3 short flashes

1. Gazebo

Annie was looking out from the window, through the September drizzle, and down to the bottom of the garden. She said, "I want to be a gazebo, running free across the limitless plains of the Serengeti"
"A gazelle, you mean?" I asked.
"Don't know" she said, "what's the payment plan like?"
"On a gazelle?" I laughed, spilling a little lukewarm coffee down the front of her dress."I - wouldn't know," I said. "I suspect...a series of simple, manageable installments, spread out over an extended period of time."
"Hmm" she said, sucking on a fingertip, "Hmm." There was one of those cool, extended silences, where if life were a television set, you'd be tempted to get up and thump it with the side of your fist. "I think -," she paused, fingertip still half protruding from her mouth. "I think I meant a pagoda."

2. Hands Free

Gordon looked up from the hospital bed.
“Explain it to him,” they’d said, “in terms of a mobile phone.”

Behind him, there were wires coming out of the boy’s mouth, connecting him to a bank of computers beeping and chirruping like crickets at sundown.

He was like that, Gordon. One of the strangest men I’d met. He’d been mistreated, as a kid; locked in an attic with only a wedge of old Argos catalogues for company. A quick glance could have told you something was wrong. He walked with a twitch and his eyes were forever rolling in his head. Too much room to manoeuvre. His wife let it be known that when he first propositioned her, he’d said “let me be the detergent to your child proof drum”.
It hadn’t been, of course, so here we were.
“Well,” I said. “It’s like this. Some models age better than others. Some you can scuff a little, drop them in water. Not this one, I’m afraid.”
“A write off?” He asked. I nodded. Outside the room, two constables kept watch.
A smile broke across his face.

“Ah,” he said, “but do I get to keep the sim card?”

3. They love a bit of him

I wanted to be like the filthy pigeons, worming all over each other. The idiot birds were out on the ledge, swarming over scraps. I had looked from the window uncountable times, but today the heat haze had caught the office building’s perimeter and made it shimmer like ripples on the surface of a pool.

In a moment I was through the window, kneeling tight against the wall. There was a playful breeze in the air, the smell of concrete dust and take-away, and as I leant over the barrier, the blackberry slipped from my pocket and tumbled loose, spinning and folding over itself until it burst in a black shower, spilling its innards across the pavement below. I watched as a crowd formed, picking up the pieces and pointing toward me.

Leonard from HR was suddenly by my side. “Godsakes” he said, fixing a hand on my arm. “Godsakes. What are you playing at?”
“Coo” I replied, “Coo-coo”.