I, Romantic

by Anthony North

I, Romantic

  By Anthony North

  Copyright Anthony North 2013

  Cover image copyright, Yvonne North 2013

  Other books by Anthony North

  I, TRILOGY INTRODUCTORY VOLUME

  I, STORYTELLER SERIES

  I, POET SERIES

  Inmate Earth: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/237329

  Bard Stuff: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/252874

  Mind Burps: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/272508

  Verse Fest: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/302837

  I, THINKER SERIES

  I, Paranormal: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/237339

  I, Essayist: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/259928

  I, Society: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/272861

  I, Unexplained: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/303478

  I, Observer: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/304480

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  TOP SLICE

  As I Am

  Leaves

  The Shine

  The Day Is Now

  MINI NOVEL FILLING

  Autumn of the Soul

  Junction To Normalville

  Hell Bound

  MIDDLE SLICE

  Bar At the End of the Road

  Going Back

  When Winter Comes

  ANOTHER MINI NOVEL FILLING

  A Matter of Faith

  Play an Old Song

  Second Time Around

  BOTTOM SLICE

  The Survivor

  The Searcher

  The Race

  Happy Meal

  Flight

  Distant Thoughts

  A Burning Passion

  Second Chance

  The Greatest Scar

  My Valentine Pure

  FAIRVIEW TALES

  A Dying Love

  The Man Who Could Heal

  The Silent Musician

  From Another Place

  The House Visitor

  Bang, Bang, You're Dead

  About the Author

  Connect With Anthony

  INTRODUCTION

  Welcome to my love fest. After writing about crimes and horrors and intergalactic nasties, I thought I'd show my more romantic side. Hence, in this collection of Flash Fiction you'll find a delicious double-decker cream cake of human interaction, stuffed with a selection of Mini Novels (1,500 words tales so full they think they're bigger). But be warned - it is romance with bite; and to end the feast, my cops 'n' docs series, Fairview Tales.

  AS I AM

  ‘My favourite restaurant is …’

  He stopped. He looked at the cameras, the studio audience, the inane idiot asking the questions. Revelations, when they come, are fundamental things, and he suddenly realized this was not important. He threw the mike to the floor and stormed out.

  His name was Flinders Freeman – well, it wasn’t really, but his real name had no ring to it. And as he had intended to become a billionaire by marketing a brand, he may as well start with his name. And he was good at what he did, soon rising from eating in cheap fast food joints, to the top restaurants in town, and eventually he dined with royalty and presidents.

  Flinders never doubted what he was about. He had a confidence greater than most people could dream of achieving. Or maybe it was simply a delusion of grandeur. No doubt that was why, once he’d made the money, he agreed to that stupid show – a game show about wannabe entrepreneurs, for God’s sake! And it wasn’t even original, with similar idiots doing it before him!

  He’d met Jessica on that first show. He’d never had any trouble with women, but Jessica? She had been different. Younger than him, yes, but what did that matter nowadays?

  She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he was soon under her spell. ‘I want you,’ he had said, on numerous occasions, but always that same reply: ‘You haven’t done enough in life to have me yet.’

  Of course, it crossed his mind that she was a gold digger who wanted it all, but it made no difference – she was a witch and he was under her spell. Thoughts of her consumed him. And perhaps that was why he took his eye off the ball – beginning the day he walked out on that show.

  It only takes one mistake in the shark infested waters of big business. And, distracted, he had made that mistake. It took months to unravel, but the kiss of death was upon him, and people knew it. And when he finally went bust, it was spectacular.

  It was a couple of weeks later, trying to eat in the cheap fast food joint, when he saw Jessica stood by him.

  He seemed a different man, his shoulders hunched, his confident demeanour gone, a vulnerability about him no one had ever seen before.

  He smiled, weakly. ‘Well, you won’t want me now,’ he said, ‘I’ve lost it all.’

  Jessica smiled, too. She saw him as a human being for the first time, and knew he had done enough.

  ‘Or maybe you’ve just found it,’ she said, and she kissed him.

  LEAVES

  I knew him most of my life, and if anyone was ever affected by destiny, it was he. I remember him telling me, as a teenager, how he met her. He was riding his pushbike one autumn afternoon when a fallen leaf flew at him and seemed to cling to his face.

  Predictably, he could see nothing and he fell off. Laid on the ground, he opened his eyes and saw her. It was love at first sight and they both knew it. However, too young to get married, they counted down the seasons until that day, their mood seeming to reflect the colour of the leaves as they changed.

  Finally wed one autumn, they surrounded themselves with friends and family, and I can still see the picture in my mind, stood among the congregating leaves on the ground.

  Their life was a happy one together. No children would come from their union, but the only real black spot in their relationship was one autumn when, after a stupid argument, he walked out. Of course, he didn’t get very far as he slipped on wet leaves on the path and twisted his ankle. By the time he could walk out of the house again, he had no wish to do so – not ever.

  As they aged together, I remember thinking they had seemed to parallel the cycle of the leaf themselves, going from the lusciousness of first life in the spring, through a summer of abundant love, and now into a slightly more wrinkled and golden autumn. And the cycle may well have continued had she not died.

  How can I explain the absolute desolation of his winter, not a leaf in sight?

  He withdrew into himself, and I hardly saw him during that winter, as I had to go away. Yet I remember finding him the following spring, in the garden at the back of his house, under a tree, lying quite dead. Yet, there was a sublime smile on his face as the branches seemed to intertwine. And the leaves stroked him.

  THE SHINE

  He took a last look at the moon before he went in. Its shine offered a sense of comfort. But as he went through the door and turned on the torch, he realized its pencil beam would maybe light the way ahead, but that shine had gone.

  A dullness encapsulated him as soon as the darkness, the smell, hit him. It was a pungent aroma and he wanted to gag. At first the torch lit the path he thought he had to follow, but he sensed he was not alone. Swaying the beam from side to side, he saw them, leant against the walls of the corridor, legs splayed, bodies like rag dolls, and that manic dullness in their eyes.

  He checked each face in turn, and soon realized she wasn’t amongst them. He’d have to descend deeper into this hell, he knew.

  How had it all gone so wrong?

  They had met and it was love at first sight. Their life together really shone, and they had much to look forward to. He was successful in his job, and the cannabis habit she’d transferred to him. They enjoyed it occasionally to relax.
After all, what harm could it do?

  What a stupid argument. Yes, the wealthy middleclass could indulge, because it remained recreational to them. Their lives were good, and they had no need of escape. But the not so wealthy took the same drugs, but for different reasons – to escape the crap of their lives. For them it never shone, so addiction rises as a means to make the mind shine for a brief, fleeting moment. And as the shine wares off, a bigger shine is required, and heroin isn’t far off.

  As she found out as the Downturn meant he lost everything – his job, his house, his self respect. And it was inevitable she would seek to escape … and escape, and escape, and escape …

  She’d left him eventually.

  It took him an age to find her – follow her tracks. And he’d found out she’d been doing tricks for her fix – her pathetic shine. And eventually he tracked her to here …

  She was laid out in the second room, her shine long over and now just a shell of the life that once was. He leant down, shook her, receiving only a faint groan and a pathetic attempt to push him away with a weak, pin-pricked arm. But he wasn’t going to let go of her now.

  He picked her up, carried her, stumblingly, out of the den.

  He was shocked to see he had been in there so long, and the night had given way to a bright morning sun, just rising over the horizon to shine upon another day.

  Perhaps it was the warmth of the shine that stirred her, and lazily she opened her eyes. Focusing, she recognized him, and for a brief moment the dullness went and they shone as once they had.

  And as he took her away from that place, he was determined they would shine again.

  THE DAY IS NOW

  The visits were rare to begin with, but as time passed they became more and more frequent. How can I describe her? To me she is perfection; everything I could possibly want in a woman. Not just looks, but personality – a soul more free than I had ever known.

  Our life together opened the door to new experience – of adventure, of companionship, of the more exotic. And my life was complete, as it had never been complete before.

  Until she went away …

  And my life descended to misery unimaginable. Until she again made her entry. But now it is mainly torment. To see her like that, but unable to be truly with her.

  Someday I would be, I said to myself … some day.

  Well as I look at you now my love, standing before me, I know that day is now.

  So I take up the poison and drink. They will bury me next to you my love, but my spirit will be with you soon.

  AUTUMN OF THE SOUL

  When Alan Jeffries walked into the nursing home to see his father he saw the most horrific thing he’d ever seen in his life. For there, in the corner, Percival Jeffries rested one hand on his walking stick and held seventy five year old Rita Madden in his other arm. With a slight shake of the body, he struggled to control his deep cough and spittle whilst his and Rita’s lips met in what can only be described as an awkward but definitely passionate kiss.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing,’ said Alan, a successful, if pompous businessman, totally different from his devil-may-care father.

  Percival released his grip on Rita, hobbled round on his stick, and said: ‘I really should have given those sex lessons, shouldn’t I’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting, father. This is revolting.’

  Rita Madden tutted. ‘Tell it how it is, son, don’t hold back.’

  ‘I’m not your son,’ said Alan. Then, turning to his father: ‘And at times I wish I wasn’t yours.’

  Percival offered a dismissive gesture, hobbled round once more on his stick and, placing his arm once more around Rita, they hobbled into the day room.

  ‘I’m telling you, Mary, it was disgusting,’ said Alan when he arrived home.

  Mary Jeffries, Alan’s wife, sat on the settee taking it all in. ‘And he really kissed her?’

  ‘He did. And … and … oh God! There were tongues!’

  Both Alan and Mary winced at this. Eventually, Mary said: ‘So what are we going to do?’

  ‘Well,’ said Alan, ‘it’s got to stop. That’s for sure.’

  Further thought followed. Both Alan and Mary sat in silence.

  Alan had always been embarrassed by his father, even when his mother was alive. He never found evidence that his father was a philanderer, but he certainly enjoyed surrounding himself with women. And on top of that he smoked, drank and gambled. Indeed, that is why Alan rebelled at an early age, deciding that he would be the total opposite, becoming not only pompous, but prudish, reliable and a pillar of the community.

  ‘Very good, Alan,’ Percival used to say. ‘But when do you live?’

  Pulling himself out of his thoughts, Alan said: ‘Well, Mary, there’s only one option.’

  ‘What’s that dear?’

  ‘We’ll have to move him.’

  While his son was deciding his fate, Percival Jeffries sat comfortably on the settee in the day room, offering snarls to any fogies who disturbed him. He indulged in much practice. Coming up for air, Rita Madden said: ‘So what are you going to do about your son?’

  Percival smiled. ‘I think he’s too old for a good hiding.’

  ‘No, I’m serious,’ said Rita. ‘He could get awkward.’

  ‘Not as awkward as that doctor,’ said Percival.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He won’t let me have Viagra.’

  Rita moved her hand down. ‘Do you really need it?’ she said. Percival felt a stirring, but it was a long way from better days. But as it was, Viagra was not to be the most important issue for Percival Jeffries and Rita Madden, for two days later Alan walked into the nursing home and told his father, forcefully, that another room had been booked for him at another home.

  ‘Well I’m not going,’ said Percival.

  ‘Then you’ll be on the streets,’ replied Alan, ‘because I’m not going to pay any more if you don’t move.’

  Maybe it was his age. But Percival eventually gave in. He knew he had little choice; little energy to fight his son like this. But as he sat all alone in his new room in his new nursing home, he doubted the old spark would keep him breathing much longer. How can a man live without happiness, he thought to himself. My son has gone and killed me.

  It was Mary who visited him a couple of days later. ‘You look a bit peeky,’ she said.

  Percival looked at his daughter-in-law. ‘And how would you feel if you could never see Alan again?’

  Mary thought long and hard about that. Finally, she decided Percival was making too much of all this.

  ‘I’m not,’ said Percival. ‘Who the hell does he think he is, taking me away from Rita like that?’

  ‘But Dad, you reach an age when you really must grow up, you know?’

  ‘So only kids fall in love?’

  Mary felt she had to say yes; for when you do grow up with the man you used to love, you realise it was maybe only a childish fancy anyway.

  ‘Well he’s killing me,’ said Percival. ‘And you’re his accomplice.’

  Percival’s words just wouldn’t go out of Mary’s head over the following days. She went about her life as if in a daze. Oh, she did everything she had to do. Did the housework, the shopping, took care of busy Alan’s every whim. But her mind simply hadn’t been on it.

  At forty five, Mary Jeffries had retained much of her good looks of old. Even her body had remained compliant with what her mind wanted. And it was predictable that, going through life, other men had noticed her. The latest was Rod, a distant friend and colleague of Alan’s. He had often pestered her to sleep with him – as had the others – but she had always remained true to Alan.

  He wasn’t a bad sort, she was sure. He had never hit her; never failed to provide for her; never even ignored her - except …

  Well, passion was not a thing Alan did. Maybe that was part of his rebellion against his father.

  Yes, his father. Oh, dear Percival. Always full of life
. Although joking. Always …

  Mary decided that when you’re forty five and you’re jealous of a man approaching eighty, something just had to be done.

  She exited Rod’s flat in a dream. She had been taken to places she had never been before, and never intended to be denied such pleasures again. Indeed, she never knew that her body could react in that way, be so stimulated, so ecstatic, and, let’s face it, so gymnastic. And then she began to think about Percival.

  She had planned it well. She had found them a place miles away from Alan. But as always, Percival had to do something that was not part of the plan – such as visiting his son.

  ‘But I hadn’t planned for that,’ said Mary as she drove.

  ‘Maybe that’s your problem,’ said Percival. ‘Planning takes the fun out of life.’

  And as Mary waited in the car with Rita, she could imagine the fun Percival was having. And when he returned, Mary drove them off for their new life knowing that her fun had just begun.

  As for Alan, he had never really had any fun. And tied to the back of his dining chair, he certainly wasn’t having fun at that moment.

  Of course, he could have had fun – could have discovered his soul at any time during life. And now, facing the crisis of being imprisoned in his own home, those niggling things of life made sure fun would still not invade him. Rather, all he thought about at that moment is what damage his father could do with his credit cards before he got himself free and cancelled them.

  JUNCTION TO NORMALVILLE

  'Normalville. Queue here'

  Alan looked at the sign and sighed. The bus station was about empty and it was getting dark. And to top it all, the only sign he could see was for a place he'd never heard of. Unless, that is, it was a metaphor for the life he had led. And if that was the case, it was the last queue he wanted to join.

  Momentarily, he stood, undecided what to do. Yet, in almost sheer desperation, he finally sat down. Oh well, he thought, all I want is to get out of this place. So I guess it will be as good a starting point as any.

  There was only one other person in the 'queue', so he sat down beside her, the bench somehow cosy in its plastic and glass shelter; a sort of barrier between him and the rest of the world.