How to Live Forever, a short story in 499 words

My writers' group's End of Term Competition was for a 1000-word story with the theme 'Journey into Space'. The science fiction genre does not come easily to me and this is the result of several weeks of struggle. Was it worth it? Please post your Comment below.

Being President of a major corporation specialising in interplanetary travel had its benefits.

Jenny was trying out the latest innovative vacation for the busy executive, before launching it to the marketplace.

That’s how she came to be on a planet where time was slower by a factor of three, allowing her to take a three-month holiday in just one month away from the office.

Jenny’s holiday was about to be tarnished. She noticed an anomaly in the hologram masquerading as a magnificent 18^th century chandelier. The very latest virtual home fitting had been invaded by something as prosaic as a cobweb. She remembered her great grandmother’s stories about domestic drudgery, before self-cleaning homes existed. She also remembered the antidote -  a ‘feather duster‘ - so she consulted the House Computer, which would access the InterWeb and replicate one.

“Wise One”, she said, directing her voice to a point about an inch in front of her face, “Instruction: Search. Feather duster. Buy. Quantity: one.”

“Hello Mistress. Would you like a feather or a duster?” spoke the slightly husky, and very human voice.

“Not a feather. Not a duster. Instruction: Phrase Search. Feather duster.”

“Apologies Mistress, but clarification is required: what is a duster?”

“Wise One: Instruction: Search Historical Databases for appliance used in mid 20^th century homes to remove cobwebs. Feather duster.”

“Searching databases” said the voice. “I have located 576,962 references to feather duster. When I add the search term ’buy’ the number of results is zero.”

Jenny slumped into a chair and was immediately regaled by Robby, who was programmed to tell her on the hour, every hour, his imminent duties. “It is 4 p.m. At 4.15 I must serve party food to the young master and his birthday guests. At 4.30 I must introduce the entertainer, a replication of a famous 20^th century comedian and his entourage. At 5.45 I must - “

Jenny immediately switched priorities, missing the end of the report as she rushed into the kitchen to greet her guests. Fifteen minutes later the butler interrupted the party, shepherded the children into the lounge, and announced, “Girls and boys, Ladies and Gentleman, I have the greatest pleasure in introducing one of the most versatile and long serving virtual comedians of all time.”

Before he could finish, a dozen tiny men with buck teeth rushed in, followed by a man with uncontrollable hair, wearing a red jacket, baggy trousers, and enormous shoes. Jenny relaxed and smiled, thinking of the old fashioned Blu-Ray discs in her family vault.

The first thing the entertainer did was to announce how tickled he was, to be here so very far from his home in Knotty Ash.

The second thing he did was to produce an implausibly large feather duster from behind his back, stretch up to the corner and brush away a small spider and his comfy little home.

Finally, he winked at Jenny, who beamed at everyone - how wonderful it was to live in civilised times!

 

Word count: 499

Written in Black, a short story in 498 words

My writers' group homework was a 500-word crime story. I wrote the first draft of this several years ago so I re-worked it to fit the required length. Any comments?

Brian looked at the diary and wondered why Joe had left it to him.

Joey Johnson used to run a Used Car dealership with Brian Ryan, who was surprised to inherit such a peculiar, and completely valueless, bequest. The two men had not parted on good terms when the business went bust. Certain financial irregularities had been revealed, and although Joe took the blame, he had never forgiven Brian for not owning up to his part in the creative accounting.

It was Brian’s wife, the eagle-eyed Brenda, who spotted the distinctive pattern in the diary entries, along with a series of names and numbers, disguised in a clumsy code. On the 25^th of every month Joe had taken an early morning ferry to Ostend, then a bus to to Amsterdam, before returning home before breakfast the following day. On the 26^th there was a coded message written in black – GBS25K.

Now the plan could take shape, and the clock started ticking.

Twenty four hours later Brian made a call, posing as Joe’s half-brother, breaking the news of his early death, suggesting he continued to smuggle diamonds for a monthly commission of £25,000.

Three days later Brian was leaving the lobby of an Amsterdam hotel, the proud owner of a new rucksack and a wash bag with a disposable razor, a shaving stick, and a plastic dish containing a diamond encrusted bar of soap. He would not have been so cheerful if he had seen the e-mail being sent at that very moment to Essex Police, from an anonymous source in Amsterdam, tipping them off about his activities, just as Joe had instructed.

Four hours later Brian sipped a pint as he chatted to an attractive middle aged woman dressed in the classic little black dress, black shoes, and a wide brimmed black hat.

Two hours after that they were sharing a cramped cabinette and Brian was revealing other items of clothing – all of them black.

Three more hours passed, and Brian woke to find he was alone – no sleeping partner, no rucksack, and no wash bag.

He visited the toilet, then the Purser’s Office to report the theft, then the shop, where he purchased a small netted bag containing 6 marbles that weighed about the same as the diamonds, then the toilet again.

Back on dry land, Brian was nervous as he approached the rendezvous and his mood was not lifted when he was tapped lightly on the shoulder and escorted to a police car.

Twelve hours later, after an embarrassing body search, a long interview about marbles, and a rather begrudging apology, Brian Ryan left the police station and made his way home.

He entered the house by the back door, kicked off his shoes, then climbed the stairs to the bedroom where he was met by his wife, naked save for a pair of black gloves. The diamonds were cradled in her outstretched hand.

“Well well, Detective Constable Brenda Ryan – what do we have here then?”

Memories of breakfast, a short story in 515 words

My writers' group homework was 500 words on an evocative smell. I hate the smell of porridge and this is the result. Does anyone think this is worth developing? Post a Comment below!

“Go on Aunty, it’s porridge today, our favourite!”

Aunty Gwen forced a smile and backed away toward the patio doors that led into the garden.

“No thanks, not today, I’ve got to make a phone call and I’ll do it outside - you carry on and finish it all off.”

Please, please finish it all off, thought Gwen, as she took a long breath out, a very short breath in, and then another, very, long breath  out, which was her normal way of preventing obnoxious smells getting any further up her nose than they had to.

She was generally keen on breakfast but the very mention of the ‘P’ word started the search for an excuse to avoid sharing the room with the foul smelling substance. No matter, she would just have to insist on treating everyone to pastries if she could engineer a coffee break later. At least she hadn’t caught sight of the congealed lump of milky mud that her twin sister loved so much.

“Hi Mum, Gwen here, I’m at Pam’s this weekend. Just thought I’d ring to see how you are.”

She closed the doors behind her and sent a silent prayer of thanks to the gods who had kept the rain away.

“Really? Oh, dear. How’s Dad?”

Dad would be reading the paper and would not interrupt his daily ritual, which was just as well, as the last thing she wanted was another interrogation about her lack of a husband.

“Of course, no, don’t disturb him. I was just admiring Pam’s garden. I don’t know where she finds the time.”

Gwen caught sight of the children through the window and waved. The image sent her back to the school refectory, with bowls piled high with white sludge, and the smell came back. She retched inwardly and reflected that she might as well had stayed in the kitchen.

“I didn’t know Pam had a gardener. She kept that quiet. It explains a lot of course. And there was I thinking she was Superwoman.”

The smell came back, but this time her thoughts wandered to the dormitory where she had been caught stuffing chocolate in lieu of breakfast.  The teasing from her classmates changed to taunting, and in the garden, her shoulders rounded and her knees bent as she crouched in the corner and put her hands over her ears.

 “Yes Mum. Bye then.”

Gwen turned towards the kitchen door and stopped dead to prevent herself bumping into a man stepping through the doorway. No, she decided, not a man, a God, and she was born again. Without moving her head she scanned six feet three of tanned muscle and entered a dream world where this was the beginning of a wonderful relationship. But where to begin?

Gwen had removed her shoes and was paddling in his ocean blue eyes when she was startled back into the garden by a disembodied voice.

“Sorry I startled you. I just have to get out of that kitchen. I can’t stand the smell of porridge.”

“Really” said Gwen. “You don’t say . . .”  

Are We Nearly There Yet?

I have just read Crysse Morrison's book of stories and poems, and was inspired, if that's the word, to write my first poem in about 45 years! It does not do justice to the book, but in the spirit of sharing, here goes anyway:

Are We Nearly There Yet?

asks Crysse in her prime.

The title makes me somewhat sad,

Was it written after wine?

The past is there, the present too,

and promise of her pastures new.

Are We Nearly Where Yet?

is the question in my mind.

I cannot fault the poems,

not least because they’re true.

They show the writer’s story

the way that writers do.

I love “the words she wants to write”,

and the peach that must be ravished,

I love the words that must be praised,

the emotions that are savaged.

She copes with love,

she lives with death,

she shares emotional belongings.

She writes it down

So it makes sense,

She questions all her longings.

The stories give us characters

that we’ve all seen before,

on streets, in homes, in lives past lived,

they give the book its soul.

I love Leonora with her erotic aura,

And Julie’s Mr Pemberley, who saw what he was meant to see.

But the page that tops the lot for me

Is the Epilogue’s discovery.

It helps me with my quandary,

Maybe there is still hope for me!

Another postcard from Farncombe Estate

I have had a request to upload the postcard I wrote about the writing weekend in the style of a schoolboy, so you can blame Matt for this!

Great gang of guys and gals.

Mega-nosh and room OK.

P.S. Ace Head Girl!

A conversation with my mother

I was walking down the High Street with my mother and she just came right out with it, outside the bookshop, at the top of her voice.

“Explain this to me. I know I’m an old woman and I’m going mad, but what does this mean when you see it on a blackboard outside a pub? Free wife.”

“Free wife? Are you sure it said that?”

“Positive. Free wife. It’s like something out of Thomas Hardy. I don’t know how they get away with it.”

“Nor do I. But it can’t be true. They’ve probably used the word free – free pint or free chips or something – and for some reason the word wife appears somewhere else on the board and you’ve put them together.”

“No. I may seem addled but I’m not. I double checked.”

“Why didn’t you say something? Which pub was it anyway?”

“The one just back there, next to the travel agents. The Albion.”

“OK. Never been in there. I would have thought handing out free wives would have got them into the local papers though. Not to mention the TV news. I still can’t believe it, but if you’re sure, maybe it does mean something.”

“It means the world has gone mad. It must be some sort of game like a reality TV show. Like that one where they choose the next model, or Wife Swap.”

“I suppose it could be a combination of the two. The contestants live with different women for a day or two at a time – just shopping and DIY – no hanky panky – then at the end of the programme, or series, the women choose which man to take for a husband. But I can’t see that format working in a pub. Mind you, it would liven up a game of darts.”

“Why do people watch television programmes like that anyway? What’s wrong with Coronation Street?”

“Absolutely. Do you still watch Corrie then?”

"Sometimes, but it isn’t what it used to be. Too many young people, always on their mobile phones. Texting. E-mailing. Surfing. It’s all computers these days. They’re always communicating. We never communicated when we were young. We just talked.”

“But that’s what it’s like now. Look there’s one now.” I pointed at a teenager crossing the road, with one eye on the traffic, the other on her mobile, and both ears plugged into her iPod.

“And there’s too much adultery and people having it off with each other behind their backs, that’s not entertainment is it? And East Enders is worse. That’s, what do you call it, science fiction, no, something else, another word. That’s a parallel universe, that’s what it is. I wouldn’t want to live there. Why don’t they just move somewhere nicer?”

“I think they wouldn’t have a programme then Mum.”

“But no-one lives like that. Do they?”

“Luckily, I can honestly say I don’t know, but I suspect maybe there are people who are like that. Not around here though, so nothing to worry about eh?”

I drove her home, to her bungalow on the hill, saw her into the house and made sure she was safely ensconced with a cup of tea and her cat, then drove home. I made a detour to drive past The Albion, to take a look at the now infamous blackboard and sure enough, right at the top in big white capital letters, as bold as brass, it said:

FREE WI-FI.

Lunch on 7 December

“You do compliment people on the most ridiculous things” she said.

We were sitting in a café in Bournemouth, opposite the much-missed bus station and the space left by the winter migration of the tourists’ balloon to some warehouse in Southampton.

“What do you mean?”

“That guy, the one you were talking about.”

“I said I was impressed that he could eat fried egg and baked beans on toast without dropping it on his nice expensive scarf. I am still impressed by that. I couldn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because to eat a runny egg dripping in tomato sauce with a fork you need to be inch perfect, millimetre perfect, or it drips. And he’s left his coat and scarf on so he’s leaning forward, which makes it even more difficult. Me? I’d have a big yellow stain down my front in about 10 seconds flat and I’d be scurrying back home with egg on my face and beans down my scarf. But not him. He’s very impressive.”

“You would never be wearing a scarf as nice as that anyway.”

“True. But that doesn’t diminish his dexterity with the old eating tools.”

“I was more impressed by his hair.”

“His hair?”

I looked again. The man was tall, well dressed and had very large feet. His hair was grey, a proper grey that was full of colour, not like the flecky grey on my head. It was long and shiny, falling down to his shoulders in wavy locks so he looked like a tramp who had found a locker key at the swimming baths and struck lucky.

“So you can’t see his expensive haircut?”

“No. It just looks like hair to me. It’s not scruffy mind, he’s definitely run a comb through it today.”

“It’s a very expensive cut. It’s been layered and shaped around the sides, over his ears.”

The tramp was now stood at the counter paying his bill. He was counting out his loose change from a little medicine bottle.

“I wonder what’s wrong with him?” she said. “I wonder what illness he had, or still has. Perhaps he’s come here to die. A lot of old people do that you know – come to Bournemouth to die so they don’t embarrass their family.”

“Hang on a minute” I said. “He’s my character. I found him. I noticed he could spoon egg and beans for England, not you.”

“But you didn’t notice the important bits. You may have discovered the character but I’m the one with the story!”