MAN MADE FLASH FICTION

Xitizen RC1803, you violated Zero Carbon Code Orange 2D/xi yesterday by leaving Zone Beta without permission. Your UHI allocation will therefore be reduced for the next seven days. You may submit a defence or appeal statement within twenty-four hours of receiving this transmission.      Closing my device, I drew a deep breath. Like any good xitizen, I'd taken my daily vaccine shot. Then I'd set out to look at the ocean, to see one last time the place where my earliest memories were made.        A fifth-generation female android at reception noted my identifier tag and the code violation reference. Steadying my nerves, I stole a backwards glance at the city street outside where medicated commuters acted out what was for them another ordinary day.      'Thank you for your cooperation. Go to level eighteen, court five. You may use the lift opposite. State your grounds for defence or appeal when called to do so by the clerk.' ...

  My stomach had rumbled steadily over the past hundred or so miles. There was nothing for it, I'd have to find somewhere to pull in and eat. As luck would have it I saw just the place - a little truckers restaurant sat back from the old road.           Inside and out cane seats sat under clean formica tabletops. There were no other customers around, maybe because it was by now way past lunchtime. A coffee machine hissed from the kitchen and a radio played hits from yesteryear. Soon a man wearing an apron appeared and took my order.           As I tucked in to the generous portion of ham and eggs, followed by pancakes drowning in maple syrup and ice cream, the man told me how his family had opened the place the previous century. He said business became tight a few years ago when the local plant, a big employer, relocated south.           "My name's John, by the way," he said, "I hate that it's...

"Oh yes, she's perfect," I thought, eyeing the girl on reception.           It was 11.45 a.m. and the others were already here. The advertising agency hoped to land a lucrative account today and the prospects would arrive shortly. Warm sun splashed through open louvres as a scent of quality espresso filtered throughout. Taking my usual seat, I plugged a thumb-drive into the Mac and opened a project I was working on at home.           Alan came out of his office looking just the part in a silk suit he'd bought especially for such occasions. Stopping to breathe in the scene now before him, he beamed with the confidence of the seasoned salesman he was. It was going to be a good day.           Before long the clients arrived and were ushered into Alan's office. The young lady on reception took her cue to go and see if they wanted coffees. Laughter could soon be heard from behind the closed door. So far...

"Kieran, I've met them all. Every one of them nuts."          My brother  hadn't actually met every one of my girlfriends, but my he was nonetheless right.           And now I'd had enough of women. Or so I thought ... >>>>>   I didn't join in the banter with my colleagues on the coach. Still raw, still wounded, I had much on my mind.           Fuck women. Or rather, don't.           Then another one arrived.            "Mind if I join you? You look like you could do with company."           Five foot seven inches tall, on the slim side of shapely, gleaming dark eyes, sporting an auburn mop, Emily Crow sat next to me anyway. I didn't want her to. I had hoped to get off the coach, abandon my workmates, and explore the long shoreline on my own.           Oh ...

  "Did you take it?"           "F*ck no."           "You sure?"           "Why? Did you take it?"           "No."           "Well then ..."           Curry was miffed at Ross for mirroring his question.           Ash, Curry's best pal, watched the exchange from a computer chair. He was smoking a blunt as he listened to his two very different friends.           His bedsit hid behind curtains always pulled across a window that never opened. Ten empty bottles and two full ashtrays set the scene.           "You want any of this?" Curry asked, pushing a five-skinner at Ross.           "No, thanks."           Curry's eyebrows raised. "You sure?"   ...

"Eh? Whit?"           "Gie me twae poond." Looking far from destitute if somewhat bedraggled in her later middle age, this chancer was pure taking the piss.           "Nup," said Kieran.          Without  further comment she strode on through the chill morning towards another stranger. Kieran continued on his way now thinking about economic inflation and beggars with brass necks.           But several yards further down the pedestrian precinct he stopped in his tracks. He recalled a previous beggar who'd asked him for the exact same amount. That previous lass had been a druggie of indeterminate age. The venue that time was an almost empty platform in Partick subway station. She'd started by asking when the next train was due - even as they both stood bang next to a noticeboard clearly indicating "NEXT TRAIN: 3 mins". Kieran had refused the £2 request back then as well....

Before a spell as a marine commando in his younger days the old man was an apprentice boat builder. But now the hospital was refusing his requests for a tot of rum.           "Mr Cameron, please will you tell your father he can't have alcohol in here?" the doctor implored. The old boy must have thought he'd ended up in a hospice or some sort of palliative care. Ross had a word with him. A crestfallen silence followed.           Visiting time now over, Ross promised to come again tomorrow. The old man gave a knowing stare at his only remaining son.           "Take care of yourself," he said. These were the final words Ross heard from him.           By the following day his dad had slipped from consciousness. A nurse suggested Ross just sit with him. Listening to the death rattle, he was reminded of the previous year with his older brother.       ...