3 a.m.

My writers' group set summer homework, and one of the challenges was to start a piece of writing with 'When the doorbell rings at three in the morning it’s never good news'. The first draft was written on the clifftop above Alum Chine near Bournemouth. Tell me what you think by posting a Comment. Is this worth doing more with or shall I just leave it as a one-piece wonder?


“When the doorbell rings at three in the morning it’s never good news” says the policeman, beaming all over his face. “Not for you anyway.”

“Oh, it’s you again”. I yawn as I hold the chain that protects me from the outside world.

“Asleep again?”

“Yes, of course I was. Apparently it’s three o’clock in the morning. What’s this all about?”

“It’s a dawn raid, that’s what it is. But we’re early.”

I peer over his shoulder to see who he means by ‘we’ but there’s no-one there.

“Are you on your own?”

“Yes – and no” says the policeman, with a supercilious smile.

“It’s too early for mind games – where’s the rest of you?”

“Never you mind. Just let me in. We need to talk.”

“Not tonight thanks. When the doorbell rings at three in the morning, don’t let them in unless you know who they are. That’s my rule.”

I slam the door, double check the door chain, and turn on the tap to fill the kettle.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting a cup?”

The policeman sits, cross legged, at the kitchen table, “Go on then.”

The noise of water hitting the kettle makes me want to pee, so I unzip my fly and take aim at the waterfall next to the fridge.

“That’s done it” I think. “When a policeman rings the doorbell at three, it’s not a good idea to take a pee.”

I suppress a giggle because I’m determined to take him seriously. I cannot afford to let anything slip.

“What have I done wrong then?”

The policeman has replaced his uniform with a suit and aged a couple of decades. “And you’re not a policeman are you? You’re a magistrate.”

“So what if I am. It’s still bad news for you. You should expect policemen at your door at three in the morning because they work 24/7. A magistrate who works the night shift – that spells real trouble. How do you plead, Guilty or Not Guilty?”

”What’s the charge?”

“What do you want to be charged with? What do you deserve to be charged with? To what charge would you plead Guilty?”

“So you’re giving me the rope and expecting me to hang myself. That’s tonight’s gambit is it?”

“If that’s the way you choose to see it, who am I to argue?”

Every night, that’s the conundrum I face. What can I admit to that will not count against me? To claim to be completely free of guilt would not be credible – I’m only human after all. But I cannot admit to the crimes that brought me to this time and this place because the shame would kill me. And I do not know what the penalties are, so it would be reckless. But what does this man know? Which misdemeanours, which indiscretions, which secrets does he want from me?

I start to cry and the man in my kitchen who was a magistrate turns back into a policeman, then he’s a priest, and then a bishop.

The kitchen timer rings out and at the third strike I feel sleepy, close my eyes and hear a soft voice slowly getting louder.

“I don’t believe it. He’s coming round again. Every time we try to turn these damned machines off he comes back.”

The doctor in my dream asks me the same questions again. Who is the Prime Minister? What is the name of your eldest daughter? What colour is a post box? I pause so I can add strength to my voice, and confidently assert the answers. The doctor turns aside with an almost apologetic smile.

“There, you see. He’s still with us. I’ve known cases like this go for years. It’s probably worse for you than it is for him.”

I try to focus on the people he’s talking to but the picture fades, and I wake to the sound of a kitchen timer by the side of the bed. I watch the clock until it says 02.59, then I get up to answer the door.

I know who it will be, and I know what he wants, but I am determined he will get nothing out of me except a cup of tea, not at three in the morning.

Death Came Third, A Short Story in 498 words

I had been thinking of this as an idea for a story for some months, so I used it when my writers' group, in conjunction with another group in Bournemouth, held a competition for a 500-word story with the theme 'Fear'.

I was extremely pleased when it won that competition, but what do you think of it? Please post your Comment below.


Jack Adams drew a long slow breath, located the knot in his stomach and focused on it, before confidently starting the final speech he would ever make.

He used to hate public speaking, before joining Manhattan Toastmasters.

Encouraged by his wife, Nancy, every other Thursday night he watched his compatriots make speeches, and listened to the Evaluators’ feedback.

The thought of actually making a speech made Jack’s skin tingle with dread, and the prospect of being evaluated took him back to school, and the humiliation inflicted by his teachers’ taunts.

His first speech was a disaster. He developed a stammer, forgot his name, and stood rooted to the spot, as if awaiting a firing squad. Afterwards he rushed home, and didn’t go back, claiming ‘pressure of work’ gave him no time to attend.

Business was tough and customers constantly demanded more bang for less bucks. Jack was the back office guy, making sure the paperwork was right, working out how to implement his partner’s wild schemes. Spike was the deal maker, and they tolerated each other, just, until the day a journalist called the office.

“Jack, I’m working on a story about loan sharks for The Chronicle. Spike’s name came up. Did you know he’s using your business as collateral to fund his gambling?”

Ten minutes later Jack was yelling down the phone:

“Why Spike? I’m the one mortgaged to the hilt. This could ruin me!”

By the time he hung up, Jack had decided that Spike would have to go, and he had the germ of a plan. There would be a fight, a death, and a plea of self defence. There would also be a court appearance, which he needed to be ready for, so he returned to Toastmasters, with new motivation and enthusiasm.

He read the New York Times study asking what people feared most. Death came third. The top two fears were walking into a room of strangers and public speaking. He learned to use his words and body to get his point across, to use logic to convince, and emotion to persuade.

One night he asked Spike to meet him at home, walked him to the garage, stuck a chisel in his chest, and called 911. He was arrested, and charged with Manslaughter.

Nancy, enraged by the sight of the muscular corpse which had thrilled her on every other Thursday night told only one lie in her statement to the police, that Jack had known about her and Spike.

Jack’s trial was now for murder, a capital offence, and the Evaluators in court pronounced him a cold, calculating coward. They said he made an eloquent defendant, but he should avoid contradicting his lovely wife.

Sentenced to death, several years later he hobbled along the corridor to the execution chamber, and stepped out to face the audience.

Jack Adams drew a long slow breath, located the knot in his stomach and focused on it, before confidently starting the final speech he would ever make.

(Word Count 498)

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!