MAN MADE FLASH FICTION BLOG

Ross had heard the footsteps since moving in seven years earlier. Whenever he went through to his kitchen or to use his bathroom he would hear one or two steps follow him, then total silence. It could happen morning, afternoon, evening or even well into the wee small hours. Sometimes he just noticed a tell-tale creak right above his ceiling.      The elderly lady in the flat above was called Brenda. She was quite deaf and had a housekeeping routine that suggested obsessive compulsive disorder. Ross got on quite well with her.      Both of them were very private people. Neither made much if any noise, despite their homes being flimsily built, and both enjoyed quiet solitude. There were never any weekend parties.      But Ross hated feeling as if he were being monitored, his observer hidden, especially when visiting his bathroom.      But he'd never spoken to Brenda about the issue - that is, not until he did.  ...

BACKGROUND: The year was 2029 and martial law now covered what was previously considered to be the civilized world. This started with Emperor Stump suspending the US Constitution a couple of months before the 2026 mid-terms - elections he knew he'd lose heavily if they went ahead. It was Stump's intention to take advantage of worldwide chaos that arose from illegal wars raging across Europe and West Asia. Those wars were started on behalf of a species of degenerate parasites called the Apestein Class. That species, aliens who'd become the ruling class on Earth, had been considered contrary to all mankind almost since the dawn of time. CURRENT : A report received by the Edinburgh station, a hub of New Scotland Enforcement, said that grid surveillance had detected a possible anomaly in the system. That anomaly was a person of interest, a man who needed investigation and, if necessary, dealt with - a subject of the New Imperial society who wasn't conforming. A...

The young English woman came with her female dog and stood directly in front of Rich. Despite facing him, she stared over his left shoulder - obviously hoping to elicit a reaction, clearly daring him to say anything to her, anything at all.      They exchanged short hard looks. Then, apparently satisfied, the woman moved back a few yards and turned away. Rich merely resumed his thoughts, soaking in the rural summer morning and savouring nature's sweet bouquet.      Now recognizing the dog, Rich recalled how a few years earlier he'd made some warm remark to the woman about it being cute, not least as it had looked at him, wanting to be petted. She'd reacted by yanking the poor beast away, quite violently and unexpectedly.      Then, as now, she'd glared at him as though he were an abomination, some shameful pariah, some criminal worthy of hanging, a miscreant deserving a birching, a plague-carrier to be driven out by peasants brandishi...

Doob was a soak who drank alone at his regular barstool in his local, where today the dark interior contrasted with a warm sunlit afternoon outside. He had extended his lunchtime drinking, skipped returning to work, had told his employer he would be out of the office to follow up an unspecified list of potential new prospects.      Donald O'Brien hated his job, hated his life.      Looking straight ahead he saw himself nursing his whisky and beer in the mirror sat behind the optics. This ritual he would repeat until, probably some time mid-evening, he would stagger back to the empty home he no longer shared with his wife.      Now well into his early thirties, Doob's hair had thinned and jowls were becoming noticeably pronounced. The creased suit he wore was just as shabby, as were his stained shirt collar and a tie he'd just loosened to the point it resembled a noose. Doob muttered to himself under foul breath.    ...

    Lesley thought I was just joking about the sombrero. But here I am, wearing it while sat on a train. Despite sidewards looks and titters from my fellow passengers, the ticket inspector says nothing.      Outside, the sea now left far behind, rural landscapes shoot across the carriage window as I hurtle towards Nedburgh, Scallyland's largest city. That is where my friend Lesley lives. I'm feeling pretty relaxed.      Oh, why the sombrero? Same reason I put pebbles in my shoes before putting them on this morning. Same reason my clothes are covering up pretty much all of my skin. I want to maintain anonymity outdoors, to avoid the surveillance matrix. - Nedburgh's Big Z consists of three shop-lined streets that make up a popular feature of the city's commercial heart. It hosts countless CCTVs and other surveillance tech, mostly run by Police Scallyland  but installed by a very different Big Z - those entities behind the E...

    Though I'd rather be alone, I see no option other than to sit next to him.      "Morning, Ross," I say, hoping that won't launch us into some long and involved conversation.      "Morning, Peter," he replies, "How are you doing?"      "Fine," I say, getting my laptop out onto the desk for a spot of writing.      I manage about twenty minutes before he pipes up with a technical question, something about capitalization of place names. I duly oblige him with an answer, before putting my buds back into my ears and getting on with my task.      Another thirty or so minutes go by, and he interrupts me again. This time he's giving me information on some author he mentioned previously and about an audio version of one of the guy's short stories up on YouTube.      I'm not sure if Ross has some neurological condition or perhaps a mild learning difficulty, but he's like t...

I could tell something was wrong the moment he answered, a weariness in Ross' voice that his words couldn't hide.      "Hi Lesley, how ya doin'?"      "Fine, Ross. Seeing my aunt in hospital later this afternoon. Meeting my dad tonight."      "Your aunt getting any better? She's been in for quite a while now."      "Yeah," I said, "she's out tomorrow, assuming the tests stay clear."      "Great news," said Ross, not entirely succeeding in his effort to sound encouraging but sincere nonetheless.      Ross considered me to be his closest friend. This pleased me, even if he'd never have claimed that anyone's friendship with him should be considered any kind of honour, but rather, an acknowledgement of an otherwise difficult achievement. He was an oddball, sometimes funny, despite an ascetic lifestyle, but he could be trusted.      "So what's eating you?" I said. ...

There he is, the pompous prick.      "Mister Ross, sir. How are you today?"      "Hello Mahat. Nice to see you," says the fat fool, busy on his laptop and probably up to no good.      "What are you working on today?" I ask, making ready to let him make a fool of himself with his arrogance.      "I'm tweaking my new website," he crows. "Want to have a look?"      He goes on to say that he built his site only a couple of months ago and has since worked on it almost daily. It actually does look most impressive.      "Oh, Mister Ross, you are such a talented man," I say, quite sincerely.      "Yes, Mahat, God has blessed me with this particular project. That's for sure," he replies, clearly pleased to have an audience to show his work to. But there's something else behind that smile, as if he just might be mocking me back.      He turns his ...

🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏    "I don't see how these bastards get away with it."      "Get away with what?"      "Just planting data centres wherever they want, overriding local people's wishes, forcing us to swallow more and more AI crap."      "Yeah, well, first you need to identify who 'they' are."      "So who are they?"      "They are effectively the same people who build illegal settlements in Htrae's Hot Zone, those who are currently murdering the Nepalites people in their tens of thousands, who are behind unrest across the entire Htrae, such as, for example, the war between Eniarku and Aissur."      "Go on."      "Originally from Aikazahk in Eastern Europe, they own all politics and mainstream media, finance some of the alternative media, run the film and porn industries,  as well as the police , and even run our world's economic systems and currencies...

  No idea why they do it, who the hell they think they are, alarming the public with their hate speech and lies. Don't they realize they're causing disorder?      "The woman's in deep conversation with the droopy guy, but the mic isn't picking up," said Auxiliary Officer Reuben. He was fiddling with the scanner's frequency settings, trying to get a clean signal.      "What about their mobile devices?" I suggested. "We can skip the warrant stage if it looks like trouble might kick off."      "They seem to be carrying dumb-phones, and we can't even get a triangulation on those." replied Reuben. "They're also using some kind of field generator that's blocking all useful analogue and digital spectra."      "Yes, they might look like a bunch of unwashed stoners, but they certainly seem to know their tech. I bet they're carrying Faraday pouches, like the ones we found on the Edinb...

The yard out back was shallow, measuring perhaps eight feet between Jack's kitchen window and the long wooden fence. Thorny tendrils sprouted through gaps in the fence, while ivy smothered an adjacent wall.      A suntrap when the Scottish sun put in a rare appearance, Jack's end of the yard attracted birds, cats, squirrels, and probably more besides.      "Jack, I want to put a small greenhouse here," Terry said, "so I can grow tomatoes. Is that OK with you?"      "Sure," Jack told his upstairs neighbour, "so long as it's not too big, doesn't block my window, and doesn't become an eyesore, that's fine."      A lightweight greenhouse appeared a week later, along with a few pots for growing carrots, turnips and other root vegetables. Jack was happy to see the space used, especially in this new age of food scarcities and energy rationing.      Then one morning Jack saw from his kitchen window a ...

"Next of kin?"      "None."      "Have you eaten anything since you got up this morning?"      "No, nothing." The pain had dulled any appetite.      "Tea or coffee?"      "Coffee, around about ten."      Their faces betrayed a glimmer of disappointment. They'd given up their Sundays and rushed to the hospital, just for me.      "Is that a problem?" I asked.      "Yes," the surgeon said, "because you've ingested milk we'll have to wait until this evening before we can operate."      "I drink my coffee black," I said, their faces lighting up, "if that helps."      "No milk?" the surgeon said.      "No milk," I said.      "We wouldn't have been able to use the ventilator to put you under to operate and clean out the poison."      "OK," I said, happy that the procedure would go ahead. My face swolle...

I tried to log in again. So that's what the empty box on my desk was for. It also explained why my colleagues wouldn't face me when I'd entered the office.      "I can't get into the system. My machine's not recognizing me at all," I told my supervisor. "What gives?"      "Management's decided to disband Yellow Team. The AI you were training has apparently surpassed all expectations. Congratulations, you're now redundant." Her voice was even, her words measured, almost as if higher-ups might be listening in.      How much did they know?      "So that's the three of us out?" I asked. "Just like that?"      "Not quite. Ralf and Della are reassigned to fill spaces at Green. But it's just a matter of time." She ran her hand across her face as she added, "They'll be out soon enough. The whole division's getting pared back, downsized."      "AI is the ...

Mrs. Davis laid the table for lunch. It was nearly one p.m. Her husband would be home at any moment, back from fighting on the front line.      "Sweet Lorraine," Captain Davis sang as he dropped his bag to the floor. The warmth of his embrace, the passion of his hot breath brushing her lips, the bouquet of beautiful flowers he'd brought for her - all swept aside any possible doubt that this man loved his wife.      "Oh Eddie, my Eddie," she said, "come, sit at the table. I've made your favourite. There's wine too." Mrs. Davis took her husband's tunic and hung it carefully over the back of a dining chair.      As always, it was to be a lunchtime of shared memories, of dreaming about a return to some semblance of normality. How they both wanted to start a family, once the war ended.      "Oh Eddie, I pray it won't be long before you're home for good. Then we can be together, and I can be your loving wife, keeping a good home as...

Though they learned to channel it, one thing they couldn't do was subdue the wind. But enough for now, thinking such dangerous thoughts.      The Reset completed in what was then considered the year 2026. Systemic corruption in governments across the world had resulted in such apathy among our citizenships that the Great Upheaval became inevitable.      Now we have controllers who rule every aspect of our lives - men holding high places, who built our new reality. Today we are looked after: there is sufficient food, now that the starving and useless have died out; we enjoy good health, so long as we don't fall sick; we are free to think, say, and do as we wish, so long as we don't offend others; progress has tamed nature, both human and environmental.      So I have no complaint. I cannot complain. Our rulers plan for society's problems and in doing so ensure that no difficulties persist.      But when I witness the wind...

"Mum, I want to play with Sarah and Jack."      "Help me with this first, then you'll have all afternoon with Jack and Sarah."      "Oh, mum!"      "Come on, you know we need clean clothes and clean bedsheets."      "But why do I have to come do this?"      "I need your help. I don't like doing it either. Once upon a time we had machines that washed our clothes, dried them too, but not now."      "So people didn't always go down to the river, didn't always hang them to dry between street poles?"      "Those poles used to have lights on top of them, so folks could see when it was dark outside."      "Now we use candles."      "Yes, indoors we use candles."        "And did people not always live in vehicles? You told me that once ..."      "Vehicles used to move around and take people places they wanted to go. Sometimes p...

   The television brought bad news by the day, by the hour even. There was nowhere to hide it seemed, no rest from the wicked.      "How much is left?" Henry asked.      "We'll make it," replied his wife.      Hannah was good at stretching out their rations across each cycle. But empty shelves and high prices weren't going away any time soon in what shops remained open.      "I could go see Mister Ginsberg?" Henry suggested, already guessing his wife's response.      "No," she said, fingering her wedding ring, "Ginsberg's part of the problem."      After a meagre lunch - tinned sardines on toasted bread followed by jam scones and what passed these days for coffee - Henry washed up as Hannah straightened out the front room before their usual afternoon of viewing.      "Peace negotiations resume tomorrow in Islamabad, despite further attacks by opposition forces, with deadloc...