There is one thing you should know about writers. No matter what you say to them, no matter how mundane the conversation may be, you are already being cast in scene of some kind. A quick interaction on the bus, or a simple passing gesture can escalate to a full scene with themes, and possibly contributing characters. You have a back story now. It may be nothing like your real life story, but it’s real now, at least to someone.
We all have imagination. More often that not it’s the simplest things that can stir it. People watching is a great activity for writers. Take a quick glance (we’re not creepy stalkers) to the person next to you at the cafe. If they were a character in your story, what would their name’s be? What would be their motivations?
It opens up the world around you and not only does it help get those creative juices flowing, it also opens up the world around you and reminds you, you are not alone. This world is made up of millions of different people with different stories, different thoughts and different songs on their lips. That’s a good thing to be reminded of when we live in an age where communication has never been easier, yet so is the option to completely cut ourselves off.
That being said, as a writer, it also means you can cast someone who displeases you in any scene of your choosing. Having someone mauled by a pack of wild dogs because they came off a little rude may be too much for some, but who am I to hinder the creativity of others.
Enjoy this? Check out these thriller titles available now!
If you’re a writer yourself you will know the physical pain and agony that is writer’s block. If you’re not a writer you may think I’m being a little overly dramatic here. As dramatic as it may sound, the pain of writer’s block is very real.
Even if you’re not a writer, think of a time when you felt your mind just go completley blank. You’ve forgotten a dentist appointment. You’ve let the cat out for the second time today and you don’t even have a cat. You get the idea. It is a complete, all consuming state of despair when you believe you will never function properly again. Okay, that may be a little overly dramatic.
it’s always good to keep those creative juices flowing. Even if you’re not an artistic sort yourself. After all, creative thinking can make the world such a beautiful place. Maybe it’s thinking of all the amazing things your child could become. Maybe it’s planning a romantic trip with your significant other. Creative thinking reminds us we are alive. When that creative thinking is your very life, it can be stressful when it’s blocked.
My suggestions:
Take a walk. It’s an oldie but a definite goodie for so many reasons.
Clean the house. Chores area great way to focus your mind without having too much pressure. Bonus for having a sparkling home afterwards.
Read. I’ve always been a big reader and nothing stirs the creativity more than a good novel. If you don’t like what your’re reading, pick up something else. Take in a move or a series if you prefer. Indulge in storytelling.
Listen to someone else. Older relatives are by far the best for this. They have so many stories to tell and not enough people to hear them.
Take some time to think creating and imagination. What creative thinking have you done so far today. You may be surprised with just how imaginative you are.
Enjoy this? Check out these creatively dark thrillers available now.
The irritating noise of the phone breaking through his sleep had been so frustrating, Jude reached up, collected it off the bedside table and launched it across the room. He hadn’t opened his eyes. He could hear a crack as the device hit the wall. At least the beeping noise stopped.
When he did open his eyes, it was with a struggle. He took a moment to register where he was and gather his wits. He was in his own bed. He was alone. He couldn’t remember getting back. He tried to piece together what happened. His wife was gone. Helen was off to visit her sister, Hannah. She had just had a baby. Three summers ago Helen had caught them in bed together. It was best Jude just stayed at home. No point having unnecessary drama when the woman had just given birth.
He had managed to work things out with Helen. They had been married for five years and despite the infidelity she would never leave him. Jude Baxter was a celebrated actor. He had been in front of cameras ever since he was a little boy and these days he was most known as Dr Shardlake on Coldford City’s most popular soap opera, MARCH OF OUR TIMES. She liked the lifestyle too much and your husband having it away with your sister whilst you’re at the hospital with your mother, was a price Helen was willing to pay for it.
It left Jude on his own. He never did too well on his own, especially in the sprawling Cardyne Hills mansion he lived in. It was so vacant when there wasn’t a party going on.
He must have gone out. Jude could vaguely remember heading into City Main for a beer. He would be damned if he could remember the name of the bar he started in. He must have drank a lot from there.
He had kicked off his loafers. They were covered in mud. They were ruined and he had walked muddy footprints into the bedroom with them. He couldn’t remember even walking in mud. Hopefully someone would be able to clean the mess before Helen got back. He’d have a look online for another pair. They were from last season anyway. The more immediate issue was dealing with the headache. It was starting to get worse now that he had woken up. Oh shit! The phone!
He remembered the cracking sound when he had launched it across the room. He picked it up. It was functioning. The screen was cracked. Through the damage he could see:
25 MISSED CALLS
EDNA CALL: ENDED – 25 MINUTES
MSG: CALL ME AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS – EDNA
UNKNOWN NUMBER CALL: ENDED – 15 MINUTES
1 VOICEMAIL – 4 MINUTES 32 SECONDS
The battery was running low. He wondered what he had been saying to his agent on the phone for almost thirty minutes. He opted to check the voicemail, incase Helen had been calling with flight times. He called the inbox. As the generic voice guided him through the headache became really, fucking painful.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
1:53am
“Mr Baxter? It’s Dr Winslow speaking. I assume you have returned home. The arrangements have been made. I must speak to you urgently about your next steps and small matter of payment. I’ll be at the clinic until four pm.”
END OF MESSAGE.
Dr Winslow? Why the Hell had he been calling a doctor at that time of night for? What kind of doctor even was he?
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The battery completely gave up. He left the loafer and muddy stains behind and drew himself to the kitchens, barely able to keep himself steady. That was no easy task. He found clothes by the door he must have pulled off, leaving him in the underwear he had slept in. A stool from the breakfast bar had been toppled over. A glass of whisky had smashed on the floor. He might have thought he had been robbed. The door had been left unlocked, and the security was off. His car wasn’t in the driveway either.
His hands went to his ribs which ached. They were bruised. He was only just wakened enough to notice. Suddenly the memories of the previous night started to sharpen.
He had been in an accident. He had been driving drunk. He was in an accident. Shit! He had hit someone. What happened to them.
“It’s Dr Winslow. Please call me at your earliest convenience.”
The full short story will be coming soon – free on Kindle Unlimited.
When I meet new people and I tell them I’m an author I always seem to get asked the same questions.
Whilst there are millions of books out there, being one of the ones who writes them still seems a rare find for a lot of people out there in the wild. Unless you happen to be at an event specifically for writers, it seems authors rarely venture out of their natural habitat of a comfy spot with a notebook and a coffee.
Here are some of the common questions that are posed to me:
HAVE YOU BEEN PUBLISHED?
Yes, my first book was released in 2013. That seems like a lifetime ago.
I do like the idea that people are making that distinction. It’s not a published book that makes you a writer. It’s writing that book that does.
YOU SHOULD WRITE A STORY ABOUT (SUCH AND SUCH)
Part of the fun of being a writer (at least for me) is twisting real life and make it grittier and filthier than it generally is. Be sure you really want your experiences to be a part of that before pitching story ideas.
WHAT’S YOUR STORY ABOUT?
Every other author I know freezes up like a deer with a big old truck smashing towards it. Thousands of words come together to make a novel, sometimes hundreds of thousands, yet it is virtually impossible to sum up the story in just a few. It’s like asking for you to fit your entire life experience so far into a few cohesive sentences.
WHAT GIVES YOU THE IDEAS FOR YOUR BOOKS?
Everything really. From observing an argument on the bus, up to the way the postman was walking down the street.
WOULD I LIKE YOUR BOOKS?
That all depends on what you are into as a reader. It’s no use telling someone who adores romance set during world war one to read a crime procedural book set in a post apocolyptic planet in the far reaches of the galaxy. That’s not to say they wouldn’t enjoy the change of pace, it’s just people’s tastes are different.
If you do spot an author in the wild and they look a little confused and grumpy, just urge them to the nearest coffee house where they can be collected by a loved one. Then feel free to ask them about their work!
“If you do happen to be my kind of reader, feel free to check out these thrillers, available on Kindle Unlimited.
They are known in Coldford City as the royals of Main. The immediate family consist of REGINALD and RITA, with their identical triplet sons MARCUS, SIMON and REGGIE (Reginald Junior). The are prominent figures in the city and have featured often in the series of Shady City Thrillers. However, here are a few facts you might not know about them.
Reginald Penn with his triplet sons.
1 – THEY HOLD ACTUAL ROYAL TITLES
Originally from the country of Luen, the Penn lands are huge, expansive and have held a lot of power for centuries. They were one of the greatest marquessates in the country, with Marquis Philippe de Penn being given much of the credit for its founding during the Ballad of Blood age (centuries before the events of KNOCK KNOCK).
Their official house sigil is a white tower on a sea of royal blue. Although often, the marchand (merchant) pin is worn by the head of the house symbolising their auctioneering background.
After the second great war, Main was declared a legitimate kingdom making Reginald and Rita the reigning King and Queen of Penn and Main.
2 – THEY HAVE A LONG STANDING ROYAL RIVALRY IN KINGSGATE
The land of Main was originally granted by the The Chamberlain Crown who rule the Coldford Isles. At the time, Philippe de Penn and King James the first had a strong alliance and Philippe helped James maintain his throne. As thanks for that Philippe was granted the hand, or LE MAIN as it was called in the marquis’ mother tongue.
After the wars the alliance between House Penn and House Main shattered. The became enemies and ever since, the Chamberlain Crown has been trying to oust the Penns from the Coldford Isles sometimes resorting to real filthy tactics.
3 – THE PENNS ARE EFFICIENT IN TORTURE METHODS
From the rack to the pendulum, members of House Penn have always been known for their creative approach to torturing their enemies. They are a noble house in that they will stand by their people. They can also be ridiculously cruel to those deemed deserving. No thought is spared for an assaulter. No tear is shed for those who would harm innocents. No apologies are made for the pain inflicted upon molesters.
4 – ENGLISH IS NOT THEIR NATIVE LANGUAGE
Whilst the immediate family and their extended relatives speak English of the Coldford Isles fluently, their native language is the French of Luen.
5 – THE PENN AUCTION HOUSE IN MAIN ISN’T THEIR LARGEST
At the heart of it, the family are an auctioneering dynasty. The Penn Auction House in Main has equally been a symbol of hope and of fear for generations. What you may not know is their largest and most prestigious auction house sits in the Penn lands in Luen.
“Enjoy this? Check out more on the Penn family and other notorious dynasties of Coldford by reading these thriller titles available now.
The city’s most well known art gallery holds the finest art from all around the known world. Owned by partners Harper Lane and Gabrielle Dalway it is well respected. It is considered an excellent achievement for any artist to be exhibited there. With it’s close connection to the PENN AUCTION HOUSE, the prestige of the gallery cannot be argued with.
The gallery holds paintings from one of Coldford’s local artists, DAVID FINN. Despite his troubles, his time in rehab and his clash with Harper Lane, his work is still considered fiere, challenging and an absolute must for collectors.
Dalway Lane gallery deals in fine arts. Behind the beautiful sculptures and astonishing paintings lies a painful story that needs to be told. Isn’t that what the best art does, though?
Enjoy this? Check out these thriller titles, available now.
One might assume that the work of a funeral director in Coldford would never be done. The streets of the Shady City are perilous after all with violence, corruption and oneupmanship waiting around every corner. Eugene Morris doesn’t let that distract him though. His job isn’t a pleasant one but it must fall to the hands of someone. He finds himself in homes from the Shanties strips to the mansion houses of Filton. Death is equal in its pursuit.
Eugene Morris aka The Tailor pays close attention.
He treats his clients with the utmost respect, courtesy and dignity. In return he expects nothing less for himself. No matter the name, BECKINGRIDGE, OWEN, DOYLE or FULLERTON, they all lie the same way on the Tailor’s table. Eugene pays no mind to disputes and squabbles rising around him. It is simply his job to clean up the mess and kiss the foreheads of those who would otherwise be forgotten about. No one would want him choosing sides anyway. When death favours, things get really messy.
Not an easy job but someone has to do it.
He earned the title of The Tailor because of the attention to detail he places on his client’s final suit. Exceptionally talented at capturing the life of the deceased in how they are laid to rest, his skills as an actual tailor come in quite handy. He is whimsical in appearance, timeless and elegant. Eugene is a personable enough man, pleasant and kind but like the death which he serves no one really wants him to be knocking on their door.
Coming May 02 2020
Harbour House rehabilitation clinic brings together regrets, losses and life long bonds. If the program doesn’t work then there is always space on the Tailor’s table.
One thing I find quite common in fans of horror like myself is we were exposed to the genre from an early age. For some this was an exciting experience. For others, myself included, it was – not to put too fine a point it – horrifying.
Poltergeist, IT (the original series with Tim Curry) and Child’s play were just some of the movies I saw when I was arguably way too young. I was always an imaginative child so the scenes these movies presented, as corny as they may be now, played on my mind and formed lifelong phobias. Those lifelong phobias, I just happened to turn into a career.
Lets start with Pennywise. Released in the early nineties I was still in primary school when I first saw it. What stuck out most to me was the vibrancy of Pennywise’s red hair. It stood out to me against the duller, New England backdrop. The colours made him more eyecatching, more threatening. Even as a youngster I never saw clowns as anything less than nightmre fuel.
Then there was Chucky. The doll possessed with the spirit of an evil man. Another red head. As an imaginative kid with little to no real friends toys, stuffed animals and dolls were my most treasured companions. To see what a doll was capable of doing, at least by movie standards, was horrifying.
Cut to several decades later and I find myself still lost in that imagination. I do still have treasured toys and dolls, Pennywise and Chucky being one of them. I also sport vibrant (yes you guessed it) red hair. I knew there were some correlations between how my approach to creativity was shaped by these old horror movies as a child. However, it wasn’t until I started to write this blog I began to realise just how much.
The villainy, the vibrancy, the outldandish plots and the reactions from viewers were something that became embedded in my ambition. I came to enjoy writing material that made a reader shriek, gasp or become unsettled. I could have written happy little stories with lovely endings. I ask though, were would be the fun in that!?
Enjoy this? Check out these horrifiying thriller titles, available now.
The Walden family vineyards have been providing the best wine to Coldford for centuries. Lloyd Walden, youngest son, has been riding those coattails throughout his entire life.
LLoyd is considered a braggart by all those who know him. He’s showy and likes to believe he’s quite the lad. Picking up on the misogynistic views of his father, Harris, Lloyd can be disrespectful.
Compared quite often to boxing champion, SIMON PENN, Lloyd doesn’t have the skill nor the family name to match up. That doesn’t stop him from trying. He’s constantly vying for notoriety.
Underneath it all lurks a decent man who could prove himself if he just allowed it. If for a few moments stopped ‘faking it to making it’ he would find he has a lot of potential and he would receive much more genuine adoration.
Enjoy this? check out these thrillers available now!
He had been so focused on Tabitha he hadn’t noticed Reggie Penn until the triplet’s fingers tangled in his hair and yanked his head back.
“Who’s done?” he asked.
Reggie pushed Mr Heath’s head into his own lap as Tabitha made a call to Marcus on the upper floor.
“Marcus, handsome. Show these people how very fucking serious I am.”
Bodies rained past the window as the first victims of the Freefall Massacre plummeted from the top of Beckingridge Tower.
Ring ring. Ring ring.
A short while later, Reggie’s phone chimed. He answered, still keeping Mr Heath pressed down. Reggie raised his knee up and pressed it the banker’s back as he clutched the phone to his ear.
“Yeah?”
It was Simon who was calling. “We need you up here.”
“What’s wrong.”
“We could use some extra hands,” Simon told him. “Actually, you had better bring Tabs with you too.”
“Lock the meeting room,” Reggie could hear Marcus instruct in the background. “The Heaths and the last of the investors are welcome to take the more direct root should they wish.”
When they got to the upper floor there were still quite a number of drugged and drunken bodies around that would be exiting the tower via the window. They weren’t the concern at that point.
“What’s going on?” Tabitha demanded to know. “I was just about to give the old Fullerton troll her last rights.”
“We met a little resistance,” said Marcus.
Tabitha rolled her eyes. “You mean like the resistance of the old boy in the reception on security? We just walked past him. He exhausted himself trying to pull a taser. Simon had to help him to a seat. He’s still catching his fucking breath.”
“Not that resistance,” Marcus told her. “I mean this.”
The eldest triplet led them down to a back room where a monstrously fat woman had fallen from her scooter. The flab of her arms and legs were flailing as she tried to correct herself. She was number nineteen, Kayleigh Clifton.
“There was some hor D’ouvers set up here. One can only assume it came down to feed. We can’t switch the lifts back on so It’s going to take all of us to get it up off the floor, roll it up the stairs and out the window,” said Marcus.
“Maybe we just leave her to last,” suggested Reggie.
Simon disagreed, stretching his neck. “No this is one you want to get out the way early.”
Tabitha started to chuckle. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the heap on the floor.
“I know you,” she said. “You think you run the Shanties. I was kind enough to send you a gift from the Knock Knock Club and you didn’t even thank me.”
***
“C’mon Tabs!” Reggie cried. “I’m going to miss out. We should have been there ages ago.”
“It’s not my fault you had to stop and smoke a spliffy or whatever. My feet are killing me in these shoes already.”
What had gotten Reggie so excited was the release of the new Coby Game – Plague Survivor. It was releasing at noon and crowds had already started gathering.
“Your dad is King of Main,” Tabitha went on. Couldn’t he have just told the game store to hold one for you?”
“No,” Reggie grumbled. “He said he wasn’t calling in special favours. He said if I really wanted the game I had to queue like everyone else. C’mon they’ll be opening the doors soon.”
‘Junior gets lifted and laid way too much,’ had been the king’s sentiments. ‘He needs to learn if he wants something sometimes effort has to go into it.’
“Urgh. You owe me, cunt,” Tabitha claimed.
“We’ll get to the movie. I’ll get you a milkshake at Bobby’s too,” Reggie offered as compensation. “Here hop on my back.”
Relieving the strain of the kitten heels Tabitha had been wearing, she climbed onto Reggie’s back and he carried her into City Main’s Coby Game store.
Tabitha had been browsing the oldies music in the jukebox room when Reggie emerged again beaming with pride having managed to get a copy of the new release. Tabitha pursed her lips and gave a sardonic applause for his effort. He stuffed it in his back pack and pulled back a headphone.
“What are you listening to?” he asked.
Sharing the headphones their attention was caught by a huge mountain of flesh on a scooter barging its way through those still waiting to get a copy of the new release, screaming about being disabled.
“What a cunt,” Tabitha sneered, peeling off the headphones.
“She’d be able to walk if they drained some of that fat,” stated Reggie.
“You want a grease fire to burn down the whole city?” Tabitha remarked, chuckling at how witty she found herself.
The smell of body odour from the rotund creature lingered. It didn’t take long before she came zipping back out again with the last game in hand. Still crying about being disabled to whomever was disapproving of her rudely pushing through those that had been waiting some time for their chance.
It would seem someone had told Kayleigh Clifton that the game was going to be popular, so she snapped up a copy with the intention of making some profit on it.
There was a young man there with what Tabitha and Reggie assumed to be his mother. He was a sweet, smiling sort with Down’s syndrome. They had been waiting in the queue patiently. They would have been the next ones in.
“Was that the last one?” the mother asked.
The bloated cretin on the scooter replied, “aye it was.”
The young man was a little upset. The mother hushed him. Then again it could have been the heavy stench of sweat that was doing it. That was upsetting Reggie and Tabitha too.
“If you want you can buy it from me,” Kayleigh offered.
“That’s kind of you,” the mother supposed.
“A hunner.”
“Hunner? Hundred?” the woman was astonished. The game only cost sixty. That was quite a mark up for Kayleigh’s fully loaded behind to carry it out of the room.
“I’m disabled,” she cried again, lifting the parts of her body that had folded over the scooter and adjusting herself so it could carry her immense frame. “I had to come all the way into Main. A hunner and it’s yours.”
Tabitha took Reggie’s arm and the two left the music booth and crossed the hall to address the situation.
“Put your money away,” Reggie suggested. “She’s a conning bastard, like. Excuse my language, ma’am.”
Kayleigh Clifton’s fleshy face rippled into a sneer. “Who the fuck asked you?”
“Do you want me to pop you like a fucking balloon?” Tabitha snapped.
“Suit yourselves,” Kayleigh spat. “I don’t have time for this shite. Get out my road. Fucking chancers.”
At that she zipped off again.
“Sorry about that,” said Reggie to the mother.
“It was a long shot,” she replied. The young man still seemed a little upset. “He just loves those games.”
“What’s your name?” Reggie asked him.
“Jack,” the young man replied.
Reggie smiled. Jack beamed too. Then the triplet reached into his backpack and produced his copy of the game.
“Tell you what Jack, since we’re mates you can have my copy.”
“Oh he couldn’t do that,” the mother insisted.
“It’s fine,” Reggie told them. “You can pass it back when you’re done. No spoilers though.” Jack grinned as Reggie passed him the game over. “I’m Reggie. This is Tabitha.”
“Reggie?” the mother gasped. “I thought you were one of the triplets. You’re Reginald Junior?”
“That’s right,” Reggie confirmed. He drew his phone from his pocket. “You got a gamer tag, Jack?”
“JackAnory,” the young man told him.
Reggie typed it in. “Reg3Online. That’s me. You can add me if you like. I’ve got tonnes of game links I can send you.”
Jack clutched the game tighter.
“Thanks!”
“At least let me give you something for it,” the mother insisted.
“No need, ma’am,” said Reggie. “You can just give me a shout when you’re done, huh Jack?”
“I will,” Jack agreed. He reached out and clasped Reggie in a hug. Then he did the same for Tabitha.
“We’re going to a movie right now but if you’re still in Main a little later we’re having milkshakes at Bobby’s. You should join us,” Reggie offered.
“You’re too kind,” the mother replied.
“I appreciate it,” said Jack.
By the time they got out of the store Tabitha and Reggie had spotted Kayleigh Clifton heave her immense frame from her scooter and hobble to the grey, high rise vehicle she drove. After collecting said scooter, some Clifton handymen had to push her into her vehicle before she drove off.
“Fat, greedy cunt,” Tabitha growled.
“Yeah,” Reggie agreed. “She makes me fucking sick.”
***
“How much do you think it weighs?”
“About 3 – 400 pounds I’d say.”
As the triplets discussed the practicality of moving number nineteen, Tabitha still couldn’t keep her eyes off it.
“Could you lift that, Si?”
“I did 350 the other day. Got it right above my head,” Simon boasted.
“So, get that fat heap off the floor,” Reggie pushed.
“There’s just one problem,” Simon put in. “When you’re lifting weights you have bars to grip, space to take the proper stance and a belt so you don’t shit out your fucking spine, Reg.”
“Fuck you!” Kayleigh spat from the ground.
“No, fuck you!” Simon snapped back. “You greedy, fat cunt. Ever heard of a salad?”
“That’s enough,” Marcus intervened. “Between us we can get it back up the stairs and to the window.”
“I’m not going under an armpit,” Reggie objected.
“You’ve been worse places,” Simon teased.
“Not many.”
“Grab an arm each and I’ll push from here,” Marcus instructed. “We don’t have much time. Once the security guard catches his breath he may very well call the authorities. We need to be prepped before they get here. We have to get it up the stairs and we can roll it to the window from there.”
The removal of Kayleigh Clifton’s lard filled bulk commenced. They managed to get to the first landing with Tabitha following behind the triplets.
The triplets lined up and caught their breath.
Marcus sighed, “Alright, if we shoulder together we can shove it to the bottom of the next stairs … Reggie! Get off it!”
Reggie had laid himself across Kayleigh’s stomach and was rising up and down with her staggered wheezy breaths.
“It’s kinda like a waterbed,” chuckled the youngest. Simon snatched his arm and pulled him back onto his feet.
“Eugh. I’m all sticky now,” Reggie stated, causing Simon to shove him away.
“Can we focus?” Marcus barked at them. “We do have other guests waiting.”
The triplets lined up again. The scrummed together like they were in a rugby match and charged. Kayleigh was bowled over. Reggie let out a shriek as his hand slipped further than he intended into a somewhat tight, moist space.
“Ahhh!” he bawled. “I’m in it! I’m in it. Get me out!”
Simon pulled him back. Reggie’s arm freed with an audible thwoop!
“It was just one of the fat folds,” Simon observed. He didn’t want to be the one but he had to ask, “are you even wearing anything under that tent?”
“Why don’t you lift it up and see for yourself ya peacocking prick.”
Simon and Reggie shared a look. Then they committed to a game of stone, scissors, paper. Simon chose paper to cover Reggie’s rock. He gave a fist bump of relief so genuine you could have sworn Coldford City had won a penalty shootout. Reggie raised the floral tent Kayleigh was covered in releasing a stench of urine and more body odour.
“It’s hard to tell,” he said. “If there was anything in here it’s been sucked up.”
Marcus was starting to lose his patience. Hair was straying from the neat ponytail he wore.
“Can we please, for the love of all that is righteous, just get this disgusting behemoth out of the God damned window!”
Having rolled her to the second stairwell, Reggie and Simon lifted a leg each and Marcus clasped it from the top. A revolting cloud of flatulence engulfed them.
“Please tell me that was you, Reggie,” Simon said, hopefully.
Reggie’s nose wrinkled. He was trying not to vomit. Tabitha had started gagging quite dramatically too.
“Aye, ye’s are so scary I shit maself,” Kayleigh cried, defiantly.
Simon started to heave too.
“Will you hold it together,” Marcus ordered.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Simon.
“Vomit in your own time. We still have these stairs to get up.”
“I’m disabled,” Kayleigh cried.
“I’m going to be disabled by the time we get you to that fucking window,” Simon yelled. He had to stop himself as his stomach lurched again.
“I was just thinking,” said Reggie, resting a leg on his shoulder. “Do you think those kids that went missing are in there? Maybe it ate them?” He lifted the tent dress again. “Marley? Are you in there little man?”
“Those kids didn’t go missing,” said Tabitha. “Your blob there left them with no choice but go to the docks.”
The greed that Kayleigh Clifton personified was not to be underestimated. Tabitha would slice off the face of anyone without too much thought. However, as far as her triplet Penn family were concerned, valid reason had to be given for such drastic action. Kayleigh’s unapologetic theft and selfish discord through the Shanties and beyond left many desperate. The young people, lost to the docks, most likely faced a fate worse than death.
“You disgust me” Marcus had told Kayleigh and he meant it.
So they kept pushing and heaving up the second set of steps. Simon became conscious of being so close to the asshole end. Knowing shit had to come dripping from somewhere he raised his shoulder a bit so the chances were it would drip towards Reggie.
“Let’s switch places,” he eventually suggested to Marcus.
Marcus popped up from the other side of the heap.
“You really think it’s much easier up here?” asked the crown prince. “Madame, if you don’t stop trying to bite me I will extract your teeth!”
“Fucking try it, specky.”
Marcus disappeared behind the heap again. When he reappeared he was laughing a little hysterically, clasping a set of old filthy dentures. He snapped them at his brother. “Still want to take my place?”
“Nah, you’re alright,” Simon decided.
“Then keep pushing. We’re almost there.”
“You’re for it now, cunt.”
“Yes, thank you Tabitha.”
***
It had been a warm afternoon when Rita Penn had been making her way to the headquarters of the City Youth Fund. She was flanked on either side by sons, Marcus and Simon. She had a phone clasped to her ear, held in conversation with Tawny.
“The food drive up here was such a success,” the queen was explaining. “We’ve got some packages to send down your way.”
“Yer a star, honey!” Tawny cheered. “We’re going to get as many to Knock Knock as we can and whip up some hot meals.
Simon skipped forward and opened the door.
“I’m just on my way now,” said Rita, “I’ll give you a call back.”
Rita stepped into the hall, giving her son an affectionate pat on the face. “Thank you, baby.”
The hall was filled with volunteers and people still bringing in canned goods. Molly Walden was the one to greet them upon arrival.
“We’ve done well, ma’am,” said the wine merchant with a smile. “We’ve got a lot of cans. Some of the volunteers sorted some baby items and made up some gift packs for expecting mas.”
“That’s brilliant,” said Rita sincerely. “It’s really a job well done. I’ve let the Headliners know we’ll be sending some down their way. The Jolly Shopper said they’ll bring in some bread too.”
Molly placed her hands on her hips and took in the princes.
“And how are my boys?” she asked.
“Very well, thank you, Mrs Walden,” Marcus answered for them.
Molly chuckled.
“I’ve got a fight coming up, Mrs Walden,” Simon told her excitedly. “If you’re free this weekend are you able to come along and see?”
“I’ll be there,” Molly confirmed. “If you get into trouble I’ll jump in,” she jested jabbing the air. To Rita she said, “Mr Rugato is here, ma’am.”
Marcus and Simon followed their mother to a table where Mr Rugato, a potential patron of the CYF, was seated with his two daughters.
Mr Rugato of Tokashima had recently set up an electronics store in Main. he was also a professor of robotics at Cardyne college. When he heard of the Youth Fund he expressed an interest in making a sizeable donation. Molly had invited him along to the annual drive to see what progress was being made, accompanied by his two lovely daughters Amane and Izen. He was a round faced, cheerful sort of fellow dressed in a fine suit. He gave a courteous nod to the Queen of Main after which introductions were made.
“These are my sons, Marcus and Simon.”
Mr Rugato gave a bow to them. The daughters followed the behaviour of their father.
“You will have to meet some of our volunteers,” said Rita to the would be patron. “My boys would be happy to keep the young ladies company.”
“Of course, mother,” Marcus agreed. “Mrs Walden has been kind enough to provide some coffee and pastries if you would like to join us.”
The young ladies were quite thrilled at that idea. Amane clasped Simon’s arm firmly.
Pleasantries were exchanged, coffee and pastries were provided. The daughters regaled the triplets with tales from their homeland. Marcus and Simon offered some anecdotes about life in Coldford.
“So you’re twins then?” Amane asked, fluttering her eyelashes.
“We’re triplets, actually,” Simon explained.
“We’re missing the complete set today,” Marcus added causing Izen to giggle coquettishly.
Meanwhile, Mr Rogatu was speaking to one of the volunteers whilst Rita and Molly tended to the workers from Williams Distribution who would be packaging the food parcels and distributing them to where they were needed most.
“I fell pregnant. I was still really young,” the volunteer was explaining. “My parents didn’t want to know. They kicked me out. Luckily I had the CYF to turn to. Her Majesty – eh Mrs Penn – she set me up with help. Mrs Walden and others helped take care of me too. They made sure I got the medical care I needed and we all share babysitting duties so we can work or go to school. I just finished taking a night class in accountancy and Mrs Penn arranged a flat share for me. My baby and I have a nice little home now.”
Mr Rugato was impressed. “And you volunteer?”
“Most of us end up doing that. It’s nice to give a little back. There’s lots of help for troubled kids here too. We’ve set up sports teams, activities and a buddy system for some of the younger ones. Most recently we did the food drive you can see here. The Coldford City team got in on it. They did huge collections at the stadium of tins, baby items, hygiene products, whatever they could get. It went so well we’re gathering it all up and sharing some with other vulnerable parts of the city.”
Mr Rugato was confident in his decision to support the City Youth Fund. The chat with the young volunteer, seeing Rita’s personal dedication he couldn’t ask for more. Then trouble arrived as Kayleigh Clifton came crashing into the hall on her scooter, struggling to carry her weight. Her smell flowed over her immense body and beads of sweat were running down her wide back. Naturally she made a charge towards the pastries, barging owner of the tram system, Rufus Clarke and his son Ralph, out of the way who had been told by Molly to grab some refreshments after they had handed in more boxes of donated goods. When they saw Kayleigh reach out her great trunk of an arm and scoop up the last of the tarts, pressing her dirty thumbs into the icing with her eagerness, they decided it wouldn’t be much use. Nothing was going to be left anyway!
“I’m disabled!” Simon heard her yelling at someone who was objecting to her greed. She was already trying to stuff a tart into the gaping hole in her face. Marcus was consciously trying to keep his nose from wrinkling as Izen was telling him a delightful story of how she had written a book of Haikus and a waft of putrid flatulence came over them.
Having collected pastries, Kayleigh zipped across to the food parcels. On the way she bumped into Amane, sending the poor girl scoffing forward. Simon stood.
“You want to watch where you’re going?” he balled at her.
Kayleigh pulled the scooter around. She glared back at Simon. At least he assumed there was a glare under there.
She made her war cry. “I’m disabled!”
“Unless shameless rudeness is a symptom of your disability ma’am, you owe an apology,” Simon returned.
“Fuck you,” Kayleigh spat, sending crumbs from the most recent tart she devoured flying the young boxer’s way. Marcus stood too. Kayleigh saw this as a challenge.
Marcus knew Simon would already be seething enough to do something stupid so he maintained his own calm.
“Madame, you are an ill mannered, selfish glutton. What’s more you are choking this entire hall with your stench. Offer an apology that is richly deserved and move along.”
“Aye, sorry, whatever.”
Kayleigh then zipped off.
“Sorry about that, ladies,” said Simon to their company. “Unfortunately, good charity brings out some chancers.”
The middle triplet was indeed correct in that. Said chancer found her way to the table where Mr Rugato was being shown the food parcels. Kayleigh had moved the meat where her belly and breasts seemed to merge and was filling the basket in the front of her scooter with some of the donated goods.
“Are you a member of the fund?” the would be patron had been curious to know.
“Am fae the Shanties,” she declared.
“Is that a yes?”
“I own the Shanties,” she stated again.
Clifton Alley, Cliton Lane, most of Forresterhill as well as the Kirkton flats certainly were in the name of Clifton. Kayleigh’s claim to her brother’s estate was tentative at best. She did fancy herself head of the Shanties whilst Clifton Hall reigned in Hollyburn thanks to her brother and his wife, Valerie Flynn.
“Aw fuck. Fat arse is here,” Molly groaned. “Excuse the French ma’am. Molly was forgiven the language. Rita completely understood the sentiment. When she saw Kayleigh Clifton fill her basket with donated goods she approached to diffuse the situation.
“Those are donated goods, madame,” Rita confronted.
“Charity begins at home,” Kayleigh sneered. “I’m head of the Shanties.”
“Ha ha,” Rita chuckled. Then her expression fell serious. “No you’re not. The Chief speaks for the people of the Shanties and they decided their home is the Knock Knock Club. Good friends of mine run the place.”
“And who the fuck are you?” Kayleigh dared to ask.
Rita’s eyebrows raised with the sheer shock.
“Who am I!?”
Molly intervened. “Get on your way, ya fat cow. We all know you’re either going to eat it all yourself or sell it on for a profit. People need these parcels.”
“Walden?” Kayleigh turned her focus on Molly. The fucking turncoat. You a Mainer now. You forget where you come fae.”
Some people forget where they come from. Others can’t see where there going for that fat laying over the buckling scooter.
***
As she was rolled up to the window, Kayleigh could see twenty or so more bodies scattered around. There was some groaning among them. They were all heavily inebriated. Most of them had been three sheets to the wind by the time she got there.
As she was propped against the ledge one of the triplets gave a gasp, most likely Reginald Junior. She didn’t make it easy for them. She was a tough one to move. If they really wanted her to fall from Beckingridge Tower they would get her piss and shit all over them. The little bitch – Tabitha – opened the window as Reginald Penn’s triplets continued pushing her towards the ledge. Number twenty five – Derek Williams – glanced up at her. He knew he’d soon follow. The sight of Simon really putting his shoulder into it sobered him up.
“What if the fall doesn’t kill it?” Reggie wondered.
“It’s a 200ft high tower.”
“Yeah, but what if it bounces?”
Reggie took a look out of the window. “Do you think we could hit the Jeff Beckingridge statue from here?”
Tabitha waited by the window with her hands on her hips.
“Out you go, cunt,” she said.
Kayleigh should have known. She had been warned.
“Some little witch in a red dress,” Valerie had informed her. She has the Chief backing her. The Penns of Main have practically adopted her as one of their own. She’s pissed at the way the Shanties are run and she won’t stop.”
Laziness, greed, selfishness – all of those things made Kayleigh what she was.
She literally took from starving children. She held vital medicines to ransom. She exploited desperate families, forcing them to pay for their dignity all so she could feed an insatiable hunger. I can’t and won’t condone what happened at Beck Tower that night. However, what I can agree with Tabitha and the triplets on was something had to be done.
“You think you know the Shanties? You’re a little Filton tart,” Kayleigh had said to Tabitha.
“Hey!” Simon barked. “Don’t talk to her like that.” His frustration caused him to bump against her body. The bump caused a ripple effect, flicking Reggie at his end with some sweat.
“Ewwww! You just flicked fat juice in my face,” the youngest complained.
Simon laughed. This didn’t appease his brother. Reggie pursed his lips and pushed the belly sending the ripple back towards the middle one. A sprinkle of putrid moisture caught the boxer.
“Uggggh. I didn’t get you anywhere near as much as that,” Simon moaned. Before he could push the belly back again Marcus halted them.
“When you two are quite finished.” Asking the Boss Lady, Marcus continued, “You wished to say something, Tabitha?”
“You’ll be pleased to know what you leave behind will pay back the ones you stole from, at least the ones that survived the starvation and exposure on the streets.” She took a moment to take Kayleigh Clifton in again. There was a lot to observe.
Marcus took over.
“Madame, your gluttonous appetite left innocent others in need. That cannot be allowed. A recession is causing a city wide suffering and that is because of people like you. As you fall …”
Marcus stopped and took a deep breath.
“I don’t even have the energy to finish what I had to say. Let’s just get it out of here it’s stinking up the place.”
HEAVE! HEAVE! HEAVE!
“Should have said thank you, cunt,” Tabitha reminded her.
At that Kayleigh Clifton plummeted from Beckingridge Tower, number nineteen in the Freefall Massacre. The sheer weight of her greed pulled her down.
SPLAT!
“Missed the statue,” said Reggie.
“I’ve just thought of something,” said Simon. “She’s meant to be disabled so she’s never took her fat arse off that scooter. Don’t you think the authorities are going to find it a bit of a stretch when they’re told she walked up those stairs, to the window and threw herself out?”
“How much do you think that scooter weighs?
“God fucking damnit.”
Chaos is unfolding in Coldford City as an event that would become known as the Freefall massacre sees fifty nine bank executives fall to their deaths.
Read Issue 17 of the Knock Knock series free online HERE
