Christmas with the Cubes

I received a pack of Rory's Story Cubes as a Christmas present from my son. A set of nine six-sided dice, each face inscribed with a different image. Examples include: a question mark, a book, a shooting star, a hand, an eight-pointed star. The dice themselves are quite heavy and of beautiful quality (I play a lot of wargames and have an extensive collection of dice, not many of which match the story cubes for sheer quality).

On reading the "rules", it seems the game can be played in at least two ways. Firstly, roll three dice and use the pictures to describe a character. Secondly, roll all nine dice to tell a story. Here are some examples, generated after a particularly delicious (and huge) Christmas meal ...

1) Character

Three Dice: Question Mark, Book, D6
Character: An RPG PC. He doesn't know who he is, so rolls a D6 and consults a rule book.

2) Character

Three Dice: 8-point star, walking stick, house
Character: An old man, hobbling with a walking stick. He is heading home but gets lost. No matter which way he turns, he can't find his way home.

3) Character

Three Dice: Dragon, Apple, Wand
Character: A wizard who tricks a dragon with a golden apple, with the aim of retrieving a wand from the dragon's treasure pile.

4) An Event

Three Dice: Abacus, Lightning Bolt, The World

Event: A calculation goes wrong which causes massive storms and the world is thrown into post-apocalyptic nightmares.

5) A Story

Nine Dice: Sheep, Walking Stick, Pyramid, Sleep, Hand, World, Fish, Shooting Star, Book

Story Seed: It's night time and the world is asleep. A shooting star streaks across the sky and hits the ground, breaking the entrance into a pyramid. An old shepherd, who has had fish for supper, rounds up his flock with his crook and moves them to safety. Deep in the bowels of the pyramid, a book whose cover is stamped with a red hand, begins to glow.

6) A Story

Nine Dice: Apple, Moon, D6, Worried Face, Mobile Phone, Speech Bubble, Eye, L Plate, Keyhole

Story Seed: It's night time and a crescent moon rides low in the sky. An apprentice peeps through the keyhole. His mentor is speaking in some strange language into an even stranger device (Apple iPhone :-) ). When the mentor listens to the device, he has a worried expression on his face. There's a chance things will go badly wrong after this conversation. 

I think the cubes would make an excellent party game. I might bring them down to the next Fiction Fix. They certainly get the ideas flowing, even if it can be a bit of a stretch to include all the dice (the shepherd's fish supper, for instance).

Just One Second

An Observation

I've spent a lot of time over the years waiting for trains. Occasionally, when I glance at a station clock, the first second of that glance seems to take ages. When the clock ticks to the next second, time seems to catch up with itself and the seconds tick by normally.

Maybe this is just me being cynical - after all, the train companies are known for delays! - but it got me thinking. What might happen in that long second? So here's an idea with a slight Christmas feel ...

Search for "The Physics of Santa Claus" for some interesting information.

===

A corporate board room ...

The representatives of the top five toy, game and leisure companies gathered around a long, glossily polished conference table. These were powerful individuals, who controlled the hopes and dreams of every child on the planet. They did not like to be kept waiting and Mr Smith had kept them waiting for over half an hour.

"This is ridiculous," growled the chairman of Mattel, Inc. He made to leave but, at that very second, the double doors at the far end of the boardroom opened.

Standing there was a small, young-looking man, wearing a dark green suit, red shirt and green tie. His blond hair was cut short and his ears were quite definitely pointed. Smith smiled politely. "Ladies and gentlemen, I apologise for keeping you waiting. It's the Devil's own business getting the sleigh parked around here!"

Smith waited for the laughs but they didn't come. Oh well. To business, he thought.

"As you are all aware, we are in the run-up to the most joyous time of year. Children the world over are being as good as they possibly can be, writing their lists and posting them to the North Pole. Some even write several lists - I know because my team double checks each one - to try and sneak extra presents past their parents. These children, of course, end up on the Naughty List." Again, no laughs from the assembled CEOs. Damn they're a tough audience, Smith thought.

"Naughty or Nice doesn't really matter at this time. We all know our good and bad points. What we're here to talk about," the elf went on, "is delivery."

"Hogwash," blurted Mattel. "We all know it's the parents who do all the buying, wrapping and delivery. Your boss is merely a front-man. A figurehead. Has been for over 2000 years. We rule Christmas." He looked around the table for support and saw nods from Hasbro, Parker Brothers and even Sony.

"Not for much longer. You see, Mr Claus has decided to re-assert his authority and legal rights on the issue. This," Smith produced a roll of parchment from thin air, "is the original agreement." He unrolled the scroll and slid it onto the conference table. "As you can see, it was signed in Bethlehem by the Three Wise Men - the original gift bringers - and Mr Claus. He has inalienable rights to the delivery process."

Sony spoke up next. "That document is out-of-date rubbish. Our legal teams will tear it to shreds and Mr Claus won't have a leg to stand on."

Smith ignored the outburst. He had expected this from the company whose last original idea had been over ten years ago. He continued smoothly, gazing at the placid, and rather attractive, face of the Parker Brothers representative. She looked almost as perfect as one of their products. "Delivery is rather a two way process, don't you think? Goods get sent from one place and arrive at their destination. Of course, there are some time delays between despatch and receipt, but they are built in to the process. Have been for millennia."

"It doesn't take magic to move all that product," Mattel sneered. "It takes bloody hard work and a logistics chain that spans the world. One fat guy in a sleigh can't compete with our resources."

"Oh, but magic can compete," Smith replied. "Compete and grind your logistics and supply chains into the slush."

"We've all seen the physics, Mr Smith." When Parker Brothers spoke, her voice was almost musical, as perfect as the voice recordings her products used. "The speed required to deliver all in one night is impossible to achieve. The friction alone would be enough to turn the reindeer into Blitzen-burgers," the other directors sniggered at that.

Smith fumed inwardly. How could she raise a laugh when his best lines had failed miserably? He rallied well, however. "You haven't seen all the physics, Ms Parker. In fact, there exists a branch of physics even Professor Hawking would have difficulty understanding."

"Here we go," muttered Mattel, "bluff and swagger will not get us to surrender our market dominance."

The boardroom clocks, which showed the time in seven different cities world wide, clicked to thirty-six seconds. 

Smith examined his fingernails for a moment. "Have you ever noticed," he said to no-one in particular, "how when you glance at a clock, that first second seems to take longer than the rest? How that second seems to stretch before the rest of time runs to catch up? No?" He looked up at the assembled directors who stared blankly back. "Imagine, if you can, how much could be accomplished in Just One Second."

The boardroom clocks clicked to thirty-seven seconds.  As the clocks ticked to thirty-eight seconds, every mobile phone in the room started ringing. Warehouses in seven different timezones had been emptied in a split second.

"Delivery, as I said, is a two way process. Goods are received at their destinations but their sources are left empty. All in Just One Second."

Julia

A light-hearted piece, again written for the Get Writing course at City College Peterborough. It was written to answer three questions: Whose house is Julia leaving?; Why was she there?; Where is she going now?

==

It had, as usual, been a very relaxing day. Julia was one of those 'ladies who lunch' and her needs were taken care of very nicely, thank you very much, by a staff of three.

Julia left her house as darkness was falling. She had spent ages getting ready and now felt she looked perfect. Her outfit was immaculate; her nails clean and delicately pointed; her teeth pearly white when she smiled. Not a hair out of place, she thought, contentedly.

The night was cold but not viciously so. Julia settled her coat more comfortably around her shoulders. She ignored the car in the driveway and set out on the short walk to her favourite restaurant. Streetlights and headlights glistened from the wet roads. Traffic rumbled by, sending up walls of water from roadside puddles.

Her restaurant, she always thought of places as 'hers', was quiet at this time of night. Julia was the sort who was used to getting what she wanted. Sometimes she had to be very forceful, even loud; these times did not suit her temperament - ladies should not have to raise their voices. Other times required infinite patience, an approach she much preferred. She wondered which of these qualities would be needed tonight.

She sat at her favourite table in a quiet, almost secluded, spot near the back of the restaurant. From here she could see all manner of people passing by. It was interesting to be so anonymous, she reflected, almost ignored by the hoi-polloi. Yes, there were whispers and murmurs around her, some of which were almost certainly about her, but Julia rose above such gossip and calmly regarded the other patrons with her usual disdain.

Service tonight was excellent. Her meal came along quickly and was served with a rich claret. Delicious! Julia was not the sort to bolt her food and she savoured every bite. Neither was she a glutton and she knew when to stop to preserve her svelte figure. It would be a waste, however, to let such a fine meal go unappreciated. Julia collected the leftovers. Perhaps the staff's dog would like a bite? she thought.

Carrying her 'doggy snack', Julia set off for home. She walked back by the same route she had taken on the way to the restaurant. Familiarity was important to Julia as it gave her the sense that she was the 'lady of all she surveyed'.

She let herself into the house and deposited the 'doggy snack' on the kitchen table. Then she went through the usual routine of the staff going absolutely berserk. She watched as they ran around the kitchen, fetching cloths, rubber gloves and cleaning sprays. The shorter staff member was in the corner, alternately giggling and suppressing the urge to vomit.

She sat impassively and weathered the tirade. This was such a matter of routine for her now that Julia did little more than blink at her outraged employees. Her patience, normally her greatest virtue, was wearing thin. Without a word, she rose and left the kitchen, the sounds of scrubbing, wiping and cleaning receding behind her. Some people could be so ungrateful, she thought.

It's not as if I've done anything wrong! she railed inwardly. Years ago, they would have been grateful for what I've brought back. People could be so fickle!

It was in her nature to do what she did and Julia revelled in that nature. If her staff couldn't handle her leaving dead bodies in the kitchen, maybe it was time for her to find new staff.

She purred happily and flicked her tail, then sauntered into her living room.

==

A fun little piece that kept some readers guessing until the last couple of paragraphs. If you'd like to read more of my work, please visit my website at colinabrett.me.uk . Thanks for reading!

Colin

Secrets

Another new piece of creative writing, this time with the theme of Secrets. It was written for the Get Writing course at City College Peterborough.

==

SECRETS

Colin Brett, November 2017

Part One: 2008

John Armstrong leaned back from his desk and blew out such a huge sigh that it ruffled some of the many papers in front of him. He had prepared all term. He wasn't a straight-A student but he had completed all the course work on time, received decent marks and had done reasonably well in the mock tests.

Now, with less than a week to go to the exams, his mind was a complete blank. Nothing he had learned that term had sunk in. Never mind trivial details, the broad-brush subject matter still eluded him.

The only way John could pass the exams was by cheating ... He needed an 'edge'.

John closed his A4 ring-binders and saved the work on his laptop. He checked his email. Nothing of great importance had arrived in the ten minutes or so since he had last checked. Email could be such a pain in the arse, he thought, as he closed the email and logged into his Pinterest, Instagram, Twitter and Facebook accounts. John wasted another hour, watching funny cat videos and checking what his Facebook 'friends' were up to. Not that they were all friends, as such; most were just people he had met while out on the town, in the Students Union bar or at the squash club. A couple were 'flings', one night stands with girls who swore they'd stay in touch but never did.

One contact jumped out at him: Adam Harris. Who the hell was he? John clicked to Harris's bio. A student at the other college in town, by the looks of him, but John could find little else on him. He did notice Harris was online right now, so, on impulse, John sent him a message: 'fancy a pint?'

==

The bar was full of the after work crowd. Busy enough and noisy enough that John and Adam could have a few drinks and a chat without being overheard.

Three pints in and John asked, "Where do I get these smart drugs? You know, the ones that increase brain speed and recollection."

"You know they're illegal," Adam replied.

"Legal, shmegal," retorted John. "I need them. Otherwise I've got no chance of passing these exams."

"Well," Adam replied slowly, "I do know where you can get some but I wouldn't recommend it."

"Why not?"

"The side effects can be catastrophic: memory loss, migraine, even neural degeneration."

"What? You mean like Alzheimer's?"

Harris took a long pull at his pint before nodding.

"And what are the chances of these side effects?" John wanted to know.

"About one in five," Harris replied. "That's why they're illegal. You'd be better off on Red Bull to give
you the buzz you're looking for."

"Red Bull is for pussies," John remarked. "I had Jolt Cola in the States a few years back. That did the trick but made me run for a piss every ten minutes."

They laughed about that.

John went to grab a couple of more pints. When he returned, Adam was scribbling something onto a sticky note.

Adam handed the small, pale yellow scrap of paper to John. "If you're serious about this, give this guy a bell." Adam drained the last of his pint before starting on the new one John had just brought. "Or drop him an email. He's flexible like that," he added with a shrug.

John looked at the sticky note. A mobile number and an email address for d.ablo at hotmail.com. John pocketed the note, then settled down to do some serious drinking.

==

A hungover John Armstrong walked slowly across the campus of that other college. It had been a heavy night and he'd made the call as he crashed back in his room around two a.m. Now it was mid-afternoon and he still felt fragile. Despite being a student himself, John felt uncomfortably out of place amongst these other students, many of whom were wearing scarves and hoodies in the rival college's colours. It was like being in enemy territory. Indeed, the rugby teams were known to hate each others' guts.

The meeting had been arranged in the college's admin building. He blearily looked at the directions he'd scrawled on the sticky note. Admin building, yep; through Reception and turn left, yep; to the end of the corridor, yep. Door. That wasn't in the directions he'd taken. If it was locked, or God forbid, alarmed, his little excursion would be over and he would be in a world of trouble.

John looked about. He felt like a lemon standing there by himself. Swallowing in a suddenly dry throat, John pushed open the door and waited for the alarms to start screaming.

Blissful silence. John recovered from the feeling of relief, which splashed over him like a bathtub full of water, and walked through the door. Ah, he recalled from his directions; stairs, down two flights. He walked down the two levels of concrete stairs, his footsteps echoing around the stairwell. Forty-Watt bulbs, and green Exit signs indicating that the way out was back up the way he had come, provided sporadic light as he descended.

A stain on the wall, suggestive of a leering imp, marked the dealer's 'office'. It was really just an understairs cubby hole. Cloaked in shadow the dealer said, "You want some of these brain drugs, yes?"

"I need them," John said. He fumbled nervously and came up with a roll of tenners.

"I don't need money," said the dealer. "I need something much more personal." John had a creepy feeling the dealer was going to make a pass at him but with a flourish, the dealer produced a contract. "Sign here. Exam success for your eternal soul!"

John backed off a couple of steps and the dealer followed. The man unfolded himself from the cramped confines of the cubby hole. Under slightly brighter light, John was looking at a smartly dressed man of indeterminate age, maybe thirties, maybe fifties. He had short, dark hair and pencil moustache.

"Well, John Armstrong, will you sign?" His voice was silky smooth. The man flourished the contract. About A4 sized, it was covered in thin, spidery writing. "Imagine the wealth that could be yours! All for the price of your soul," the man's voice turned icy, "which, looking at you, isn't exactly a king's ransom."

John felt vaguely insulted. Surely his soul - if he had one, John didn't really believe in that sort of stuff - would be worth more than the hundred quid in tenners he was rapidly stuffing back into his pocket. But then, of course, he would be getting a bargain. Assuming he didn't have a soul, then he'd be getting the smart drugs for free, and this 'dealer' could go back to hiding under the stairs. Gingerly, John reached for the contract and began fumbling for a pen.

"Here, use this," said the man, proffering a black fountain pen.

John took a closer look at the contract. It certainly wasn't written on paper. It was soft to the touch and slightly textured, flexible and strong; at least it wasn't easy to tear. The writing was in no alphabet nor language John had ever seen. "What is all this?" he asked.

"Oh, just standard legal boiler-plate stuff," replied the dealer. "You know the sort of bumf that you'd see when buying a fridge or washing machine." There were several clauses that would not be included when buying white goods but the dealer glossed over them. He waved the fountain pen under John's nose.

With little to lose and an awful lot to gain, John signed the contract.

The dealer handed John a bottle made of dark brown glass which was stoppered with a cork, rather than with one of those annoying 'press down and twist' caps. John held the bottle up to the rather dim light and could just make out that the pills, maybe nine or ten of them, had a greenish tinge and were marked with what looked like a skull symbol.

The dealer grabbed his hand and forced it down. "Don't flash them about," he hissed. "If anyone finds them, you'll get in serious trouble."

John shoved the bottle into his jacket pocket and moved towards the stairs.

"Good luck," said the dealer as he retreated into the shadows.

John hiked back up the stairs. About mid-way, John realised that the dealer had known his name even before he'd signed the contract. He had never mentioned his name when the meeting was arranged. Adam Harris might have told the dealer but Adam had seemed discrete and, even with a few drinks inside him, had still tried to dissuade John from meeting the dealer. Had someone overheard them in the bar?

John needed to know. He almost ran back down the stairs to find the dealer. The area was deserted but there was a strong smell of rotten eggs under the stairs. John switched on the LED flashlight he had attached to his keyring. Nothing. Even the imp-stain on the wall had been replaced with a phallus, grafitti-ed in black spray paint.

He wondered if he had imagined the whole thing. There might have been something in his drink that was still affecting him. The bottle of pills, however, was in his pocket, as was his cash. It would be his little secret.

Shaking his head, a bewildered John Armstrong climbed back up the stairs and into a future even his most fevered imaginings couldn't conceive.

===

Part two of this story is set in 2017 and, if you're interested in what happens to John Armstrong, drop me a line: colinabrett AT gmail.com .

Thanks for reading.