Out of the Chocolate box (7)

The tiny finger-sized USB jumped out of the suit’s shallow pocket and plopped to the floor. I reached down to pick it up.
It grew legs and scuttled away, under my feet near where the bed’s storage compartment meets the floor.
Huh?

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Out of the Chocolate Box (4)

Chirp! Chirp! My mobile phone vibrated sounding like a cricket. I flopped over the mattress to the bedside and grabbed the phone. An envelope on screen symbolised a text message. From him? How kind! An explanation perhaps. I fumbled with the miniscule keys on screen. You’re late! Ferry leaves in 15 minutes. No indication who sent the message. Just a very unhappy emoji, was all.

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Out of the Chocolate Box (3)

Then darkness, corrupt and potent entered like a waft of rotting cabbage blowing through the mechanical sliding doors.
An alarm ringing in my mind drowned out the cheerful hum. What? I leant over and poked my head around the booth. My face turned cold as the blood drained from my cheeks. Johann. Still in fine form but balding, taking on a striking resemblance to a certain Star Trek captain.

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Out of the Chocolate Box (2)

I nursed a tall glass of lemonade chock full of ice. More ice than lemonade. Lemonade on the rocks. Did I mention the shot of whisky? Months spent as prisoner to the hospital system, I needed a break. Just one night before the mission. One last whiff of a real log fire. What am I doing here?

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Monday Missive on Feedback

Feedback love it or hate it, you can’t live without it. We all have blind spots, some secrets in our psyche that not even we are aware of. This is especially true with our writing; most of the time we are way too close to our work to see the spelling and grammar errors or gaping holes in our story’s plot.

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The T-Team with Mr B (7)

‘Well, after that disappointing jaunt to find that damned waterhole you went on about David, I’m pooped. I’m going to have a lie down,’ Dad’s friend, Mr. B said as he slumped onto a nearby log. ‘I hope you’ve found us some nice soft sand to sleep on. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep yet on this trip.’

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Out of the Chocolate Box (1)

Last time I saw Geoffrey Fox, he wore an alien costume, you know, the one with the grey skin and bug eyes. Fasnacht, Basel 1995. This Aussie, a colleague of Papa’s at the university, should don a mask and space suit and enter into the parade while my dear (and I’m being sarcastic here) fiancé, Johann stowed himself away in his lofty apartment in Altstadt (Old Town). ‘I will not partake of such frivolity.’ Johann said and stuck his nose up in the air. One day he will fall because he never looks to the ground. He’s too good for us mere mortals. ‘I won’t be the richest man on the planet if I keep my nose grovelling on the floor.’

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