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!”
Friday, 16 March 2012
Friday, 24 February 2012
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.”
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.”
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.
Friday, 13 January 2012
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?
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?
Tuesday, 6 December 2011
Do Me A Favour, a short story in 988 words
My challenge this time was to write a short story (1000 words max.) on the theme of Timekeeping and this where I have reached so far - please comment!
Do Me A Favour
Alex Neville scanned the queue of traffic, noticed a prickly sensation in his calves, and suppressed the desire to leave the car and run, and keep running. He wondered whether he would have time to make a will before being executed.
Alex, known as Nev to his friends, was driving to a funeral. As joint owner of Neville Funeral Services, with his sister Rachel, he didn’t normally don the chauffeur’s hat but he was short staffed. He glanced in the rear view mirror to look at Mr Gambin and his sons. He could just about remember Mr Gambin’s father, whose unanglicised name had adorned ‘Gambini Ice Creams’.
Nev spoke into the intercom, “The radio says the Water Board are just finishing. We’ll start moving soon and we’ll be there in about 30 minutes, with luck.”
He heard Mr Gambin issue instructions in Italian, and felt the panic subside in an instant. This was it then.
Two hours previously Nev had driven his best black Mercedes up the Gambins’ brick-lined gravel drive and parked it in front of an even bigger model, wondering how many ice creams it was worth.
The Gambin boys, Georgie and Ricardo, were waiting for him.
“Hi Nev, how’s business?”
Georgie held out his hand.
“Good thanks. And on a glorious day like this it’s great to get out from behind the desk. I should do it more often.”
Ricardo slapped him on the shoulder.
“We’re off to the races this afternoon. Wanna come? Make a day of it?”
“It’s tempting, but no thanks. I’ve got to get back. Bodies don’t bury themselves you know.”
Nev started to apologise but Ricardo touched his cheek before he could speak.
“Pazienza Nev. Never mind. I’ve said the same thing a few times myself, you know?” He winked, stooping to get into the back seat, next to his father.
As the car inched past his old school Nev tried to contemplate his life without the Gambin family in it. If he had not been asked to bury the boys’ grandmother, back in the early days, he might never have learned how to run a business.
“Look” Mr Gambin had said, “you’ll be doing us a favour. A big favour. We don’t want strangers doing this for Nonna. You’re almost family. We’ll be very – what’s the word? Grateful – we’ll be very grateful.”
After that Mr Gambin had given him regular business advice. The family seemed to know everyone, and always recommended Nev when someone died, and no-one ignored advice from the Gambins.
That’s when he had earned his nickname, when he started the early morning jobs for the boys. They would wake him up, “Nev, can you do us a favour? We’ve bet this guy we can get his paralytic friend a ride home in a hearse. It’s a nice cash deal, and you’ll get your share.” They never gave him much notice so he had to get there quickly, and Alex Neville became Nev, short for ‘Never Late’.
He had quickly realised that his passengers were more dead than drunk, but by then he knew the Gambins’ lifestyle was paid for with a different type of Magnum.
With cars hooting all around him in a flurry of frustration, he remembered Mr Gambin telling him that punctuality was the reason he favoured him over his only serious business rival, Dalton.
“Being late is very bad Nev. It’s rude, it says that you think your time is more precious than other people’s. It’s something selfish people do. Non-caring people. Disrespectful people. Not people like me. Someone only makes me late once Nev. No second chances. Speak to the boys, they’ll tell you that.”
Nev suppressed the lump in his throat and started to plan the future of Neville Funeral Services. It was a sound business, and Rachel knew as much as he did about the back office, but she would have to get more involved with the public. Nev had always been diligent about promoting the business and Rachel had always been shy. That would have to change.
Her biggest problem would be Dalton, because he was a charmer, a presser of flesh, a smile for rent. He knew Dalton’s sympathetic sales pitch would have been more successful but for Nev’s reliability, because that was Dalton’s weakness. Being gregarious, generous, and forgiving to his staff led to regular slip ups. Flowers left behind, arriving late, taking days to reply to messages, these were small things but they did not go unnoticed. Dalton would certainly take a lot of business if Rachel didn’t up her game, and that wouldn’t be easy.
Nev drove past the cemetery, on to the wake at the hotel. He picked up his hat from the passenger seat but by the time he reached the back door, they were already standing in line.
Ricardo gripped his shoulders as he shook his head, “I am so sorry my friend, but you know how it is.”
Georgie held Nev’s head between his hands as he whispered in his ear, “For you Nev, it will be quick.”
Nev turned to Mr Gambin, held his gaze, and shook hands. “Mr Gambin, thank you for everything you have done for me.”
“Alex, I should call you Alex now, is there anything I can do for you before we say goodbye? Maybe it’s time for one last favour, this time from me?”
At that moment Nev realised what he must do. “Yes, there is one favour you can do for me. Don’t let Rachel arrange my funeral. No matter how much she insists, I don’t want her to do it. Tell her it would be too stressful. I want you to give the business to – Dalton. And whatever happens after that is in your hands.”
Mr Gambin raised his eyebrows, examined Nev’s face, and smiled. “Of course Alex. For you, anything. I will do as you ask. I understand - completely.”
Do Me A Favour
Alex Neville scanned the queue of traffic, noticed a prickly sensation in his calves, and suppressed the desire to leave the car and run, and keep running. He wondered whether he would have time to make a will before being executed.
Alex, known as Nev to his friends, was driving to a funeral. As joint owner of Neville Funeral Services, with his sister Rachel, he didn’t normally don the chauffeur’s hat but he was short staffed. He glanced in the rear view mirror to look at Mr Gambin and his sons. He could just about remember Mr Gambin’s father, whose unanglicised name had adorned ‘Gambini Ice Creams’.
Nev spoke into the intercom, “The radio says the Water Board are just finishing. We’ll start moving soon and we’ll be there in about 30 minutes, with luck.”
He heard Mr Gambin issue instructions in Italian, and felt the panic subside in an instant. This was it then.
Two hours previously Nev had driven his best black Mercedes up the Gambins’ brick-lined gravel drive and parked it in front of an even bigger model, wondering how many ice creams it was worth.
The Gambin boys, Georgie and Ricardo, were waiting for him.
“Hi Nev, how’s business?”
Georgie held out his hand.
“Good thanks. And on a glorious day like this it’s great to get out from behind the desk. I should do it more often.”
Ricardo slapped him on the shoulder.
“We’re off to the races this afternoon. Wanna come? Make a day of it?”
“It’s tempting, but no thanks. I’ve got to get back. Bodies don’t bury themselves you know.”
Nev started to apologise but Ricardo touched his cheek before he could speak.
“Pazienza Nev. Never mind. I’ve said the same thing a few times myself, you know?” He winked, stooping to get into the back seat, next to his father.
As the car inched past his old school Nev tried to contemplate his life without the Gambin family in it. If he had not been asked to bury the boys’ grandmother, back in the early days, he might never have learned how to run a business.
“Look” Mr Gambin had said, “you’ll be doing us a favour. A big favour. We don’t want strangers doing this for Nonna. You’re almost family. We’ll be very – what’s the word? Grateful – we’ll be very grateful.”
After that Mr Gambin had given him regular business advice. The family seemed to know everyone, and always recommended Nev when someone died, and no-one ignored advice from the Gambins.
That’s when he had earned his nickname, when he started the early morning jobs for the boys. They would wake him up, “Nev, can you do us a favour? We’ve bet this guy we can get his paralytic friend a ride home in a hearse. It’s a nice cash deal, and you’ll get your share.” They never gave him much notice so he had to get there quickly, and Alex Neville became Nev, short for ‘Never Late’.
He had quickly realised that his passengers were more dead than drunk, but by then he knew the Gambins’ lifestyle was paid for with a different type of Magnum.
With cars hooting all around him in a flurry of frustration, he remembered Mr Gambin telling him that punctuality was the reason he favoured him over his only serious business rival, Dalton.
“Being late is very bad Nev. It’s rude, it says that you think your time is more precious than other people’s. It’s something selfish people do. Non-caring people. Disrespectful people. Not people like me. Someone only makes me late once Nev. No second chances. Speak to the boys, they’ll tell you that.”
Nev suppressed the lump in his throat and started to plan the future of Neville Funeral Services. It was a sound business, and Rachel knew as much as he did about the back office, but she would have to get more involved with the public. Nev had always been diligent about promoting the business and Rachel had always been shy. That would have to change.
Her biggest problem would be Dalton, because he was a charmer, a presser of flesh, a smile for rent. He knew Dalton’s sympathetic sales pitch would have been more successful but for Nev’s reliability, because that was Dalton’s weakness. Being gregarious, generous, and forgiving to his staff led to regular slip ups. Flowers left behind, arriving late, taking days to reply to messages, these were small things but they did not go unnoticed. Dalton would certainly take a lot of business if Rachel didn’t up her game, and that wouldn’t be easy.
Nev drove past the cemetery, on to the wake at the hotel. He picked up his hat from the passenger seat but by the time he reached the back door, they were already standing in line.
Ricardo gripped his shoulders as he shook his head, “I am so sorry my friend, but you know how it is.”
Georgie held Nev’s head between his hands as he whispered in his ear, “For you Nev, it will be quick.”
Nev turned to Mr Gambin, held his gaze, and shook hands. “Mr Gambin, thank you for everything you have done for me.”
“Alex, I should call you Alex now, is there anything I can do for you before we say goodbye? Maybe it’s time for one last favour, this time from me?”
At that moment Nev realised what he must do. “Yes, there is one favour you can do for me. Don’t let Rachel arrange my funeral. No matter how much she insists, I don’t want her to do it. Tell her it would be too stressful. I want you to give the business to – Dalton. And whatever happens after that is in your hands.”
Mr Gambin raised his eyebrows, examined Nev’s face, and smiled. “Of course Alex. For you, anything. I will do as you ask. I understand - completely.”
Monday, 21 November 2011
My holiday, a short story in 983 words
The brief this time was to write a story up to 1000 words on the theme 'My Desert Island' - here is my first effort - what do you think?
Mr Cave, my psychiatrist, is once more saying that it’s important to remember who I am because the people who love me are very distressed about my condition. I tell him, again, that they shouldn’t worry because I am very happy right now, even if I don’t know who they are.
“It’s like being on a really good holiday. I think whoever I am didn’t take many holidays and I’m enjoying the change of scenery.”
“Tell me more Kenneth. What’s this holiday like?”
“It must be one of those all-inclusive holidays with food and drink whenever you need it, as long as you don’t mind tea and coffee instead of wine and whisky. There’s plenty of time for reading, and thinking, and no-one asks you for anything. I have a room on the ground floor with a big picture window, and my own bathroom. There are no reports to write, no people to see, and my time is my own, except when I come to see you of course. I have no responsibilities. It’s nice being me for a change.”
Mr Cave writes in his notebook, puts down the pen, removes his spectacles and gives me his amused look, the one that makes me feel like a wayward child.
“I think you must have been very tired before your accident Kenneth.”
I do not reply because I know what comes next. I’ll say I don’t know what he means, then he’ll try to force me to remember, then I’ll start to cry, and he will say goodbye till the next time we meet.
“You see Kenneth, you were tired and stressed before the accident. You are an important person with lots of responsibility. There are people waiting for you to get better. Some of them can’t have a holiday until you’ve finished yours. That’s not very fair, is it?”
“No, I suppose not.” I hang my head and feel a tear growing into a tiny bubble behind my eye. I stare down, trying not to blink because that will make me drip on the carpet and he will see that I am crying.
Mr Cave ignores me, like he always does when he’s about to lecture me.
“You’ve had a frightening experience, not to mention a bump on the head, and your mind has put a strategy in place to avoid thinking about it, because it’s painful. It’s persuaded you that you can escape reality by building a construct that you are in a place you always wanted to go. It’s a sanctuary, a world away from real life, where nothing bad happens. This holiday of yours is a fantasy Kenneth. Until you let it go you will never remember who you are.”
I stare into the distance and refuse to listen any more. I like this holiday. I feel safe. I have no expectations. I never feel disappointed. Most of all, I do not have to remember anything. Without memories I can just be myself.
When I first met Mr Cave, when he still called me Mr Sinclair, I had some memories that wouldn’t go away. I could remember a close up view of Tottenham High Road. It was as if I had been doing press ups on the pavement and several people were standing on me, pressing my face into the concrete slabs. I pushed into my hands to raise myself up but I lacked the strength. I saw the horse above me and the horseshoe coming down in slow motion. I remember admiring the surprising symmetry and beauty in the underside of a horse’s foot. Why had I never seen this before? I blinked. The next thing I saw was the face of Mr Cave.
This memory triggers another and I start talking.
“Last night I remembered something. I was watching a mob throwing bricks through shop windows. I was shouting instructions to people wearing uniforms. They did what I told them and it felt good. Then I was standing in front of a row of microphones and people were asking me questions but they never listened to the answers. They just kept asking more questions. That made me angry inside. Then I woke up.”
I stop talking. I did not mean to reveal any of this because I knew Mr Cave would want more, and I had no more to give.
Mr Cave scribbles in his book and nods at the clock on the wall behind me.
“That’s excellent Kenneth. We can work on this in tomorrow’s session. Why don’t you go back to that memory and focus on the uniforms? What colour are they? Have you ever worn a uniform? How did it make you feel? The answers could be the keys that open the portal into your real world, revealing the real you. Tomorrow could be an exciting day!”
“Goodbye Mr Cave” I shake his hand, leave the room and follow the nurse back to my room. As we pass through a reception area I pick up the evening paper. Inside my room I spend the next hour reading every word of every article, paying particular attention to the photographs, with my scissors and my scrapbook ready but once more, there is nothing worth saving.
I open the scrapbook and look at the first page, the only page that isn’t blank, and read out the caption below the photograph.
“Assistant Commissioner Kenneth Sinclair was seriously injured on the first night of the riots.”
I have a strong urge to take this to Mr Cave. I should tell him this is the picture of a man who deserves a holiday but I know he is incapable of appreciating the refuge I have found. Although he is an intelligent man he would not recognise my oasis. In his hands my desert island would become a mirage. He would not listen. He would not understand. Mr Cave doesn’t understand holidays.
Mr Cave, my psychiatrist, is once more saying that it’s important to remember who I am because the people who love me are very distressed about my condition. I tell him, again, that they shouldn’t worry because I am very happy right now, even if I don’t know who they are.
“It’s like being on a really good holiday. I think whoever I am didn’t take many holidays and I’m enjoying the change of scenery.”
“Tell me more Kenneth. What’s this holiday like?”
“It must be one of those all-inclusive holidays with food and drink whenever you need it, as long as you don’t mind tea and coffee instead of wine and whisky. There’s plenty of time for reading, and thinking, and no-one asks you for anything. I have a room on the ground floor with a big picture window, and my own bathroom. There are no reports to write, no people to see, and my time is my own, except when I come to see you of course. I have no responsibilities. It’s nice being me for a change.”
Mr Cave writes in his notebook, puts down the pen, removes his spectacles and gives me his amused look, the one that makes me feel like a wayward child.
“I think you must have been very tired before your accident Kenneth.”
I do not reply because I know what comes next. I’ll say I don’t know what he means, then he’ll try to force me to remember, then I’ll start to cry, and he will say goodbye till the next time we meet.
“You see Kenneth, you were tired and stressed before the accident. You are an important person with lots of responsibility. There are people waiting for you to get better. Some of them can’t have a holiday until you’ve finished yours. That’s not very fair, is it?”
“No, I suppose not.” I hang my head and feel a tear growing into a tiny bubble behind my eye. I stare down, trying not to blink because that will make me drip on the carpet and he will see that I am crying.
Mr Cave ignores me, like he always does when he’s about to lecture me.
“You’ve had a frightening experience, not to mention a bump on the head, and your mind has put a strategy in place to avoid thinking about it, because it’s painful. It’s persuaded you that you can escape reality by building a construct that you are in a place you always wanted to go. It’s a sanctuary, a world away from real life, where nothing bad happens. This holiday of yours is a fantasy Kenneth. Until you let it go you will never remember who you are.”
I stare into the distance and refuse to listen any more. I like this holiday. I feel safe. I have no expectations. I never feel disappointed. Most of all, I do not have to remember anything. Without memories I can just be myself.
When I first met Mr Cave, when he still called me Mr Sinclair, I had some memories that wouldn’t go away. I could remember a close up view of Tottenham High Road. It was as if I had been doing press ups on the pavement and several people were standing on me, pressing my face into the concrete slabs. I pushed into my hands to raise myself up but I lacked the strength. I saw the horse above me and the horseshoe coming down in slow motion. I remember admiring the surprising symmetry and beauty in the underside of a horse’s foot. Why had I never seen this before? I blinked. The next thing I saw was the face of Mr Cave.
This memory triggers another and I start talking.
“Last night I remembered something. I was watching a mob throwing bricks through shop windows. I was shouting instructions to people wearing uniforms. They did what I told them and it felt good. Then I was standing in front of a row of microphones and people were asking me questions but they never listened to the answers. They just kept asking more questions. That made me angry inside. Then I woke up.”
I stop talking. I did not mean to reveal any of this because I knew Mr Cave would want more, and I had no more to give.
Mr Cave scribbles in his book and nods at the clock on the wall behind me.
“That’s excellent Kenneth. We can work on this in tomorrow’s session. Why don’t you go back to that memory and focus on the uniforms? What colour are they? Have you ever worn a uniform? How did it make you feel? The answers could be the keys that open the portal into your real world, revealing the real you. Tomorrow could be an exciting day!”
“Goodbye Mr Cave” I shake his hand, leave the room and follow the nurse back to my room. As we pass through a reception area I pick up the evening paper. Inside my room I spend the next hour reading every word of every article, paying particular attention to the photographs, with my scissors and my scrapbook ready but once more, there is nothing worth saving.
I open the scrapbook and look at the first page, the only page that isn’t blank, and read out the caption below the photograph.
“Assistant Commissioner Kenneth Sinclair was seriously injured on the first night of the riots.”
I have a strong urge to take this to Mr Cave. I should tell him this is the picture of a man who deserves a holiday but I know he is incapable of appreciating the refuge I have found. Although he is an intelligent man he would not recognise my oasis. In his hands my desert island would become a mirage. He would not listen. He would not understand. Mr Cave doesn’t understand holidays.
Sunday, 23 October 2011
Kismet, a story in 990 words
It's been a while since my last post, but I've been busy earning a crust!
Here's another Work in Progress for you to help me out with. I'm juggling two writers' groups at the moment, with one setting homework as a Ghost story, and the other on travel, so I have attempted to write something I can share with both groups. What do you think? Please Comment below!
Kismet
Sheila had not felt this uncomfortable since her car broke down on the way home from her 50th birthday party, when she had to walk home, facing her fear of the dark.
This time she couldn’t blame the car. It was her satellite navigation system that was letting her down. She had little faith in ‘Jane’, the disembodied voice of her satnav, but she was determined to embrace new technology, and equally resolute in her belief that the universe would deliver her to her destiny, so she complied with Jane’s instructions despite her misgivings.
“In 300 yards turn left.”
Wondering where Jane was leading her, Sheila scrutinised the display. At ten yards she squinted through the windscreen and sure enough, she saw a narrow lane. As she turned the steering wheel Jane announced, with more than a hint of triumphalism, “You have reached your destination.”
Sheila stopped the car and the outline of a small cottage glowed faintly, as if it was an afterthought of her imagination. As she opened the door the glow increased in intensity until she had to shield her eyes from the bright light.
“Hello m’dear. Lost are we? Do you need any help?”
Sheila stumbled behind the apparition into a tiny kitchen. The table, already laid for two, was warm and welcoming. Sheila visibly relaxed.
“Yes, I think I am lost. I’m looking for a holiday cottage called Kismet. It’s not around here, it’s in a village called . . . .”
“This cottage is called Kismet m’dear. So you’re not lost after all.”
Sheila was momentarily confused but, distracted by the smell of a casserole, she allowed herself to be led to the table. Fate, thought Sheila, it must be fate.
The next thing she remembered was waking up in a strange bed with a teddy bear in her arms that closely resembled her childhood companion, Tedward, so she held him close, and dozed. She became aware of a low humming that grew louder until she couldn’t stand it a moment longer.
She tucked Tedward in, and tiptoed down the stairs into the kitchen. The sound was coming from a large refrigerator. She knew that opening the door would silence it, so she did, and found herself staring into a large cavernous yellowish-white interior. Her eyes focused on the empty egg rack on the inside of the door and she was immediately transported to the dark days of her adolescence.
She was fourteen again. She was back on the industrial wasteland near home with Billy, a strange boy who lived next door. They were sharing an illicit cigarette and joking around. As they gently pushed each other she stumbled backwards into an abandoned industrial sized fridge. Billy was forcing her inside and in her panic she reached out for something to defend herself with. She picked up a broken bottle and lashed out, stabbing Billy on the wrist. He recoiled, his eyes ablaze with fury, and slammed the door shut. Placing her hands on the egg rack Sheila pushed and screamed, and screamed and pushed ,but the door stayed shut.
Sheila ran her fingers around the oval recesses as it all came back to her. The darkness. The silence. The fear. The acceptance that she was going to die. The door opening. The policeman. The light. The ambulance. The police station. The court. The judge and the jury. And the look of hate and contempt in Billy’s eyes as they led him away, ranting, “I’ll never leave you Sheila. I’ll always find you.”
Sheila jumped at the sound of someone approaching the kitchen.
“Hello m’dear. It looks like you’re ready for breakfast. I’m afraid we’ve no eggs till we collect some more but I can make you a nice bacon sandwich.”
By the time Sheila had showered, dressed and eaten a hearty breakfast she had regained her composure. She drove into town, visited a museum, had a light but satisfying lunch, and bought presents.
Returning to Kismet she was greeted in the kitchen by a tall smart-looking gentleman tucking into an enormous slice of cake. He stood up and shook hands.
“Hello. I’m William. I’ve just arrived. I’m staying in the room next to yours I think. You must be Sheila.”
They sat at the table for the next two hours, helping themselves to more tea, and left it as friends. It turned out they had a lot in common, with many shared interests. William even knew a little about her home town, sharing her distress at the demise of local landmarks.
As they climbed the stairs to their rooms William asked “Are you going to the bonfire tonight? We could go together, if you like.”
Sheila had forgotten it was Guy Fawkes Night. She normally ignored it, treating it like any other winter’s evening, staying safely inside, away from intimidating crowds, so she surprised herself when she heard her own reply.
“That would be lovely.”
Several hours later Sheila and William had shared a fireworks display, hot chocolate, and a gentle stroll into the woods where they could observe the celebrations from afar as they kissed and cuddled.
Sheila was stunned at the weekend’s turn of events. She was sure she was not in the cottage she had booked, and was shocked at her behaviour with this stranger, but she felt so content. It felt so right.
William bent down to kiss her forehead.
“You look pensive. Seen a ghost?”
“No, not tonight. My ghosts are all gone.”
As she leaned up to kiss him on the lips her hand brushed his wrist and her fingers followed the trail of a long scar.
“Are they Sheila? Are you sure your ghosts are all gone?”
He held onto her hands as she struggled to get free. Her eyes met his and she recognised the hate in his eyes.
“Yes Sheila. It’s Billy. You sent him away but he’s come back, just like he said he would.”
Here's another Work in Progress for you to help me out with. I'm juggling two writers' groups at the moment, with one setting homework as a Ghost story, and the other on travel, so I have attempted to write something I can share with both groups. What do you think? Please Comment below!
Kismet
Sheila had not felt this uncomfortable since her car broke down on the way home from her 50th birthday party, when she had to walk home, facing her fear of the dark.
This time she couldn’t blame the car. It was her satellite navigation system that was letting her down. She had little faith in ‘Jane’, the disembodied voice of her satnav, but she was determined to embrace new technology, and equally resolute in her belief that the universe would deliver her to her destiny, so she complied with Jane’s instructions despite her misgivings.
“In 300 yards turn left.”
Wondering where Jane was leading her, Sheila scrutinised the display. At ten yards she squinted through the windscreen and sure enough, she saw a narrow lane. As she turned the steering wheel Jane announced, with more than a hint of triumphalism, “You have reached your destination.”
Sheila stopped the car and the outline of a small cottage glowed faintly, as if it was an afterthought of her imagination. As she opened the door the glow increased in intensity until she had to shield her eyes from the bright light.
“Hello m’dear. Lost are we? Do you need any help?”
Sheila stumbled behind the apparition into a tiny kitchen. The table, already laid for two, was warm and welcoming. Sheila visibly relaxed.
“Yes, I think I am lost. I’m looking for a holiday cottage called Kismet. It’s not around here, it’s in a village called . . . .”
“This cottage is called Kismet m’dear. So you’re not lost after all.”
Sheila was momentarily confused but, distracted by the smell of a casserole, she allowed herself to be led to the table. Fate, thought Sheila, it must be fate.
The next thing she remembered was waking up in a strange bed with a teddy bear in her arms that closely resembled her childhood companion, Tedward, so she held him close, and dozed. She became aware of a low humming that grew louder until she couldn’t stand it a moment longer.
She tucked Tedward in, and tiptoed down the stairs into the kitchen. The sound was coming from a large refrigerator. She knew that opening the door would silence it, so she did, and found herself staring into a large cavernous yellowish-white interior. Her eyes focused on the empty egg rack on the inside of the door and she was immediately transported to the dark days of her adolescence.
She was fourteen again. She was back on the industrial wasteland near home with Billy, a strange boy who lived next door. They were sharing an illicit cigarette and joking around. As they gently pushed each other she stumbled backwards into an abandoned industrial sized fridge. Billy was forcing her inside and in her panic she reached out for something to defend herself with. She picked up a broken bottle and lashed out, stabbing Billy on the wrist. He recoiled, his eyes ablaze with fury, and slammed the door shut. Placing her hands on the egg rack Sheila pushed and screamed, and screamed and pushed ,but the door stayed shut.
Sheila ran her fingers around the oval recesses as it all came back to her. The darkness. The silence. The fear. The acceptance that she was going to die. The door opening. The policeman. The light. The ambulance. The police station. The court. The judge and the jury. And the look of hate and contempt in Billy’s eyes as they led him away, ranting, “I’ll never leave you Sheila. I’ll always find you.”
Sheila jumped at the sound of someone approaching the kitchen.
“Hello m’dear. It looks like you’re ready for breakfast. I’m afraid we’ve no eggs till we collect some more but I can make you a nice bacon sandwich.”
By the time Sheila had showered, dressed and eaten a hearty breakfast she had regained her composure. She drove into town, visited a museum, had a light but satisfying lunch, and bought presents.
Returning to Kismet she was greeted in the kitchen by a tall smart-looking gentleman tucking into an enormous slice of cake. He stood up and shook hands.
“Hello. I’m William. I’ve just arrived. I’m staying in the room next to yours I think. You must be Sheila.”
They sat at the table for the next two hours, helping themselves to more tea, and left it as friends. It turned out they had a lot in common, with many shared interests. William even knew a little about her home town, sharing her distress at the demise of local landmarks.
As they climbed the stairs to their rooms William asked “Are you going to the bonfire tonight? We could go together, if you like.”
Sheila had forgotten it was Guy Fawkes Night. She normally ignored it, treating it like any other winter’s evening, staying safely inside, away from intimidating crowds, so she surprised herself when she heard her own reply.
“That would be lovely.”
Several hours later Sheila and William had shared a fireworks display, hot chocolate, and a gentle stroll into the woods where they could observe the celebrations from afar as they kissed and cuddled.
Sheila was stunned at the weekend’s turn of events. She was sure she was not in the cottage she had booked, and was shocked at her behaviour with this stranger, but she felt so content. It felt so right.
William bent down to kiss her forehead.
“You look pensive. Seen a ghost?”
“No, not tonight. My ghosts are all gone.”
As she leaned up to kiss him on the lips her hand brushed his wrist and her fingers followed the trail of a long scar.
“Are they Sheila? Are you sure your ghosts are all gone?”
He held onto her hands as she struggled to get free. Her eyes met his and she recognised the hate in his eyes.
“Yes Sheila. It’s Billy. You sent him away but he’s come back, just like he said he would.”
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