The Dangers of Predictive Texting ('Tiffany Dangerous of Predictive Textiles')

It was supposed to be a standard reply to a simple question from Gina on her mobile.  Perhaps it could be blamed on the two bottles of Brut, four shots of Sambuca and two vodkas the previous evening celebrating the end of 2015.  Perhaps in bleary-eyed surrender to the blazing sun of January 1, Felicity didn’t fully appreciate what she had sent via predictive text.  At least it wasn't as bad as that time when due to a hectic schedule and a stressful relationship breakup she announced in the Tinnerdale School email New Teacher Profile that ....'Miss Cressells is a swinger'.  The significant increase in the number of dads incorporating a school drop-off into their day thrilled the principal although it wasn't Miss Cressells’ singing talent that drew their attention.

Early on January 1 2016, Felicity was alerted by her bicycle bell ring tone. Gina wouldn't have been in any state to think about school holidays after the previous night's liquid assault but the stunning run of perfect beach weather had compelled her to secure holiday accommodation.  Desperate to find something, anything, before the first term, Gina begged Felicity to let her know of anyone with a place to rent.  Felicity recalled Miss Cressells or Bonnie, once had a place courtesy of her partner Fred.

Felicity wasn't the greatest speller and the swinger comment wasn't her only faux pas.   There was the embarrassing 'fanny' message last year but this was far from her mind when through half-shut eyes staring into a screen that was almost unreadable without any shade handy she tapped in her response and pressed Send.

Her message, she had thought, read 'Fred and Bonnie did : )'.  Two weeks later Gina scrolled back through her message history stopping on that short prophetic sentence.

  

'Frey and Bowie die.' 

Andrew Hawkey

In the beginning - the start of the journey

It was 31st December 1957  - New Year’s Eve!!!!
  
The frock was ready.  My hair was in rollers and shoes whitened. I had butterflies. I was going out for the first time with a boy named Grant to Caroline Bay, the social hub then where boy met girl.  Six o’clock closing ensured everyone went there.

Finally!!! I was ready and departed to the bay where I met two friends and went round to the carnival where Grant worked on the sideshow. Mm mm !!!! Mr Cool!  I thought !!!  with his slicked back hair  and black reefer jacket.

We rock and rolled at the dance, the music echoing around, outdoing the merry-go-round and carnival rides. What fun to go on the octopus, and snuggle close in the dark.  When the big wheel stopped at the top we could see all over the bay. Coloured lights twinkled everywhere and out at sea.

We rode on the launch looking back at the bay. We could pick out the moving lights. The breeze felt soft. It was magical.

It was nearly midnight.  The hooters on the port boats sounded the stroke of midnight. We hurried to the bonfire.

The flames leapt up transfixing everyone, faces reflected. ‘Let Old Acquaintance Be Forgot” broke out and flames, bagpipes, whistles and bells all combined with kissing and hugging to end the year. Grant was doing plenty of enthusiastic hugging!

We wandered off then drove in John’s borrowed car to watch the sunrise. What did I make of this guy? I DIDN'T KNOW!!

Finally I was deposited at my gate at five in the morning.  With a loud and cheery “SEE YOU AROUND!!!!" Grant zoomed off in John’s car.

 Oh well that’s that, I thought.

 BUT!!!!!!!!  I left my stole in the car. My fate was sealed.

 Fay Ward

A Fresh Pack

"Bitch, my bags."

Not the best first impression, but cursory fares at the start of what Ester knew would be a frantic night weren’t worth a moment's concern. She'd had worse from greasy men like this – dark clothes, sneakers, puffs from a menthol Parliament One punctuating the mental shifts, between objectification and utter disregard – and sadly, imperceptibly, she’d become used to it.

"I apologise for my friend," the man's short, scruffy companion lifted the trunk, laid a charcoal laptop satchel inside and tossed a limp duffle bag after it. "He's a recent arrival and an asshole."

"Fuck you Sayid!" The two men jostled like sleepy dogs, still trained on their smokes.

"It's no problem," Ester unlatched the back door as she returned to her seat, a whiff of air freshener offering a moment's pause as cigarettes were extinguished and the men slipped into the cab.

"Where are you headed?"

"Ah, being served by a beautiful woman so soon," the tall stranger spread his arms across the car's parcel shelf, shutting his eyes for a moment. "Take us to the Cathedral of the Saints Peter and Mary. We want to see the fireworks over the Rhine and the short dresses on the girls."

Ester ignored his predatory musings and focused on a quick route. She knew the Komödienstraße would be jammed with central station commuters by this time on New Year's Eve. "I can take you to Kardinal-Höffner-Platz. Just a short walk from there."

"Thank you," the man named Sayid nodded his appreciation as they glided away, his unfortunate friend lost in hedonistic dreams out the window.

“The girls here are all supposed to be fucking – “.

Ester didn’t catch the word, but the man named Sayid smirked, and a shiver rattled her spinal column as they cruised into central Cologne.

Brendan McBryde

Small Town

Lily Sycamore skitters down Stuart St in sneakers that save her minutes (and, as it transpires, her life) so that at quarter to midnight she is texting ‘Where are you?’ to Chloe from St Paul’s steps, not crossing Smith St in the path of Carlos Wilkins’ Nissan Skyline as it flies through a red light at 83.


In her hillside cottage with a harbour view, Lily’s supervisor Dr Maura Cockcroft, who will for six days in October undertake jury service hearing a charge of dangerous driving against Carlos Wilkins, inspiring a career-enhancing journal publication on the disproportionate influence of legal academics on the outcome of jury trials which will create a flurry of media attention and spark debate on law reform, refills her guests’ Moet and squints at the clock.


Maura’s dearest friend Angie Galbraith steps outside just as the sky lights up behind her.  In ten minutes she will be home to shower before a celebratory Glenfiddich and a final edit of what will come to be regarded as her finest poem, the title piece of the first anthology completed since leaving Rory.  Anew, she thinks, and liking the music of it, shouts it to the year’s first hour, her voice lost as a Nissan roars past driven by Carlos whose victim she will nurse in ICU for 23 autumnal days.


In his boathouse, Rory sleeps entwined in the abundance of Sheila McIlraith. Awake and listening to his soft exhalations lapping like wavelets, she offers up a prayer for the safety of her beautiful son Isaac, who as first officer on the scene at Carlos' Easter hit-and-run will give evidence at the trial and by spring will have moved in with a law student called Lily who kissed him playfully in the Octagon on New Year’s Eve.


Rosemary McBryde

Hope misplaced

Whoever would’ve thought it could happen, he mused to himself. It literally came out of nowhere, a thief in the night. No one had seen it coming, not even those who should know better.

The chatter of fireworks caught his attention, the sound of laughter and distant music breaking into the still night. He looked down on the city below, stretched out like a tablecloth embroidered with thousands of gilded threads.

And it still kept happening which was the worrying part. It was relentless. But I guess you can get used to anything, he reflected, even this. A great story for the grandkids, one day. He hadn’t lost too much, a bit of damage to the roof and some shattered glasses. That was the good thing about living on the hill. Somehow the worst of it hadn’t reached here.

He refilled his glass and checked the time. Twenty minutes till the bewitching hour and the chance to draw a line under 2010, another year gone.

But it did keep things interesting, he thought with a wry smile. No one could complain that life was predictable. And really, there wasn’t that much broken across the city. A few houses lost, lots of cracks. And no one had died, after all. Mother Nature was simply flexing her muscles, showing us who is boss and keeping us humble.

He raised his glass in a silent toast to her. Round one to you but we’re on the comeback. The good old Kiwi spirit really does thrive with a challenge and we won’t give in. No, onward and upward. Time for a new start. 2011 is going to be Christchurch’s year.

Rachael Hawkey 

A New Year's Spell

New Year’s Eve, 6.30 am, out of bed, a drink, pills, dog, bags, and Fay's ready. Next, push the truck downhill to start. We exit Kaka Point, arrive at 8.30am at the Auto Electricians in time to enable repairs before the close down. Delivered home 9.15am complete with gear and unpacked. A spell, no!, truck ready. Its 10.45am, so off to collect it. Back home midday. A spell, well, lunch and breakfast.

Truck operational, no car, Fay has Doctor visit and supermarket. Grant has meat and lawnmower to collect. Two trips to town, now 5pm. David and Philippa arrive. We are going out for dinner. David tried mower. Doesn't go. Bother! Family now bathing or showering. Me answering days of e-mails. A spell? Everybody's ready, I HAVE to spruce up, David also notes. “There's six of us”, “Only five seats in the car. I'll take the family in and come back for you”. Great! A relaxing bath and a spell, no!  Bath cold.

Nice wine, food. Everybody in fine fettle. We are now leaving. I'm starting to yawn a bit. Ella (9) wants to explore the Octagon with Ari (22). OHHH.  I just didn't want to listen to music I didn't understand and didn't like. A brief word to Fay and I walked back handy to the car, sat and dozed.

Woke up. “Where have!!”, “we have”, “you didn't”, “It's not”, “is”. Fay hadn't processed message. David exits. Car turns up. How are WE! all going to get home. Shuffle “ummmm”, “we'll”, “ohhh”, ”yes”,  we'll”. “Open the hatchback David”. He did. I got in. More recriminations, “get out”, “stupid”, “age”, etc. Everybody's in and we're home via detours to watch, would you believe, Xmas lights. Happy New Year!! I'm off to bed. It took 18 hours, A SPELLLLL ATTTT LAASSSTTT.

Grant Ward 

The challenge is a short short story each month in 2016, maximum of 300 words.  Email stories to rosemary.mcbryde@gmail.com for uploading to the blog.

The theme for January is "New Year". Stories are due by 31 January. Happy writing!