Malcolm Twigg

“Renaissance” by Malcolm Twigg

Submitted to Contest #272

The view from the first floor bedsit window tonight was dreary. Great drifts of spume hurtled across the road, leaving shallow lakes to creep across the promenade and pour back into the ocean.. Richard turned away and sat morosely on the thread-bare chair beside the bed, dully regarding the marked and faded wallpaper, the fly-specked single light bulb oscillating gently in the draught from the ill-fitting windows. He turned his attention to the faded and patterned floor covering. If he looked closely, images danced before his eyes: the head ...

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“Hair of the Dog - Part One, ” by Malcolm Twigg

Author's note: this is patently not a short story - it is adapted from my novel of the same name, but the circumstances fit the prompt so precisely it was difficult not to publish. It may be continued if circumstances allow.Rumbold Crucible, Sorcerer (third class), woke up feeling that someone had been using his head as a bell clapper. He groaned and reached out a scrawny foot to lever himself out of bed. It was only when the bed tipped alarmingly and he fell out that he realised something was wrong. In glazed disbelief he just had time to w...

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“Dance with the Dust” by Malcolm Twigg

Submitted to Contest #267

Falahim hunkered under the overhang watching the wind-whipped sky shred clouds like strips of oily cotton-waste, with flesh-abrading jet streams of grit flying by on each side.This Howloon was unseasonal. But, then, Synapp was a unique world. Falahim tried his best to close his ears to the battering "SKREE...EEE" of the wind hammering around the makeshift shelter. Sand coated his cloak with a residue of clinging, choking dust. He drew his hood close around his head until it all but covered the lexine eye guard. Even ...

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“Gumshoe” by Malcolm Twigg

Submitted to Contest #266

The broad who walks into the joint isn’t much to look at, but there’s something about her that demands attention. Maybe it’s the ‘45 in her hand. It’s still smoking. And the way her hand is trembling makes everyone in the bar duck. Well, I say everyone. There’s just me and the barkeep. And then there’s just me and the broad, because the barkeep disappears and don’t come back. So, I gingerly take the piece out of the broad’s hand, because from her appearance there’s likely no way she’s going to use it again, except by accident. In all my year...

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“Frenemies” by Malcolm Twigg

Submitted to Contest #263

Satirical religious intolerance, stereotypical mysogynistic reference and anti-woke opinion.The atmosphere in the boardroom of G.O.D. Enterprises spoke volumes, reflected in the number of Special Advisors present, amongst whom a nervous HR manager sat running a finger around his collar.A dapper-looking individual with a Mephistophelian goatee sitting at one end of the table sighed. “Well? Is nobody going to set the ball rolling?”His opposite number at the other end wearing an immaculate white suit snorted. “My life! You already set more...

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“Born Under a Bad Sign” by Malcolm Twigg

Submitted to Contest #261

Day 1‘Start a gratitude journal’ they said, Well, here it is, started. It’s purposely not credited with any dates, because I don’t expect to be making consecutive entries. But the fact that it is started should qualify as gratitude on some count. Gratitude on their part that I’ve agreed to do it, for a start. I mean, what good is it supposed to do? I’ve certainly not got anything to be grateful for with this burden lobbed on meDay 2Today started off well. I knocked a saucepan of boiling milk over. It was the last of the milk in the fridge so...

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“Happy Birthday!” by Malcolm Twigg

Submitted to Contest #261

This piece contains satirical and stereotypical mysoginistic and racist reference.Dear Sue,Just a quick note to say how much I appreciated the table cigarette lighter you got me for my birthday. You don’t often see them any more. They’re practically antiques now that everyone has gone over to vapes. Of course, we haven’t been in touch for a while so you weren’t to know that I’ve resolved to give up smoking. No matter, it’s a very nice decorative piece and should come in very handy for what Gerry got me … if my resolve slips at all. You ...

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“The Puppeteer” by Malcolm Twigg

Submitted to Contest #261

The time: around 1955, I would have been ten years old. The place: Woodville Church of England Junior School. The day: irrelevant, but probably Thursday of a balmy Spring afternoon. It always seemed to be Thursday and balmy in those days, with the smell of chalk dust in the air and lazy motes of it drifting in the shafted sunlight through the windows. It’s a wonder we didn’t all come down with silicosis. It always seemed to be springtime then as well, and if it wasn’t there always seemed to be snow on the ground with cream bursting...

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“A Grave Business” by Malcolm Twigg

Submitted to Contest #260

Reference to alcoholism, infidelity and homosexual intolerance.A crowd of us stood around the open grave. A motley crowd, it has to be said. Fred hadn’t yet arrived. “We always said he’d be late for his own funeral,” Albert said to a mumbled chorus of assent. “Too right,” Ron agreed. “Who thought he’d actually live up to it? Well, I say live ...” The vicar glared, glancing at his watch, “Against my better judgement I’ve already broken with tradition and agreed to conduct the entire ceremony out here,” he complained, fiddling w...

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“The Fates” by Malcolm Twigg

Submitted to Contest #259

Death was a long suffering individual. To most of humanity that was probably thought well deserved: the longer the better in their undoubtedly biassed opinion. Death was acutely aware of this and it didn’t do much for his mien. Even an immortal with a soul as dark as Death has feelings. He also had sisters, which went a long way towards explaining his black moods. Anyone who has triplet siblings who not only look alike but finish each other’s sentences - and all too often his own - can be excused for feeling a tad liverish at times.He took o...

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“Picture This” by Malcolm Twigg

Submitted to Contest #258

They say that a picture paints a thousand words. What would you say if I told you that photographs spew out a whole lexicon - literally? Never heard of a talking photograph? I wish I hadn’t.I mean, sure, you do get these AI induced talking photos nowadays, but there is an intermediary process involved. You have to put words into their mouths in the first place. At least at the moment. When AI gets to access written documentation and extrapolate around it, that's when it starts to get really creepy.For the rest of you, that is. Me? ...

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“Esther” by Malcolm Twigg

Submitted to Contest #258

The thing is, when you start researching family history, like it or not, you often find that you end up knowing far more about your ancestors than you do your close family. Not that my own family is particularly close, for various reasons best not explored.I’m sorry, I should introduce myself. My name is Bailey, Robert Bailey, and the story I am about to tell is, quite frankly, weird … if not disturbing.As I said, my immediate family is not very close, stemming from the fact that my father was illegitimate with all the stigma that attracted ...

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“Midsummer Night's ... Nightmare” by Malcolm Twigg

“Are you sure we got the right place, Moragh? The note didnae specify a location.”  Moragh peered again at it. “Aye, it did, Eilidh. The most important thing is the weather, and there is nae thunder and lighting, nor rain, so …” “And I should bloody well hope not,” the third member of the group broke in, with some acerbity glancing up at the lowering skies. “Not yet. Does anyone actually know why we’re sat here on this blasted heath when there’s a perfectly good bothy in the valley? I don’t fancy being a lightning conductor for anyone. ...

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“Carpe Diem” by Malcolm Twigg

Submitted to Contest #226

Archie Wellbeloved was a mess, emotionally and physically. His name didn’t fit for a start. Exasperated at his lack of get up and go, his girlfriend had got up and gone herself. That same day he’d been laid off work; some hacker had raided his bank account and he was skint until the bank sorted it out; his hair was a mess; his clothes unkempt, and his trainers looked like a pair of exploded tyres. Much like the deflated tyres on his car as he gazed down at them in undisguised bile, an unfortunate product of the neighbourhood in which he live...

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“Tibbles: Saviour of the Universe” by Malcolm Twigg

Submitted to Contest #224

No matter what the time, Fred Fothergill, fat, forty and fed up, had always been able to wake up on the dot. It was like pressing a mental alarm button. Early plane to catch? He was there before it was wheeled onto the runway. Ungodly work call? Blear-eyed onscreen before anyone else had zoomed in. So, early rising was not a problem. In fact, it was something of a boon because, even living close by the sea where the gentle susurration of the waves was ever-present, there was a preternatural quiet in the early mornings that was a welcome reli...

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