A collection of short stories written by Gareth Davies author of novels Maggie’s Milkman and Extraordinary Rendition. Over 800 free short stories and 100 poems. Please note all works are first drafts. Enjoy, leave comments, share on social media and be inspired.
Check out the details of my novels here
It wasn’t meant to end like this, not at
all. Mitch watched the huge plume of black smoke drift across the city as a
multitude of sirens drowned out the craws of the seagulls. More and fire
appliances arrived at the scene, their blue lights reflecting off the tinted
windows of the office buildings on the other side of the square. Facebook and
Twitter were already full of pictures of the plume with speculation rife that
Cardiff had been targeted by Islamic terrorists. The flames danced and leapt in
the wind. Firefighters were doing their job, but the flames were fighting back.
Mitch and the other onlookers were shepherded back another ten metres by a
spotty faced community support officer. Mitch bit his nails, this wasn’t good,
not good at all.
“Is it ISIS?” A woman’s voice asked behind him.
People were stupid. Why did anything dramatic have to be terrorist related? And
since when did terrorist target wasteland on the edge of Cardiff Bay?
Mitch turned his back on the fire and
pushed his way through the crowd. He needed to get away from the scene of the
crime. Mitch knew the arson specialists were probably already scanning the
rubberneckers looking for their culprit, but still he’d hung around watching
the smoke go from white to black.
It had started as protest. A dirty protest.
The streets of Cardiff were getting gradually dirtier and dirtier. The students
had all gone home but the streets around the university were a disgrace. Uncollected
rubbish strewn across front gardens and spilling into the streets. Seagulls
feasted on the scraps getting fatter and fatter and the smell would turn any
stomach. The council had neither the will nor the money to do anything about it,
so Mitch had taken matters into his own hands. He’d hired a truck and gone
around collecting the crap lying on the streets of Cathays. For seven hours
he’d worked harder than he’d ever worked. The maggot farm he’d uncovered had almost
made him throw up, and there was no almost about it when he’d found the rotting corpse of an ex-seagull. Finally, when he had the van full of black bags, green bags, and other
backs of rubbish, he’d headed down to Callaghan Square to set his bonfire.
Just a little fire to draw everyone’s
attention to the issue, just on the patch of wasteland that nobody used. How
was Mitch supposed to know that something in those bags would send up an acrid
smoke that would choke half of Cardiff?
“They found a body?” The woman who had
decided it was an act of terrorism looked up from her phone. “It’s a suicide bomber!” "Or a murder," another woman said.
Mitch looked back. Another wail of sirens
brought an ambulance to the scene. How could they have found a body? Mitch had
made sure there was no one on the wasteland when he’d dumped the bags. He
hadn’t killed anyone. He continued to push through the people; more and more of
them arriving to film the scene for their own Facebook walls. His shirt was
sticking to his back, and there was sweat on the back of his knees. He had to
get away, far away.
“’Scuse me sir,” Mitch looked up to see a
man and a woman standing in front of him. He knew exactly who they were.
“Would you like to come with us?” The woman said.
Mitch didn’t want to, but he guessed it was
for the best.