Learning About The Animals

A story about animals, that's what they asked for, in about 500 words. This is what I gave them:

Learning About The Animals

Honest. That’s what she said. "Have I ever told you that my parrot is the reincarnation of my dead grandmother?"

You wouldn’t believe the things I hear people say unless you knew they came from an impeccable source. Take it from me, I don’t lie. I’m a chimpanzee.

Surprised eh? I take it this is your first visit to a zoo since you discovered your new 22nd century telepathic powers. That’s what happens when one race develops an ability the rest of the animal kingdom takes for granted.

I know you are.

Yes, we can.

And we can do that too.

Sorry, no, we can’t talk. Our tongues don’t work that way.

There’s no need to be quite so flabbergasted. Haven’t you read the sign on the cage yet? The bit about chimpanzees sharing 98.6% of the human DNA sequence?

Betcha didn’t know the missing 1.4% resides in the body part we lick our bottoms with.

Really? Well don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.

No, you’ve not seen me here before. I’m a visitor. Actually, I’m not supposed to tell you this but I’m on a course. It’s called Apeing the Animals which is quite witty really.

No, listen, you’ll like this. You’re the animals and we’re the apes, and we’ve come here today to, in the words of the brochure, "observe how their primitive behaviour can teach us the path to success".

Apparently, wherever you animals go you display what’s called ‘office behaviour patterns’ which closely resemble our own social structures in the ape world.

You don’t think so?

And your job is what exactly?

Impressive. So you call yourself a leader? So you’re a dominant A-type personality who stamps your feet to get what you want, you walk the walk with a puffed out chest to impress the girls, and you occasionally engage in a bit of mutual back slapping with the other alpha males?

No? That’s not what it looks like from here, I can tell you.

Well, according to our course leader, that’s the gorilla standing just over there, unless you smarten your act up and start beating your chest a bit more often you’ll never get the top job. More to the point you won’t stand a chance with the better looking mates on offer (although between you, me and these 4 chicken wire fences they don’t look much cop to me – not enough hair for my liking).

Old fashioned? Moi? Give over. You’re the one who has only just learned how to communicate. Me? I’m the higher species mate, that’s who I am.

Anyway, I’ve got to go now. Having observed you I’ve got to give a presentation in the workshop area over there by the rubber tyres. They are going to be thrilled when they find out I’ve actually found one who could hold a basic conversation. But I’d better not mention the parrot though. They’ll think I’m bonkers.

So you want to know about my worst relative?

The title was the exercise - in 500 words - so I used it to create some characters who might come in useful one day - thoughts?

So you want to know about my worst relative?

It depends what you mean by ‘worst’.

You probably don’t mean my worst-dressed relative, but for the record, that would be my godmother Alice, if non-blood relatives are allowed.  I used to blame her awful dress sense on the privations of growing up in the 1940s but I recently discovered that I was being very unfair on that decade. She lived in a generation that emulated its forebears, so she has spent the last 70 years attempting to model the very best the fashion world had to offer in about 1915, which has not been easy but I think it’s a battle that, on balance, she has won.

If you want to know about my worst-paid relative that would be my grandson, Christopher, who works in a call centre. He received extensive training in the 3 steps required to deflect an insurance claim – denial, followed by demanding copious amounts of meaningless paperwork, then agreeing the claim but delaying payment until the money sent is actually worthless. His hourly remuneration wouldn’t buy a decent book to read, despite the so-called minimum wage.

Then there’s my worst memory of a relative, which is a tough one. Would it be my father’s speech at my sister’s wedding, when he was so relieved that the cosmos could find a man for any woman, that he drank himself into oblivion before, during, and after his speech?

Or perhaps it would be taking Uncle Frank shopping last year. It was our own fault, we hadn’t seen him for a while and our guilt led us into taking him shopping, despite Aunty Alice’s warnings. We wanted to browse the chinaware in John Lewis so we left him watching TV in the electrical department. He insisted that he hadn’t seen the episode of Poirot being relayed simultaneously across 35 television sets  - that’s dementia for you – and said he always watched this programme on a Saturday afternoon, sat in the lounge with a coffee and a biscuit. So we bought him a coffee and a biscuit at the café and sat him down, and went off together. How were we to know that his ritual also included celebrating the finish of the coffee and biscuit by stripping down to his underwear and shouting out the clues?

OK, you’ve had enough prevarication, I admit it, I know what you mean. You want to know about my worst behaved relative, and that’s an easy one to answer. That would be the one who never cooks a meal or does the washing up, or cleans a toilet. He stuffs himself with sprouts on Xmas Day then blames the dog for the fallout. He complains about the quality of TV these days but is too mean to go to the cinema. I could go on but I won’t, because he is obviously the worst relative in my family, and this man is me.

(P.S. This is a work of fiction . . . . .)

Why do some writers insist on making their work difficult to read?

There seems to be a modern trend towards breaking the rules of grammar and asking the reader to work out what the new rules are. Sometimes I spend so long being a grammar detective, working out who is saying what to whom, that I just give up because I have stopped reading the actual story altogether.

For example, if I had the imagination of Patrick McCabe, and I had worked so hard to craft a book such as ‘The Stray Sod Country’, which I recently tried to read, I would want everyone who had the ability to read and the motivation to want to read, to have full access to it without putting barriers in the way.

The fourth line of Page 1 gives me a clue that he has caught the bug that prevents him using speechmarks:

- O isn’t he the lucky beggar gasped Happy Carroll.

But this is even more difficult than others who adopt this style because the ‘-‘ doesn’t simply replace opening and closing speechmarks - the text after the hypen includes both direct speech and non-speech.

I lasted until page 3 where the following fragment posing as a complete sentence made me realise I was never going to get to a point where I could get past the style to the story:

‘Tentatively extending his large red hand – for the purpose of inspecting some raindrops.’

If this was self-published I could have more sympathy, but this is from Bloomsbury! I’m pretty sure (actually I’m 100% positive) that if I submitted something with the first page from this novel it would have been binned immediately, so how has this happened?

Rant over – what do you think?

Celia - in 500 words

The brief was to write a short piece which included a secretive wife, a stuffy bungalow and a sports car - comments welcome!

Celia

Celia finished her cappuccino, dabbed her mouth with a serviette, and stood to leave, pausing for a moment to check that the private investigator had finished his panini. He had been trailing her around town all morning and she felt responsible for the boredom emanating from his every pore. After all, she had led him a merry little dance for three days now and hadn’t given him anything to report. The poor dear.

It took Celia back to the days when she had to drag her Simon to the shops in the hour between leaving work, picking him up from school, and Frank coming home from work. Just like then, she felt guilty for imposing her needs on someone who clearly wanted to be elsewhere, and like then she couldn’t fully concentrate on the task in hand because she felt responsible for someone else’s safety and wellbeing. Is he watching out for traffic? Is he avoiding that dog mess? Has he finished that bloody panini yet?

She sat on the bus and wondered what she was suspected of this time. Thirty years ago her first private eye arrived the week after she had drunkenly joked about fancying a younger man in the office. That one had looked like a retired policeman in his dirty mac and bow tie.

The next one appeared eighteen years ago, when she had taken advantage of local adult education facilities to learn conversational French, a surprise for Frank, who was already fluent. On that occasion she asked her professional stalker, a nice young man with tight jeans and bulging triceps, if he would like to join her in a cup of tea. When she found out how much Frank was paying to feed his self-indulgent insecurity she hit the roof, and she didn’t calm down until her second cup of tea, which was drunk an hour later, at 3 p.m., in the Premier Inn whilst the trainee detective pulled his trousers on. A whole hour! No wonder she was ready for a second cup.

Of course she felt guilty for a few days but all this was Frank’s fault. If he ever left the bungalow, or looked up from his cameras and his dark room to open the curtains and windows once in a while, he might notice she was there for him. If he had even met her halfway she would never have needed distractions, a career, or dreamed of a better life, one full of light, and air, and sunshine.

As it was, three jobs and two promotions later, she had once again started sneaking out to evening classes, this time on car maintenance, in case the second-hand sports car she had bought with her last bonus let her down on her planned escape from suburbia.

She passed the detective on her way off the bus and gave him a brief once-over. He was about forty, fit, well dressed and he had a nice smile. Maybe, she thought, maybe she could offer him a little bonus for all his trouble.

Hunter's Moon, a short story in 1000 words

I wrote this to the theme 'Reaching the Moon - comments welcome!

Hunter’s Moon

On a clear night, if I close the curtains and the moon is full, I will place a small glass of water on the windowsill and wait for the reflection. I have yet to experience the moment when the white maternal orb magically appears, but I know it will be worth waiting for.

At this time of year I think about my friend from Transylvania. We were very close, once, for one whole, blissful evening, although I am ashamed to admit that I forget her name, and have great difficulty recalling exactly what she looked like. But I know we were close because my wife tells me so, every Hunter’s Moon.

Her commentary starts at the end of September, with a light hearted reference to my ‘Transylvanian tart’. The comments become more barbed and resentful as the month progresses so, as we approach the full moon, I sometimes hope for wet weather, in the forlorn hope that clouds will obscure my past misdeeds.

I am told that fifteen years ago I attended a conference at Transylvania University, somewhere in Kentucky. I was, apparently, fluent in a dialect favoured by the majority of the Roma people.

The hosts had organised a full programme of evening entertainments. It is said that I particularly enjoyed the Romani dancing, which closely resembles flamenco. I can vaguely remember the rhythm of the castanets and the clicking heels, but one moment is especially clear. I picked out a single sound, letting it reverberate inside my head. All on its own it was a perfect tune, with an echo that took an age to fade away, yet returning to the dance
I had not missed a moment so it must have happened in a heartbeat.

After the show I was standing at the bar when a young woman spilled her drink over my sleeve. As she turned to face me I found myself staring into a perfect face. I lost myself in her ruby red lips, her green eyes, and her long black hair. It was the dancer!

"You’ve changed" I mumbled.

She gave me a quizzical look.

"You’ve changed out of your costume."

She threw her head back and laughed.

"No, I haven’t changed at all! I am still me, the anonymous sister of the famous dancer. If you like, I can be my sister so you can buy me another drink?"

"I’d love to."

If she was a sister, she must be a twin, an identical twin. With a gesture of my thumb and wide staring eyes I asked the barman whether her story was true. He glanced at her, then at me, and replied, using his shoulders to say
"Don’t ask me. Who knows?"

As we danced the night away in the students’ disco, I stopped caring whether she was ‘the’ dancer because she was ‘my’ dancer. I was besotted.

Then, at last, she asked me to her room, so she could show me "the wonderful balcony with a magnificent view."

She did not lie. As she described the trees in the valley- the leaves that were red, brown, and gold – I stood in the darkness and believed every word.

She pointed to the full moon and grabbed my arm with a sudden urgency.

"Do you know the legend of the Hunters Moon?"

I shook my head.

"At this time of year the full moon is called the Hunter’s Moon, because it shines so bright it helps hunters find their prey. If you can capture this moon you will be guaranteed success in everything you wish for. Whatever you hunt will be yours!"

"But how do you ‘capture’ the moon? It’s not possible."

"The women do it like this" she said, brandishing her empty glass. "When the moon is reflected in the water in the glass, your wish will come true."
She filled it with water from the bathroom, and tried to place it on the rail that went round the balcony but there wasn’t a glimpse of the moon in the water.

"Maybe it needs to be higher" she said, handing me the glass. I held it high and realised the futility of this action. If by some miracle the moon was reflected in the glass, neither of us could see it up there, so what was the point?

This was my big chance to impress her so I stepped onto the little table on the balcony and stretched my arm out in front of me, over the edge. The table wobbled, I lurched forward, and then I was flying towards the cold hard ground.

In the hospital everyone wanted to know how I came to be there, but I was too ashamed to admit the truth. By then it was obvious my dancer had disappeared, leaving me to my middle age fantasies, so it seemed easier to feign more memory loss than had actually occurred, which was a perfectly feasible explanation in the circumstances. Who was going to question the honesty of a man with two broken legs, several cracked ribs, and a spinal injury that was to confine him to a wheelchair for the rest of his life?

My wife was given some details by people who had seen me entering the dancer’s room and assumed the worst. I don’t know why I didn’t put her straight. Perhaps it was my ego wanting her to believe that I was capable of such deception. Maybe I knew she wouldn’t believe me anyway. I think I just wanted a quiet life.

But every year, when the Hunter’s Moon comes round, I sit in my wheelchair and dance around the room.

Taking Your Chances - 1000 words

Inspired by something that happened on holiday in Morocco a couple of weeks ago:

Taking Your Chances

My elder brother, Mustafa, always told me you have to take your chances when they come along.

"But what if I never get any chances?" I wailed as I sat beside him, begging for dirhams on one of the alleys approved as a tourist route on the edge of the souk.

"You’ll get chances, don’t worry about that. But they won’t be signposted. You’ll have to spot opportunities when they come, then decide whether to go for it. And do it quickly. Chances don’t hang around waiting to be taken you know."

I wish Mustafa was with me now, but he disappeared a year ago. He had just taken a chance, becoming a runner for one of Ibrahim’s men.

Ibrahim ran the western quarter of the souk, where the tourists rarely go. He controlled who went in, who came out, and what they were allowed to do when they were there. All his men had started as runners – it was the way he tested you, assessing your strengths and weaknesses, judging what use you could be to him, in particular, deciding how loyal you were.

I only learned this after I became a runner myself. Orphans like me don’t get many chances to escape the souk and getting into Ibrahim’s team was the first step. He hinted that he knew where Mustafa was, which made him believe he had power over me, but he didn’t.

So, there I was, sitting in the square, waiting to be sent to collect or deliver one of Ibrahim’s parcels, when a tourist steps out of a taxi right in front of me. He pays the driver, then stands there, staring at a piece of paper, gazing around like he’s looking for someone. He’s lost. If he’s here, on Ibrahim’s patch, then he must be lost.

Ibrahim looks across, then smiles, stares hard in my direction and sends me a message using his eyebrows and the creases in his forehead.

"Go on then. See what he wants. Remember, you don’t do anything for less than 10 dirhams. And be quick." Ibrahim has very expressive eyebrows.

There is little point in speaking Arabic to a tourist so I tried French but he didn’t understand. I prised the paper from his hands and read the name of the place he was looking for, out loud.

"Restaurant Alfassiar."

"Yes" said the tourist. "Do you know it?"

English was not my favourite language but I knew a few phrases so I tried my luck. "Yes. Follow me. Five minutes, no more."

I tugged his hand, put on my honest face, and started marching towards the gate into the souk, lowering my eyes so he would not see Ibrahim nodding, giving his permission to take a stranger in.

Taking a route that was longer than necessary, I turned this way and that, looking over my shoulder to make sure he stayed close. I tested my English by pointing out products where I knew I could get a small commission - "look almonds" "here, oranges" "see, figs." "very good yes?". I pulled him away from donkeys that threatened to tread on his lilywhite toes. A couple of times I even stopped him from stepping in waste matter. I was really earning this tip.

Ten minutes later I delivered him to the Restaurant Alfassiar, where the officious Head Waiter sneered at me as I grabbed the tourist’s hand.

"I bring you here, yes? I do a good job, yes?"

The tourist gave me a coin, one lousy coin, one miserable five dirham coin. I had no idea how much this was worth in England but I reckoned it was loose change, so I stood my ground. I didn’t know how to say numbers in English yet so I held out my hand with a begging look. He was impassive, and turned away into the restaurant. This was a disaster. If I went back to Ibrahim with this coin I would be beaten, and worse than that, I would be put back in the pecking order. I would have to wait weeks, maybe months, for another delivery and how would I eat? One brief encounter with a miserly Englishman meant a rough time for me. I wish I had never seen him.

I poured out my troubles to the Head Waiter who reacted as if Arabic was an alien language rather than his native tongue, so when I threw insults at him, and his mother and father, and other family members, he picked me up by my hair and threw me against a wall. I ran at him, arms flailing, and got close enough to bite his wrist before someone else joined in. I wiped the blood from my eyes and looked up, right into the midriff of a policeman.

I tried to escape three times on the way to the station but I wasn’t quick enough. The bad news was that Ibrahim would not be pleased with me, but the good news was that I could tell him the police had taken my tip, so I could take my chance and be five dirhams up.

So here I sit in my cell, waiting to be thrown out in the morning, listening to the idle chatter of the night shift. I learn that the Inspector’s daughter is getting married, that the Sergeant has tickets to tomorrow’s football match, and that the people paid to clean the station were doing a dreadful job and they would happily pay 20 dirhams a day for it to be done properly.

I could hear Mustafa in my head. "Princes and paupers are all the same little brother. The successful ones turn disaster into opportunity, then they take their chance."

I banged on the door. "Help! Help! I’m trapped in this filthy cell and I’m going mad looking at all this dirt. Fetch me a broom or I’ll kill myself. And if you like my work we can start the discussion at only 50 dirhams! Inshallah!"

Revealing Mark Martin - a story in 500 words

My brief was to reveal a certain secret about an individual called Mark Martin, without explicitly stating it, so it was an exercise in 'show, not tell' in 500 words - what do you think?

Revealing Mark Martin

I watched the cortege inch its way to the front door of the chapel, listening to the crunch of slow moving tyres on frost encrusted gravel. I recognised the parents easily. The father’s shock of white hair and the mother’s green hat matched the vivid description I had heard so many times. We were there to say goodbye to Mark Martin.

As I watched the coffin carried through the arched door, tissues were transferred from purse to hand, from hand to bag, then back into the hand. Mark would be missed because outside the family, everyone there had the same experience of him, sharing a longing that could be satisfied only by others with the same obsession. Now this guilty pleasure would have to be taken with new partners.

Most mourners stood alone, scanning each other with curiosity. I briefly thought of picking someone at random to see how they would react to the elephantine question in the room:

So, you’re another one then.

Would they protest their ignorance? Swop stories? Beg me not to tell their secret? All these answers would send me into a conversational cul-de-sac of confidentiality, so I stayed silent.

During the service I counted them - there were thirty eight. Occasionally a family member caught my eye:

Who are you? Why are you here? How did you know Mark?

Each time I looked away in embarrassment, partly because I dreaded the bemused look becoming an overt challenge, but also because my anonymity associated me with the thirty eight. And that made me blush, because although I talked with Mark every week about this group that did not know each other, I was never one of them.

Looking at the flowers, it was heartening to see how a service full of words that few believed could change the atmosphere. The ritual over, the tension fell away and an unspoken agreement about what could not be said allowed people to talk, at last.

“Mark would have enjoyed the turnout.”

“Just look at this sunshine – that’s Mark looking down on us.”

“Well, I’ve got to get back to work now. Do you have far to go?”

The relief brought by this innocent chit-chat made me forget where I was.

“Not far, I work at the clinic round the corner.” Damn, I thought, where did that come from?

“Clinic?”

“Yes, the Addiction Clinic.” And that doesn’t help.

“So how do you know Mark?”

I searched frantically for my bland and carefully prepared answer but it was too late for all that.

“I used to see him at the clinic. Just once a week. I’m a counsellor there.”

“Mark was seeing an addiction counsellor? But he never drank. And he wasn’t into drugs. Was he?”

“Oh no, it was nothing like that.”

I waved my hand towards thirty eight Little Black Dresses, and thirty eight Little Black hats, and smiled with as much confidence as I could muster.

“There are other addictions you know.”

The Character, 825 words

Faced with a request to write up to 1000 words on the theme 'A Letter' I wanted to avoid the obvious and came up with this - let me know what you think.

The Character

Dear reader, I give thanks to God for the breeding and learning that has led you to this page. Blessings to your parents, who bestowed upon you the great gift of education, to the tutors who beat the lessons into your thick skull, and, of course, to the inventors of this new age, to whom I owe my very existence.

In this year of our Lord one thousand four hundred and ninety nine, I am proud of the part I am to play in the century ahead, when all men can learn the wisdom of their ancestors. At last they can set down their opinion, and share it by spreading their words, along with the word of God, throughout the land.

I am also humble, because I am not unique. There are hundreds like me, maybe thousands, and some are not just similar to me but exactly like me. If they did not exist I could not make my contribution, because I cannot do my job on my own. I cannot be in hundreds of places at once.

I enjoy a busy and productive life. Every day I am laid in a row, alongside others, either by a master of his trade, in which case my journey is swift and uneventful, or by an apprentice who will, like as not, drop me on the floor several times, then attempt to put me in my place upside down, or back to front, which is more interesting, but uncomfortable.

After a few moments of quiet contemplation I become aware of the characters either side of me. Although my companions are sometimes identical to myself, they normally have a different shape, a curve here or a straightness there, which marks their own character and purpose.

When the Master is happy with the way we are laid out, he covers us with ink. Paper is placed in the machine above me and a wheel is turned which presses a plate down upon me with so much pressure I think I will burst. Then the wheel is turned the other way, the paper is removed, and the process is repeated, hundreds of times. At last, accompanied by much admiration and congratulation, I am placed in a box with my own kind, until the next time, when I am arranged alongside faces of a different type, in another configuration, and all is repeated.

At the end of the day we are blessed by the Master. Often he will talk to us as he busies himself around the place. Once he explained that his role in life was to transform my face by the application of ink, then impressing me to paper, where the glorious mind of man will take my shape and make a vibration inside his head. By the glory of God, this sound that is me is joined with the sounds of my compatriots, and this cacophony turns into knowledge and understanding, and this metamorphosis will take the world to places which do not yet exist. He crosses himself as he says this, because he is aware that his suppositions carry the faint odour of blasphemy, and he cannot be too careful.

He says that every day I am part of a different word. One day I am in beauty, the next I am in the beast. One week I am in Heaven but then I will be sent to Hell. It’s all the same to me.

The master also says that before man made me, everything was written by hand. Scribes took decades to perfect their skills but still made mistakes, when they were tired, or ill, or drunk. Each slip of the nib, each drag of a hem into ink, would cause such sorrow.

He had heard of a place where poor penmanship was followed by swift and fatal retribution, although most transgressions were minor and paid for with temporary suffering. He said that a day without bread, or a rap on the knuckles, even an act of contrition in front of the Abbott, were all necessary reminders that perfection and pain are common bedfellows on the journey towards the future.

And now I must rest, because the constant thumping and bumping of the press, the whirring and whining of the workshop, and the stamping and standing, take its toll on an old character like me. With the grace of God I have had good fortune. I have kept my form and my appearance is good. The ink still clings to me with the correct viscosity, for the right amount of time. I continue to make a good impression. I have avoided the stains and blemishes which have led others to the bin in the corner, where they are melted down.

Goodnight dear reader, go well into the night. If you dream, then think of me, lying in my box, preparing myself for another day when I must play my part in this beautiful business of printing.

Itchy & Scratchy, 409 words of dialogue

I wrote this as an exercise in dialogue - not sure I will ever use it anywhere, but here it is:

Itchy & Scratchy

“Stop that you horrible child.”

“But it itches.”

“I know it itches. It will itch if you run full speed into a bush of stinging nettles.”

“The lion was going to get me. It was scratching itself and it was going to come right through the fence and get me.”

“No it wasn’t. You know it wasn’t. You’re just pretending to be about 3 years old to annoy me. There’s no point. You’re annoying enough already. You can’t get any more annoying.”

“My head itches.”

“So don’t scratch it.”

“Don’t scratch it?”

“That’s right. If you scratch it, the itch will just get worse.”

“So the only time I ever want to scratch is when I itch, and that’s when I’m not supposed to scratch?”

“That’s right.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s just one of God’s little jokes. You’ll have to get used to them.”

“That doesn’t make any sense either. The monkeys are always scratching.”

“This might come as a shock but you’re not a monkey. If you’re going to wait for life to make sense my jolly little friend you’ve got a very long wait ahead of you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that life doesn’t make sense. If your head doesn’t itch then go ahead and scratch it. Unless your finger nails are a foot long you can’t do any harm.”

“What’s a foot?”

“About one third of one of those metres they teach you about in school. And stop scratching.”

“If my head wasn’t itching then I wouldn’t know when to scratch it. And I’m not supposed to do that.”

“I know – life’s funny like that.”

“Funny?”

“Yes – funny peculiar, not funny ha-ha. Do you know the difference yet?”

“I don’t know what peculiar means.”

“Funny peculiar means it’s not thekind of funny that makes you laugh but it’s the kind of funny that’s different from what you expect, it’s sort of strange, it’s well, peculiar.”

“Are pelicans peculiar?”

“Pelicans?”

“I can see a pelican. It’s not scratching. It’s got no arms.”

“Maybe that’s what happens to little boys who scratch their head when they’re not supposed to. Their arms fall off.”

“Pelicans don’t have arms, or hands. They have legs, and, and, . . . beaks.”

“So they do.”

“So if a pelican fell into a bush of stinging nettles and his head itched, how would he scratch it?”

“Don’t ask me son. I’m only the zookeeper. Where’s your mother got to?”

Make A Wish, a short story in 609 words

I was given three words and asked to write a story which featured all three. It's a teensy bit contrived, but here goes . . .

Make A Wish

Danny was accustomed to doing several impossible things before breakfast, not least because he rarely saw food until well past eleven, by which time it was an early lunch. He finished his burger, and phoned the office to confirm he was about to close the trumpet deal.

Danny was on a mission to bring a smile to the face of the oldest and grouchiest resident of The Laurels. He sympathised with the old fella, Bob, what with his arthritis, his one deaf ear, and neighbours who were all inconsiderate enough to be born twenty years after him.

Danny was a fixer for The Club. His patch was the Frampton Estate, which included The Laurels. Part of his job was making friends with residents (seldom an easy task), teasing out their dreams (easier with some than others), and then finding a way to make them happen (often impossible).

Bob was an ex-musician in a jazz band who revealed that the one thing that would bring a smile to his face was a trumpet.

“Just one last time Danny me boy. Just for one night. Just to see if I can still do it.”

Bob was unaware that the dapper gentleman on the Second Floor had a granddaughter who was learning to play the trumpet. Once a month she accompanied her mother to see her grandfather on the way home from her music lesson. Danny also knew, because he had asked, that an overnight loan of said trumpet was his for the princely sum of £20.

“You’re confusing me with someone who can punch a few numbers into the hole-in-the-wall and fill my pockets with cash” said Danny, who immediately beat him down to a tenner.

Danny already knew where he could find £10 because the Manager of The Laurels had named that price in his search for an urgently required second hand pair of hedge trimmers.

After a quiet word with his brother Jamie, who worked in the shop of the Garden Centre on the bypass, it was just a matter of time. Eventually, a customer had bought new hedge trimmers and Jamie had asked for the old pair as part of the deal.

Now, standing outside the shop, Danny waved to his brother, held up the bag containing his prize, and gave him the thumbs up.

The bag was soon exchanged for a grubby banknote and Danny rushed straight upstairs to get the trumpet. After an hour promising that no harm would come to it, he was knocking on Bob’s door, with a huge grin on his face.

“Hello Bob. Here’s a present for you. Remember that conversation? When you told me you wanted to do something one last time? Remember that?”

Bob stood up quickly, pulled his cardigan down, and swept his hand over his head as if he was looking in a mirror.

“Danny my boy. You haven’t? I wasn’t being serious. I didn’t think there was any chance.”

“It wasn’t easy but here it is. One night only mind you. I’ll be back tomorrow morning to pick it up.”

Bob’s forehead creased in confusion as he took the bag, removed the trumpet, and sank into his chair with a deep sigh.

“What the hell is this?”

“It’s a trumpet. You said you wanted one last night with a trumpet. See if you could still do it? Remember?”

“Trumpet? Trumpet? You stupid bugger! I’ve got no use for a trumpet at my age. If I tried blowing that, me brains would start leaking from me ears. What I wanted, what I thought for a minute you had got for me, for one night only, was a strumpet!”

A Brush With Death - short story in 478 words

I am trying to write 500 words, set on a train - comments welcome!

A Brush With Death

“Whatever happens now, you’ll never be in charge of a train again.”

Kevin listened to his Union Rep and wished he would shut up. The Rep was right though. Kevin was bereft with the guilt and shame of it all. He was derailed, dejected, and desperate. And he was only thirty eight.

Since he was a boy, all Kevin had wanted was a job working on trains. He was too young to eulogise over steam but he never felt deprived because diesel provided all the excitement he needed.

It had been a long wait for success but it had come. After all the training, and the years of frustration waiting for his own train, he had been offered the job, the one that he never dared dream of, the job that allowed him to stride purposefully into St Pancras three days a week, wearing his uniform with pride. He, little Kevin, was in charge of the Eurostar!

Now, waiting for the verdict of the Disciplinary Hearing, he was anxious and he was angry.

“Why does someone wake up one morning, decide to kill themselves, then make their way to the nearest train?”

“I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure they’re not thinking about the people working on the railway at that point in their lives.”

“I suppose not. I know it sounds selfish but it wasn’t my fault he died. It’s victimisation, that’s what it is. I didn’t even get counselling – just this bloody hearing!”

Kevin apologised, immediately feeling ashamed. Of course his come-uppance could not be compared to the unimaginable terror suffered by tortured souls frying to death on the line, their bodies twitching, the horror leaking from wide staring eyes.

“Who found the body?” asked the Rep, attempting to fill an awkward silence but succeeding only in fuelling Kevin’s ire.

“It’s in the file. The file right there on the table. He was found by a passenger.”

“Sorry. I was only allocated this case when I came in this morning.” He flicked through the Bradford wallet and brandished a newspaper cutting.

“Ah. That would explain the bad PR then. No wonder they’re taking you to the cleaners.”

Realising his faux pas, the Rep quickly changed the subject. “Look at this photo. He looks like he’s just sleeping doesn’t he?”

He dropped the newspaper on the table between them. “Anyway, you got your picture on the front page. Not many of us can say that.”

Kevin looked at it and winced, tightening the muscles in his face towards his nose as if he had bitten into a lemon.

“It won’t exactly help me get another job though, will it?”
Kevin looked at the picture, and read the caption out loud for dramatic effect.

“Kevin Pierce, Eurostar Cleaning Manager, empties his bags and avoids a brush with death as he fails to see a body on his train.”

Quackery, a short story in 784 words

This time my task was to write a story that finished with the final sentence you see below (take a quick peek now - what would you have written?).

It turns out that this early draft is quite silly, but there you go - comments, as always, welcome!

Quackery

My obsession with ducks started as an infantile indulgence, developed into adolescent attention seeking and became a nightmare of my own making.

Long after I realised it was possible to wash without a toy duck I decided the real things, although a lot less colourful, were quite interesting. They lacked the inane grin and the ruby red lipstick but their feeding habits and environment became a n all-consuming passion. I read everything I could find, I became a fount of knowledge about every breed of duck, from the Abacot Ranger to the Welsh Harlequin, and I was duck mad. When the time came to think about a career, it had to be something with ducks.

After some research, I aspired to become a Wetlands and Waterfowl Conservation Technician, which led me to take a degree in Environmental Science, then a Masters in wetland ecology. This required regular early morning visits to a nature reserve, and led to my accident.

I am not good at mornings, and this one was no exception. There I was, at 6 a.m., dozing at the wheel, when the truck in front screeched to a halt, and I slid right into the back of it. I hit it hard, my bumper nudging the big silver handle in the centre of the back door. It must have been damaged because it popped open and my nightmare began.

I later discovered that the truck was on its way to a trade exhibition for people whose professional interests lay in the sterile waters of kitchen and bathroom cleaning equipment. All I knew at the time was that I was being buried alive in toys, posters, figurines, and finally by a life-size moulded plastic cut out – all of Mr Duck.

After that, triggered by the physical trauma caused by the impact and the last image in my mind before I lost consciousness, I suffered the most horrible nightmares.

Worse still, they came back in the daytime. When I was tired, or not fully concentrating, I would slip into a world where Mr Duck was bearing down on me again. Sweating profusely, I would feel intense heat all over my body, and get a severe headache. I was a mess.

A psychiatrist was recommended and we spent the first few sessions re-living the accident before he suggested Gestalt therapy. This involved pretending that Mr Duck was in an empty chair and I had to talk to it but that was very difficult. I was too scared and didn’t know what to say.

“Let’s try something else then. Imagine you’re a duck, maybe you’re the son of Mr Duck. What would you say to him?”

Suddenly I was back in my baby bath, then I was by the pond in the garden at home, and no doubt with the help of the anti-depressants my imagination took over and it all came out.

“If being able to fly is so bloody wonderful” I said, “why don’t we ever go anywhere?”

The psychiatrist eagerly responded, “Don’t be so cheeky young man, and don’t swear. And don’t exaggerate. I’m always flying to interesting places. Every Sunday evening we all fly to the cinema to watch the film. The whole flock comes with us.”

“Now who’s exaggerating? Everyone might sit on the roof but you’re the only one who knows it’s a film. Everyone else just sees vague shapes. They follow you every week. If you went to watch football they would follow you there and not know the difference.”

“You may be right but what does it matter if we’re all happy?”

The psychiatrist jumped off his chair, puffed out his chest and flapped his imaginary wings, hopping about the consulting room. He nodded several times, then saw a biscuit on the desk. He strutted over, keeping his arms by his sides, and banged his nose down, really hard, several times, until the biscuit was broken into several pieces. He started eating it, which was a disgusting sight because it was now mixed in with blood from his probably-broken nose.

As I dashed out the door I met the receptionist, who had heard the commotion and was already on her way. She peered in, closed the door very quietly, and escorted me to another psychiatrist, a woman, who explained that my first psychiatrist had been under a lot of stress and asked how she could help.

We chatted for a while and she recommended that I stopped taking the medication then sent me home.

That was a month ago and I am pleased to say this radical and innovative treatment seems to have done the trick. I still have bad dreams but I never saw Mr Duck again.

No story this month, because I'm hopefully at the end of a five-week bug which has hit me with everything it had. This was a malicious infection from a germ which was either an atheist with little tolerance of Xmas or a fundamental terrorist who saw me as a soft target, or possibly both.

Anyway, I was in deep despair and despondency, surrounded by hot water bottles, used tissues and half-drunk mugs of peppermint tea, when I hit upon the idea of reading the handy information enclosed with all my cold remedies and prescription drugs, which in my case represented enough material to last a quick reader like me a whole week. It made me feel a lot better, for all the wrong reasons.

Paracetomol warned me against side effects such as hives and nettle rash. The antibiotics threatened hepatisis and skin that could blister or peel. The asthma inhaler promised hypersensitivity and hyperactivity along with irregular heartbeat (now there’s a combination to conjure with), and the steroids asked me to consider the possibilities of a serious mental disorder plus some other stuff which is way too difficult to type when you're coughing.

It’s no secret that I’m risk averse but it did make me think. Luckily, I wasn’t twitching, climbing the walls or foaming at the mouth, so my symptoms immediately seemed insignificant. This was a healthy contra indication caused by studying the documentation that the pharmaceutical companies had failed to list - maybe I should suggest this to them?

Do you think they would pay me for it?