In an attempt to live up to Bearsy’s description on the front page, here’s a little creative writing challenge for you all.
A short story in under 500 words, please.
To include the line,
“Why didn’t you ring?”
Living up to a name: flash fiction
In an attempt to live up to Bearsy’s description on the front page, here’s a little creative writing challenge for you all.
A short story in under 500 words, please.
To include the line,
“Why didn’t you ring?”
Boadicea's Chariot 
I’ll be back Pseu, a bit busy right now.
PS, look who’s featured author, well done you.
500 words. that i can handle. i’m in.
Oh, goody!
Last Words ( to get the ball rolling, here’s one I prepared earlier)
“Where the fuck have you been? Why didn’t you ring?” He stood in the hall way, his bulk blocking her.
Sam closed the door calmly. Don’t let him get to you, she told herself, not this time.
“Sorry. Didn’t have your number on me,” she said lightly. She could feel her heart pushing to get out.
“You should’ve rung.”
“Twenty minutes really won’t hurt -”
“Don’t you dare take that tone, you bitch.”
“I’m here now.” Sam took off her coat. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Don’t you ever come here late, you lazy cow: hear me?” Daniel’s face was bright red and his breathing hard,
She smiled back sweetly, fighting the need to leave.
“As I said, I’m here now.”
For a moment Daniel looked very menacing. She knew his history. The agency had told her she had every right to leave if his manner was out of order. She held her gaze and slowly he turned to lead the way to his bedroom. She went through into the en-suite bathroom and ran the tap.
“How have you been?” she called back at him. No answer. Ignorant pig, she thought. She pulled a paper towel from the wall holder and walked back into the bedroom. He was sitting on the side of the bed next to the silent machine. “Well? What’s the story, Daniel?”” She rubbed alcohol cleanser into her hands. Daniel undid his laces.
“Come on Daniel. How have you been? Have you gained this week?”
“Six kilos,” he grunted.
She pulled a face. “Blood sugar?”
“High,” he said. Not surprised, with what you eat, she thought.
“Any ketones?” He shook his head.
“And blood pressure?”
“Up.” He reached down to pull off his trainers. She watched his struggling obese shape with disgusted fascination.
“By how much?”
He did not answer.
“Do I assume the worst?”
He lay down and let her roll up his sleeve to reveal the fistula site ready for the dialysis connections.
“Do whatever you bloody well like,” he said.
At the inquest she acknowledged her professional negligence in failing to ensure good connections and in failing to notice the blood leaking out into the dark brown carpet.
“He insisted I should cook him a fry-up,” she said, tearfully, “so I was out of the room for a few minutes.”
The question of alarm setting was raised, but she explained that Daniel had forbidden her to report the faulty silence button. He found the alarms intensely irritating. The board, informed of his previous history, took into consideration her reluctance to go against his wishes and were lenient. She had a written warning and a period of retraining and that was it.
It had been well worth it, she decided.
Deadline?
Hmmm, what do you think? 6th May? Elecshun nite.
OK.
I’ll see if I can do something. 🙂
Yours has the Hilary Mantel in black humour mode; eg Vacant Possession.
Just got my car insurance.
Why do the ads make it look like it only takes five minutes?
Time to complete forms always longer than planned time allocated! I have just sent a poetry comp entry out. Only just caught the post – and its closing deadline is 30th.
Oh blimey Pseu, I have trouble writing less than 1,000 words. I’d sketched out a thing for Ant B’s short story competition and ran out of time to cut it from 2,700 words. Mind you, I only wrote it the night before, so there wasn’t a lot of spare time.
I might be editing for *weeks*?!!! But ok. Will give it a whirl. 😀
I haven’t had time to come up with anything so far Pseu, sorry, I’ve been really busy. I’m out tonight too. Hopefully I will get a chance at some point.
Oh all right, Nym. I’ll have a go!
The deadline is elechun night, Val – so plenty of time yet, old bean.
Good on yer, Ara!
Jan I have exactly the same problem – only more so. I am verbose.
However a story is always better for tight editing, and I look forward to your whirl.
Nicely done, Nym. I’ve never written a short story before, but I’ll think about it.
Could some one tell me why I have a terrible job writing anything longer than a shopping list? I will have a struggle to write 500 words!
Maybe you could do it in less, then Ara. It’s for a story up to 500 words… 🙂
The one above is 469 words, and that’s with the title and bit in brackets.
That’s the only reason I think I can do it, Nym. 😉
True story. I have new neighbours across the valley. He is a retired Fleet Street newspaper editor and she is a former nurse of the old school. Much to the consternation of their son and daughter they sold everything they had in Blighty, – a large country house with acres of grounds – and bought the old quinta, restoring it to its former glory with new Eucalyptus roof beams, locally produced roof tiles and rebuilt walls.
Since their arrival they have rejuvenated the gardens, planting a symphony of colourful border plants and veggies. It also appears that back on the island they raised chickens, geese and ducks and it was not long before what they christened “Chicken Run” appeared in the grounds, a Stalag Luft III of fox-proof wire fences protecting generally chicken-friendly things.
They went to an elderly Portuguese neighbour and bought pullets and bantams for “Chicken Run”. At first all was fine with the new arrivals laying beautiful, perfectly formed little eggs, six for a decent, man-sized omelette, but then – disaster! Four of the new arrivals were not hens but cockerels and, as anyone knows, you can only have one cockerel in the flock. Three had to go, but how? Now one of the things the retired editor had not sold was a .22 at air pistol, which he armed and took aim at one of the cockerels. He missed, as he did with the others.
Why didn’t you wring their necks instead, I suggested.
OZ
A clucking howler, OZ!
Lovely. 🙂
OZ -ha ha, very good! Is that a true story then?!
Pseu – yup, like it as wel1. Nicely done; neat and deft.
Not sure I will come up wtih anything this time. I have European pile of A level coursework and laundry waiting, respectively!
Lovely OZ. Thank you!
I love the idea of a homework and laundry mountain – don’t get them muddles now. Claire will you?
BTW Oz, my bother in law did get up one morning and wring one of the baby cockerel’s necks… too many of the hatched eggs were male.
WE actually have no clothes, or at least me and the kids, Pseu until I start ironing. So, here I am blogging away!
With ‘judicious folding’ I’m sure less of it will need ironing than you think .
Claire2 – Absolutely true story. I can’t do creative writing. Sob! BTW, I also have a ironing mountain that needs your urgent attention, not to mention an Alp of decorating and an absolute Himalaya of weeding.
Mornin’, Nude-o-swim. Snigger!
OZ
I’ll have no sniggering on this thread, OZ. Thank you.
Come on flashers… where are you?
flashers! Still avoiding ironing pile. And coursework. Actually, on second thoughts, I think it may be preferable to the tv ‘debate’…
Will see what I can come up with! 😉
Good oh! (I did my clothes flattening last night. Nanananananah!)
Pseu! As I write, the overflowing ironing basket is calling me, and Cameron is saying, ‘Don’t let anyone scare you…from following your instincts…’ scary stuff 🙂
I am working on an exercise I started on Monday at my class, where we were asked to bring in a map for inspiration. We all sat in the room and had to start a story then and there without warning. After about 20 mins we read what we had written so far out aloud to the group, then passed it on to the person on our right.
So now I have a little bit of a story written by someone else and have to make a complete story of it by Monday next (not the coming Monday as it is a Bank Hol). We are supposed to carry it on in the style of the person who wrote the original section, but I’m finding that quite difficult!
I love that sort of thing. I do that with my English A level lot sometimes; the stuff they come up with is literally amazing. Good exercise though. Hey, I know I’ve said this before, but will you bring back poetry to prose at some point?
Not on MyT!
(possibly here.. but probably wait a bit?)
I love that pass-on-the-story kind of exercise. Maybe we could try that here? Ah, Pseu, I’d love to do this 500-word story thing (even though I suffer from Janh’s long writing disease) but I’m not sure I will. I am feeling so lazy these days. Too much traveling and I’ve been sick ever since I got home. I seem only able to read emails and blogs, though I did mail out payment for one bill yesterday. I consider that an indication of some sort of recovery.
Nice one, Grumpy.
SO sorry you haven’t been well, Jaime. I hope not too serious.
“Why didn’t you ring? Why didn’t you ring?”
That was all he even heard from her these days, what was it with these women? Didn’t he give them enough? Expensive clothes? A nice place to live? Money to spenad? What else did they want?
The black Audi raced down the street, narrowly missing a little old lady selling fruit from a cart. Blasting through a red light he had to lean on the horn to make pedestrians get out of the way, didn’t they know he was running late?
His mobile started ringing again. He ignored it and reached for a cigarette. It was still ringing when he had finished his smoke and was pulling up to the restaurant. He bumped the front wheel up on to the kerb, ignoring two more pedestrians who had to jump out of the way.
He came to a halt and as he was getting out of the car, he finally he gave in
“meimei, how are you? Is everything okay”
“why didn’t you ring?’ came the pleading voice from the other end of the line
“I’ve been busy all day. I just got out of a meeting. I can’t talk right now, I have to meet a client right now, I’ll call you later okay?”
“why are you ignoring me?”
“I’m not, you know how it is, baby. Work work work” he added, glancing over his shoulder towards the restaurant entrance.
He rolled his eyes as he listened to the sound of not entirely convincing sobbing from the other end of the line.
“Don’t cry sweetie. look, I’ll send you some money. Buy yourself something to cheer yourself up okay? I have to go.”
He hung up before she could reply.
Shit. He was a busy man, a successful man; he didn’t have time to waste on crap like this. He wanted the company of a pretty girl to help him relax, not to give him more grief. He could go home if he needed this shit like that.
As he walked towards the restaurant he found himself thinking that maybe it wasn’t worth the trouble having all these women on the side. Whatever you gave them, they were never happy. Maybe he needed someone with a little education. Someone he could talk to. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense.
The hostess at the door welcomed him with a bow. It had to be said, she was quite pretty. “More than pretty” he admitted to himself, as she escorted him to his seat, “and with a great smile too“ he added, mopping the sweat from him forehead.
“Is there anything else you need?” she asked when they reached the table
“why don’t you give me a ring?” he said. Pressing his card into her hand
Nice one, Bunny. A little along the lines of what I was thinking. Only yours has a plot. Hard to do in 500 words.
Waaaah. I can’t do it! 827. Still, better than 2,000 eh Pseu? So disqualify me 😀
I like yours CB. Except for too much sweat. Yeuch. Funny, I’ve got “rolled eyes” in mine too.
Ere tis. Night!
—-
(Edited… as requested: see new version below)
jaimeatdnm
plot? i didn’t even know where i was going with it when i started.
Janh1
what a jolly story. did you used to make up stuff like this to tell to your kids at bedtime, leaving them to stare wide eyed into the darkness when you closed the bedroom door on them?
when you are as lazy as me, 500 words is a blessing. I could easily help you trim it down if you want.
e.g.
She indicates two 19th century balloon-backed mahogany chairs, their leather seats cracked, tatty at the edges. Original upholstery.
becomes
she indicates two old chairs
that’s 13 words if you count balloon-backed as two. of course, you won’t have much of a story when i’m finished. Editors can be so cruel.
OK, here you go.
He hung up the phone and looked down at the appointment book on his desk. There it was: 2 p.m. Kaiser Hospital, Ultrasound.
“Why didn’t you ring?”
How many times had he heard her ask that question in their five-year marriage? Each time the emotions coloring her voice grew less hurt and more exasperated. This time her voice oozed unmitigated fury. And she had a right to be angry. He wouldn’t argue that. In fact, he had said nothing before she hung up.
He was supposed to have driven her to the hospital. It was their first child, for god’s sake. The words echoed in his memory. Along with, “Don’t you care?”
Of course he cared. He was looking forward to it, all of it—the pregnancy, the birth, the complications of a child growing, taking on its subtle individuality. He was a biologist. Life and its urgent demands were what he had dedicated his life to. That he was linked so thoroughly to its reality made him excited and proud. More than he had imagined.
Then what had happened?
He wasn’t sure.
He glanced at the clock. Four o’clock, enough time for his wife to have gone to the hospital and return, furious. He would go home early, 6 p.m. at the latest, bring her flowers … no, too ordinary … take her to dinner. She might like that.
OK.
He walked toward the lab to record his final data for the day, thinking about his wife’s distress. The corridors were empty; the students and staff would soon be going home, and so would he.
He switched on the light to the lab and looked around.
He loved his lab, and most of all, he loved the tide machine. That huge vat of sea life over which water spilled, ebbed and flowed in imitation of the oceans that he explored, observing and recording the microscopic details of its creatures.
He stood before the machine, watching water rush forward from its sides, hurtling against the rocks that nestled in the sand covering the floor of the huge plastic pool. He had pulled these rocks from the sides of northern coastal beaches far from the university’s inland campus. Sea anemones clustered green and pink in the rocks’ shallow indentations, their delicate filaments undulating in the rapid flow of the water.
The water retreated, seemed almost languorous in its withdrawal. The tide rushed forward again. In the crevices of the rocks tiny crabs waved purplish claws or stayed perfectly still, as if frozen in place, as if petrified. Yes, that would be the word. Petrified.
He circled the machine.
The water rushed forward. And back. It was like breath. As if, here, in this place, this doppelganger of the ocean was a living entity, not just a living entity but the living entity. As if a small part of the divine presence he did not believe in was laid bare.
He checked the water’s temperature, dragging out the thermometer, recording numbers, letting it sink back into the flowing saltwater. He saw to dozens of small tasks.
“Doctor…?”
He looked up from his notebooks. Rogers, one of his most ambitious and hard-working students, was standing near the door to the lab.
To his left, the lab clock read 10:35.
OK. This is annoying. All the paragraph tabs dropped out. Is there a way to put spaces between the paragraphs? It looks like I can’t edit my own comments. Grrr.
Paragraph tab. You know, the indents. Thanks, Bearsy, for adding the extra space. And for the formatting info!
Oh these look fab. Have to go to work but can’t wait to read later 😉
Thanks, Bearsy!
or copy into notepad if you are using windows (or notepad++ if you know what that is) and then copy from notepad into the editor. that should trim all the unnecessary encodings.
Morning all. Thanks for the contributions so far.
Just under twelve hours to go….
OK. Done it. Sorry, I ran out of consciousness last night. 496 words. Please delete version one, ta, Pseu. 🙂
—
She opens the heavy door of the Cotswold manor house, recognising him with mild surprise.
The way her hair is clipped back from her face reminds him of the woman at the supermarket checkout whose dark,lively eyes connected with his. A rare, startling occurrence. He usually avoids the eyes.
He never frets about loneliness, ageing. After morning ablutions, the careful placing of too-large tortoiseshell spectacles re-affirms his identity: Douglas Cornish, the sole survivor of Cornish and Son furniture restorers.
By association, he feels at ease with his potential customer. She talks animatedly.
“You’re lucky to find me here. Why didn’t you ring?”
She leads the way into the drawing room.
“I was passing and thought I’d see if you were home rather than waiting until Friday.”
She indicates two 19th century balloon-back mahogany chairs, badly neglected, their leather seats cracked. Her husband is fond of them.
“Do you mind?”
Douglas turns one upside down. A cabriole leg has been broken and badly repaired with the wrong wood,screwed on brutally. Beneath the seat, he notes splattered dark specks. A constellation of old blood.
“Shockingly incompetent repair,” she remarks, turning to her son.
“Piers! Stop that for goodness sake.”
Blonde, intent Piers sits cross-legged on the floor, banging noisily with a toy mallet.
“Square peg – round hole.” She rolls her eyes apologetically.
Thud, thud, thud. Rhythmic. The sound his mother made when she was dragged downstairs by the hair. Afterwards, the stifled ragged crying that echoed in his own heart as he grew colder; terrified to fall asleep. Awake until the first blackbird of dawn.
He’d been a little older than Piers, maybe six, when it started: lying in bed listening to his father arguing with no-one. Then the weeping.
“Do excuse me a moment?”
He walks out of the front door. The old urge to escape. The bucolic scene stops him; meadows, polo ponies nibble peacefully. Panics subsides with slow lungfuls of air.
Back inside, he scribbles a quotation. New upholstery. Removal of botched leg. His craftsman will fashion a new leg piece from old mahogany. There is one problem. The bloodstains.
That evening, lying unseen under the arm chair, watching through chubby fingers. His father ranting unsteadily, stooping to pick up the poker. The impact clear, sounding more metallic than wood. The body crumpled amid the remains of a broken chair.
“I can’t do anything with those little stains, I’m afraid.”
His mother dragged him out roughly, held him tight in her arms, there on the floor, rocking silently.
“The marks… I can’t make them go away.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t see what you mean. There aren’t any stains, Mr Cornish.“
He sighs. Why don’t they see them? They always miss the evidence.
Douglas Cornish shakes his head, slides the quotation slip back into his briefcase.
Sadness weighs him down, momentarily causing his eyes to bulge with tears.
“I’m very sorry. I can’t help.“
All done, Jan!
ok jh. you got it from 827 to 496, now can you get it under 350? we could have a second competition to see who can trim the most and still have a story.
ok cb. You’re on. 350 words. You too, though. Not before tomorrow, though.
I enjoyed that Jaime. I could see the wave tank. Brilliant description.
The Polling Booth
There were hardly a glimmer o’ mornin’
When Medad made his cuppa downstairs.
So that were no diff’rent from usual;
What he called ‘our state of affairs’.
But today would be diff’rent; he told us.
Mark his words! He had things on his plate!
There were no other words to describe it:
He was charged with Affairs of the State.
It meant he’d been Summoned for Duty –
As a Freeman o’t’ town, so ‘e said –
To perform Certain Tasks at the Libr’y
Where ‘istory was made, not just read.
I rushed down to wish him good fortune
On this Day of All Days. “yes, Melad!
It’s not evr’y day Slacky Bottom
Gets to vote with the ‘elp o’ your Dad.
Memam was on hand with the lunch-pack –
As she was ev’ry normal day too –
And delivered the requisite caution:
“Take care, Dad, whatever you do!”
“Don’t you fret, Mam; there’s nothin’ can ‘appen
While I’m workin’ for t’PM. I’m Enrolled –
And I’ve got to keep watch on all t’ voters
‘N’ make sure that they do as they’re told.”
“O’ course, Boss down at Mill wasn’t ‘appy,
When I said I’d been Summoned and that.
He wanted to know who’d pay wages.
If PM would, he’d eat ‘is best ‘at.”
“So I answered: ‘In 21st Cent’ry
Our PM’s got an ipoddy thing.
So rather than bashin’ my ear’oles,
Why didn’t you give ‘im a ring?’ ”
We all laffed as Medad left for t’Libr’y.
“Go on!” says Memam, ” You’ll be late.
And come straight back ‘ome when you’re finished,
Or you’ll find more than food on yer plate!”
Hello Nym: a very hasty rewrite of very short story; so it’s now even shorter!
Apologies to Mill and Boon
Not long to go now… less than 2 and a half hours.
I apologise profusely Pseu, I’m brain dead.
Aw shame!
WOw Pseu, just got your email! Well of course I will – judge if you want. How, when, where…?!
Never done that sort of thing before…
Details to follow, Claire
Ok!
Thanks for your other email btw. I’ll reply ween my brain is less fried…
Ok, CB 348. Oh yeah. Ahem. Where’s yours? 😀
She opens the front door. With mild surprise, she recognises the caller; the man about the chairs.
“You were lucky to find me here. Why didn’t you ring?”
“I was just passing and thought I’d see if you were home rather than wait until Friday.”
Douglas Cornish, sole survivor of Cornish and Son furniture restorers, follows her into the drawing room where she invites him to examine two old neglected 19th century balloon-back mahogany chairs. Her husband is fond of them.
Douglas turns one upside down. A cabriole leg has been broken and badly repaired with an alien wood, screwed on brutally. On the underside of the seat, he notes splattered dark specks. A constellation of old blood.
A little boy, playing in the corner bangs noisily with a toy mallet, enjoying the rhythm.
Thud, thud, thud. The tempo reminded Mr Cornish of the sound his mother made when she was dragged downstairs by the hair. He’d been older than the boy when it started – maybe six. Old enough to register the sound of his father arguing and the weeping that followed. Old enough to be paralysed with cold tension, awake until the first blackbird of dawn.
He scribbles a quotation. Upholstery. Replacement of botched leg with craftsman-made new one. There is one problem. Those bloodstains ingrained in the wood.
He hadn’t wanted to watch, that night, lying unseen under an arm chair. Father ranting insteadily, stooping and suddenly felled with an impact that sounded more metallic than wood. Crumpled and still amid the remains of a broken chair – a splintered leg detached sprayed with bright blood.
His mother dragged him out roughly, held him tight in her arms, there on the floor, she rocked him silently.
“The stains. They are indelible. I can’t make them go away.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t see what you mean. There aren’t any stains, Mr Cornish.“
Douglas Cornish shakes his head, sliding the quotation slip back into his briefcase. Why could they never see?
Sadness weighs him down.
“It’s impossible. Sorry. I can’t help.“
Claire has been invited to judge this collection and has kindly accepted – she will announce the winner shortly.
(“why you not ring”)x2 blah blah blah
audi – speed – beep beep – screech of tyres/jump – bastards
ring ring – fuck it – ciggy – ah…
beep beep bump – more bastards
fuck – “what?/busy now/buy you pressie/NFOB”
“yo baby!/ring me?”
37words
Real flash fiction, cp!
Dear Dave. I truly didn’t see a hung parliament coming, why didn’t you ring?
All my love
Val xx
Hello Pseu, one and all…
I will look forward to reading/judging your stories tonight…
jh. odd how the editing seemed to changed the feel of your story. the original was more ponderous and seemed darker.
So your dad was a Polling Clerk, Janus? Nice pome 🙂
Succinct, CB but you have to admit “blah blah blah” is a bit lazy. Also I don’t understand why the National Federation for the Blind comes into it.
Since you are going down to the bone:
Ageing, lonely furniture restorer examines wonky old chair. Broken chair leg and sounds of child’s play trigger unresolved traumatic memories; parents, violence, death.
23 words. Not so much a flash as a zeptosecond. 😀
Seems to have lost its drama, Jan!
😉 More a synopsis, I think, Pseu. More dramatic? Ok 26 words.
Ageing lonely furniture restorer examines old chair. Broken leg and child’s play noises
evoke memories of terrors; his mother’s sufferings and her final, traumatisingly bloody revenge.
Great stories, loved every single one. Will announce results later!
How about this, Jan? Ala Cyanide Bunny. 40 words. And I suppose it could be edited.
Ding dong.
Oh. Why didn’t you ring?
In the neighborhood, ma’am.
Chairs are here.
Bang bang. Dee dee dee dee [Twilight Zone music].
Thud thud. Scream.
Can’t get rid of blood stains.
Blood stains?
Sorry. Bye. Dee dee dee dee.
Maybe the next ‘flash fiction’ should be 50 words?!
LOL Jaime – esp love the Twilight Zone music!