Mikey Jackson. Writer - scriptwriter - novelist. Writer of TV, radio, film, web and stage scripts, novels, comedy sketches, short stories, web content, gags. Available for commissioning.
Mikey Jackson writer for TV, radio, film, stage, print, digital and web.
Mikey Jackson scriptwriter and novelist. Audiable free trial
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My short stories...

I write short stories of many styles and genres. I have had short stories published in various anthologies.

PLEASE NOTE: I have not put my absolute best work here, as I am entering many of my stories in writing contests whose rules state that stories cannot already be published elsewhere, including online.

If you are an agent, magazine editor or publisher interested in reading more of my work, then feel free to get in touch

Adam and Eve... Again!
I was a finalist in the PG Wodehouse New Comic Writer Award competition with this story.

Gloop detested the annual reconnaissance trips to Earth. Too much wet stuff falling out of the sky for her liking. However, this particular voyage was a far cry from the usual "strictly covert observation of human behaviour only" affair. No, this time round, it was an emergency rescue mission for possible survivors.
Talk about an accident waiting to happen. Giving human beings unsupervised control of a planet rich in resources, fresh air and opportunities always meant apocalypse would be skulking somewhere in the shadows, ready and waiting to cast its destructive spell. Riots, wars, the politics of hatred, Sunday afternoon under 10's football matches, they'd all played their part in the total destruction of civilisation. And now there was nothing left but charred trees, decaying ruins and a million, trillion shattered bones of former living creatures.
Gloop banked the craft to the left and the deathly wake of apocalypse came into view. A painful chaos of twisted iron girders and blackened granules of stone spread the wings of death amidst a harrowing zoo of battered, rusting motor vehicles. Watching tall over the ice-cold mayhem of silence stood the cracked, crumbling carcasses of concrete and glass, mimicking a sorry parade of dying, weather-worn tombstones in an overgrown, long-forgotten graveyard. This was certainly not how she remembered the once vibrant and bustling city of London.
There came a flush of water. The door to the flight room's toilet cubicle swished open. Glerk, co-pilot, loving husband of Gloop and their home planet's "standing on one leg the longest" champion returned to his seat.
Self-conscious, he jabbed the thumb of one of his eight hands towards the toilet and murmured, 'I'd leave it five twimloids if I were you.' He then asked, 'Are we there yet?'
Gloop rolled her six eyes. Two jaded groans emerged, one from each mouth. If contests existed for poisoning lavatory air and asking dumb questions over and over again, Glerk would win eight hands down.
'According to the ship's scanner,' said Gloop, casting multiple eyes upon a busy radar screen, 'the signs of life we detected should be right about here.'
Gloop circled the locality, searching for a suitable place to land. Once an agreeable spacious area of charred grass had been located, she put the craft down.
They both looked out of the cockpit window. Nothing.
Glerk then pointed all eight index fingers. 'Over there, look.'
Two signs of life, one male, one female emerged from the fire-damaged skeleton of a nearby building, waving their arms in the air, eager to get seen, get heard, get away from this horrible place.
'Oh, bother, they're humans,' sighed Gloop. 'I was hoping the only survivor of this ravaged planet would be a cute kitten. I've always fancied owning a pet.'
'They take a lot of looking after,' Glerk hastened to mention.
'No. Humans. Vile creatures.'
'Agreed,' uttered Gloop. 'There's something very creepy about their one pair of hands.'
Glerk nodded. 'Definitely the stuff of nightmares.' He stabbed a sequence of buttons. 'Right, let's get this over and done with. Opening two-way transmission.'
A microphone on a stalk emerged from the control panel. Gloop took charge of it.
'This is Gloop and Glerk from the Trans-Galaxial Scouting Corporation,' she announced to the outside world. 'Please state your names.'
'Funnily enough,' replied the male human, 'I'm Adam and this is Eve.'
Gloop shrugged all eight shoulders. 'What's so funny about that?'
The two humans traded puzzled frowns.
'You know, Adam and Eve,' said the female human. 'Get it? From the good book.'
Gloop was still none the wiser. 'What good book?'
'The Bible.'
Gloop threw a blink-filled glance at Glerk. Her husband seemed equally bemused. It was clearly a Homo sapiens in-joke.
'Was it ever featured on Richard And Judy's Book Club?' she asked the survivors.
Eve shrugged her one and only set of shoulders. 'I don't think so, no.'
'Well, it can't be that good a book then.'
Eve looked intrigued. 'I didn't know aliens watched human TV.'
'Book Club was the only Earth transmission worth monitoring,' Gloop said. 'The rest of your output was always a bit meh. Oh, apart from Christmas Day EastEnders.'
Tired of the smalltalk, Adam asked, 'Have you come here to rescue us?'
'Yes. But now we're not so sure if it's the right thing to do.' Gloop indicated to a barren landscape long since dead. 'I mean, look what you've done to the place.'
'This isn't our doing,' stressed a worried Adam.
Gloop scoffed. 'So you're saying there was no World War 3, huh? I beg to differ. I saw it all unfold with my own six eyes.'
'Yes, but we didn't play a part in it. We're not politicians or soldiers. I was an accountant and Eve worked in a supermarket, mostly laughing at people trying in vain to conquer the self-service checkouts.'
Gloop said, 'You need to see it from our POV. We have a new planet already lined up for you, but how do we know you won't totally trash it?'
'Gloop, please,' Eve begged. 'Humanity made some really stupid mistakes. All we're asking for is a chance to learn from them.'
For the longest time, Gloop and Glerk deliberated, ponder, ponder, ponder. Should they, shouldn't they, should they, shouldn't they? A decision was eventually made. Adam and Eve would be saved.
'You do realise, don't you?' Glerk uttered privately to his wife as the survivors boarded the craft. 'These humans breed like flies.'
'What they choose to get up to in the privacy of their newly-adopted planet is their own business.'
'Yes, but they'll end up destroying the damn thing. Just like they did with this one. And the one before that. And the one before that.'
Gloop posted a reassuring smile. 'Oh, don't you worry, Glerk. Human apocalypse only occurs every few thousand years. We'll both be dead and gone by then.'
Getting it, Glerk sported two grins. 'Ah, yes, which means it'll no longer be our problem.'

Destiny, a Demise

Your name is Baxter. Male. Lost somewhere in your late thirties. You never use your first name. It embarrasses you. You've always questioned your parents' sanity around the time of your creation. Why Arthur? What were they thinking? Too much of a crush on alcohol perhaps? Or eager noses taking a recreational trip across white lines? Huh, probably a cocktail of both.
You've been watching her house for the last two hours. You're parked a sensible distance away.
Smart move.
Yet close enough to marvel at her dreamful silhouette every time she addresses the outside world through the shy gap between her bedroom curtains.
Sly move.
The black paintwork renders your car invisible in the moonless gloom of a chilly winter's evening.
Ooh, you're good.
Heh, you've got a thing about congratulating yourself. It probably makes you look arrogant to others, but do you care? No. You're not here to make friends.
You're here to kill a girl.
You watch her latest trick leave the house. He wears the mother of all smiles. You know that smile well. You clock that same picture of overwhelming satisfaction in the mirror every time you leave her bedroom. You know what that smile means. She was amazing tonight. She's amazing every night.
Her name is Destiny. She is a goddess. Obsession makes you love the girl. That same obsession makes you hate the bitch. You have touched, tasted and feasted upon every square centimetre of her heavenly form, yet you know absolutely nothing about her. The downside is, she's aware of too many of your dirty little secrets. This is why tonight she must bid farewell to this life.
You enter her home via the back door. No need to break in. Destiny gave you a key. She likes you, she trusts you, the girl thinks she knows you inside out. Huh, she certainly knows too much, that's for sure. But at the same time, she doesn't know enough.
As you ascend the stairs with delicate footsteps, you hear Destiny in the shower. She's a creature of habit. This is her protocol. She entertains, she blows their minds, she waves goodbye, she counts the banknotes, she washes their dirty lust away. They come, they go, and in between, they spend a lot of money.
But not you.
Mr Baxter always gets it for free.
You enter her bathroom. You watch in awe as Destiny soaps herself inside that clear glass cubicle. You love the fact she's unaware of your presence. It excites you, it turns you on. You peel off your garments. You clothe your tool with rubber. After all, you can never be too careful. You know exactly where she's been.
You slide across the glass door. Heh, it's funny. She's not fazed in the slightest by your impromptu arrival. She looks you up and down, then lobs across a broad smile. It's as if she expected your company.
And wanted it.
You step inside the tiny transparent cell. Cascades of water mount a relentless attack upon your bare skin, but you ignore the steaming downpour. Both hands travel her hills and vales, from the smooth slenderness of her legs right up to the delicate softness of the neck you've kissed a thousand times before. Destiny turns around and bends herself forward. You take her from behind. An involuntary squeal escapes from your open mouth as two bodies join as one. Inside this girl, you are invincible, you are a king, you are everything you aspired to be. She is your heaven, your dreamland, your nirvana. You wish you could stay deep within her warmth for ever. But you can't.
This paradise must end.
The two of you cry out as your shared pleasure is finally spent. That's when you attack. With one swift wrench, her neck is broken. Destiny's body plummets south. She doesn't get up. Sheets of water rain down upon her motionless naked frame. Her eyes glassy and unblinking. Her lips slightly parted, as if preparing to speak. Or scream. The sight of the dead girl in the shower reminds you of that old black and white movie. Heh, it's a pity you didn't choose to strike by knife.
Dressing quickly, you think it best to leave the shower running. Good idea. That way, any trace of a man called Baxter will be washed away long before the grisly discovery of a dead prostitute hits the news.
You drive away. You arrive home. You dispense your guilty clothes in a refuse sack. Time for another shower. All traces of Destiny are scrubbed away and lost for ever down a gurgling plughole. One fresh set of clothes later, you discard the refuse sack in a neighbour's dustbin. The bin men will come a'calling first thing tomorrow morning.
Perfect timing.
They say criminals should never return to the scene of the crime, but you have no choice.
You're also a policeman.
Upon arrival, you are greeted by a fresh-faced plod. 'DS Baxter, I presume?' he asks.
That's your name, he'd better not wear it out. You don't quite catch his handle. PC Somethingorother.
'You'll find the victim upstairs,' says the uniform.
As you amble into the bathroom, you lend poor Destiny one final glance. You're sorry, really sorry, you truly are, but it had to be done. She was planning to end your career with what she knew. Only, she was stupid enough to believe you wouldn't suspect a thing.
PC Somethingorother asks, 'Did you know this girl, sir?'
You tell him, 'Destiny was one of my informants.'
His next eager question: 'Do you suspect foul play?'
You shake your head with monster doubt as you deliver your verdict. 'Looks to me like she slipped in the shower and broke her neck. It's unfortunate. But accidents happen.'

A Professional Hider

Picture the scene. Me. Male. Eleven years of age. Fully clothed. Standing in a bath. Yes, that's right. A bath. Empty, by the way, just so you know. Cowering behind the shower curtain which completely cloaked the tub. Wide-eyed. Silent. Back pressed firmly against the tiled wall. All alone in the communal bathroom of a Blackpool guesthouse.
That's what I always did as a child, you see, when faced with danger. Hide. You could say I was a professional hider.
Then, a sound. The turning of a doorknob. Uh-oh. Did I not lock the door upon my arrival? No. I hadn't. In my frantic haste, I'd foolishly overlooked the obvious.
I heard the door open. Followed by unhurried, shuffling footsteps. I was a goner for sure. The hunter had sought out his quarry. Any second now, the curtain would swish across, revealing the driest bather in the whole of human history. That is, aside from the oily film of perspiration forming across my brow.
I waited.
And waited some more.
What was he doing? Prolonging my agony? The cad.
I couldn't help myself. Curiosity got the better of me. Yes, I know it kills cats, but I'd never much cared for felines. I needed to know what was happening. So I peeked round the side of the curtain.
I soon wished I hadn't.
It wasn't my nemesis after all. To my horror, not four feet away, sat an elderly woman.
On the lavatory.
I recoiled, returning my eyes, my face, my everything behind the safety of the curtain. Oh, flibberdy-doodahs! What if I was discovered? I'd be branded a Peeping Tom. Argh! Hard evidence was stacking up against me. I was a young boy hidden behind a shower curtain while some old granny relieved herself of afternoon tea. I could hardly say, 'It's not how it looks.'
I had to face facts.
I was doomed.
The family holiday in Blackpool had seemed a good idea at the time. A pleasant little guesthouse situated a few streets from the sea. Who could possibly ask for more?
My brother and I (oh, by the way, he was a year younger) didn't relish the idea of hanging out with Mum and Dad every evening in a dead and dreary guesthouse bar. The prospect of sitting in silence, bored out of our skulls, while the old man supped his oh so adventurous half of brown ale and Mum polished off yet another whatever-she-was-having didn't exactly float the proverbial cross-channel ferry. Therefore, we figured we'd seek our own company.
We were fortunate enough to stumble across two fellow bored children. Brothers, just like us. Same age, give or take a few months. There was a severe lack of excitement in the guesthouse, so we ventured outside, heading in the direction of the seafront. Two minutes walk at the most, according to the brochure. Our pockets boasted ample spare change. Losing the lot in the slot machines sounded like fun.
One of the boys discovered a coat hanger, alone and unloved on the roadside. How it came to be there was a complete mystery. He picked it up and jokingly inserted it in the back of his collar, just as it would be used to suspend the garment in a wardrobe.
And then came the gag. 'Don't you ever get the feeling you've forgotten something?'
Oh, how we laughed.
The passing twenty-something thug, built like a brick WC (with token peroxide dollybird in tow) didn't share our sense of humour.
'What did you call me?' he growled.
We all froze, wide-eyed and mute. Think rabbits to headlights.
'I said, what did you call me?' He was a most persistent character.
A daunting predicament, yes, but one with a straightforward solution. Explain we weren't actually talking about him. Ah, but things are never quite that simple when you're a quartet of ten and eleven year olds.
So what did we do?
We legged it.
And guess what?
He chased us.
During the somewhat rapid return to the guesthouse, I'm sure we broke several world sprinting records. Only, we didn't stop to pick up the medals. The four of us barged through the entrance and scurried in all directions. I decided to take the stairs. Up I raced, flight after flight, never once tiring of my pace. Until I reached that communal bathroom.
And hid behind the shower curtain.
Where I now stood in agonised silence, waiting for a pensioner to quit paying her dues to the porcelain.
However, I soon began to realise that the quandary I faced was not as grim as first predicted. Surely this was better than being bludgeoned to death by a fist-happy psycho with an aversion towards coat hanger quips. All I had to do was keep quiet. And not cough. Nor sneeze. Nor Heaven forbid, make embarrassing noises in the posterior department. The old girl would be done in a moment. A quick tinkle and a flush, that's all. Then she'd leave. And I'd be home and dry. Simple.
So I waited for the tinkle.
All I heard was a grunt. And then a loud plop.
Oh, no! Disaster. There I stood, forced to listen to somebody five hundred times my age taking a number two. This was the stuff of nightmares. I closed my eyes, covered both ears with clammy palms and waited for what seemed like a million years.
Then came a flush. Yay! Just a few more seconds and she'd be on her merry way.
Her eventual departure was met by a weighty sigh of relief. Yes! I'd gotten away with it. Beaming brightly, I swished the curtain aside and stepped out of the bath a free man.
On several occasions during that week, I caught sight of the old lady. Each time, she would throw me a rather odd look.
Which begs the question.
Did she know?
I hope not. For her sake as well as mine.

Random Mikey quote: "You're born, you grow, you love, you die. The rest of your life is spent waiting in queues."