, that’s when the louts came in – started knocking the place about, threatening my NURSE.
Well, broken arm or not, I went into action, and soon they were running off, bloodied. And the nurse?
Well, she fell into my arm. Yep, Jung would call it Synchonicity; though I’d call it £200 for the louts and a lot of courage, breaking my arm like that.

THE INSIDER

Fiction: I thought of those words by Albert Camus: ‘Don’t walk behind me; I may not lead. Don’t walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend.’
I often thought I walked alone.
Here was I, experiencing life, but outside. The existential nightmare was my reality. Alone – absurd. Life was a surreal dance around my body, but never touching – or so I thought.
I had choices, you see; and those choices were mine and mine alone.
My friend – my only friend – tried to make those choices come right for me. My aspirations seemed to work through him. But I thought wrong – that surreal dance did touch me.
It touched me always, out of the blue, catching me unawares – until I realized the choices of others were valid to my life. So now I’m neither lion nor mouse, neither leading nor led, and my friend – my inner being – walks beside me.
I now know I am me because of them. How can I be absurd?

FIND THE MOLE

Fiction: The Square. How did Brand end up here?
It was a normal square – shops, cafes, people milling around – which ones would kill him? He’d been sent in to find the Mole – get him out before he was compromised. But as their agents closed in on him quickly, Brand realized it was maybe too late. Except …
Well, he was an optimist, and even if the Mole had been caught – was being interrogated – he’d have left a path to the information. And sure enough, as he played ‘spot the spy’ in the square, he knew all the signs on his dangerous investigation led here.
And it had certainly been dangerous, nearly cornered twice, shooting his way out of trouble. And as he surveyed the square, he felt the cold comfort of his gun. Soon sure he had identified the agents he began to watch the shops.
Was it to be one of those? He thought.
Of course, he eventually worked it out – broke cover as he moved forward, his disguise hopefully fooling the agents. And as he walked into the taxidermist’s, he found the information – in the mole.

THE DRUNKEN SANTA

Fiction: I felt ashamed after he’d gone.
There I was, well into the second bottle of Christmas spirit when a fall of soot heralded Santa’s arrival in my house.
Yes, I know I should have been in bed, and once he’d got over the shock, he told me off.
‘Aww,’ I said, ‘here, have a drink.’
Well, it seems Santa was a little flustered as it was – new Elf and Safety regulations were becoming a burden – so he decided, why not?
Well, he left after the third bottle of Christmas spirit – which was very, very bad for all the kids in the world. You see, he was so drunk, no one got the right present, leaving me – as I said – somewhat ashamed.
The kids opened their presents … looked at them … realised they hadn’t asked for that … temper tantrums shook the very core of the Earth … then …
‘Hey, this isn’t so bad. It’s fun.’
And one by one the kids picked up their presents and realized the secret of Christmas once more. Surprise.

UNWILLFUL DEATH

Fiction: They thought it was complete intellectual laziness. After all, what was the point? The psychologist thought it useful, if for nothing more than finding out if hypnosis CAN overcome a subject’s moral responsibility for action. And even though his words made him gloomy, the small gathering looked on.
The subject had been hypnotized and stood in the street, a gun in his hands. The instruction had been given: to kill the first person to walk up the street. Of course, the person selected was wearing body armour, but unbeknown to the subject.
As if on cue, the target rounded the corner and began to approach the subject. Those gathered could see the increasing anxiety on the subject’s face as he fought his moral values. But then, decision made, he fired …
There was shocked silence for many seconds, and then they rushed to observe the body on the floor. Who had won the argument was irrelevant now.
The subject had shot the sign – which had duly dropped on the head of the target.

THE MEADOW

Fiction: He remembered the meadow; a beautiful, tranquil place.
Of course, farming was eventually wiped out. Bad for the planet, they said, with all that methane; and what was red meat doing to us?
Not to mention cows’ rights, and respect for nature in general.
And so the cows were ‘saved’ – let free to roam the meadow – lost their use – became extinct – erased without a trace.
And what of the meadow?
Well, the synth factory stood there now, belching its fumes in its race to feed us.
Of course, the alternative feeding program was also under way. Eco friendly, they stood around waiting to be farmed.
Kill two birds with one stone, they said. Respect nature and solve the population problem. And we humans DID produce less methane.

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