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Just thought it would be nice for all those budding writers to have a short story thread, heres my contribution with one I wrote ages ago xxx
He slept, finally he closed his eyes and he slept. The day had been a tiring and eventful one, who would know the once high flyer who once had had it all was now reduced to this….
He had played the stock market, trodden on his peers; done what was absolutely necessary to get him to where he wanted to be , if he had to be ruthless he had been ruthless, if he had to kiss ass that’s exactly what he did.
He wanted to be the best; he had pulled himself up by his bootlaces and lifted himself out of the poverty he had known first hand as a child.
He had watched his mother struggle week after week on the pittance his father earned in the local factory, working from dawn till dusk 7 days a week. He would sit in the corner of the scullery waiting for his father to get home, he would hear him before he got to the door , his father would cough, a horrible hacking cough from deep within his lungs as a result of years of chain smoking and working and breathing asbestos, within the factory environment where he had worked from the age of 12.
he watched his mother busy herself at the cooker , she would put the kettle on 15 minutes before his father got home and make the tea, so it would brew nicely just as his father liked it. she took the old stained tin mug from the shelf and she would add the milk and 4 spoons of sugar, and she would wait; cloth in hand to lift the teapot from the stove the minute she heard the first click of the bolt on the gate. She would pour the tea and as the latch was lifted on the kitchen door and she would place it within easy reach of his fathers chair. His father would come in, give him a wink, slap his mother on the bottom and sit in his chair. he would drink his tea, cough some more then go and wash while dinner was served.
They would all have to sit at the table at the same time every evening, washed, changed and silent, his father allowed no talking or frivolities, save for grace which he always took. He would not stand waste and unless you ate everything on your plate you would not be allowed to leave the table. on the odd occasion he did let you leave the table on insistence you were full (usually because you didn’t like it) his father would insist that it was served up again for breakfast. Lessons were soon learned it was easier to eat it on the same evening as mutton stew or leftovers did not taste good the next morning, it would be congealed sitting in grease and his father would insist tha if it hadnt been eaten the time he went to work, his mother had to stand over him till he did.
His mother was a kindly timid woman who didn’t know the meaning of standing up to his father nor would she dare, she did however from time to time take the uneaten meal and throw it in a neighbours bin as his father who was a shrewd clever man who didn’t miss anything and would check their bin for any signs of orders being disobeyed.
the years came and went , he did extremely well at school, took a job with his uncle and moved to the dizzy heights of success, success that bought him a wife, 3 beautiful children and a large comfortable home in the heart of London.
The children had all been bought up in the best boarding schools money could buy and his wife wanted for nothing, she unlike his mother did not wait by the door with his cup of tea when he came home they had staff to do that for them.
on a cold October day things changed, changed so dramatically it would destroy completely the life he had strived for; he had called his car round and just as he had kissed his wife goodbye a ritual he had gone through for the last 30 years, it happened, a searing pain across his chest, down into his arm, he held his breath, clutched his arm and remembered nothing till he woke up with a team of strangers around him, shouting orders, calling his name; he drifted in and out of consciousness, his chest felt as though an elephant was sitting on him; he looked out of the window to see his beloved wife and children , tear stained faces, all of them looked pale and drained.
The pain suddenly left him, as he felt himself drifting into sleep he heard his mothers voice and his fathers hacking cough, he was a small boy again and his mother and father had both come to meet him…………….
I really enjoyed reading that Caff xxx
a little something I wrote a while back, kinda lame but what the hell
A long open street, shadows are beginning to stretch as daylight gradually becomes twilight, street-lamp bulbs flicker on with a dull amber glow. Occasionally a car passes by, their colours and forms lost in the encroaching darkness and the white glare of the headlights. The lights inside of the shop windows flick off as the garish neon-lights of the nightclubs blaze on. In the middle distance, in the fading light, a church’s steeple can just be made out.
The figure hurries her pace at first, head down, trying to remain unseen in the dwindling crowd. As the last pedestrian passes her by, she breaks out in a mad run towards the church down the street. She trips over an uneven paving slab and falls onto the cold, unyielding concrete, scraping her skin on the rough surface. The old zip on her battered rucksack rips open, spilling its contents over the ground as Gloria Silverstone lies sprawled on the floor nearby.
Hurriedly she struggles onto her knees, scrabbling in the half-dark for her worldly possessions desperately. Instinctively she reaches out to find her uncle Matthias’ old book; she sighs in relief as her fingertips brush over the leather front cover with its mathematical pattern of grooves arrayed in bizarre geometric shapes.
She hastily grabs the book and shoves it back into the tattered rucksack, quickly sweeping up the other items dispersed over the concrete pavement; an old mobile phone its battery all but dead, her silver cigarette lighter, a half-empty packet of cigarettes and finally, an heirloom white-bead pendant with an ivory cross. All reminders of the life she used to have but could now never return to.
As an after thought she flicks back her long black hair and puts the pendant around her throat.
A single small, salty tear rolls down her cheek as painful memories of her mother resurface unabated in their pain despite it being over three years since her mother’s horrific death.Lost in her reverie she almost misses the flicker of movement in her periphery vision. The sudden wakeup startles her, causing her to stand up shakily and charge off near-blindly in the direction of the church. the beat of her heart pounding in her ears and pushing its way up her throat.
Recollections of the events of the past week or so flash into her mind; receiving her uncle’s book, cloaked figures trying to kidnap her, mercenary thugs attempting to gun her down, and more recently, that other thing, that walked and looked like a man but was in no way human. Hell, she doubted it was even alive, all she knew was that it sought her out with inhuman ruthless efficiency and cold, hard determination.
Lastly, as she pelted headlong towards the aspirant shelter of the church, a clear image of her uncle’s note swims through her mind and in big black bold letters, the final parting notation of Matthias Dullathorpe, “Trust No One”.
BLIMEY!
Forget Me Not wrote:a little something I wrote a while back, kinda lame but what the hellnice one – dont put yaself down xx
@cath 55 wrote:
@Forget Me Not wrote:
a little something I wrote a while back, kinda lame but what the hell
nice one – dont put yaself down xx
No..that’s my job! :wink:
Oh alright..I can do ‘nice’ (once I’m doped up on painkillers :P )
I enjoyed both stories to the extent I would like to read more..so Cath and FMN..get typing.
Perhaps y’all could get a wee JC book put together. 8)a transformation I did of the Jabberwocky poem
It was brillig, those few hours near the end of the day when the first sun, Garanoth, set and the air becomes colder under the fleeting magenta light of the second sun, Blarth.
The slithy toves, those ethereal creatures that glide upon the cold gentle breeze with beautiful diaphanous wings between brillig, where they dance through the air in magnificent, sweeping displays known as gyres and gimbles, and mome, when the six moons rise and they swoop back to their silken nests in the course, tall, spiny wabe-grass.The boy watched this scene of natural grace and beauty, as the last of the magenta light faded to be replaced by the eldritch silver light of the moons, blanketing his small jungle village in their pale glow. He heard the barking-shrieks of the mome raths, scavenger creatures, no larger than your hand, which scurried through the undergrowth upon their spindly legs feeding upon small insects and carrion. The boy looked up slightly from the wabe-grass towards the borogroves. The sticky mimsy nectar secreted from their drooping branches, while a boon to both the villagers because of its adhesive qualities and the slithy toves for food, was a bane to almost every other inhabitant of the jungle, effectively warding off the larger and more dangerous predators such as the Bandersnatch and the Jub-Jub birds, but most importantly the fearsome Jabberwock, scourge of all that wandered through the trees.
A slight stir behind him caused him to draw his small bone-knife from the sheath on his leather belt, quickly and silently as he had been taught to do since he was old enough to hold a blade, as all the men of his village had been taught to.
His knife, a streak of white in the shadows, stopped dead, mere inches away from his father’s throat. His father’s strong, calloused hand held an iron-like grip upon the boy’s wrist, preventing the blow from slashing his oesophagus open; gradually he released his grip, the boy sheathing his trusty knife back into its sheath. After a short time his father spoke, his voice calm and serious“Tonight my son, you shall become a man…” his hand moved to gesture the moons in the sky “…for countless generations our tribe has made young warriors, on the brink of manhood, go out into the jungle under the light of the full moons…” his hand moved down to point outwards, into the depths of the jungle “…there you shall slay a fearsome jungle beast, with only your father’s sword and your years of training, and bring back a trophy of your victory…” the hand moved in a sweeping movement that encompassed both the boy and the wooden huts of the village “… If you do not return with your trophy before the next mome, you shall be cast out of the village, a pariah forced to wander the jungle.” He laid his hand upon the boy’s shoulder, in a shaky, uneven voice the boy replied
“Father, I swear this onto you, I shall slay a Jabberwock and upon my honour I shall bring you back its head before the next mome…”
His father replied with a solemn nod “You choose an arduous task my son… for all fear the Jabberwock, its jaws that bite and claws that catch… Other inhabitants of this forest too must you be wary of my son, the stealthy, wily Jub-Jub bird as well as the vicious and wrathful Bandersnatch… but I am proud of you my son, no matter the outcome of the hunt to come.” With that he drew his vorpal blade, the keen, crystalline edge shimmering in the moonlight. Ceremoniously, and with great respect, he offered the worn hilt to the boy, who graciously accepted it.
Sheathing the razor-sharp sword into its scabbard, the boy bowed towards his father. With one final backward glance to his village, the boy ran barefoot into the jungle.
For a long time he wandered through the dark, uninviting jungle. The cackling of the Jub-Jub birds and howls of the hunting packs of Bandersnatch his only companions in the lonely, but far from empty, jungle. The Boy shivered slightly at the prospect that he was no longer within the protection of the borogroves, or within the warm, bright glare of the village fires.
He tripped over an over-ground root, silently cursing himself for his lack of attention. He sat down by the great trunk of an ancient and grand Tumtum tree and rubbed at his ankle; the tree’s prodigious boughs stretched up towards the heavens and cast eerily long, twisted shadows across the clearing.Silently, stealthily, slyly, a shadow detached itself from a nearby tree. Patiently, cautiously it slunk across the clearing, its body pressed flat to the shadows of the Tumtum tree’s large branches. Its eyes, those smouldering gimlets of hatred in its monstrous visage, burned with a cruel intelligence that belied its ugly, misshapen form, calculating each movement with unerring precision and macabre grace.
The beast that only a few seconds ago was on the outskirts of the clearing, was now almost within striking distance of the boy, it inched slowly towards its intended prey, burbling quietly to itself in anticipation.
Instinctively the boy looked up and saw the shadow of a claw raised above his head; he turned and drew the vorpal blade from its scabbard in one fluid movement.Nothing was there, though the boy did not sheath his sword, instead he turned slowly and deliberately in a circle, knowing he was not alone.
Unable to view his would-be assailant, the boy sheathed his sword and stood stock still, his eyes closed, focussing upon the night-time sounds of the jungle, searching for something that seemed out of place.
There! A soft burbling noise behind him, lightning quick he pulled out his blade and swept it in an arc behind him.
A monstrous scream erupted from the Jabberwock as dull red blood spurted from its wrist and its amputated claw twitched spastically on the floor. A slight smile crossed the boy’s face.Its stealthy assault thwarted, the Jabberwock raised its other three arms, its snaggletooth maw opened wide to reveal three rows of deadly sharp fangs. Standing upon its four hind legs, the beast towered over the boy, its smooth, scaly skin bleeding through from blue-black to crimson red to a dull burgundy as it began its attack.
Wildly it lunged at him, its claws raked through the air towards his head. Though the beast was fast, the boy was faster and dived out of the way as the claws passed through where his head had been scant seconds ago. Seeing his window of opportunity, the boy jerked his sword to the side, the blade tore into the Jabberwock’s abdomen.
The beast clutched its open wound. Relentlessly the boy began to slash at the crippled monstrosity, his blade singing as it pierced the Jabberwock’s hide. Not stopping until he was sure it was dead.
He stopped, his breath heavy, his entire body drenched in the Jabberwock’s blood. Gradually he gathered himself and began to severe the beast’s head from its neck, ready to take it back as a trophy of his success.hmm, I wonder what else I’ve got knocking about the place
A clever interpretation of JABBERWOCKY, FMN. Yours is obviously an exceedingly inventive mind. 8)
This story is in the style of Alan Bennett’s ‘talking heads’ I am not sure if any of you are familiar with them?
I see it all you know, i know exactly what’s going on in every house in the street.
Take Mrs. wotserface at number 19! all day long gentleman callers, night and day , day and night, she thinks I’m stupid ‘family’!! Indeed, do you know she tried to tell me they were her husband and sons and they all worked different shifts? well let me tell you now , Mrs. wotserface (if indeed she is married at all!!!) what do they call it these days? living over the brush? Yes that’s it that’s what they call it! I haven’t seen any sign of sons growing up , not unless they were all born over 25 for goodness sakes !!!! huh nothing but a scarlet woman; Yes that’s it, a Scarlett woman!!!
then there’s that nice Mr. Davis at number 14 , such a mild mannered chap, wouldn’t say boo to a goose, he is just so popular with the young lads round here, they all go round to see him, and they always spend lots of time with him; yes Mr Davis has to be one of the most popular men in the street, he must be a kindly man when he gets so many visitors, some of the boys I don’t even recognise, do you know that nasty woman up the road Joyce Symonds said he was a wrong un? How dare she, I ask you again why would so many young men visit him if he was a wrong un? I’ve even seen him taking photos of them, now there’s a nice thing to do ……..
The smiths at number 11, now there’s a funny family, house full of children. at least 6 at the last count; they must be pretty rough kids though, always covered in bruises, i dont know why she doesn’t take better care of them, watch them when they climb trees or play with each other, surely as a mother she knows siblings will fight? she lets them get away with murder those kids, mind you now i come to think about it they could do with a decent meal from what I’ve seen
number 17 is where Mr. noakes lives, he has lived here for as long as I can remember. He lives there with his young housekeeper. Foreign I think. She is one of them there phillipinos – but anyway a nice young lady who always seems to be fetching and carrying, always cleaning doing the windows, and always so well turned out. Mr Noakes has never had any money worries his father sold their business back in the 80s and left him a tidy sum, mind you, he never married, but at least he can afford to pay for help in his advancing years.
oh dear that dreadful Jones woman is coming up the path and she has seen me. I wish she wouldn’t interfere, always knocking my door to see if there’s anything I need, you know what I need? I need her to go away and mind her own business!!! Never let her across my doorstep you know, nooooo wouldn’t trust her. She has from time to time got me a few little things from the shop but I always insist on a receipt and I always count my change very carefully, oh she’s gone…. pity really I could have done with some milk….
there you go living on tick at number 15 , I recognise that man knocking at the door, terrible state to get into, they get a new car and it seems barely a week goes by without they get something else new, not me!!! my husband and me never bought nothing less we paid cash for it, work of the devil all that borrowing; still, I’m not one to pry, no one can ever accuse me of being a busybody.
oh!!! Its gone 7 pm emmerdale is on – not that I watch much television you understand, it helps to pass the time though…..
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