Category: Creativity

Competition links

Just a quick reminder, in case anyone has missed the carefully placed competition links on the right of the page:

SHORT STORY
the closing date for the short story competition is 31st October, UK midnight.

“The short story should be posted as a separate blog and linked to the one in the link above.
It should be up to 2000 words long on the theme of ‘wedding.’
The first scene will start with two people in a room. There’s a key on the table. During the story you should include the words ‘football’ and ‘armchair’.”

PHOTOGRAPHY
The deadline is Friday November 4th at midnight UK time.

“The photo competition this time is on perspectives… in particular the vanishing point of parallel lines, or the vanishing point of a river or road, or anything where the vanishing point is shown, maybe on a smaller scale …. you get the picture? See what I’m after? Please post your photos in comments on the original post . Thank you!”

Haircuts

Coiffures

Did you know that if you google ‘haircut’ the first page is taken up almost completely with financial gobbledygook with hardly a coiffered head in sight?

I want to tell you about my neighbour’s plan, he’s a modest working chap, married with 3 children (although I think that 3 is one too many) lives in a modest home and employs 3 staff (a gardener / handyman, a maid and a nanny)

His wife works part time at our local medical centre and he’s employed by one of the motor manufacturers in the city.

Well, sad to say, he’s fallen on hard times lately, his employers are working short time (and have been for the last 18 months or so) which has resulted in him getting behind on his mortgage payments and forced him to increase his overdraft facility and credit card usage. He tells me that life has become untenable. Continue reading “Haircuts”

Newly Dead

The top floor of the building of Moss and Rose had a room the two antique dealers liked to call the Overgrown Patch. Pete Moss and Herb Rose were hard at work in OP trying to organise the unwanted clutter into some semblance of order. A table was littered with dozens of copies of Shakespeare first folios. To give them some work space, Pistol Pete, with a sweeping backhand toppled the books to the floor creasing the pages. Managing to survive this manuscript massacre was a key. It sparkled amidst the dust on the table.

“Any idea what this key is for, Pete?”

“I’ve not seen that before. I wonder how long the key’s been there and more importantly what it’s for.” Continue reading “Newly Dead”

A Match made in Heaven: Short Story Competition.

Scene One: Castel Sant’Angelo, the Library.

He looked at Simon, the picture of despair, his elbows resting on the other side of the desk, his head in his hands.

What the hell are you going to do, Simon? It’s make your mind up time, I need some sleep. Are you going to marry her or what? Frankly, it’s a bit bloody late in the day to be having this conversation. We’re supposed to be at the church in precisely seven hours.


Ed, I just wanted to be normal, you know, not the target for stupid jokes from bigoted nutters. Jesus, I haven’t done it since I was seventeen. Do you know what that feels like? Always hiding, pretending to be something I’m not.  Look, Edward, just give me the bloody key; this may be my last chance!

Edward shook his head sadly as Simon just groaned again and poured himself another brandy. Edward took the key from the desk, opening the windows and raising his eyebrows, stood clear, and tried again to get through to his brother.

Who was it said “The one charm about marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties.”. Just don’t do anything stupid, and I really think you should tell Kate if you are determined to go through with this. It’s her life too, you know.

Oscar Wilde? Simon responded automatically.

No, I can’t let her go and I can’t …

Simon hurled the glass in the direction of the fireplace , unfurled his wings and flew slightly unsteadily out of the open window. Continue reading “A Match made in Heaven: Short Story Competition.”

Aunt Lisl comes to stay

He was the sole occupant, his left hand grasping the remains of a pint that was resting on a small copper-topped table, its polished surface weakly reflecting the evening sun through a puddle of what looked like blood, but was probably only Campari. The key was placed carefully away from these dregs, lying half concealed by his leather driving gloves. Nobody wears them any more, but in the early sixties they were still an accessory to be admired, an indication of a certain wealth, or at least of breeding, in the owner.

I had followed his instructions to the letter, turning left off the A3 at the Malden roundabout, and heading south towards Worcester Park. His directions had been accurate, The Plough coming into view on the right almost immediately after I had passed under the railway bridge. I had pulled across the traffic into the car park and rushed into the bar. Mine host had looked up expectantly, but I had already seen what had to be the Snug; a small room half-hidden behind the fireplace. Progress has since replaced it by a modern extension of the restaurant, but in those days it was a lovingly preserved adjunct to the old building, roughly built from local stone, with two tiny windows and ancient wooden bench seats, now comfortably covered with deep red cushions. Continue reading “Aunt Lisl comes to stay”

Withering Heights

Seats were scarce in the café as queues of tray-laden customers circled the room looking for a place to park. Those already seated sat smugly with their meals. There were a few plush couches in the establishment whose patrons would leisurely, aristocratically pick at their lunches. Even in a greasy spoon you’ll find snobs.

One window stool facing out to the main road stood empty. This sticking out like a sore thumb location was sub-prime. Windows to the world are for writers only. From this spot they can observe humanity in all its guises giving them reams of future material. I gave it a miss. Continue reading “Withering Heights”

The Imminent Wedding

Zorb of Klig slithered across the room on five of his tentacles, swiveled his single green eye towards her and bid a hearty hello to his inamorata, the lady Billa of Arachnia.  She had curled her millipedal self into a perfect spiral in the middle of her favorite armchair and was awaiting his arrival with interest.

Continue reading “The Imminent Wedding”