I love reading stories which contain elements that couldn't happen in real life. Ghosts, time travel, super heroes - so that's also what I write. That and various genres of humorous non-fiction.
I've got more going on at www.peternuttall.net
The greatest vocalist of the 80s
I don't know if you ever listen to music with the window open but it does test your faith in the songs you listen to. I was sitting happily in the bath, listening to a playlist of random 80s songs when on came 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' by Tight Fit. Unable (or unwilling) to get out of the hot water to find my phone and skip the track, I listened through, half-hoping there was nobody passing outside who would judge my taste in music and half-loving the song which was a massive number 1 hit in 1982.
Alex tapped a clear plastic pen off the side of his white plastic coffee cup to the rhythm of The William Tell overture. It caused circular ripples to spread across the surface of the brown liquid within that had long gone cold. Entertainment at work was scarce save for the screens that flickered occasionally in front of him and the waste paper basket in the corner, around which were littered objects he’d failed to throw into it. Alex’s pen was the next item to follow the discarded pieces of screwed up paper and office bric-a-brac onto the floor as it ricocheted off the rim of the basket, cannoning off the wall and embedding itself in half a ham sandwich he’d tossed there a few hours ago. Glancing at the weary-looking wall clock every few minutes while leaning on the back two legs of his chair made the day pass more slowly than if he did what he was paid to do.
Between the intermittent scrape of the windscreen wipers was the mumbling drone of the radio and the rain hammering on the roof of the car. Against the black sky, Bill became mesmerised by the cascade of rain illuminated by the streetlights as he passed each one on his journey home. The meeting with his manager just before he’d left work for the day, the report he had to write before a 10am meeting tomorrow, the gift he still hadn’t had time to buy his wife for their anniversary and the flooded roads all occupied his thoughts as his car crawled through the city centre, hitting every red light. People fighting with umbrellas crossed the road as he waited at a set of traffic lights which seemed to have been red for hours. Bill tapped the steering wheel with irritation, then switched the radio off with a grunt of annoyance. He tapped the accelerator causing the car to rev in a passive aggressive manner, as if this would make clear his frustration to the lights, make them feel guilty and then change as an apology.
After lying flat on the bed and closing his eyes, colours and shapes soon began to form in Sam’s mind. A dark room with blurred neon lights soon fizzled into view. The scene sharpened and a barstool with a purple velvet seat materialised in front of him. Beyond that, a silver counter top with a mirrored front panel in which Sam could see his legs reflected. He backed onto the stool and rested his elbows on the bar, staring at the wall which gradually became lined with various liquors and wine bottles.
What you are about to read, you will not believe, but I can assure you that it’s absolutely true. I received a mysterious letter many years ago, and just like the one you received today, it instructed me to attend the office of Barker and Dean where you are now. They are the firm of solicitors who have dealt with our concerns for many years. They know of only three things; the money, the properties and the box.