Flash Fiction: Death of a Bachelor

‘We’re safe then?’ whispered the gangly one.

The fat one nodded. ‘If all goes to plan.’

‘If?’ His beady eyes glared in the shadows. ‘We’re counting on you. A fortune’s at stake. Not to mention our positions.’

‘Yes, yes. It should be over now. But I don’t know -‘ He glanced round. ‘If the you-know-what was strong enough.’

The other flapped a hand in exasperation. ‘Come!’

Footsteps echoing, they scurried through the dark, draughty corridors to the chamber. Timidly, the fat one opened the door. ‘Yes!’

Grinning with delight, the two cardinals danced a sedate jig round the Pope’s dead body.


In response to Matt’s Flash Fiction Foray, where this week’s prompt was Panic at the Disco’s Death of a Bachelor. Although this precise scene is not historically attested, many an unfortunate Pope has met with just such a fate. The most recent was John Paul I in 1978, after only 33 days. He upset more than a few with his plans to clean up the Vatican and though it’s never been proved, it’s more than likely he paid the price. Quite a risky profession all in all.

 

Come on! England!

Henry was too quick. Always in a rush. See the world, why not? But we saw nothing. A blur. I sneezed and missed Luxembourg, ha, ha. But then, he always was. Forty years of marriage, no time to myself, no room. Till now, that is. A space of my own – well, almost. Not as comfy as that suite in… Bruges, was it? Somewhere pretty, anyway. Henry on the balcony, beaming. ‘Oh, do cheer up, Rosemary, come on! England next!’ Did he have time to understand my reply? Probably not. Too quick, wasn’t I? ‘Not England, Henry. The sidewalk.’ Ha, ha.

In response to thebookblogger2014’s Flash Fiction Foray, with the prompt, Come on, England, by the Barmy Army in celebration of England winning the ashes (Late again – sorry, Matt!)

Zen and the Art of Mosquito Murder

pine

The neighbour was burning leaves again. Driving us crazy. ‘What’s the point of having a garden,’ I said, ‘if we can’t sit out in it?’

‘If he does it again, I’m calling the police.’ When it comes to the neighbour, Carole’s fury runs even deeper than mine. The smoke, she says, gets into the sheets on the washing line. At times it’s so thick we can hardly see our beautiful Aleppo pine.

Bruce, an old schoolfriend come to visit, smiled and nodded in that soft, placid way of his. He’s been a practising Buddhist for thirty years, and apart from his bony, ascetic appearance, everything about him is placid. I watched him watch a frenzied Carole massacre mosquitoes – he didn’t say anything, but it troubled him.

I found that intriguing. ‘Yes, I know all life is precious,’ I said, ‘but a mozzie? You just let it bite you? And turn the other cheek, I suppose.’

‘Oh, no,’ he said, pouring himself more wine (the asceticism only goes so far). ‘If it was really bothersome, I’d kill it. In a Buddhist way, that is.’

‘You mean there’s a Buddhist way of killing? Meditate for an hour first? You’d be bitten all over by then.’

‘No, quite the opposite, really. One sharp slap and think no more about it.’

That was a couple of days ago. Now we’re sitting in the garden again, and a glorious Indian summer bathes the Aleppo pine in a golden glow. The mozzies are out in force, though, and Carole’s getting all jumpy. ‘Still,’ she says. ‘At least there’s no smoke this evening. That’s a blessing.’

‘Oh, I don’t think we’ll be bothered by smoke again,’ I say. ‘That problem’s settled now.’

‘Really? You called the police? That’s good!’

‘The police? Good heavens, no.’ I smile placidly. ‘That’s not very Buddhist.’