Those deck chairs were a waste of time. There we were sitting out all night to be first in the queue for signed copies of Jeremy Clarkson’s new book, eating our packed lunches, chasing away scavenging foxes and arguing with late-night revellers as they mocked us on the way past.
“Where are your sunglasses?”
“The Germans are up early as usual”.
Now it was two in the afternoon and we were still the only two people to have turned up at W.H.Smith’s so far. We were standing at the back of the shop in front of an empty desk set up for the promotion; we had folded the deck chairs and placed them in front of Louise Doughty’s books; I don’t know anyone that would ever read that heap of compost. At least in an hour’s time the great man was scheduled to appear. Continue reading “Waiting for Clarkson (Jan C/W)”
Category: Short Stories
January 2012 Short Story, Marking Time.
Marking time
Margot had found it rather comforting, after the turmoil of the previous few days, to lie awake in the dark, waiting in the pause before the weighty inevitability of the funeral. It had been restless night: her sleep interspersed with vivid dreams and it was pitch black when she woke, no light yet edging in around the curtains. Once awake she had just lain there inert, but acutely alert, with every cell of her body tuned into the emptiness beside her in the large double bed. Eventually she had reached out into the chill air for the light, and peered at the clock. Not yet five.
Marking Time – January 2012 CW Comp.
Marking Time
Len Larcombe, teacher of Chemistry and fifth form master sat at a small desk in the staff room of the provincial public school. It was the spring of 1928 and Larcombe was almost forty years old, ten years before he had been a captain of artillery and ten before that an amateur boxer of some note. His service in the war and in the ring had left him somewhat deaf in both of his large somewhat battered ears. He settled himself into the wooden chair and lit his pipe, pushing the glowing embers deep into the bowl with a calloused and nicotine stained forefinger.
Window (Short story competition)
It took a few moments for her to realise that the man she thought had been waving at her through the window was in fact cleaning it. In readiness for a response she had already subconsciously improved her posture, moved her face into a smile and was just on the point waving back when she simultaneously realised her mistake – it wasn’t Alasdair – and felt a shop assistant observing her with an amused expression.
“In which aisle would I find eggs?” she said turning the ghost of the smile on the girl, determined that she should stay in control and suppress the deep heat of a flush that had already started, “And crystallised ginger?” She turned the trolley in anticipation, “I can’t seem to find anything since you had a change around in here.”
Later, after she had piled all the bags into the car boot she returned to the store’s cafe with The Guardian to have a latte, an almond croissant and two paracetamol. She pulled her glasses and an A5 notepad out of her hand bag and flipped over a few pages of lists to find today’s scrawl and started ticking and adding until she come across something, in her own handwriting that she couldn’t remember adding, and it was completely indecipherable. It seemed to say jumper bernies. She sat and stared at it for some while, but nothing clicked and in the end she put he notepad away and returned to her coffee and croissant. God, she thought, am I going completely mad? She picked up the newspaper and glanced at the front page before opening it at the crossword.
The first clue she glanced at was 1 Down: What can a sticking plaster sing at Yuletide? (2, 4, 4, 3, 9). She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Shut her eyes and leaned back to think.
“Well I never! Hello, Vicky,” said a man’s voice.
She looked up to find a tall, elegant man smiling at her. She frowned lightly,
“I’m sorry?” Continue reading “Window (Short story competition)”
Unwitting Thief
The ones at the front were full of people so I entered the train at one of the middle carriages. Travelling light, I was only going to be on for a few stops. I sat down and heard the train whistle. Before it moved away a young man managed to squeeze himself onto the train. Even though there were lots of empty seats he sat on a chair facing me with only a table between us. Little beardy guy, he was. Had socialist written all over him. Was carrying a cheap Pravda rucksack. I expected him to ask me for money.
Trying to ignore miniature Castro and with lunch still some time away, I decided to have a snack. There was a vending machine in my carriage and I fancied a Mars Bar. These machines can be a bit of a lottery at times and they’ve malfunctioned on me many times in the past. This time I felt confident. Continue reading “Unwitting Thief”
Results of the Revolting Rhymes competition
A good, but short selection of ‘Revolting Rhymes’ for this revival of the poetry competition. Very hard to judge….
Bearsy’s poem (here) was a well told tale of the ‘King’s New Clothes’ with an excellent delayed rhyme scheme and with overtones, to my mind of AA Milne as well and Dahl!
Low Wattage gave us a new version of ‘The Owl and the Pussy Cat’ (here) capturing their grief after the wedding excellently, with a couple of ‘in-house’ references, cleverly placed!
Janus made an excellent go of ‘The Tin Soldier’ (here) – though from the comments I read afterwards he had to sort out formatting and do a little post-post- editing, helped in the end by Bearsy! I hate that stanza thing disappearing when pasting in from word! What’s the answer, Old Bear?
John Mackie’s contribution tells the tale of ‘Hansel and Gretel’ (here) with a lovely twist – the addition of Stockholm Syndrome!!! Hilarious.
After thought and consideration I hereby nominate Low Wattage as the winner this time and hand the honour of setting the next competition to him.
The Gray Ghost – December CW Comp.
It was just after midnight on the night of December 24th 1936.
The steel-hulled square-rigged ship “Caspar” 140 days out of Callao, beyond Cape Horn, with 3,500 tons of nitrate fertilizer in her holds, was just into the English Channel. Her destination and homeport was the town of Ipswich, now less than 200 miles away. The weather in the channel was bad and getting worse. In heavy snow, driven by gale force winds out of the East, the big sailing ship was fighting for every inch of windward progress she could make and had tacked to the northward far over by Guernsey Island in an attempt to get beyond Start Point and buy a little extra room to make better eastward progress.
Continue reading “The Gray Ghost – December CW Comp.”
My Daily Walk [December CWC]
I picked myself up and turned back to see what had tripped me.
Someone was lying face-down in the middle of the footpath, arms loosely at his side, one leg sprawled sideways. There was blood seeping from his head; he was very still. How could I have missed seeing him, I wondered? Sure, I had been thinking about what to cook for dinner while I listened to triple-M, but to be unaware of something as large as a body suggested gross inattention. I knelt to see if I could render assistance, but the poor chap looked as though he was past all help. Continue reading “My Daily Walk [December CWC]”
A Christmas Quarrel
“You can’t go on strike. You don’t have a union.”
Thus spake Lofty Ghost, the host of the annual meeting of ghosts in a disused warehouse on the edge of town. Every year the spirits wanted a few days off. People aren’t scared at the holiday period, they complain. We should get time off, same as the living, they demand. Jasper Ghost made an impassioned plea.
“After the Queen’s speech, Morecambe and Wise and a full dinner, folk are too full of beans to even half-scare.” Continue reading “A Christmas Quarrel”
December Short Scribblin’
Much to my surprise, I find myself with the honour of setting the December CW rules.
I had a good think about this today and here goes. Continue reading “December Short Scribblin’”
Boadicea's Chariot 
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