Five-Minute Fiction

By Annette Siketa

Stuck in traffic, an airport, an elevator?
Waiting for a friend, an appointment, a pizza?
Confined to bed, a hospital, a dentist's chair?
Travelling in a bus, a train, a car?

No matter the situation, these 35 stories will help pass the time - even if it's only five minutes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Annette Siketa
• Release date: Nov 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215484524

Annette Siketa

For those of you who have not yet made my acquaintance, my name is Annette Siketa, and I am totally blind. Were you aware that most blind and visually impaired people are extraordinarily perceptive? To sighted people, this ability must seem like ESP, and I suppose to a certain extent, it is. (I'm referring to the literal meaning of Extra Sensory Perception, not the spooky interpretation.) To compensate for the lack of vision, the brain and the other four senses become sharper, so that we can discern a smell or the identity of an object. I promise you there's no trickery involved. It's simply a matter of adapting the body to ‘think’ in another way.Being blind is no barrier to creativity. Like most things in this world, life is what you make of it, and after losing my sight due to an eye operation that went terribly wrong, I became a writer, and have now produced a wide variety of books and short stories, primarily of the ghost/supernatural/things that go bump in the night genre.So, how does a blind person write a book? On the practical side, I use a text-to-speech program called ‘Jaws’, which enables me to use and navigate around a computer, including the Internet, with considerable ease. Information on Jaws can be found at www.freedomscientific.comOn the creative side...well, that’s a little more difficult to explain. Try this experiment. Put on your favourite movie and watch it blindfolded. As you already ‘know’ the movie – who does what where & when etc, your mind compensates for the lack of visualisation by filling in the ‘blanks’. Now try it with something you’ve never seen before, even the six o'clock news. Not so easy to fill in the blanks now is it?By this point you’re probably going bonkers with frustration – hee hee, welcome to my world! Do not remove the blindfold. Instead, allow your imagination to compensate for the lack of visualization, and this will give you an idea of how I create my stories. Oh, if only Steven Spielberg could read my mind.

Book preview

FIVE-MINUTE FICTION.

By Annette Siketa.

Copyright 2023 by Annette Siketa.

No part of this book may be reproduced or manipulated in any manner whatsoever, without the express permission of the author. All rights reserved. Please respect the authors’ rights. Only through honesty can the insidious practice of illegal copying be curbed.

Distributed by Smashwords.

Contents

Sauerkraut.

The Suit.

Cheep Wizardry.

A Crooked Mile.

Electric Love.

Dead Dream.

Oil de Jyp.

A Lesson in Life.

St. Joan's Bench.

A Permanent Separation.

Trick or Treat?

One Night in Switzerland.

A Crime of His Own.

Guilty Conscience.

A Coffin To Order.

Neither One Nor the Other.

What Price Innocence?

Vacant Possession.

Blackout.

Embryo of Evil.

Tic-Toc.

It Was Still God's Work.

The Blue Heart.

The Stone Lizard.

Once Was Bad Enough.

Saving Money.

Loyal to the End.

The Piper.

Canine Angel.

Performance of Her Life.

Hecatomb.

High Stakes.

Natural Instinct.

The Gift.

The Man in the Red Cloak.

Other Books & Freebies.

Sauerkraut.

I had been dining with friends and over indulged in a particularly spicy sauerkraut. I can only surmise it had disagreed with me, and rather than a bilious attack or several hours in the bathroom, it put strange ideas into my head.

My foray into the nonsensical began while I was making my way home. Supposing, I ruminated, my landlord had entered my rooms and stolen my possessions. Why he should have done such a thing never entered my head. Further, when I produced my key to open the front door, I was sure the lock had been changed.

Climbing the stairs to that portion of the world that I pay to call my own, I opened the door and peered cautiously inside. Part of me knew I was being irrational, and yet I was sure someone or something was going to jump out and grab me.

Trying to suppress all manner of disagreeable thoughts, I undressed and jumped into bed. I hesitated whether to turn out my lantern, but then decided that darkness was preferable to a flickering flame. With my mind seemingly in another realm, goodness only knew what my brain would make of normal objects in the dim, dancing light.

I settled down to sleep, reasoning that the quicker the night was over, the quicker my faculties would return to normal. At one point I thought I heard my door open, but I was having such a lovely dream about pirates and a very attractive lady in long black boots, that I ignored it.

And then I awoke with a start, every nerve standing on end. I was also sweating profusely. Silently cursing the sauerkraut, I sat up with the intention of obtaining some water.

The room was in darkness save for a narrow shaft of moonlight coming through a gap in the curtains. I followed the line of light and then literally froze. A toe was poking out from the darkened recess beside the fireplace. I thought I was still dreaming or only half-awake. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. The toe was still there - marble like in its rigidity.

I am not easily frightened, but there was something so ghastly in the appearance of the appendage that I could not think what to do. Instead, I simply called out, Who's there?

The toe immediately retreated into the darkness. I leapt out of bed and rushed to the recess. Next moment, I was enveloped in an iron grip. A terrible struggle ensued in which we bounced off the furniture. I yelled for help, and when I found myself with my back against the door, I managed to unlock it.

I cannot describe the relief when at least half a dozen people came into the room, most carrying lights. Struggling for breath, I looked at my attacker. He had long tangled hair and wild, unsettled eyes. His only garment was a badly stained, three-quarter length shirt.

It transpired he was a murderer who, after running amok in prison, was being transported to an asylum. But the guard had been less than diligent, and during a comfort stop, the lunatic had escaped. How or why he chose me as his next victim is something I'll never know, but one thing is for certain, I will never eat sauerkraut again.

The Suit.

There was once a young man whose mother made him a beautiful suit. The cloth was green and woven with gold, and the new brass buttons shone like stars. When he first put it on, he stood before a long mirror and was so astonished and delighted with his appearance, that he could hardly look away.

He wanted to wear it everywhere and show all sorts of people, but his mother refused. She told him to take great care of the suit, and that he must only wear it on special occasions. To emphasise the point, she covered the buttons with twists of tissue paper, and tacked fabric guards over the cuffs and wherever the fabric was vulnerable.

He had no choice but to obey. He folded the suit with extreme care and placed it in his clothes chest. But he was always thinking of wearing it, and one night, he dreamed he removed the tissue paper from one of the buttons and found its brightness had faded.

He began to polish it, but the more he rubbed, the duller it became. He woke up in a sweat, wondering how he would feel if when the great occasion occurred - whatever it might be, one button should be without its glitter.

The thought plagued him so much, that one moonlit evening, he disobeyed his mother's injunction and removed the suit from the chest. He hung it on a nail behind the door, and after opening the curtains to their fullest extent, he returned to bed and gazed at his pride & joy.

And then he discovered that if he slowly turned his head from side to side, he saw a tiny glint from beneath the tissue paper round the buttons. It also seemed that the right sleeve was slightly bent, as if an unseen arm was about to wave 'hello'.

Climbing out of bed again, he went to the suit and removed the protective coverings. Every button shone as new. His heart swelled with pride as he carefully dressed and then stood in front of the mirror.

If the air was cold, he didn't notice. He felt like a king as he listened to the clamour of crickets and the other noises of the night. Then, without conscious thought, he opened the window and slipped outside.

He walked a few paces and then turned around. The moon seemed to be shining deliberately on the house, for the façade was unusually bright white. Moreover, every window-blind was closed like an eye asleep.

The limbs of the trees cast shadows like intricate black lace, and in the garden, moonshine seemed tangled in the hedges . Ghostly cobwebs stretched between blooms, and all the leaves were dotted with iridescent dewdrops.

The lad stared in wonder, for during the day, the garden was neat but rather plain. With arms outstretched as if he would embrace the world, he ran to the rear hedge. He did not follow the well-defined paths, but dashed across beds of herbs, snapdragons, nasturtiums and lavender.

He came to the hedge and pushed through it. Thorns and other sharp points tore at the suit, and burs and goosegrass clung to him. He did not care because he knew the suit did not care. They were free of all restraint - at least for the night.

Beyond the hedge was a duck pond, which in the moonlight resembled a great bowl of silver. He ran into the water and through clumps of rushes, creating black, shining wavelets, upon which the stars danced on the surface.

He waded across and came out near a road. Sometimes he walked, sometimes he ran. He knew the vicinity like the back of his hand, and yet it was as though he was seeing it for the first time.

A large moth flew close to his head. Do you like my clothes, Mr Moth? he said. As if in reply, the moth circled closer till its wings brushed his lips. I wish I could fly. Could you teach me, Mr Moth?

They found him hanging from a tree the next morning, neck broken and the suit in shreds. But the smile on his face was seraphic.

Cheep Wizardry.

It was a perfect West Indian day. My friend - a notary, and I were travelling across the island by a road that wound through a tropical forest. Through the trees, fields of golden sugarcane stretched towards the coast.

I had never been to the island before, and the last time I had seen my friend was five years earlier in London. But the grime and the bustle of the metropolis was the last thing on my mind as I took in the smells of unfamiliar saps, spices, and aromatic decay.

My friend stopped the carriage by a solid gate set into a hedge full of flowers that looked like pink-and-white butterflies. I have to make a call here, he said, come in with me.

We alighted, and he knocked on the gate with the butt of his whip. Through a small barred opening I saw a shady garden, beyond which was the porch of a planter's house surrounded by rows of cocoa palms. Presently a Negro, wearing a pair of canvas trousers and a large straw hat, came hobbling towards us to open the gate. I could not see his face due to the hat, but he was the smallest man I had ever seen. Stranger still, he was followed by a dozen chickens.

My friend was not the least perturbed by the unconventional 'pied piper'. Indeed, he smiled and said cheerfully, I see your chickens are as lively as ever.

They ain't been laying well of late. I reckon a big storm's a comin'.

I sincerely hope not, at least, not until my appointment with Madame Floran has concluded.

Yes, sir.

The goblin opened the gate and led us to the house, the chickens cheeping at his heels. He left us when a maid came out and took our names. She disappeared inside the house, returning in a few minutes to say that Madame would join us shortly. In the interim, as it was hot in the house, we were invited to wait on the rear porch.

Chairs and a table were set out, and the maid brought lemons, sugar-syrup, a bottle of clear plantation rum, and ice-cold water. My friend prepared the refreshments, and then our hostess joined us. She was a nice old lady with hair like newly minted silver. I had never seen a sweeter smile or kinder black, sparkling eyes.

The conversation that followed related to a property title. I paid scant attention and simply enjoyed the view. My friend soon concluded his business, and we bid farewell to the lady. Without any apparent signal, the goblin appeared and escorted us back to the gate, the chickens following in his wake.

As our carriage drove away, I could not help commenting, What an extraordinary creature.

My friend lit a cigarette before saying, Queer, isn't he? How old do you think he is?

I have not the slightest idea.

He is about eighty years old.

Good gracious, said I. Was he born deformed or did he have an accident?

"Neither. He was born on the estate, which belonged to Pierre Floran - the husband of the lady. They had been married about six years when a revolt occurred, and the Negro left the plantation to join the uprising.

"Several people were murdered, including M. Floran, who was riding home when he was attacked about a mile from the plantation. The Negro did it. He was raving drunk. Most of the rebels had been drinking heavily, and when the military arrived and got control of the mob, the body of M. Floran was found.

Numerous prisoners were interrogated but nobody knew anything about it. Two days later, the dwarf rushed into the house and threw himself at Madame's feet. He begged for mercy and said the devil made him do it.

And she actually forgave him? I asked incredulously.

By then, she had become very religious, responded my friend. She hid him till the hue & cry died down, whereupon she sent him back to work.

I frowned. Just like that? He killed her husband and yet he wasn't punished for it?

Well, that rather depends on what you believe. Nobody knows where she hid him, and there are those who claim he was nearly six feet tall. When he was seen again, he was exactly as we saw him today.

Oh, surely not, said I, dismissively. I don't know of any religion that forgives murderers, or has the capacity to shrink a man.

My friend grinned and raised an eyebrow. Ever heard of a religion called voodoo?

Yes, of course, but… My mouth fell open. Are you saying that dear little old lady is…

He laughed all the way back to town.

A Crooked Mile.

Early one morning in June, I murdered my father. This was before my marriage when I was living with my parents. My father and I were in the study dividing the proceeds of a burglary we had committed the previous night. Our gains consisted mostly of household goods, and the task of dividing the booty was relatively easy. But the music box proved troublesome. One does not have to be a scholar to know that two into one doesn't go.

The music box was an extraordinary piece of workmanship, inlaid with precious stones and carved with exquisite care. It not only played a variety of tunes, but if a tiny lever was set, it made the sound of a rooster when it needed winding up.

My father was passionate about music and associated oddities, and the box was the reason we had committed the burglary, and yet upon arriving home, it was not amongst the spoils.

He had hidden it under his coat on a chair, and unbeknownst to him, some of the fabric had caught on a corner of the box, causing the lid to lift slightly and the mechanism to run down. It was just as we finished dividing the other items that a cock-a-doodle-doo rang out.

Now, the one thing I cannot abide is lieing. Even as a child, my temper flared whenever I was told a falsehood. My mind always went blank at these times and I broke anything in sight.

My father had deceived me, which to me was the ultimate betrayal. To his credit, the old man apologised for the subterfuge and produced the box, but it was too little too late.

I said, Business is business, and unless you agree to be searched after all future burglaries, our partnership is at an end.

He thought about this for a moment and then said, I cannot agree. It would look like you did not trust me.

I could not help admiring his sensitiveness, and for a moment, I was proud of him and disposed to overlook his fault. But a glance at the richly jewelled box decided the issue, and with the aid of the axe we had used to commit the burglary, I removed him from this mortal coil.

I was a trifle uneasy. Not only was he the architect of my being, but unless I acted quickly, his body was likely to be discovered. It was now daylight, and my mother was certain to enter the study at any moment. Under the circumstances, I thought it expedient to remove her also, which I did. I will never forget the look of surprise on her face.

I locked up the house and went to the library, and it did not take long to ascertain my course of action. I went to see an insurance agent, arranged to take out several policies, and returned home.

In the study was a bookcase that my father had recently purchased from a crank inventor. It was of solid construction with a set of glass doors. I had laid out my parents in their bed and they were now stiff as statues. I removed the shelves from the bookcase, stood my parents in it, and tacked some curtains over the glass doors.

The insurance agent called the following day. He inspected the house from top to bottom and seemed satisfied. He must have passed the bookcase a half-dozen times yet never gave it a glance.

Two nights later, I was in a tavern when the fire broke out, and with cries of apprehension for the fate of my parents, I rushed home and joined a throng of onlookers.

The house was well alight, and it took hours for the authorities to subdue the conflagration. However, not everything was destroyed, for amidst the embers stood the bookcase. The curtains had burned away, exposing the glass doors and my parents.

Apart from being a little black and smoke damaged around the head, both were intact. I accepted all the overtures of sympathy with gratitude and…dare I say it, humility, and the coroner's verdict was, 'murder by person or persons unknown'.

Some three years later, I was in town with regards to some fake government bonds when, happening to look into a second-hand furniture shop, I saw the exact counterpart of the bookcase.

I bought it from an old inventor, the dealer explained. He claimed it was fireproof, but I could tell at once he was a crank. You can have it for the price of an ordinary bookcase.

I would not have had it at any price, for it revived memories that were, to say the least, disagreeable.

Electric Love.

The wind had been blowing off the Thames all day. A thick swirling fog - a real ‘pea-souper’, impeded the light cast by the gas-lamps. The streets were practically deserted, save for the homeless or people with somewhere to go.

In the theatre district, an enterprising florist had installed electricity in his shop and was using it to cast light on an advertisement in the window.

‘Prompt and courteous service. Bouquets and Wreaths at Short Notice’.

A handsome, middle-aged man dressed in evening togs and top hat, stopped to read the illuminated advert. A moment later, a woman emerged from a nearby alley and casually approached, a coquettish smile on her face.

Hello, dearie. Going home? Would you like some company? She started to snake her arm through his, and then with a gasp of horror, she quickly stepped back. William!

Annie! He took in her