Flipside 6

Hi there! This is FlipSide 6. Rayhaan wrote this so long ago, nearly a month to this day and I've been delaying editing and publishing this till today! If you're wondering why this masterpiece is published under my name and not his, it's because Rayhaan is a self described technological cave man. I don't like publishing his stories under my name, but if that's what it takes, oh well. Hope you enjoy this brilliant characteristic Flipside story! Comment and share if you'd like to see more!

Amber Jubilee

Photo: Shutterstock

Orange lights are all I see. The wind seems to speak louder than my actions, but that won't make a damned difference to my pal who's six feet underground. The thought no longer counts when you're dead. Hell, I don't think anything counts once you're in a casket in the dirt. Still, the chrysanthemum I'm holding will make his grave a little prettier in the shadowy quiet. Hopefully.

   Damien was my friend. You wouldn't be able to tell though. Always fighting, that one; even if he knew he wouldn't win. Argument of the day is what I'd call it when we had our little conflicts. I never had any hard feelings for it; didn't need to- he was an opinionated man who cared about a lot of things. Just like me. And yet, he's the one they had to bury first. Condemned to Hell before he had the chance to fear it.

    It's a long walk to where Damien takes his eternal nap. Got to cross the housing schemes, past the cul-de-sacs and suburban landscapes. Then, on to the hill beyond the thicket. All in the grim moonlight. Don't ask me why I didn't go at daylight. I can't be arsed.

   Time doesn't fly when you're strolling through dead streets dimly lit by deathly pale orange street lights. Every rustle of a branch tucked in to the mass of virulent green of vegetation seems to me like another whisper from someone I used to know; another Damien. Even his name makes me feel a bit off now. When you're walking through ghost towns in the dead of night,thinking about the dearly deceased doesn't help.

   I must have been halfway there when I heard it...That mind numbing crunch that came from behind me. I didn't see anything when I turned around, and I know what you're thinking;
"A twig snapped behind him. Someone has to have been following him. There's no way it could have been anything else." 

Real funny. Regardless, I know there was nothing behind me, but that sound still echoes in my head, even now,when I've walked miles away. I see a mass of blinking illumination around the corner; a myriad of lights that twinkle over the backdrop of grinning caricatures and spinning mechanisms. It's the carnival. Surprised they still have those. Last time I checked, the fifties had long passed. It doesn't surprise me that no one's in sight. The staff is probably asleep, lying peacefully in their trailers and caravans while their grim inhabitance stands in harmony with the landscape tonight. The music is the first consistent sound I've heard in hours. It gives me a little relief, even though it sounds creepy as hell. Come to think of it, the wind isn't blowing against me as much anymore. I avert my gaze from the painted carny structures and look ahead-I've arrived. The hill is right in front of me.

    Fast forward to the hillside. Everything seems quaint enough to not be on guard. I spot Damien's mound and head over. Now I know I should have turned back when I could. Standing there, over his fresh mound, was a person, but not someone who looked like any other person. Tall, but a hunchback. 

    He was wearing some curious robes, one white dot painted between his eyes. He held a gigantic shovel, gripping it tightly like a sword. The casket was open. He froze, almost as if he was surprised to see Damien had anyone who would bother to pay their last damn respects. Now, I'm a man of instinct; I tossed the chrysanthemums aside and lunged forward. Grabbing this freak by the neck seemed like my biggest mistake- he didn't seem very happy about that. We brawled in the grass for what seemed like hours. Grass blades whizzed past me as he threw punches that were slow, but heavy. I let fatigue get to me, and I laid back on the ground hoping he had just as much fight left in him as I did. I hoped wrong. Before I could take a second breath he's towering over me with his weird-as-hell shovel, raises it above his arms, and brings it down in one thundering blow that made me believe that it was all over. Some cruel joke that was, because I woke up. He's gone now. Took Damien with him. 

All my bruises and my busted ribs mean nothing. I stand up, and look over the hillside, across the carnival; nothing. Looks like this chrysanthemum is going to waste.
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Tomorrow

“Another Gang Attack Busted”--The Guardian-- 

As he opened the door, he took an almost casual look around the top and the bottom of the street. 

Dark clouds rolled overhead, and with every breath, cold mist created a freezing bubble around his head. He saw no one on the streets. He started taking the steps down to the pavement. In one hand he held a case and some bulk was evident as he carried it down. In the other hand he held nothing, for the moment. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he stopped again. He took another glance at the street, and then with his free hand patted his front coat pocket. It was there. With a look of reassurance, he briskly started walking towards the end of the street.

The man in the car at the far end of the street smiled when he saw him step out. He kept his piercing eyes locked on the case when he saw it. His eyes sparkled as he said to his companion in the car,

“Step on it!”

The companion saw the look and grinned. He revved up the V8, and rolled out of the parking. The man in the passenger put down his camera and reached into the back, while talking to a crackling radio.

“C18A acquired, rolling out. Rolling out!” he screamed into it.

Out of the back he ripped out his favourite toy. This was gonna be fun. He smile grew as he companion revved up the car again and stepped on the accelerator and raced down the street.

The moment ‘C18A’ took his fourth step down the street, he heard the car. He knew what it was. His reactions sped up. He reached into the pocket and pulled out his Beretta 92A1. His steps quickened, and as he looked behind him, he saw the Ford Mustang pull out of the underground parking.

His initial thought was concerning what an American muscle car was doing in London. But then he realised that it was after him. The car’s sharp running lights cut through the darkness of the street. In another context, it would have been gorgeous, but here? It was terrifying.

As he saw the car rip though the street, he knew wouldn’t have a chance running. But he ran.

He angled out his Steyr AUG machine gun to face the street. The houses flew by.
500 meters to go.
400.
300.
200.
100.
90.
80.

He saw it coming closer, and closer. He was at loss for ideas. Then he saw the open door. As he looked back, he saw it coming nearer and nearer. With a leap of faith and energy, he pulled himself up the railing flung himself into the space between the door and the wall.

A spilt second later, the sound of machine-gunfire ripped through the quiet London streets.

-10.
-20.
-30.

As he flew by the doorway, he hardly saw the man fling himself in, but he infered it, as saw the lack of body on the pavement. He grimaced as they sped down the street. His companion saw it and as they reached the end of the empty street, he pulled the handbrake, and turned the wheels to perform a tight handbrake turn. With that single manoeuvre, they were speeding back up the street.

And they saw that he was out again. They were going to make sure that was the last mistake he ever made.

As he heard the car speed by, while was in the door way, he heard the gunshots break all the windows in the neighbourhood and dent all the metal. As soon as he heard that finish, he stepped out to run and saw how close he had been. The agency were sure to have heard it by now, but would they activate the forces quick enough? No, it would take them more than a minute, at least.

He made up his mind. What he had to do was make or break, but the problem was his choice could end up doing either. Or both. Never none. He had to make a choice.

He stepped out of the door, and ran out on to the street, not forgetting his case. As he ran out, he heard the squeal of the tyres performing the handbrake turn and the roar of the engine as it started to gain speed again.

He suddenly realised his pursers weren’t done yet.  He looked back to the doorway. Too far. He kept running. He saw the agency building. He heard the Mustang's engine get louder and louder as it grew closer. The agency was too far. He looked over his shoulder. Too close. Too close.

The man grinned in cold blood as he as he pulled himself back into the seat. He got ready to pull the trigger.

As the car drew in, the roar of the engine was overwhelming. Afterall, it was doing what it was made to do.

C18A looked over his shoulder one last time.

He heard the sound of bullets ricocheting off concrete and metals. Then, for a second, there was a tiny, silent squiching sound.

The normal ricocheting sound resumed again..

The sound of gunfire reached his ears too late. As heard it, intense pain flushed his body. Then he heard the ricocheting. Then the momentary pause. Then the resuming. The pain over took him. His eyes glazed. His hands went numb. His feeling grew light.  But as he fell, he felt the handle of the case and pressed hard with his thumb. ‘Protect’ was his last thought. And then, boom.

The man in car saw the bright flash. He saw the explosion.  His mind stopped for a moment. No. No. NO! The case, the case, where was the case?!

It was gone.

Burning papers caught in the current flew up and around. Then the sound of the police ripped through the screaming silence.

It was time to get going.

The news that night recalled a story of crazy gangs attacking a rich politician's house but had messed up their plans. The gang were dead and luckily, no civilians were attacked. But the stock market, what a fall...

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It might have been a bit cliche, with all the shooting and hiding and James Bond-esque theme, but I wanted to try out writing action and tension, and so when one of school work projects was to write a tension filled story, I took the opportunity and made the best of it. 

If you enjoyed it, please share it, and remember to follow our blog (submit your email in the gadget above) to get all the latest first! 

Thanks for reading! 
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Check out my other stories:

Crash, a short story: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/crash-short-story.html

1:49, a horror story: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/0149-pm.html

My Baked in Irony series:

Engrossing, a twisted short tale of irony:

http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/engrossing.html

Sorry…..

http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/sorry.html

Noticed….

http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/noticed.html

Check out Rayhaan's stories:

Flipside 1: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/the-closed-door.html

Flipside 2: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/flipside-2.html

Flipside 3: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/flipside-3.html
Flipside 4: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/10/flipside-4.html
Flipside 5: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2016/11/flipside-5_90.html

MirrorMan: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.com/2015/08/mirrorman.html

Or just check out everything in the order they came out in by clicking this:

www.interestconcentrated.blogspot.com

Flipside 5

FlipSide 5 is here, and so is Rayhaan! Hope you enjoy this! If you did, be sure to share. More like this already available on blog (find under label Stories and FlipSide) and coming up next month! 
Thanks for reading!

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How Many Times

How many times have I stopped before this grand mansion of purpose unknown to me?

The sun shone the same way and the trees swayed with the same grace, with the same people on the same days,and why it was so was beyond me. I opened the giant mahogany doors, the same flash of golden-white light blinding my eyes for a split second; before I walked onto the velvet carpet of the entrance hallway. The fragrance-candle wax and lavender-remained, propagating my sense of smell beyond recognition, and my eyes teared at the aroma. I looked to the left and then to the right; big, ivory windows and crowds of people, very mundane people, murmuring and meandering towards the main hall. The lighting was almost non existant. In all the times I've come here, not once did I look up, which is probably why I dont remember a chandelier. And yet my stubborness prevails, for without gazing towards the ceiling, I move forward yet again. But why? Why go ahead at all?

"Just turn back,and run, as fast as you can," my conscience is screaming at me. 

Somehow, I can't listen to it. Its all beyond me. I get to my destination, I open the exit door, and... it happens. I can't stop it. I can't intervene. I can't change my decisions. 
This will happen again and again, and I don't know why. I inch closer to the main hallway, past the staircases and corridors shrouded in ominous shadow and the passing crowds. Then, suddenly, my world starts to make sense again. The exit door; shining on my right with a sign above it, calling out to me. I feel my eyes widen with hope as I run towards the door and grip the knob when a thought creeps into my head that makes me pause. This door was never here before. Neither was the "EXIT" sign above it. It wasn't right. By the time i had finished pondering about this I realised only a second had passed as I look up at the clock, and protocol takes over. My intervention is stopped; my hope for freedom, destroyed. 

The door swings open with a force that could have broken my nose had I failed to move away as soon as I did, and standing in front of me, staring blankly at me, are my parents. Behind them, two more emerge from the shadows; their parents before them. I hadn't seen them in the longest time. Not since I started this sick game. Not since I traversed the corridors of this mansion every moment of my life.

It felt like I almost... forgot them. It took me a moment to recognise them, but it all came back to me. I couldn't decipher what they were saying, but I was hoping they were part of the deviation;that they would help me escape the loop. I was wrong. 

They beckoned me to the main hall, coercing me to proceed no matter how much I begged them to let me go into the exit. The one deviation in a million years, and that too steers me back to the loop. I can hear the sounds of metal and marching outside, I'm closer to the main hall. I look back at the people who raised me, and wave. I must have been crying; the loss of hope for escape was crushing me slowly, but it was too late. 

Amongst the crowd I grabbed the door handles to the main hall and left the light, and the crowds behind. I fall into the main hall, a dark courtyard made of metal, it's exit simply the absence of a fourth wall, almost like a house was cut in half and exposed. I see the land ahead, outside the mansion, the steel floor that stretched out for a thousand miles, and the deep sinking feeling of my heart as the footsteps grow louder, and the flashes of past trials come back to me. 

It's all happening like its supposed to. Now they will come,and they will take me. I sit, powerless, on the ground. The end is nigh for me,and I am doomed to repeat the process of grief, without escape, for another millennia, as far as I know. A surge of emotion suddenly electrocutes my senses and I rise to my feet, facing the white light of the sun outside and the infinite stretch of nothing. 

The footsteps grow louder and my pulse grows with it. I look to the black door upstairs- that's where they come from, where they take me. Every. Single. Time. 

But not today. Now that I'm standing strong, I realise I no longer need to wait for a deviation to save me; for an anomaly. I am the anomaly. I fight back the winds of a never ending earth before me and take one heavy step towards the exit. 

The footsteps are here.

I clench my fists and grit my teeth; I will not be taken this time. I push against the force of a million punches and step closer. And closer. The door comes banging down. 

They are here.

I scream in pain as I feel my skin tear off slowly, and I take my final step, out into the steel courtyard. The force stops. I am free.

The men come bolting behind me, and I run faster; the white sky shining off the jet black steel surface of the ground beneath me,and I reach the destination, uncaptured, no longer afraid. 

The men stop dead in their tracks,their emotionless faces gazing into mine. I turn around; their superior stands behind me, looking down from his great height. He doesn't say a word, but the points to the ground before me- there's machinery there now. I motion for it slowly, and I observe him growing in aggression. Something takes over me at that point. 

It's not the protocol, not whats supposed to happen. This feels...right. 

But the man shakes his head. His soldiers standing behind him, ready to pounce on me should I disobey. I gaze at the panel before me, and gaze around at the stretch of infinity all around me, the wind howling in my face. 

This is truly the end. 

A sense of urgency takes over and I launch my hand at the panel, destroying the course of events that held me back in the loop, imprisoning me to cruel pre-destination that has held me captive for so long. 

The blinding white light fills my eyes as the steel beneath me slides away into oblivion and I rise, tears floating away from my eyelids. The sound of infinite bell rings fills my ears and it gets harder to breathe. I slowly lose sight, and like a breath of relief, I close my eyes. 

I am free.
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Work of Rayhaan Mubarak, Interest Concentrated.

FlipSide: ReWritten

I've worked on some of Rayhaan's old FlipSide stories, and I've re-editted and written the stories to become longer and clearer.
This particular one is FlipSide 4: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/10/flipside-4.html
I thought it was particularly well written and I've made some adjustments to the storyline to better reflect how I think this story should have been drafted as.
Think of it as the final draft of a fantastic story.
I'll try and re-edit some more and post them in the future.
Enjoy!

New Clear War Fair

   The great white light of the sun shone upon the survivor's garden. The morning heat was intense, more than enough to awaken the man. He was aged; his features chiselled. He had enough to keep him disturbed, and he only slept because of the pain he felt in his weary body.

  The survivor was just a young man when nuclear warfare began. It was a strained idea at the time, not even a last resort for most nations; all under the façade of "world peace". He could still remember the shrill cries of women next door once the warhead was launched. In a few seconds, the government pleaded to the citizens to run for the nearest shelter, and all hell began to break lose. Babies were crying. Animals moaning. The end was nigh.

---

  The survivor rose from his bed; a deep sigh rolling down his nostrils. It wasn't really a bed, he thought. The sheets were rags, tearing away at its ends. His pillows were sacks of soft beach sand, decades old, as he was.

Within the span of at most, 2 decades, most of the unhealthy adults passed, and without many adults, a few younger ones could not survive either. His sister, with her delicate health and pale features, was one of the first to go. Upon recollection, the survivor often broke into tears, "Why me? What's the point of living when all I have are these damned chickens?"

He would often kick the cage door in frustration. Suicide was not an option either. He was stronger than that, and as his loved ones passed away in his arms, he vowed he would survive for their sake, and survive he did.

---

     Mid- afternoon came, and he retreated to the kitchen. He opened the food vaults and stared into it. The ample amount of nutrition mocked him. It stood for what would keep him alive, what would keep him in his lonesome, vulnerable to the ghosts of his life past. The survivor cooked and dined heartily, as his mother had taught him. He sat at the dining table. In his mind, mother was standing beside him, waiting for him to slip up on his etiquette so she could correct him. A single tear dripped down the sullen face of the survivor, as he remembered his mother and her sharp features. He could never tell her how good her cooking was. He was too much of an idiot, enjoying the food when she fed him.

He finished his lunch and opened grandfather's dilapidated house, conveniently built next to his, almost a century ago. He marvelled at grandfather’s paintings.

His aged fingers rubbed the surface of the portraits, older than him when he saw first them. The beautiful hues had faded away into abstraction, the years and the radiation eating away what was left of art itself.

In this moment of pure but restless bliss, the echoes of his nephews’ voices came back to him, laughing and screaming in excitement as their days were passed in utopia, the epitome of life at the time. The relaxed voices of his lovely Laila, his mother and his sister, drifted over to him, talking about the wonderful cakes they’d make next week, the trips they’d take, the friends they’d meet.

---

The survivor could bare these ghosts no more. He grabbed a Geiger meter from grandfather’s office and headed out of the lead gates. He walked down the street, onto the main road, and into the city.  He walked on, past the destruction of yesteryear. The Geiger meter began beeping. The radiation levels were increasing. The survivor went into ice cream shops, shopping malls, and restaurants, all with his family beside him.

Finally, he ventured to the coast and sat on the rocks. The radiation he was being exposed was gnawing away at his skin, but he didn't mind. The toxic seawater sprayed on his toes as it hit the rocks.

The last of the evening blues darkened, and the views of the old town disappeared as the thick mists set in again.

 Watching this spectacle, his emotions got the best of him.  A dry tear dribbled across his wrinkled cheek. The world was so beautiful, why did it have to end the way it did?

He tried his best. He really did. But he had his family again, in his mind, and they were comforting him. Everything was going to be alright. The survivor shed his last tears as his skin melted away atop the coastal rocks.

He knew he had made his family proud.

Compare it to the original to see just how different they are! Links given above- and below!

Thanks for reading!

---Thisath---

Want more? Explore what we have here by checking below!
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Check out Rayhaan's other stories:

Flipside 1: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/the-closed-door.html

Flipside 2: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/flipside-2.html

Flipside 3: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/flipside-3.html
Flipside 4: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/10/flipside-4.html

MirrorMan: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.com/2015/08/mirrorman.html

Poems Concentrated Series:

Edition 1: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/p/poems-concentrated.html

Edition 2: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/p/poems-concentrated-ed-2.html

Edition 3: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poems-concentrated-ed3.html

Edition 4: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poems-concentrated-ed4.html

Edition 5: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poetry-concentrated-ed5.html

Edition 6: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poems-concentrated-ed-6.html

Edition 7: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/poems-concentrated-ed-7.html

Edition 8: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/poems-concentrated-ed8.html

Edition 9: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/poems-concentrated-ed9.html

Edition 10: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/poems-concentrated-edition-10.html

Edition 11: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/10/poems-concentrated-ed-11.html

Tech Section:

What you should know about Apple: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/p/what-i-think-of-apple.html

My LG G2 Review: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/week-2-with-g2.html

Sony Xperia Z3 Tablet Compact Review: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/10/sony-xperia-z3-tablet-compact-review.html

10 original memes of the week:
Edition 1: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.com/2015/10/10-original-memes-of-week.html

More Random but Interesting Articles by Thisath:

About Pens: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/why-does-pen-you-use-for-daily-writing.html

About Speech: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/speech-how-do-we-understand-it.html

Games Reviews:

Deadrising 2: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/review-deadrising-2.html

Blitz Brigade: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2016/07/gaming-review-blitz-brigade.html

Check out my stories:

Crash, a short story: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/crash-short-story.html

1:49, a horror story: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/0149-pm.html

My Baked in Irony series:

Engrossing, a twisted short tale of irony:

  http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/engrossing.html

Sorry…..

http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/sorry.html

Noticed….

http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/noticed.html

Tommorow

http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/tomorrow.html

Or just check out everything in the order they came out in by clicking this:

www.interestconcentrated.blogspot.com

Flipside 4

Flip-Side 4!

Finally, a flipside by Rayhaan again! Yes, he's back for now! 

This time he's bought with him another amazing heartfelt story. It goes deep and personal. Always be grateful for what you have. You'll only miss it when it's gone. 

These words are yours for now, enjoy them while you still can. 

Read on.

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Flipside 4

The great white light of the sun shone upon the survivor's garden.The morning heat was intense, and was enough to awaken the man. He was aged; his features chiseled. He had enough to keep him disturbed, and he only slept because of the pain he felt in parts of his weary body.

  The survivor was just a boy when nuclear warfare began. It was a strained idea at the time, not even a last resort for most nations: under the façade of "world peace". He could still remember the shrill cries of women next door once the warhead was launched. In a few seconds, the government pleaded to the citizens to run for the nearest shelter, and all hell began to break lose. Babies were crying. Animals moaning. The end was nigh.

 The survivor rose from his bed; a deep sigh rolling down his nostrils. It wasn't really a bed, he thought. The sheets were rags, tearing away at its ends. His pillows were sacks of soft beach sand, decades old, as he was.

Gradually, within the span of, at most, 2 decades, most of the unhealthy adults passed, and without many adults, a few younger ones could not survive either. His sister was the youngest of the children, and was not strong enough. Upon recollection, the survivor often broke into tears, "Why me? What's the point of living when all I have are these damned chickens?"

He would often kick the cage door in frustration. Suicide was not an option either. He was stronger than that, and as his loved ones passed away in his arms, he vowed he would survive for their sake, and survive he did.

     Afternoon came, and he retreated to the kitchen. He opened the food vaults and stared into it. The ample amount of nutrition mocked him. It stood for what would keep him alive, what would keep him in his lonesome, vulnerable to the ghosts of his life past. The survivor cooked and dined heartily, as his mother had taught him. He sat at the dining table. In his mind, mother was standing beside him, waiting for him to slip up on his etiquette so she could correct him. A single tear dripped down the sullen face of the survivor, as he remembered mother and her sharp features. He could never tell her how good her cooking was. He was too much of an idiot, enjoying the food when she fed him.

He finished his lunch and opened grandfather's dilapidated house, conveniently built next to his almost a century ago. He marveled at grandfathers paintings. His aged fingers rubbed the surface of the portraits. The world was so beautiful, why did it have to end the way it did? 

The survivor could bare these ghosts no more. He grabbed a Geiger meter from grandfather’s office and headed out of the lead gates. He walked down the street, onto the main road, and into the city.  He walked on, past the destruction of yesteryear. The Geigermeter began beeping. The radiation levels were increasing. The survivor went into ice cream shops, shopping malls, and restaurants, all with his family beside him. 

Finally, he ventured to the the coast and sat on the rocks. The radiation he was being exposed was gnawing away at his skin, but he didn't mind. The toxic seawater sprayed on his toes as it hit the rocks. He tried his best. He really did. But he had his family again, in his mind, and they were comforting him. Everything was going to be alright. The survivor shed his last tears as his skin melted away atop the coastal rocks, he had made his family proud, and survived for three quarters of a century.

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As always, a great story. 

Here's a bit of a sad fun fact for you. The reason this story is so short is because Rayhaan lost one important paragraph during transit. The paragraph between 'as he was.' and '.Gradually....'.

You might have not noticed it, but according to Rayhaan that way a key point in the story, which would have technically made it more exciting and given some background story. But whats gone is gone, and like I said, let's be grateful for what we have.

And that's it for this week. I hope enjoyed it, and if you did, please remember to +1, share and follow our blog (enter your email into the gadget above)! It really helps get us known, and is very much appreciated. 

Thanks for reading!

You might be interested in our other stories and poems:

Check out my stories:

Crash, a short story: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/crash-short-story.html

1:49, a horror story: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/0149-pm.html

My Baked in Irony series:

Engrossing, a twisted short tale of irony:

  http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/engrossing.html

Sorry…..

http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/sorry.html

Noticed….

http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/noticed.html

Tommorow

http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/tomorrow.html

Check out Rayhaan's stories:

Flipside 1: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/the-closed-door.html

Flipside 2: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/flipside-2.html

Flipside 3: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/flipside-3.html

MirrorMan: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.com/2015/08/mirrorman.html

Poems Concentrated Series:

Edition 1: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/p/poems-concentrated.html

Edition 2: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/p/poems-concentrated-ed-2.html

Edition 3: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poems-concentrated-ed3.html

Edition 4: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poems-concentrated-ed4.html

Edition 5: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poetry-concentrated-ed5.html

Edition 6: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poems-concentrated-ed-6.html

Edition 7: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/poems-concentrated-ed-7.html

Edition 8: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/poems-concentrated-ed8.html

Edition 9: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/poems-concentrated-ed9.html

Edition 10: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/poems-concentrated-edition-10.html

Tech Section:

What you should know about Apple: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/p/what-i-think-of-apple.html

My LG G2 Review: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/week-2-with-g2.html

More Random but Interesting Articles by me:

About Pens: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/why-does-pen-you-use-for-daily-writing.html

About Speech: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/speech-how-do-we-understand-it.html

Games Reviews:

Deadrising 2: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/review-deadrising-2.html

Or just check out everything in the order they came out in by clicking this:

www.interestconcentrated.blogspot.com

Cookies by Douglas Adams

So this is a story I've read many times on the internet but never actaully seen credited to the real author, Douglas Adams. So now I discovered who actaully wrote and realised that I had to put up a story today, this is the first example that came to mind! I still laugh everytime I read this, and I'm sure you will laugh too!
Enjoy!
Cookies by Douglas Adams
This actually did happen to a real person, and the real  person was me. I had gone to catch a train. This was April 1976, in  Cambridge, U.K. I was a bit early for the train. I’d gotten the time of  the train wrong. I went to get myself a newspaper to do the crossword,  and a cup of coffee and a packet of cookies. I went and sat at a table.

I want you to picture the scene. It’s very important that you get  this very clear in your mind. Here’s the table, newspaper, cup of  coffee, packet of cookies. There’s a guy sitting opposite me, perfectly  ordinary-looking guy wearing a business suit, carrying a briefcase. It  didn’t look like he was going to do anything weird. What he did was  this: he suddenly leaned across, picked up the packet of cookies, tore  it open, took one out, and ate it.

Now this, I have to say, is the sort of thing the British are very bad at dealing with. There’s nothing in our background, upbringing, or education that teaches you how to deal with someone who in broad daylight has just stolen your cookies.

You know what would happen if this had been South Central Los  Angeles. There would have very quickly been gunfire, helicopters coming  in, CNN, you know. . . But in the end, I did what any red-blooded  Englishman would do: I ignored it. And I stared at the newspaper, took a  sip of coffee, tried to do a clue in the newspaper, couldn’t do  anything, and thought, what am I going to do?

In the end I thought, Nothing for it, I’ll just have to go for it,  and I tried very hard not to notice the fact that the packet was  already mysteriously opened. I took out a cookie for myself. I thought, That settled him.  But it hadn’t because a moment or two later he did it again. He took  another cookie. Having not mentioned it the first time, it was somehow  even harder to raise the subject the second time around. “Excuse me, I  couldn’t help but notice . . .” I mean, it doesn’t really work.

We went through the whole packet like this. When I say the whole  packet, I mean there were only about eight cookies, but it felt like a  lifetime. He took one, I took one, he took one, I took one. Finally,  when we got to the end, he stood up and walked away. Well, we exchanged  meaningful looks, then he walked away, and I breathed a sigh of relief  and sat back.

A moment or two later the train was coming in, so I tossed back the  rest of my coffee, stood up, picked up the newspaper, and underneath the  newspaper were my cookies.

The thing I like particularly about this story is the sensation that  somewhere in England there has been wandering around for the last  quarter-century a perfectly ordinary guy who’s had the same exact story,  only he doesn’t have the punch line.

Still laughing? Me too!
This is probably one my top favorite short funny stories. After my own, of course
:-D.
So, if you enjoyed reading this, please be sure to share this among your friends and communties! Don't be selfish with your joy! :-)
And if you want to see more content like this first, and enjoy our articles please be sure to follow our blog, by submitting your email in the gadget above this post! It helps me to know what content you like and bring more of it!
Finally, I'd like to thank Quora for showing me this on my feed, and also my readers for reading and sharing our articles! Thank you! :-)

Read more:

The Poems Concentrated Series:

Edition 1: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/p/poems-concentrated.html

Edition 2: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/p/poems-concentrated-ed-2.html

Edition 3: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poems-concentrated-ed3.html

Edition 4: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poems-concentrated-ed4.html

Edition 5: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poetry-concentrated-ed5.html

Edition 6: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poems-concentrated-ed-6.html

Edition 7: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/poems-concentrated-ed-7.html

Edition 8: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/poems-concentrated-ed8.html

Edition 9: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/poems-concentrated-ed9.html

Edition 10: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/poems-concentrated-edition-10.html

Check out my stories:

Crash, a short story: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/crash-short-story.html

1:49, a horror story: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/0149-pm.html

My Baked in Irony series:

Engrossing, a twisted short tale of irony:

  http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/engrossing.html

Sorry…..

http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/sorry.html

Noticed….

http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/noticed.html

Tomorrow

http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/tomorrow.html

Check out Rayhaan's stories:

Flipside 1: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/the-closed-door.html

Flipside 2: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/flipside-2.html

Flipside 3: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/flipside-3.html

MirrorMan: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.com/2015/08/mirrorman.html

Stories not by Interest Concentrated, but still amazing and worth reading:

http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/the-open-window-by-saki.html

Tech Section:

What you should know about Apple: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/p/what-i-think-of-apple.html

My LG G2 Review: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/week-2-with-g2.html

More Random but Interesting Articles by me:

About Pens: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/why-does-pen-you-use-for-daily-writing.html

About Speech: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/speech-how-do-we-understand-it.html

Games Reviews:

Deadrising 2: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/review-deadrising-2.html

Or just check out everything in the order they came out in by clicking this:

www.interestconcentrated.blogspot.com

The Open Window by Saki

For this week's story, I've picked up something by a professional author, Hector Hugh Munro or Saki as he is better known. First of all, I want to make it clear, this is NOT one of my own stories. Now I said it, let's get on with the story. I found it on my Quora feed, and I found it impressive. Plus I didn't have time to create my own story, so I thought I'd feature this. It's a rather impressive short story! If you don't know who Saki is here's a short intro from Wikipedia: Hector Hugh Munro (18 December 1870 – 14 November 1916), better known by the pen name Saki, and also frequently as H. H. Munro, was a British writer whose witty, mischievous and sometimes macabre stories satirize Edwardian society and culture. He is considered a master of the short story, and often compared to O. Henry and Dorothy Parker. Influenced by Oscar Wilde, Lewis Carroll and Rudyard Kipling, he himself influenced A. A. Milne, Noël Coward and P. G. Wodehouse.

On with the story!

The Open Window by Saki (Hector Hugh Munro)

"My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel," said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; "in the meantime you must try and put up with me."
     Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing.
     "I know how it will be," his sister had said when he was preparing to migrate to this rural retreat; "you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice."
     Framton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction came into the nice division.
     "Do you know many of the people round here?" asked the niece, when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion.
     "Hardly a soul," said Framton. "My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here."
      "Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?" pursued the self-possessed young lady.
     "Only her name and address," admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.
     "Her great tragedy happened just three years ago," said the child; "that would be since your sister's time."
     "Her tragedy?" asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed out of place.
      "You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon," said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened on to a lawn.
     "It is quite warm for the time of the year," said Framton; "but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?"
     "Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day's shooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to their favourite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it." Here the child's voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. "Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back someday, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing 'Bertie, why do you bound?' as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window - "
     She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance.
     "I hope you don't mind the open window," said Mrs. Sappleton briskly; "my husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting, and they always come in this way. They've been out for snipe in the marshes today, so they'll make a fine mess over my poor carpets. So like you menfolk, isn't it?"
     She rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds, and the prospects for duck in the winter. To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic, he was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary.
     "The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise," announced Framton, who laboured under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. "On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement," he continued.
     "No?" said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention - but not to what Framton was saying.
     "Here they are at last!" she cried. "Just in time for tea, and don't they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!"
     Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The child was staring out through the open window with a dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction.
     In the deepening twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window, they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk: "I said, Bertie, why do you bound?"
     Framton grabbed wildly at his stick and hat; the hall door, the gravel drive, and the front gate were dimly noted stages in his headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to run into the hedge to avoid imminent collision.
     "Here we are, my dear," said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window, "fairly muddy, but most of it's dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?"
     "A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttel," said Mrs. Sappleton; "could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of goodbye or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost."
     "I expect it was the spaniel," said the niece calmly; "he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve."
     Romance at short notice was her speciality.

Now, wasn't that an impressive story? I think it goes pretty well with our Saturday short story theme, being so ironic and twisted. Which is why chose it, of course. And after-all Saki is regarded as one of the best short story writer ever. I wish he was alive to write for this blog :-D
For next week, I think I can put up one of my own stories. But if  not, expect another amzing story by a more established author.
And remember, if you enjoyed this story, please be sure to share this. Oh, and don't forget to follow the blog! It's the first thing above this post, and all you need to do is submit your email and then you'll always get the latest first! 

Thanks for reading!

You might enjoy our series of Poems Concentrated:
Edition 1: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/p/poems-concentrated.html
Edition 2: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/p/poems-concentrated-ed-2.html
Edition 3: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poems-concentrated-ed3.html
Edition 4: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poems-concentrated-ed4.html
Edition 5: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poetry-concentrated-ed5.html
Edition 6: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/poems-concentrated-ed-6.html
Edition 7: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/poems-concentrated-ed-7.html
Edition 8: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/poems-concentrated-ed8.html
Edition 9: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/poems-concentrated-ed9.html

Check out my stories:
Crash, a short story: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/crash-short-story.html
1:49, a horror story: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/0149-pm.html
My Baked in Irony series:
Engrossing, a twisted short tale of irony:  http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/engrossing.html
Sorry…..
http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/sorry.html
Noticed….
http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/09/noticed.html

Check out Rayhaan's stories:
Flipside 1: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/the-closed-door.html
Flipside 2: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/flipside-2.html
Flipside 3: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/flipside-3.html
MirrorMan: http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.com/2015/08/mirrorman.html

Games Reviews by Dinera:
http://interestconcentrated.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/review-deadrising-2.html

Or just check out everything in the order they came out in by clicking this:
www.interestconcentrated.blogspot.com