RSS Feed

‘Short stories’ Category

  1. Script fragment

    April 7, 2012 by Mathew Ferguson

    EXT – ROOF.
    CHRIS RUDOLPH lays under grey webbing using a computer tablet to adjust a sniper rifle focussed on the front of a distant building. Suddenly the tablet rings and HOME appears. He taps ACCEPT and two young children (a boy and a girl) appear.
    BOY (ANDREW)
    She put her finger in my cereal!
    He’s sobbing, distraught. The greatest injustice of the universe.
    GIRL (SARAH)
    He put his finger in my cereal! He’s lying!
    CHRIS (weary)
    Don’t put your fingers in the cereal.
    The children immediately start squabbling and drop the tablet. We hear them running off yelling for MOM. The family dog approaches and starts licking the glass of the tablet.
    CHRIS
    No Bailey! Bailey No!
    Bailey paws at the tablet and manages to hang up. Chris sighs as the view flips back to the sniper crosshairs. A white-haired old man is exiting the building heading for a limo.
    CHRIS
    Shit!
    He hits a target symbol and the sniper rifle locks on. He presses FIRE but it’s too late – the target is ducking down. The glass door of the building shatters. Bodyguards shove the old man inside the limo a moment before a Mr Whippy Van skids to a stop, blocking the view. The driver bolts.
    Chris sighs and drags the crosshairs to a gas cylinder on the back of the van.
    CHRIS
    Sorry, Mr Whippy.
    Fire. The bottle explodes and takes the van with it but too late again – the limo is roaring away with a squeal of tires. The giant fibreglass ice-cream cone goes spinning through the air and crashes through the windshield of a parked car. Chris lets out a deep sigh. Just then the tablet rings again with HOME displayed. He hits ACCEPT.
    It’s Bailey. He’s still licking the tablet.
    INT – OFFICE.
    Chris is sitting at a desk talking to an unseen screen.
    CHRIS
    No one can predict a Mr Whippy Van blocking the shot!
    VOICE
    He has fled the country. We don’t know where he is.
    CHRIS
    I’ll find him.
    VOICE
    Is that a volcano?
    Behind him we see a school project volcano under construction.
    CHRIS
    Can’t get the lava to work.
    VOICE
    Try corn syrup and cocoa powder. Thickens it.
    CHRIS
    I’ll give it a shot.
    VOICE
    Very funny.
    EXT – HOUSE, DOG Kennel.
    Chris retrieves the computer tablet from Bailey’s kennel.
    *****
    Something I wrote very quickly to entertain my housemate.

    Category Short stories | Tags: | No Comments

  2. Chase

    March 30, 2012 by Mathew Ferguson

    The girl who bit me was blonde and most likely a lawyer or a stripper. Sometimes on King Street it was hard to tell the difference.

    A moment before:

    There I am, waiting for James. In my hand is a phone: the peak of technology. In my wallet are credit cards that link to a global banking network with near-instantaneous transmission. Around me are skyscrapers and powerlines filled with electricity and water pipes and the culmination of all human effort and application.

    I don’t even turn as she rushes toward me; the streets are crowded and you block everything out.

    The bite.

    Right shoulder. A meaty right shoulder bulked up by swimming twice a week. She had plenty to sink her teeth into.

    A moment after:

    There I am, biting and clawing. My phone is broken on the ground. My wallet is gone, dropped somewhere as I bolted down King street. I have meat in my mouth. Around me are people falling from skyscrapers. The powerlines are dead. The culmination of all human effort and application is toppling in a slow fall.

    I swallow my mouthful of meat and continue to run.

    No, that’s not right.

    I swallow my mouthful of meat and continue to chase.

    Category Short stories | Tags: | No Comments

  3. D

    August 20, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson

    Debauched Duchess demanded; demure dairymaid denied; damsel damned. Dapper daredevil defeated Duchess. Damsel deflowered!

    Category Short stories | Tags: | No Comments

  4. Three hot words

    August 20, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson

    Sad little pony

    Crying before, after

    I’ll disobey you

    Just three more

    Day before deportation

    Only me? Liar

    We’ll start again

    First slap warning

    Pillow over face

    A cajoled yes

    More than cousins

    My sweetest friend

    A little bite

    Focus on pain

    Cut myself today

    Nothing changed afterwards

    Toothpaste oddly erotic

    Be my Huckleberry

    Need your DNA

    Hot room shiver

    Mime girl screamed

    Sock puppet threesome

    She packs meat

    Furry girl purred

    Iron Man fantasy

    Sobbing won’t help

    Stupid biological imperative

    I want candy

    Only lab coat

    Bound her, left

    Willing to learn

    Scratch my itch

    You’re my cowboy

    Let forever be

    Intent to misbehave

    Come break me

    Many objects vibrate

    Someone is crying

    Until it’s light

    Area vagina inspector

    Swedish, Japanese, next?

    Poetry gets results

    Dressed as zombie

    Sudden supermarket slap

    We both pretended

    Dark eyes, hair

    Disobedient girl bitten

    Writers get fucked

    Brat me, huh

    Future fuck guaranteed

    Ties for tying

    Bite, spank, repeat

    Whispered brand names

    Play my game

    Oh man, Latina

    Asleep inside you

    Deliberate condom break

    Mouthful hot tea

    Nightclub, here Puss

    Don’t tell Dad

    Hippiegirls don’t shave

    Drunken accidental blur

    Cough was clench

    Bound my Asian

    Reckless teenage babysitter

    Wrong number bootycall

    Alone in morgue

    Grave, shovel, darkness

    Intelligence my aphrodisiac

    Stopwatch camera cucumber

    Little death again

    Lie to me

    Keep it secret

    Giggly Jewish girl

    Collar and leash

     

    ***

    A Twitter game that is also a good writing exercise.

    Category Short stories | Tags: | No Comments

  5. Pomegranate innards

    July 9, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson

    ‘Pomegranate innards,’ said James.

    Mrs Hutchinson turned on her spot so quickly she was almost a blur.  ‘THAT word, James, will not be used in my class room.’

    ‘What, pomegranates?’

    ‘No, the … other one.  I do not want to hear it!’

    ‘Innards,’ Pike whispered loud enough for everyone to hear.

    ‘I said, Mr Pike, that I did not want to hear that word.’ Mrs Hutchinson shook herself in disgust.  ‘That word is so … squelchy.’

    ****

    Yet another fragment.

    Category Short stories | Tags: | No Comments

  6. Puritan Monkey

    July 9, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson

    Of all the varieties of monkey — trust monkey, suck monkey, policy monkey — there are none as persnickety, as finicky, as ‘holier-than-thou because I’m wearing pants and you are not’ as the Puritan monkey.

    This species, easily identifiable by the furrowed ‘I told you so’ brow, and pointed waving finger, are also known as the preacher monkey.  They delight in telling people off and curtailing any kind of fun activity.

    Frequent letter-writers and campaigners against, well, practically everything, they have in recent years orchestrated campaigns against: butter, I can’t believe it’s not butter, butter-flavoured popcorn, shorts, open-toe sandals, balloons, shiny objects, string, fruits that are too ‘fancy’, and croutons.

    Currently, they are waging letter-writing war against the Monkey Knife-fighting Association (MKFA).  Their main forum of complaint is on the eBay pages that sell MKFA merchandise.  Their tightly worded missives (which try to avoid too many verbs  because they ‘excite the lustful urges’) are the equivalent of a handful of poo flung at random people — they hit, but have no effect apart from making people angry.

    It is quite sad that the Puritan monkey has chosen this path.  Back in the day they knew how to rock out, like, seriously.

    From en.wikipedia.org

    ***

    Years ago I went out with a lovely girl named Tali. This is an email I sent her from work.

    Category Short stories | Tags: | No Comments

  7. Babies with moustaches

    July 9, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson

    We had blood-blisters, ink stains and dirty knees and James said if the pumpkins he planted don’t grow then he’s going to:

    Burn

    Shit

    Down.

    Kelly doused her fingers in turpentine and then a tissue and started cleaning hands. Flashback to primary school parties, cake and being sticky 90% of the time.

    That sounds about right said John and he has a statistics degree so he’d know.

    Nothing on the web so far said Amanda and kept hitting refresh.

    Emily was sitting quietly on the sofa, deep into seeing if it feels like reality has bent enough tonight. She’s half-breathing, lips open and closed eyes still blinking. Running from the corners of her eyes are thin blue lines of ink, tracing the beginnings of crow’s feet, tracing old age creeping up.

    Someone has started a website of babies with stick-on moustaches said Amanda and hit refresh again.

    I’m serious. I’ll burn shit down said James.

     

    ***

    Man, this needs some explaining. What the what? Pumpkin planting, checking the web and seeing if reality has been bent enough? If I could remember I’d tell you but I honestly cannot remember writing this nor remember what it is about or if it is even finished. Sometimes these random fragments turn up during the chatter and I dutifully write them out, again.

    Category Short stories | Tags: | No Comments

  8. Claude the Claustrophobic Summer Seal

    May 8, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson

    The Continuing Adventures of Claude the Claustrophobic Summer Seal was cancelled six episodes in and a minor wave of protest rose up online and James tried to get his work involved but most of them were zombies and more interested in marketing plans for brand extension, segmentation, brains and what tweens thought was hot this quarter because the pre-tweens always trend up.

    Elisa was on the web searching out not just data or datum but information itself. She tracked best boys and grips and first directors and makeup artists and pulled every thread she could until one of those threads led to Mark who was putting in the years as a near-nameless writer.

    She met him on Saturday and we James Bonded it with the best of what we’d learned about surveillance from television. We had guys on roofs and cars rotating the lead and walkie talkies and even a complex code which didn’t turn out too well because everyone forgot what buffalo grass meant, especially when paired with a pink moon falling.

    Andrew and Sarah were debating whether to hack into dedicated spy satellite and this debate went into high gear when Elisa grabbed Mark and zipped away from the cafe using William’s home-made zip-line gun. It was confusion multiplied then: fifty joggers in Sumo suits blocking the road, a bunch of hot air balloons shaped like dinosaurs floating up, a confetti and glitter tornado and a box of the most adorable kitties you did ever see.

    We shut down the operation and went home only to find a shoe in the lounge and someone in the bathroom having a shower. A glance was batted around and James tried to do the one-eyebrow lift but those individual face muscles didn’t want to go it alone so both eyebrows went up. They were up and really had nowhere to go when Elisa walked Mark through the lounge, both wrapped in bathrobes, picked up the shoe and continued on to her bedroom as though no dairy based yellow solid would ever melt in her mouth.

    James was all for teargas and kicking down the door and duct tape and shouting treason but Sarah calmed him down and pointed out how well the box of kitties had been planned.

    They may have only filmed thirteen episodes of Claude’s adventures but with Elisa on the case, we’d get to see every single one and find out all the answers.

    Who was Murmur the Not So Silent Mime working for?

    What was Aromatherapist Horatio’s Secret Plan?

    Why did Dr Moustache never enter Betty’s Garden?

    Where was the Pie Baron hiding his recipes?

    How would Claude uncover the truth and rescue Crystal Juliet?

     

     

    Category Short stories | Tags: | No Comments

  9. Sunshine

    April 28, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson

    John was on the run, mud-splashed and wild and when he kicked in the front door Lucy went and locked herself in the bathroom.

    He showed us the sunshine he’d stolen and smushed into an empty pasta sauce jar and James immediately sped out into the darkness of two weeks thus far to pick up some marshmallows.

    For a while there was pleading but Lucy wouldn’t open the door, not even when John claimed he’d stolen it for her. She knew it wasn’t the truth because she’d been sober and straight the night two years ago when he’d come home from his bullshit callcentre job angry, furious really, at being the end result so far of millions of successful ancestors and there he was draining away every day, animate but not alive, moving but staying dead still.

    John had rushed in the door and told us about the moment of clarity, the cusp of a grand idea which had hit six minutes after he got on the train to come home.

    We were drunk and high, except Lucy who was sober and low and so while Andrew was quite willing to go along with the pretense of John doing it for her, she knew the shiny steel truth.

    James was back with the marshmallows soon enough and we clicked off the lid and started roasting. Words words words wrapped together and thrown against Lucy’s knowledge with no result but then the scent of burnt sugar slid under the door and out came Lucy and no one moved or even pretended to notice when she hugged John from behind and pressed her face against his back.

    Category Short stories | Tags: | No Comments

  10. Glare

    April 23, 2011 by Mathew Ferguson

    the glare party was a roaring success or a glaring success because the one thing about winning a glare is that roaring doesn’t help you

    emily was throwing cheese on a pizza when simon and amanda started up and that pizza was cooling on the rack when simon finally cracked and amanda won

    simon went off to surf the internet for tips on how to win a glare stating that when he came back he was going to:

    1)      wipe the floor with amanda

    2)      have some cocoa

    jules started talking during his glare which isn’t against the rules but generally frowned upon but he was doing this dead-on impression of papa smurf drunk and belligerant, trying to return his movie ticket after walking out of pretty woman halfway through and papa smurf kept slipping into a scottish accent while complaining that pretty woman needed more car accidents and zebras and dinosaurs and capsicums and peppersauce and a pony named tony and BAM that was the joke that knocked emily right out of the glare

    Category Short stories | Tags: | No Comments

Older Entries