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.”
Friday 24 February 2012
Wednesday 1 February 2012
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.
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.
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