GAME 5

Read all the stories, guess which one is AI. Answer revealed at the bottom

Story 1

The forty-eighth bread roll struck one of the many ducks in the pond in the park when he was approached by the police.

‘Everything all right, sir?’ asked the officer.

‘Celebrity chefs, my friend, celebrity chefs,’ he replied without turning.

‘It’s just we’ve had complaints.’

‘Who from? The ducks? They look delighted. I’ve just given them forty-eight of the best bread rolls money can buy. Top quality.’

The policeman called for back-up. The “Rollman”, as he was being called over the radio, was clearly unwell.

A second officer arrived, edging closer as the first tried to reason with him. The ducks, heavy with bread, waddled about like overfed aristocrats.

‘Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step away from the pond,’ the officer said, his hand resting on his radio.

Rollman finally turned. His eyes glimmered with the shine of someone who had gone too far down a flour-dusted path.
‘Step away? I’ve only just begun. Today, bread rolls. Tomorrow, brioche. Then bagels. The ducks deserve options.’

The back-up car pulled up. Three more policemen got out. By now, the ducks had formed an almost military-looking semi-circle behind Rollman, crumbs clinging to their beaks.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, lifting his final roll from a paper bag as if it were a sceptre, ‘you can arrest me, but you’ll never stop the rise.’

As the policemen advanced, he lobbed the last bread roll high into the air. The ducks surged forward in a flurry of wings and quacks.

The officers cuffed him gently while the ducks scrambled for crumbs.
‘You see,’ he muttered, eyes still fixed on the pond, ‘I ran a wee snack bar. The school kids kept me going. But they’re locked in at break now, told my food’s no good for them. Two weeks and I was finished. These rolls were all I had left. Might as well give them to the ducks.’

One officer hesitated, bag in hand, and whispered to his partner,
‘Not deranged. Just done.’

And as they led him away, the ducks tore at the bread like schoolchildren at breaktime. Rollman’s last customers.

Story 2

Waiting in all day for a delivery is usually a pain, but to Trevor’s surprise, the van pulled up at 8.45 a.m. He could hardly believe it. He had just made a coffee, lucky too, as the water was about to be turned off. Today was the big day: the Obsidian 2030 washing machine was being delivered and plumbed into his pokey wee flat.

It took about an hour, which suited him fine. He got straight to work, shoved in all his dirty dark clothes, stared at the maze of dials and buttons, and decided he had maybe, kinda, sorta figured it out. Who needs an instruction manual anyway? By the time the spin cycle whirred into life it was close to eleven.

Daytime telly was garbage, he quickly deduced. Still, he had just started getting into some sob story about a brother and sister reunion when the whole place went dark. The TV blinked off, his phone stopped charging, and his gaming PC, never off in months, powered down.

“Shit,” Trevor muttered to nobody. Then he realised the washing machine was still running.

He crept into the kitchen. Sure enough, the Obsidian 2030 churned away, oblivious to the blackout. Then, just as suddenly, the power cut ended. Everything flickered back to life except the washing machine, which fell silent.

With a soft click, the door popped open.

Trevor peered in.

Every stitch of washing was gone.

Story 3

Sean necked the bottle of gin he had smuggled into his hand luggage. He assumed the cabin crew had not seen him, but they had. They did not care. Plenty of passengers did the same on these cheap bargain flights, and it was never worth the aggro to challenge anyone.

They knew Sean. He was a regular. His dad had apparently invented something decades ago, though nobody in the crew remembered. It had been lost in the fog of countless flights and Sean repeating the tale to anyone who would listen.

The plane was coming in to land with a small patch of turbulence.

We are all going to die, Sean screamed. He stood up and staggered towards the doors.

The cabin crew barely looked up. They had seen it all before. A steward pressed the call button and another checked the overhead lockers as if nothing had happened. Sean clawed at the handle, struggling in vain.

Moments later the wheels touched the tarmac. The passengers clapped half-heartedly, as they always did. Sean slumped back into his seat, the gin haze giving way to shame.

One of the crew members shook their head and muttered to a colleague, finally remembering. Wasn’t his dad the one who invented that special lock that keeps aeroplane doors shut?

Sean took a furtive swig of his gin, completely unaware, and settled back in his seat.

Story 4

Martin hadn’t set foot in the local library for over a decade. Yet today, on his walk back from the corner shop, the automatic doors slid open before him. He hadn’t touched them. He frowned, tugging at his scarf, muttering, “Bloody hell, what now?”

Inside, it smelled the same: dust, varnish, faint printer ink. The shelves seemed taller than he remembered, almost leaning in. He wandered past crime novels, gardening manuals, travel guides to countries that no longer existed, thinking he probably should have worn sturdier shoes.

A librarian appeared, silent, holding out a plastic rectangle. His old library card. The photo was him, younger, sharper around the edges, hair combed in a way that made him cringe.

“I thought I lost this,” he said.

“You never returned it,” the librarian replied, voice soft, like a reprimand whispered in a dream.

Martin turned the card over. Stamped in faint ink on the back was today’s date. Underneath, the word Due.

He blinked. Tried to hand it back. The librarian was gone.

A murmur rose from the shelves. One book tipped onto the carpet. Its title read: The Borrower’s Account: Martin Ellis. Martin picked it up. Lists, page after page: library loans, unpaid fines, little odd things he barely remembered, and tiny details of his life he hadn’t told anyone. He dropped the book.

Then more books fell. Each thud sounded like a warning. Recipes he’d half-burned, letters he’d forgotten to post, conversations remembered wrong—all spilling onto the floor. Martin dodged a falling gardening manual, muttering under his breath, “I’m not even supposed to be here…”

By the time he left, clutching the first book like a shield, the library doors closed behind him. The street was quiet. Too quiet.

That night, he opened a drawer at home. Empty. Then another. And another. Every surface was now covered with books: his life, in ink, spread like some absurd exhibition. He sank onto the sofa, rubbing his eyes.

He wasn’t sure if he should be terrified or just, honestly, mildly annoyed.

Story 5

Her stomach ached as she clung to the top of the clothes pole. The Rottweiler that had chased her into a stranger’s garden circled below, growling.

‘Help!’ she shouted. Faces peered from windows, but no one opened a door. Lucky she was wearing jeans, she thought, or the neighbours would be getting quite the show.

After half an hour the dog grew bored and slunk away. She dropped down, bolted through a lane and out onto her own street. Not quite at her door, but close enough.

She scanned the pavements, heart still thumping. For such a dodgy area, the place was deserted. Then, almost at her gate, the Rottweiler leapt her fence and landed in front of her, teeth bared.

They stared at each other. Neither moved.

‘This dog’s a pain in the arse,’ her dad said, appearing behind it with a collar and lead. He clipped it on with practised ease.

‘Dad? You got a dog?’

‘Yes, it’s a rescue. Worth having round here to keep us safe.’

‘Safe? It chased me into some garden and kept me stuck up a pole for half an hour!’ she blurted.

‘Sorry, princess. But think about it, extra security, and imagine the looks you will get walking this beast.’

‘Is that all I’m good for?’ she muttered.

‘No. He doesn’t have a name. That is your job.’

She looked at the Rottweiler, still glaring at her, and thought for a moment.

‘Clothespole,’ she said.

Her dad grinned. ‘Perfect.’

REVEAL THE AI STORY

Story 4 was written by AI. Thanks for playing and please share.

https://ko-fi.com/flashfictions

If you’d rather swap a coffee for something you can actually keep, the FlashFictions book is there for you.
Same weird ideas, just bound together.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0G34YZ9B2