WINNERS - 2015 OPEN SHORT STORY COMPETITION WITH SIMON WHALEY
Please scroll down to read winning stories and judge's comments
First prize of £100 awarded to Paul Sherman of Kent
Paul has been a teacher of Performing Arts and a director of both Youth and Adult theatre. He has had horror stories published by TWB Press and available on Amazon, Omni Lit etc. He has written a pantomime which was produced in Glasgow by the Rutherglen Repertory Co. Paul's play 'The Really Sad Thing about my Life' won a commendation at the Ovation Awards, Halifax. He cast and directed this himself. He has just had a play ‘Kilmainham Kids’ accepted for publication and is looking forward to seeing its first performance. Also this year, Paul published three poems, five short stories and a novella. He's currently writing a book of short stories all set on the small Channel Island of Herm. This is due to be published next Spring.
A COLD MORNING RUN
The air is crisp and still. Farmyards away, a dog barks. Behind the cottage, ice has ensnared the lawn. The sky is a cloudless sunlit blue. The hills drink in the sunshine and reflect it in frosted green. It is a beautiful day that I cannot appreciate.
The vapour from my mouth and nostrils hangs in the air and dissipates. I am wearing my jogging suit and pink trainers. Even when my heart starts pumping blood around my body, it will be too cold for shorts. I cannot find my woollen gloves, so I am wearing the fingerless pair.
The loss of my woollen gloves bothers me. I am not normally so careless.
I glance through the lounge window. Fran sits in her chair, open sightless eyes staring at the wallpaper, hands clasped together as if in supplication. A slight smile plays about her lips. I wish I knew what she had to smile about. It might help me out of my dilemma.
I reach the small gate that opens into the lane. Once I was jogging at the top of the ridge with the slap…slap…slap of my trainers all I could hear, I used to think that I had reached true freedom from cares, problems…decisions.
Decisions are the worst. I hate making them. Invariably they involve life or death issues.
I jog comfortably down the track behind the neighbouring houses and gardens, not yet up to full speed. I have the hill to climb first. The view from the top is unbelievable.
Every time I breast the ridge, I am reminded of the first time I saw it, with Fran. We always used to jog together.
Before her event.
I turn left and manage the stile easily, grinning as I recall the time I missed my footing
and landed in the cowpats. How we laughed. We talked about it for days, laughing
into our coffee after the early-morning runs. Those days were utterly delightful.
I reach the incline and am steaming up the steep footpath. Over the years, I have learnt to pace myself and know that I can reach the top without becoming breathless. It nearly used to kill me. Fran, who was much fitter than I, would taunt me, as I lay nursing my painful stitch, sprawled on the grass.
“Come on Ellie,” she would say, “You’re three years my junior. You’re still the right side of thirty. You should be setting the pace, not me.”
I learnt the hard way. It was always ‘try to keep up, Ellie’ or ‘your heart will burst one of these days, Ellie. I’ll have to lug your remains home in a sack.’
How terribly ironic it all seems now.
At the top of the ridge, I am reminded of that wonderful line from “Watership Down.”
‘You can see the whole world from here.’
It almost seems you can. The early-morning mail train is making its way though the cutting. When I was a girl, there was smoke and the train chugged. They say you can see four counties from here, but how can you tell? It’s all farmyards, fields, copses and woods deliciously spread across the undulating tablecloth of the countryside. Fran and I would try to decide where one county ended and another one started, but it was always inconclusive.
I have to stop.
There is so much in my heart, ready to burst out. I feel selfish, savouring this moment, this panorama alone, when Fran should be here. For a number of glorious years, we shared it together. We held hands like young girls and breathing heavily from our exertions, we enjoyed the view together. It made me cry and left me wondering if I would ever have to face the world without her.
Fran would catch me crying and putting her arms around me she would say ‘is my Baby sad?’ or ‘come to Fran, little Ellie’ or ‘tell Fran what is making Ellie cry’. She would draw me to her and I would put off the inevitable thought of ever having to spend the rest of my life without her.
A fox emerges from a thicket. It is the most beautiful fox I have ever seen, distinctly red in the morning sun and with a brush so thick, I wonder if it has been grooming itself for its public appearance. It stops, sits and looks at me, quite unconcerned. It has no fear. I have seen foxes before, and badgers, but this specimen is so grandiloquent, I am tempted to think he wishes to be admired. He licks his fur, as if an afterthought has prompted him to put finishing touches to his admirable appearance.
Fran loves foxes too. Indeed, it was she who introduced me to the dangerous excitement of the anti-fox-hunting demonstrations. Once more I am reminded of her. Is there no let-up? Can I not make my decision without such painful remembrances?
Something disturbs Renard and he darts into the undergrowth. He has seen the man with the gun before I do. The local farmer is out shooting rabbits. He is a neighbour and I know him. He waves his cap to me and I wave back.
I have no wish for conversation so I resume my run, heading down the hill towards the tiny country church. I hear the gun boom behind me. It is loud and sets off my tinnitus, spoiling my appreciation of the early morning quiet. It also gets me to thinking about killing.
This man has shot a rabbit. He has killed for food. He will take it home and Mrs Farmwife will remove the buckshot, skin it, clean it and pop it in a boiling pot with stock, onions, carrots and other vegetables. The family will sit down to eat it this evening with clear consciences.
Is this acceptable? I reach the kissing gate and by some impulse, enter the churchyard. Is God here? I wonder. Was he here when Fran had her stroke? Was he watching when that cruel bleed in her brain took away her independence, speech and movement? Did he sigh and think to himself, ‘That’s the last of my quota for today’?
I stop outside the church porch, realising I am breathless, not with running, but with anger.
Did God punish us because we loved each other?
If it is punishment, then it is too severe. Watching Fran unable to form her words, unable to move, weeping with frustration…yet at other times, showing happiness when I read to her – it was all so cruel. Such contentment comes over her face when I read Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy or a Wordsworth poem.
I brush away my tears of rage and leave the churchyard. There is nothing for me there. Not unless there is a miracle. Not unless I return to the cottage and Fran is standing in the doorway, smiling a greeting. Not unless she reaches out with her arms and I fall into them, weeping tears of joy and we crush each other’s bodies mercilessly with our hugging. Then I would visit that church, give thanks and pledge my undying support.
I am now jogging through the brambles and gorse, watching my feet because I do not want to snag myself. The brush growth is higher than my head and for a few moments, I cannot see.
I suddenly remember where I left my woollen gloves. They are on the chair in the alcove, underneath the cushion.
The purple cushion that I had showed Fran the night before, hoping to elicit some response from her.
Give me a sign Fran. Please give me a sign.
I am sprinting hard now. I feel confined by this vegetation, stifled by claustrophobia. My legs are pumping; my arms are like pistons. My body is a powerhouse, my heart a dynamo. The effort is clearing my brain. I need an empty mind, devoid of thoughts, feelings, emotions, opinions, morals, ethics. I need a decision.
It is simple. Do I use the cushion or not?
I am on the flat and heading towards the cottage. I punish myself. If I am to do it, then I must be strong. It is not easy to kill what you love. My calf muscles ache and I have a painful stitch. I have not reached this level of physical performance before.
Why should Fran suffer more? She has had enough.
It is as if my breathing will tear my lungs from my chest or my pounding blood will burst my heart. I must be strong. It must be quick.
The village comes to life. I see the postman’s van, the paperboy, a commuter with a briefcase ambling towards the small railway station. Everything is so normal, belying the turmoil inside my breast.
I am home. There will be no miracle, no sign. The age of miracles is gone. I must bear the thought of life without Fran. For her sake. I am in the cottage and she is sleeping.
I pick up the cushion. My woollen gloves fall to the floor. She looks so beautiful, so peaceful as I move towards her. I kiss her goodbye. A simple loving kiss on the cheek.
Fran opens her eyes. Do I see understanding there? Support for my intention?
I read nothing in her eyes.
Yet I am aware of a touch on my wrist. At first I think it is imagination, but her hand has moved and her fingers are resting on my wrist, her forefinger fractionally stroking my arm.
I drop the cushion. It is the first time she has moved in months. I have made my journey. Can Fran now make hers?
It is not a miracle. But it is certainly a sign.
Judge's comments: This is a wonderfully well-written story. It tells of the poignant, but troubling thoughts Ellie is facing as she goes about her morning run. Ellie is trying to come to terms with her partner’s sudden, debilitating stroke. And she makes a decision, which I think many readers would empathise with. But right at the end, Ellie’s partner does something that offers hope. It’s the smallest of details, but it means this story ends on an uplifting note. And, as someone who knows of a friend currently going through a similar situation, it’s a story that I could really empathise with.
Second prize of £50 awarded to Louise Mangos, Switzerland
English-born Louise Mangos lives in Switzerland with her Kiwi husband and two sons, and when she’s not writing short stories, flash fiction and novels, she enjoys painting, cycling, kayaking and cross-country skiing in the Alps. One of her psychological thriller novels is currently under submission to agents and publishers, another is in the process of being edited, and she is plotting a third. You can connect with Louise on Facebook and Twitter @LouiseMangos, or visit her website www.louisemangos.com
The Summer of '76
‘Don’t disturb him,’ I whispered as I backed out of the pool house.
Karen giggled behind fingers pressed theatrically to her pursed lips, and thrust one bikini-clad bony hip forward in an over-exaggerated model’s pose. A breeze swung the door, and the sun reflected off a windowpane, sending shards of light over the tongue-in-groove walls of the shed. Anthony Morrison lay on his back on a bench, one leg propped on the floor. The towel lying across his lap fluttered upwards briefly, and Karen emitted an immature ‘Oooh!’
Let him sleep, I thought, anticipating his embarrassment when he woke to find three of his sister’s adolescent friends staring at him. Anthony didn’t move.
‘He must have raided Colonel Morrison’s drinks cabinet,’ Karen said jokingly.
‘Hey, Jennifer!’ Sarah yelled towards the pool as our friend pulled herself out of the water onto the edge. Jennifer bounced her head sideways, thumping the upward turned temple with the palm of her hand to dislodge water from her ear. We had all been doing handstands in the water. Her newly-permed curls sprinkled drops on the paving, already fading on the warm stone as she walked towards us.
‘Your brother’s dead drunk,’ said Sarah.
‘Anthony? He wouldn’t dare. He’s in there?’ Jennifer pushed past the three of us and peered into the darkness of the pool house. Her bare heels thumped an increasing timbre on the wooden floorboards.
‘Oh my God. Someone go and get my Mum.’ Her voice was tight with panic.
The sunlight suddenly shone too brightly. Veins rippled innocently on the turquoise floor of the pool, and the sultry afternoon air suffocated us in its heavy blanket. Karen’s feet slapped urgently along the path tiles towards the main house, her prints drying in the sun as she ran, as though pursued by an invisible menace.
The beery smell of harvested barley floated over the hedge from a nearby field, spinning straw dust across the garden. The pigeons continued their gentle cooing on the tarpaper roof of the rose-clad pool house, oblivious to the catatonic tension now palpable between the two remaining girls standing outside the pool house door, hands clamped over our mouths.
I had been in love with Simon Morrison since the beginning of fourth year at grammar. Every afternoon after school he rode up to the bus stop on his red Garelli. When he removed his full-face helmet, my heart clenched as a shiny mop of hair cascaded around his face. I know it was only a moped, but it looked like a real motorbike, and I don’t think I was the only who swooned. He had even removed the left pedal, keeping the right one on so he could start the beast.
As he arrived at the bus stop he made a daring U-Turn so the pedal-less side of his bike faced the crowd. We were all impressed, especially the boys from grammar, who wished they didn’t have to take the school bus home with a gaggle of noisy girls. I always sat at the back with my best friend Sarah so I could watch Simon start off behind us. He would lean hard on the throttle to scream daringly past us in a heart-stopping overtaking manoeuvre, his tall body bending first one way and then the other in a fluid dance of curves around the bus.
We touched once. It was at the Youth Club disco in the early summer before school broke up. Sarah and I spent most of the evening leaning against the brick wall of the village hall, watching the dance floor. The lads gathered into a circle in the muggy dark heat in full leather regalia, and danced to Thin Lizzy and Hawkwind. Their strained pubescent voices could never quite get the timing right as they wailed the lyrics of Silver Machine. When the DJ settled on something slower, Simon made his way to the toilets at the back of the hall.
I grabbed Sarah and stood in the corridor between the hall and the toilets. We leaned against the pale yellow walls, sticky with decades of nicotine-stained gloss paint. We slouched nonchalantly, as though we had been there for hours, sipping warm Tizer, and waiting for Simon to come out of the men’s toilet. A slow and sultry Barry White number filtered through from the hall. Simon came out of the men’s room pulling his fingers through his shiny hair. My heart bounced down to the pit of my stomach, and I pushed off the wall as he walked towards us, my eyes begging him to ask me to dance.
He smiled at me, and I thought I would die on the spot. And then as he reached out and put his hand on my wrist, causing all the hairs on my arm to spring up, the DJ put on Lou Rawls You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine. It was one of those songs that was neither slow nor fast. Couples already locked into to each other on the dance floor carried on swaying, increasing their movement to the beat of the song. But for the wallflowers like me, it was not the song to easily start an intimate dance.
Simon tilted his head, his eyes glancing to the ceiling as he contemplated Lou’s R&B voice. He frowned, and trailed his fingers over the knob of my wrist bone, flipping my stomach.
‘See ya,’ he said, and was gone, the place where his fingers had touched my wrist still fizzing. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I stared at his retreating back, until Sarah nudged me and we moved back into the hall. The boys had all skulked into the darkest corner. My chance had passed.
The Morrisons had a huge posh house on the outskirts of our village. Jennifer Morrison sometimes hung out with us after lunch at school by the bike sheds. She was the first one of our group to dare try a cigarette. We gawped at her with admiration when she pulled out a pack of ten Number 6 and a box of Swan matches. She earned our respect that day. I wouldn’t ordinarily have been friends with Jennifer, but apart from the fact that I was in love with her brother, she had a pool in her garden. And school would soon be over, along with my regular chance of seeing Simon in the afternoons.
The pool turned out to be a major bonus in that long, hot summer of ’76, until the very last week of the holidays.
Mrs Morrison said we could use the pool any time. She said she was happy it had any use at all, seeing as her first son didn’t seem to enjoy the water and her second was more interested in his motorbike. She even told us we could use the pool when Jennifer wasn’t there, during her tennis lessons on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. I took advantage of this, convincing Sarah to come with me, in the hope of catching a glimpse of Simon. Sometimes he was tinkering with his bike in the cool shade of the garage, content amongst his shiny tools and the pungent smell of oil. He often shifted his stance as I passed, his Doc Martins rasping on the rough concrete garage floor, and I might be awarded a momentary glance, sometimes a smile. That would make the half-mile walk from my house worth it.
Mrs Morrison appeared through the French windows across the patio, kicking off the heels that impeded her progress. She looked ten years younger running barefoot across the lawn, her floral skirt lifted to reveal a pair of suntanned calves.
It wasn’t until we heard the ambulance siren we realised something was seriously wrong with Anthony. Jennifer had joined us by then, hands covering her face and sobbing.
‘He’s a diabetic,’ she explained. ‘It didn’t start until after an accident we had in Dad’s Jag when I was about four. They think it was triggered by the shock. The back door of the car half crushed his leg after the impact of the lorry. Simon and I were fine on the other side of the car.’
We looked at Jennifer in horror. A car accident!
‘Does he have to, you know… inject himself?’ Karen asked in dismay. Jennifer nodded, wiping her nose.
‘We didn’t realise what was wrong until a few months after the accident. He was always thirsty. Then Mum found him around the side of the house one day, sucking water from the garden hose. He’s… he must be in a diabetic coma. The trouble is, we haven’t seen him all day and don’t know whether he’s taken his insulin. We don’t know whether he’s hypo or hyper…’ Jennifer sobbed. She had me lost with the technicalities, but my stomach rolled sickeningly. This didn’t sound good.
As Jennifer went to show the paramedics the side entrance to the garden, Mrs Morrison came out of the pool house ringing her hands.
‘What are you all still doing here?’ Her voice shook dangerously. ‘This isn’t a circus. It’s time you all went home now! There’s nothing to see.’ She glared at us with a red face and eyes swollen with unshed tears. I blushed. The longer I hung around, the more chance I had of seeing Simon, although he hadn’t been in the garage that day. I now realised it looked bad, us hanging around. She thought we wanted a bit of sensational news to carry home. Her admonishment made me feel hot with unfounded shame.
School started again after the holidays, but Jennifer wasn’t there for a couple of weeks. When she did come back, there was a silent charity of tension, everyone treating her with respectful reverence. Because nobody knew what to say.
The friendship between Sarah and I had cooled off. I caught her one day with a group of girls in third year talking about ‘the dead body’ she had seen in the Morrison’s pool house. I felt sad for Anthony Morrison. He’d lost his identity, ended up being just a ‘dead body’. It made me feel queasy every time I saw Sarah.
Simon didn’t start school either for a while. Then one afternoon, before Jennifer started coming back, he turned up at the bus stop on his bike. Instead of the usual jeering, the crowd shuffled about a bit, stared at him, and whispered amongst themselves. Without thinking, I pushed myself away from where I had been leaning in the bus shelter and walked over to him on his bike, heart thumping in my chest.
‘I’m so sorry about your brother, Simon.’ I bit my lip. ‘We thought he was just sleeping.’
He stared at me, eyes wide.
‘You were there?’
I swallowed, wishing I could take back those last words. His accusatory look shot like a knife from his blue eyes, and stabbed me right in the middle of my heart, as though he thought I could have saved his brother. I wondered if he thought I might even have contributed to his death. I paled, thought I was going to throw up right there in front of Simon Morrison.
Eventually my throat clenched, not with bile, but unshed tears. Whatever hope I had of securing his love now burned and died.
Once we were settled back into the routine of school, and the weather finally broke at the end of the summer, Karen stopped coming round to my place. We no longer listened to the Capital countdown. Kiki and Elton’s silly song had the number one spot for weeks, but I no longer cared. Elton John had me hooked on another, more sombre number, and by the time autumn began fluttering its leaves onto the surface of the Morrison’s pool, I’d still be sitting by my window singing ‘What’ve I got to do to make you love me?’ feeling very sorry. The hardest word of all.
Judge's comments: Although not a happy story, this was a pleasure to read because of the atmosphere it evoked. The weather was almost a character in itself, such was the intensity of the heat. Indeed, this reads as one intense memory, where the pictures are so vivid the event feels as though it were only yesterday.
Third prize of £25 awarded to Dianne Bown-Wilson of Exeter
Dianne Bown-Wilson is a short-story writer and freelance journalist. She has had her work published in several print and online anthologies including the Momaya Short Story Review and Fresher Writing. She was born in the UK and spent her childhood in New Zealand. After
living in London, Cheshire and Oxfordshire she now lives in Devon (A Very Creative Place) with her partner and two cats. https://diannebownwilson.wordpress.com/
Third - Would Love To Meet
"Gin and tonic, please." The man is unsmiling but polite, impeccably dressed in an elegant grey suit and tie. Tiredness etches crevices in his lightly-tanned face, any spark in his blue eyes is dead.
The barman, hand already outstretched towards his customer’s usual tomato juice, can’t help but comment: "Oh. Pushing the boat out tonight?"
"No, just in need of a pick-me-up." The man sighs; an understatement if ever there was one. In a matter of minutes he’ll be on duty and here he is feeling like a sixty-year-old tortoise hiked out of hibernation.
What was it his teacher had said all those years ago? "If nothing else Watson, you can always be an actor. You could charm the birds off the trees and convince them day was night if you had to, though where that’ll get you in the end, Lord only knows!"
Well, this was where it’d got him - propping up a West End bar waiting to spend the evening as a paid escort to some poor cow who’ll pour out her life story to him over expensive food that no longer tastes of anything and alcohol he can only allow himself to sip. Tonight, as ever, he’ll remain skillfully sober while apparently matching her every glass until, at last, at home and left to his own devices he can gulp down as much as it takes to block out the pain.
"Michael Watson?"
A light touch on his arm - he spins round. His response is immediate, honed by months of practice: "Suzy - I’m so glad to meet you! I can call you Suzy, can’t I? You must call me Mike. But I’m so sorry - here I am, lost in thought, when I should have had my eyes glued on the door awaiting your arrival. Will you ever forgive me?"
The woman, slim, but nearly as tall as he, looks at him quizzically, half-smiling, but proffers no reply other than a slight shrug of her shoulders.
Unfazed, he continues: "Why don’t I order us a nice glass of champagne and we can sit in that cosy corner over there?" As he speaks he slips his hand protectively under her elbow and steers her towards a velvet-clad banquette, signalling his habitual order to the barman. What woman could fail to be impressed?
As they sit down he leads her through his opening repertoire - asking after her journey, complimenting her on some aspect of her appearance - his mind struggling all the while to click into gear in the way it must if he’s to get through the hours ahead. Unfortunately, she seems to be one of the few quiet ones, responding with perfunctory, though pleasant enough, replies, offering him no respite from his struggle to perform. Despite her blonde, slightly faded, good looks and an outfit that suggests an innate and assured sense of style, he sighs inwardly. Judging by her general air of self-composure this one isn’t going to be easy.
He prays that the champagne will provide salvation. "Cheers, here’s to you," he murmurs in a way that usually makes even the most diffident women wilt.
She half-lifts her glass as if agreeing and then stops, fixing him with a look both direct and compelling. For a moment, the blue-green of her eyes draws him like an oasis in a desert and he forces himself to look away.
"Actually, no, here’s to you," she says firmly with a hint of laughter. "What a terrible job you have doing this all the time. At least there’s an element of novelty for me, not having tried this before, but assuming you’re not completely brain dead it must be awful for you. So, definitely, let’s drink to you."
He’s so surprised he laughs out loud, for once at a loss for words.
Her eyes fix him with the intensity of a laser. "So why do you do it?" she asks, hitting him below the belt with a question that only ever comes, if at all, at that stage of the evening when he has to explain in the most tactful way possible that spending the night with them, or any significant physical contact at all, simply isn’t an option.
"I like it," he lies.
She studies him quizzically: "Really? What exactly do you like?"
As she speaks he is distracted by her finely-shaped eyebrows, supressing an impulse to reach out and gently trace round them. Concentrate! He’s glad that he’s answered the question often enough to be able to trot out a lucid explanation: "I’ve been lonely since my wife died and this is a wonderful chance to meet lovely ladies and survey the field without having to be too committed…"
She nods, but looks unconvinced. "I don’t believe a word of it," she smiles. "It’s about as believable as me telling you that I’d paid your agency the equivalent of half a week’s wages for your company simply because I couldn’t get a date any other way. Do you believe that?"
He pauses, disconcerted. This woman is dangerous! On the other hand, just how risky would it be to allow her access to any atom of what he really thinks or feels? She seems so unlike any previous client it’s difficult to know.
At last he speaks: "Actually no, though that situation is true for many of the ladies I meet."
"But if I said that the reason I’m here with you was that in two years I’ve never met a man I could even face the idea of spending one date with and I’m now so desperate for a proper evening out that I’m prepared to pay for it, would you believe me then?" She smiles again, but while her tone is challenging he senses that she’s sincere.
"Um, maybe, though if so then I think that’s very sad."
"Well, there you are then. It’s sad for me and I don’t know what it is for you. So, on that basis why don’t we agree not to play games this evening and just be truthful and have a good time? I don’t know you and you don’t know me so there must be something we can chat about even if you don’t want to unload your secrets. Wouldn’t that be preferable to hours of talking absolute rubbish?"
He nods his agreement, disarmed.
"So, tell me about where you were born, and what your Mum and Dad were like, and where you went to school, and later on you might want to tell me more."
For the first time since meeting his wife Megan thirty years earlier Mike is completely captivated. It isn’t mere physical attraction, although Suzy paints a very pleasing picture; rather the comfort of their rapport which settles around him like a warm blanket on a chill night. Everything about her just seems so natural, as if he’d known her for years. Her conversation is light, engaging, and amusingly frank. Clearly she’s a woman who squares up both to herself and the world around her with pragmatism and good humour, seemingly with none of the neurosis that forms the DNA of most of his clients.
"Trouble is, as a busy, middle-aged maths teacher you don’t easily come across a whole raft of potential suitors to choose from," she confides, matter-of-factly. "But aside from that, post-divorce life is okay. I don’t mind my own company - it’s generally a relief at the end of the sort of day I usually have - but sometimes I long for a night out somewhere like this. A five-star treat, just for me!"
Mike smiles and thinks that he’d love nothing more than to provide a five-star treat for her every day.
As the evening wears on and the waiter brings their final course he is suddenly consumed by a huge sense of disappointment, even panic, at how rapidly the time is passing. Yet, at the same time, an alarm bell begins to sound somewhere in his brain. Is he falling for her? Is this what it feels like? If so, what on earth is he going to do about it? It seems inconceivable that he can just let her go with a peck on the cheek and a hearty "Perhaps I’ll see you again some time" as he does with the others. The fact that she gives every indication of feeling the same way about him makes matters even worse. Can he, should he, tell her the truth?
He can remember exactly what Megan said before the disease completely took hold but tonight is the first time he’s come anywhere near to putting it to the test.
"When it gets to that time, I want you to find someone else. You’ll still be quite young and I know you’ll look after me, but I could go on for years not really being your wife any longer. You must promise me you will."
Eventually he had agreed – but only to soothe her mounting agitation. Now, facing a situation he’d previously believed impossible, can he embark on a relationship with someone new?
By the end of the evening, coffee cups cleared, he knows he’s no option but to try. Taking a deep breath he speaks quietly: "Earlier this evening you asked me why I did this, and I fobbed you off with a lie."
Suzy nods: "Yes, you did."
"I’ve never before told anyone the real reason why I do this, but I want to share it with you." Her sympathetic look encourages him to continue. "In fact my wife isn’t dead, she’s in a home. Although she’s only fifty-eight she has Alzheimer’s disease. So I do this on top of my normal job to pay for her care - I don’t much like it but it’s the least I can do."
Waiting for a reaction, he fumbles with the stem of his glass, unable to look into her eyes for fear of what he might see there. Moments pass, then Suzy finally speaks, "Does that mean you’re still married in your heart?"
"I don’t know - until tonight I’ve never had to consider it. Megan no longer has any idea who I am, so although I still love her and I’ve never had any physical relationship with anyone else, to say that we’re still married seems to be rather stretching the point. I still love her but not in the same way. Does that answer your question?"
She reaches across the table and places her hand lightly on his. "Yes…" she says, "But it does raise another one." At the directness of her tone he braces himself for the worst, wondering what she will ask, unable to contemplate losing her now.
To his astonishment she grins disarmingly. "Is there any chance of seeing you again without paying such an exorbitant fee? If not, you’re going to be a very expensive hobby, Mr Watson."
Judge's comments: Michael is an escort. At first I wasn’t sure if I liked Michael, but as the story moved on I realised he wasn’t doing this out of choice. And that’s what kept me reading. Why? When you find out why, it then raises another moral dilemma. But by the end of the story I’d come to like Michael, and I wanted things to work out for him.
Fourth prize of £25 awarded to Alan Nicholls of Worcester
Alan writes for fun, rather than profit, but is not above accepting cash if offered. He has four published short stories, three of them on line and over a dozen competition short listings.
His work-in-progress novel, Brockberrow, has been more than ten years in gestation and it is probable that the manuscript will be used to stoke the furnace when he fetches up at the Crematorium.
Alan is leader of the Worcester U3A Creative Writing Group, but only because no-one else wanted the job.
http://anoldwhinestale.blogspot.com
THE TRAIL TO COUSIN MYRTLE’S
Fat Abe’s Gas Station was a dirty yard at the far end of Rotting Possum‘s dusty main street. It was littered with oil drums and long-dead tyres and in a corner was a battered pick-up loaded with crates seething with raucous chickens. It boasted a couple of dilapidated gas pumps, a rickety shed with shame-faced pretensions to being an office, and a wooden bench upon which floundered the gargantuan backside of one of the fattest guys I’d ever seen.
"You Fat Abe?" I bawled, to make myself heard above the chickens. "I’m Harry Homer, Myrtle Homer’s cousin from England. I’m just off the bus from Memphis and Myrtle’s arranged for me to pick up her vehicle here to take on to Coyote Falls."
The fat guy stared through me for a moment, then took a long drag on a huge cigar before thoughtfully delving his fat fingers in to the stubbly depths of his multitudinous chins.
"Yup," he admitted, "I’m Fat Abe, but right now Mister I’m closed."
"Closed?"
"Closed," He waved his cigar dismissively. "Break time, Mister, I’m all closed up."
"OK," I yelled, "so, any one here who can help?"
"Nope, been here on my own all morning an’ I’m all tuckered out, so y’all have to wait till my break’s through."
"Guess you’ve had a busy day then?"
Fat Abe pondered, before blowing a large, perfectly circular smoke ring, which slowly disintegrated over my face in an evil-smelling fog.
"Nope, y’all my first customer today, Mister."
"Well then," I said, coughing politely amid the smoke, "how about I pick up Myrtle Homer’s car now, and then you can keep going with your break as long as it suits you?"
"Nope," said Fat Abe, "If I do that, I’ll have folk a-turnin’ up here all hours, just to suit their convenience, y’all gotta wait, Mister."
"OK, OK!" The long, hot, bus ride from Memphis had left me grouchy, "so just tell me when you’ll reopen."
Fat Abe favoured me with another smoke ring. "About half an hour, Mister, if I’m feeling amiable."
"Don’t put yourself out on my account," I murmured.
I heard sniggering behind me, and turning, found a small shifty-looking crowd of townsfolk eying me with disquieting curiosity. I decided to play things cool.
"Anywhere I can get a drink while I’m waiting?"
Fat Abe pointed down the side-walk. "Zak’s Bar’s just down there apiece; Zak’ll rustle you something, if he‘s feelin’ amiable."
"Thanks for all your help," I said.
I pushed through the batwing doors in to the Zak’s Bar, followed by the street crowd, and found more shifty folk clustered around the bar and tables. The bartender eyed me suspiciously.
"You Zak?" I asked.
"Guess I’m Zak," he said
"Beer, Zak," I said, "if you’re feeling amiable."
Zak reached for a bottle, bit off the metal cap and pushed the bottle towards me. "What brings y’all to Rotting Possum then, stranger?"
"I’ve come from England to visit my cousin in Coyote Falls."
This statement provoked a buzz of excitement and a pimply woman wearing tattered dungarees shouted, "Coyote Falls? Y’all a-goin’ to visit Cousin Myrtle Homer?"
I was surprised "Yes, but how do you know that it’s Myrtle Homer who’s my cousin?"
"Well," said Zak, "nobody but Myrtle Homer do live at Coyote Falls, an we all a-knowin’ Myrtle Homer, cos Myrtle’s our cousin too. We’re all cousins round these parts, Mister, ‘ceptin’, of course, if y’all a McNamara who ain’t cousins to no-one but themselves an’ all of ‘em downright onery".
Zak slapped his forehead, dramatically. "Jeez, if Cousin Myrtle’s our cousin, and this dude’s Cousin Myrtle’s cousin, then he gotta be our cousin too!" This observation provoked uproar, and people crowded around, slapping my back, poking my ribs and shouting ‘Welcome Cousin,’ ‘Dang me,’ ‘Lawksamussy,’ and similar rustic phrases. The pimply woman tried to kiss me, but she was ugly and had B.O., so I ducked. I was extremely shaken by this unexpected outbreak of cousins and thought that Cousin Myrtle might previously have mentioned them.
"Lawdy" shouted Zak, "I never knew we had an English cousin. There’s nobody in Rotting Possum ever bin further than Catfish Creek, this is more excitin' than a whole mess o' molasses."
"My hubby Joe always said we come from England way back," said the pimply woman. "Old Zeke Homer, Joe’s Daddy, swore that the Homers was English lords who high-tailed it out ‘cos the King had a mind to be a-sawin’ their heads off."
"Old Zeke Homer died of moonshine poisoning," scoffed a man. "He talked eyewash mostly. The Homers weren’t never lords, not even in Catfish Creek, but come a-runnin’ up here from Missouri after Huckleberry Homer done shot the Sherriff there."
This debate on the Homers’ ancestry was interrupted by the wail of a klaxon. "Hey, that’s Fat Abe’s break time finished," said Zak. "Y’all better get off quick, Cousin, ‘afore he shuts for dinner.
I left the bar immediately, trailed by all my new cousins. Fat Abe was still on the bench, puffing a cigar and cradling a can of beer. I sighed. The thought that this elephantine degenerate was probably a blood relative was humiliating.
"I’ll take Cousin Myrtle’s vehicle, now," I said, "if it’s convenient."
Fat Abe fingered his chins for a moment. "Guess that’s OK, Mister. Looks like y’all next in line,
anyway."
Fat Abe felt in his dungarees pocket and threw me a key, then pointed to the chicken-laden pick up. "There y’are Mister, all gassed up and ready. Myrtle Homer will be most appreciative of you deliverin’ her chickens."
I stared at the pick–up in disbelief. The clucking was deafening and I could almost touch the smell. The interior was filthy, the upholstery torn, and I was sure I could see daylight on the passenger side where the floor was rotting away.
"I‘m not driving that," I said. "Not with all that clucking and chicken stink and anyway that truck’ll disintegrate before it gets out of town. And I understand the road to Coyote Falls is none too good?"
"Not exactly a road," said Zak "It’s just a track as far as Deadmans Creek, then y’all gotta take care you don’t get stuck in the swamp. Them water snakes don’t take kindly to bein’ disturbed, and Cousin Jethro swears there’s ‘gaitors in there . Somethin’ ornery took his leg off a while back anyways. After the swamp, it’s straight over Skull Mountain an’ through the pass, an’ if there ain’t no McNamaras a-waitin to blast your ass, it’s a straight run down to Cousin Myrtle’s."
"I can’t drive that," I whined, " don’t you have a car I can rent?"
"Nope," said Fat Abe. "Had one, but the McNamaras’s shot it up on Skull Mountain. Cousin Elmo Homer got lucky that day, the cougars finished him off afore the McNamaras got to him. Now Mister, y’all better get them chickens a-movin’, cos Myrtle Homer’ll be dang-blasted ornery if they ain’t in Coyote Falls by nightfall."
"Best take ‘em, Cousin Harry," advised Zak. "Cousin Myrtle do get badly riled when she’s crossed and there ain’t no accountin’ what’ll she do when she catches up with y’all."
I left Rotting Possum with the cheers of my new cousins scarcely audible above the noise of the chickens. The pick-up lurched and bounced alarmingly along the deeply rutted trail and the gear stick had a mind of its own, often preferring a different slot to the one I’d selected. The dust was choking me, and the constant jolting was exhausting. However, when I reached Deadmans Creek, an hour down the trail, the ruts became a quagmire concealed beneath standing water, Several times I left the vehicle to check if it was safe to proceed, and was subjected to attacks from squadrons of mosquitoes, cheered on by the ever-vocal chickens.
It was late afternoon before I cleared the swampland and commenced the winding ascent of Skull Mountain. The trail had reverted to its rutted state, making progress slow, and the sun was setting when I eventually drove through the pass and began the descent to Coyote Falls. I hadn’t got far when I saw a notice by the side of the trail:
WARNING
This heres McNamara country!!
HOMERS SHOT ON SIGHT
Yall got that?
So high tail it out RIGHT NOW!!!!!
Although the notice was intimidating, I was more concerned about the pick-up parked beside it, the tall bearded man sitting on the bonnet with a shotgun over his knees, and the three armed, bearded men who were standing grinning at me with malicious anticipation.
"My oh my," said the man on the bonnet, "if that ain’t Myrtle Homers old pick up. Are you in there, Myrtle Homer?"
One of the men sauntered over and peered in at me "Sure don’t look like Myrtle Homer, lots purtier than Myrtle Homer."
Everyone except me laughed.
"Not Fat Abe come a-visitin, Padraig?" asked the man on the bonnet.
"Nope, Shamus" said Padraig, "lots purtier than Fat Abe, too."
Shamus slid off the bonnet and strolled over, his hand cupped round his ear. "Now, what’s all that cluckin’ there, Padraig? I do believe I’m hearin’ chickens."
Shamus examined the chicken crates, casually poking at the protesting birds with the barrel of his shotgun.
"Well now" he said, sorrowfully, "looks like Miss Myrtle got some new chickens, so soon after we hijacked the last lot, too; some folk don’t never learn. And who might you be, Mister?"
"I’m Harry Homer, Myrtle Homer’s English cousin, just passing through. Sorry to be a nuisance; if you could point me in the right direction...?"
"Oh my," said Shamus, "here’s us all a-lyin’ in wait for Homers and one drives up and surrenders." He looked at me, thoughtfully. "Don’t seem right to be a-shootin’ him straight off, though, him bein’ a stranger an’ all, an’ not knowin’ our ways, t‘ain’t hospitable. Not much fun for us neither."
"OK, Harry Homer," he decided. "Myrtles place is down the trail a-ways. You get goin’ now, real quick, cos me and the boys are a-countin’ to ten, then we’re a-comin’ after you and gonna shoot y’all stone dead afore y’all get to Myrtle Homer’s. One………."
I didn’t hear "two", as I was already careering wildly down the trail with the Mcnamaras, whooping excitedly, chasing me down in their truck. In my mirror I could see Shamus on the back of his vehicle, firing at me over the cab. Shot was peppering my pick-up, and hysterical squawking from the chickens indicated that they were taking heavy casualties. Then, unaccountably, the McNamaras’ pick–up swerved and overturned, catapulting Shamus head first in to a bush. Down the trail in front of me a small figure was brandishing a large rifle and jigging about triumphantly.
I drove down and stopped beside the figure, a tiny grey-haired woman, who seemed to be incredibly angry with me.
"Lawd save us, Harry Homer, y’all got my chickens shot, you dang dumb fool."
So this was Cousin Myrtle. Padraig had been right, I was lots prettier than she was.
I followed Cousin Myrtle in to her house and was astounded to find Fat Abe, reclining in an easy chair, drinking beer and blowing smoke-rings.
"What the hell are you doing here," I asked.
"I’m a-visitin’," said Fat Abe. "Myrtle Homer is my Mummy, Cousin Harry."
So Fat Abe was my cousin; my humiliation was confirmed. "But how did you get here before me?" I asked.
"Cousin Young Sherriff Seth brung me in his helicopter, Cousin Harry, cuts out all that crap with the trail, the swamp an’ the McNamaras an’ all."
"You came by helicopter," I yelled, "and I drove the pick up? Couldn’t you have brought me as well?"
" Sure could," said Fat Abe, "but if we’d had given y’all a ride in the helicopter, who in hell would’ve brung Mummys chickens?"
Judge's comments: A brilliantly funny story.
Highly Commended awarded to Kevin Brooke, Worcester for Alternate Voices
Judge's comments:A poignant story of William finally finding his place in the world.
Highly Commended awarded to Pam Eaves, Essex for Getting Found Out
I love it when a daft, elderly character is actually clever enough to fool the authorities!
Our 2016 competitions are open to entries:
http://erewashwriterscompetition.weebly.com/2016-mum-writing-competition-free-entry.html
http://erewashwriterscompetition.weebly.com/2016-ewg-new-writer-competition.html
http://erewashwriterscompetition.weebly.com/2016-open-short-story-competition-with-patsy-collins.html
Please scroll down to read winning stories and judge's comments
First prize of £100 awarded to Paul Sherman of Kent
Paul has been a teacher of Performing Arts and a director of both Youth and Adult theatre. He has had horror stories published by TWB Press and available on Amazon, Omni Lit etc. He has written a pantomime which was produced in Glasgow by the Rutherglen Repertory Co. Paul's play 'The Really Sad Thing about my Life' won a commendation at the Ovation Awards, Halifax. He cast and directed this himself. He has just had a play ‘Kilmainham Kids’ accepted for publication and is looking forward to seeing its first performance. Also this year, Paul published three poems, five short stories and a novella. He's currently writing a book of short stories all set on the small Channel Island of Herm. This is due to be published next Spring.
A COLD MORNING RUN
The air is crisp and still. Farmyards away, a dog barks. Behind the cottage, ice has ensnared the lawn. The sky is a cloudless sunlit blue. The hills drink in the sunshine and reflect it in frosted green. It is a beautiful day that I cannot appreciate.
The vapour from my mouth and nostrils hangs in the air and dissipates. I am wearing my jogging suit and pink trainers. Even when my heart starts pumping blood around my body, it will be too cold for shorts. I cannot find my woollen gloves, so I am wearing the fingerless pair.
The loss of my woollen gloves bothers me. I am not normally so careless.
I glance through the lounge window. Fran sits in her chair, open sightless eyes staring at the wallpaper, hands clasped together as if in supplication. A slight smile plays about her lips. I wish I knew what she had to smile about. It might help me out of my dilemma.
I reach the small gate that opens into the lane. Once I was jogging at the top of the ridge with the slap…slap…slap of my trainers all I could hear, I used to think that I had reached true freedom from cares, problems…decisions.
Decisions are the worst. I hate making them. Invariably they involve life or death issues.
I jog comfortably down the track behind the neighbouring houses and gardens, not yet up to full speed. I have the hill to climb first. The view from the top is unbelievable.
Every time I breast the ridge, I am reminded of the first time I saw it, with Fran. We always used to jog together.
Before her event.
I turn left and manage the stile easily, grinning as I recall the time I missed my footing
and landed in the cowpats. How we laughed. We talked about it for days, laughing
into our coffee after the early-morning runs. Those days were utterly delightful.
I reach the incline and am steaming up the steep footpath. Over the years, I have learnt to pace myself and know that I can reach the top without becoming breathless. It nearly used to kill me. Fran, who was much fitter than I, would taunt me, as I lay nursing my painful stitch, sprawled on the grass.
“Come on Ellie,” she would say, “You’re three years my junior. You’re still the right side of thirty. You should be setting the pace, not me.”
I learnt the hard way. It was always ‘try to keep up, Ellie’ or ‘your heart will burst one of these days, Ellie. I’ll have to lug your remains home in a sack.’
How terribly ironic it all seems now.
At the top of the ridge, I am reminded of that wonderful line from “Watership Down.”
‘You can see the whole world from here.’
It almost seems you can. The early-morning mail train is making its way though the cutting. When I was a girl, there was smoke and the train chugged. They say you can see four counties from here, but how can you tell? It’s all farmyards, fields, copses and woods deliciously spread across the undulating tablecloth of the countryside. Fran and I would try to decide where one county ended and another one started, but it was always inconclusive.
I have to stop.
There is so much in my heart, ready to burst out. I feel selfish, savouring this moment, this panorama alone, when Fran should be here. For a number of glorious years, we shared it together. We held hands like young girls and breathing heavily from our exertions, we enjoyed the view together. It made me cry and left me wondering if I would ever have to face the world without her.
Fran would catch me crying and putting her arms around me she would say ‘is my Baby sad?’ or ‘come to Fran, little Ellie’ or ‘tell Fran what is making Ellie cry’. She would draw me to her and I would put off the inevitable thought of ever having to spend the rest of my life without her.
A fox emerges from a thicket. It is the most beautiful fox I have ever seen, distinctly red in the morning sun and with a brush so thick, I wonder if it has been grooming itself for its public appearance. It stops, sits and looks at me, quite unconcerned. It has no fear. I have seen foxes before, and badgers, but this specimen is so grandiloquent, I am tempted to think he wishes to be admired. He licks his fur, as if an afterthought has prompted him to put finishing touches to his admirable appearance.
Fran loves foxes too. Indeed, it was she who introduced me to the dangerous excitement of the anti-fox-hunting demonstrations. Once more I am reminded of her. Is there no let-up? Can I not make my decision without such painful remembrances?
Something disturbs Renard and he darts into the undergrowth. He has seen the man with the gun before I do. The local farmer is out shooting rabbits. He is a neighbour and I know him. He waves his cap to me and I wave back.
I have no wish for conversation so I resume my run, heading down the hill towards the tiny country church. I hear the gun boom behind me. It is loud and sets off my tinnitus, spoiling my appreciation of the early morning quiet. It also gets me to thinking about killing.
This man has shot a rabbit. He has killed for food. He will take it home and Mrs Farmwife will remove the buckshot, skin it, clean it and pop it in a boiling pot with stock, onions, carrots and other vegetables. The family will sit down to eat it this evening with clear consciences.
Is this acceptable? I reach the kissing gate and by some impulse, enter the churchyard. Is God here? I wonder. Was he here when Fran had her stroke? Was he watching when that cruel bleed in her brain took away her independence, speech and movement? Did he sigh and think to himself, ‘That’s the last of my quota for today’?
I stop outside the church porch, realising I am breathless, not with running, but with anger.
Did God punish us because we loved each other?
If it is punishment, then it is too severe. Watching Fran unable to form her words, unable to move, weeping with frustration…yet at other times, showing happiness when I read to her – it was all so cruel. Such contentment comes over her face when I read Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy or a Wordsworth poem.
I brush away my tears of rage and leave the churchyard. There is nothing for me there. Not unless there is a miracle. Not unless I return to the cottage and Fran is standing in the doorway, smiling a greeting. Not unless she reaches out with her arms and I fall into them, weeping tears of joy and we crush each other’s bodies mercilessly with our hugging. Then I would visit that church, give thanks and pledge my undying support.
I am now jogging through the brambles and gorse, watching my feet because I do not want to snag myself. The brush growth is higher than my head and for a few moments, I cannot see.
I suddenly remember where I left my woollen gloves. They are on the chair in the alcove, underneath the cushion.
The purple cushion that I had showed Fran the night before, hoping to elicit some response from her.
Give me a sign Fran. Please give me a sign.
I am sprinting hard now. I feel confined by this vegetation, stifled by claustrophobia. My legs are pumping; my arms are like pistons. My body is a powerhouse, my heart a dynamo. The effort is clearing my brain. I need an empty mind, devoid of thoughts, feelings, emotions, opinions, morals, ethics. I need a decision.
It is simple. Do I use the cushion or not?
I am on the flat and heading towards the cottage. I punish myself. If I am to do it, then I must be strong. It is not easy to kill what you love. My calf muscles ache and I have a painful stitch. I have not reached this level of physical performance before.
Why should Fran suffer more? She has had enough.
It is as if my breathing will tear my lungs from my chest or my pounding blood will burst my heart. I must be strong. It must be quick.
The village comes to life. I see the postman’s van, the paperboy, a commuter with a briefcase ambling towards the small railway station. Everything is so normal, belying the turmoil inside my breast.
I am home. There will be no miracle, no sign. The age of miracles is gone. I must bear the thought of life without Fran. For her sake. I am in the cottage and she is sleeping.
I pick up the cushion. My woollen gloves fall to the floor. She looks so beautiful, so peaceful as I move towards her. I kiss her goodbye. A simple loving kiss on the cheek.
Fran opens her eyes. Do I see understanding there? Support for my intention?
I read nothing in her eyes.
Yet I am aware of a touch on my wrist. At first I think it is imagination, but her hand has moved and her fingers are resting on my wrist, her forefinger fractionally stroking my arm.
I drop the cushion. It is the first time she has moved in months. I have made my journey. Can Fran now make hers?
It is not a miracle. But it is certainly a sign.
Judge's comments: This is a wonderfully well-written story. It tells of the poignant, but troubling thoughts Ellie is facing as she goes about her morning run. Ellie is trying to come to terms with her partner’s sudden, debilitating stroke. And she makes a decision, which I think many readers would empathise with. But right at the end, Ellie’s partner does something that offers hope. It’s the smallest of details, but it means this story ends on an uplifting note. And, as someone who knows of a friend currently going through a similar situation, it’s a story that I could really empathise with.
Second prize of £50 awarded to Louise Mangos, Switzerland
English-born Louise Mangos lives in Switzerland with her Kiwi husband and two sons, and when she’s not writing short stories, flash fiction and novels, she enjoys painting, cycling, kayaking and cross-country skiing in the Alps. One of her psychological thriller novels is currently under submission to agents and publishers, another is in the process of being edited, and she is plotting a third. You can connect with Louise on Facebook and Twitter @LouiseMangos, or visit her website www.louisemangos.com
The Summer of '76
‘Don’t disturb him,’ I whispered as I backed out of the pool house.
Karen giggled behind fingers pressed theatrically to her pursed lips, and thrust one bikini-clad bony hip forward in an over-exaggerated model’s pose. A breeze swung the door, and the sun reflected off a windowpane, sending shards of light over the tongue-in-groove walls of the shed. Anthony Morrison lay on his back on a bench, one leg propped on the floor. The towel lying across his lap fluttered upwards briefly, and Karen emitted an immature ‘Oooh!’
Let him sleep, I thought, anticipating his embarrassment when he woke to find three of his sister’s adolescent friends staring at him. Anthony didn’t move.
‘He must have raided Colonel Morrison’s drinks cabinet,’ Karen said jokingly.
‘Hey, Jennifer!’ Sarah yelled towards the pool as our friend pulled herself out of the water onto the edge. Jennifer bounced her head sideways, thumping the upward turned temple with the palm of her hand to dislodge water from her ear. We had all been doing handstands in the water. Her newly-permed curls sprinkled drops on the paving, already fading on the warm stone as she walked towards us.
‘Your brother’s dead drunk,’ said Sarah.
‘Anthony? He wouldn’t dare. He’s in there?’ Jennifer pushed past the three of us and peered into the darkness of the pool house. Her bare heels thumped an increasing timbre on the wooden floorboards.
‘Oh my God. Someone go and get my Mum.’ Her voice was tight with panic.
The sunlight suddenly shone too brightly. Veins rippled innocently on the turquoise floor of the pool, and the sultry afternoon air suffocated us in its heavy blanket. Karen’s feet slapped urgently along the path tiles towards the main house, her prints drying in the sun as she ran, as though pursued by an invisible menace.
The beery smell of harvested barley floated over the hedge from a nearby field, spinning straw dust across the garden. The pigeons continued their gentle cooing on the tarpaper roof of the rose-clad pool house, oblivious to the catatonic tension now palpable between the two remaining girls standing outside the pool house door, hands clamped over our mouths.
I had been in love with Simon Morrison since the beginning of fourth year at grammar. Every afternoon after school he rode up to the bus stop on his red Garelli. When he removed his full-face helmet, my heart clenched as a shiny mop of hair cascaded around his face. I know it was only a moped, but it looked like a real motorbike, and I don’t think I was the only who swooned. He had even removed the left pedal, keeping the right one on so he could start the beast.
As he arrived at the bus stop he made a daring U-Turn so the pedal-less side of his bike faced the crowd. We were all impressed, especially the boys from grammar, who wished they didn’t have to take the school bus home with a gaggle of noisy girls. I always sat at the back with my best friend Sarah so I could watch Simon start off behind us. He would lean hard on the throttle to scream daringly past us in a heart-stopping overtaking manoeuvre, his tall body bending first one way and then the other in a fluid dance of curves around the bus.
We touched once. It was at the Youth Club disco in the early summer before school broke up. Sarah and I spent most of the evening leaning against the brick wall of the village hall, watching the dance floor. The lads gathered into a circle in the muggy dark heat in full leather regalia, and danced to Thin Lizzy and Hawkwind. Their strained pubescent voices could never quite get the timing right as they wailed the lyrics of Silver Machine. When the DJ settled on something slower, Simon made his way to the toilets at the back of the hall.
I grabbed Sarah and stood in the corridor between the hall and the toilets. We leaned against the pale yellow walls, sticky with decades of nicotine-stained gloss paint. We slouched nonchalantly, as though we had been there for hours, sipping warm Tizer, and waiting for Simon to come out of the men’s toilet. A slow and sultry Barry White number filtered through from the hall. Simon came out of the men’s room pulling his fingers through his shiny hair. My heart bounced down to the pit of my stomach, and I pushed off the wall as he walked towards us, my eyes begging him to ask me to dance.
He smiled at me, and I thought I would die on the spot. And then as he reached out and put his hand on my wrist, causing all the hairs on my arm to spring up, the DJ put on Lou Rawls You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine. It was one of those songs that was neither slow nor fast. Couples already locked into to each other on the dance floor carried on swaying, increasing their movement to the beat of the song. But for the wallflowers like me, it was not the song to easily start an intimate dance.
Simon tilted his head, his eyes glancing to the ceiling as he contemplated Lou’s R&B voice. He frowned, and trailed his fingers over the knob of my wrist bone, flipping my stomach.
‘See ya,’ he said, and was gone, the place where his fingers had touched my wrist still fizzing. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I stared at his retreating back, until Sarah nudged me and we moved back into the hall. The boys had all skulked into the darkest corner. My chance had passed.
The Morrisons had a huge posh house on the outskirts of our village. Jennifer Morrison sometimes hung out with us after lunch at school by the bike sheds. She was the first one of our group to dare try a cigarette. We gawped at her with admiration when she pulled out a pack of ten Number 6 and a box of Swan matches. She earned our respect that day. I wouldn’t ordinarily have been friends with Jennifer, but apart from the fact that I was in love with her brother, she had a pool in her garden. And school would soon be over, along with my regular chance of seeing Simon in the afternoons.
The pool turned out to be a major bonus in that long, hot summer of ’76, until the very last week of the holidays.
Mrs Morrison said we could use the pool any time. She said she was happy it had any use at all, seeing as her first son didn’t seem to enjoy the water and her second was more interested in his motorbike. She even told us we could use the pool when Jennifer wasn’t there, during her tennis lessons on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. I took advantage of this, convincing Sarah to come with me, in the hope of catching a glimpse of Simon. Sometimes he was tinkering with his bike in the cool shade of the garage, content amongst his shiny tools and the pungent smell of oil. He often shifted his stance as I passed, his Doc Martins rasping on the rough concrete garage floor, and I might be awarded a momentary glance, sometimes a smile. That would make the half-mile walk from my house worth it.
Mrs Morrison appeared through the French windows across the patio, kicking off the heels that impeded her progress. She looked ten years younger running barefoot across the lawn, her floral skirt lifted to reveal a pair of suntanned calves.
It wasn’t until we heard the ambulance siren we realised something was seriously wrong with Anthony. Jennifer had joined us by then, hands covering her face and sobbing.
‘He’s a diabetic,’ she explained. ‘It didn’t start until after an accident we had in Dad’s Jag when I was about four. They think it was triggered by the shock. The back door of the car half crushed his leg after the impact of the lorry. Simon and I were fine on the other side of the car.’
We looked at Jennifer in horror. A car accident!
‘Does he have to, you know… inject himself?’ Karen asked in dismay. Jennifer nodded, wiping her nose.
‘We didn’t realise what was wrong until a few months after the accident. He was always thirsty. Then Mum found him around the side of the house one day, sucking water from the garden hose. He’s… he must be in a diabetic coma. The trouble is, we haven’t seen him all day and don’t know whether he’s taken his insulin. We don’t know whether he’s hypo or hyper…’ Jennifer sobbed. She had me lost with the technicalities, but my stomach rolled sickeningly. This didn’t sound good.
As Jennifer went to show the paramedics the side entrance to the garden, Mrs Morrison came out of the pool house ringing her hands.
‘What are you all still doing here?’ Her voice shook dangerously. ‘This isn’t a circus. It’s time you all went home now! There’s nothing to see.’ She glared at us with a red face and eyes swollen with unshed tears. I blushed. The longer I hung around, the more chance I had of seeing Simon, although he hadn’t been in the garage that day. I now realised it looked bad, us hanging around. She thought we wanted a bit of sensational news to carry home. Her admonishment made me feel hot with unfounded shame.
School started again after the holidays, but Jennifer wasn’t there for a couple of weeks. When she did come back, there was a silent charity of tension, everyone treating her with respectful reverence. Because nobody knew what to say.
The friendship between Sarah and I had cooled off. I caught her one day with a group of girls in third year talking about ‘the dead body’ she had seen in the Morrison’s pool house. I felt sad for Anthony Morrison. He’d lost his identity, ended up being just a ‘dead body’. It made me feel queasy every time I saw Sarah.
Simon didn’t start school either for a while. Then one afternoon, before Jennifer started coming back, he turned up at the bus stop on his bike. Instead of the usual jeering, the crowd shuffled about a bit, stared at him, and whispered amongst themselves. Without thinking, I pushed myself away from where I had been leaning in the bus shelter and walked over to him on his bike, heart thumping in my chest.
‘I’m so sorry about your brother, Simon.’ I bit my lip. ‘We thought he was just sleeping.’
He stared at me, eyes wide.
‘You were there?’
I swallowed, wishing I could take back those last words. His accusatory look shot like a knife from his blue eyes, and stabbed me right in the middle of my heart, as though he thought I could have saved his brother. I wondered if he thought I might even have contributed to his death. I paled, thought I was going to throw up right there in front of Simon Morrison.
Eventually my throat clenched, not with bile, but unshed tears. Whatever hope I had of securing his love now burned and died.
Once we were settled back into the routine of school, and the weather finally broke at the end of the summer, Karen stopped coming round to my place. We no longer listened to the Capital countdown. Kiki and Elton’s silly song had the number one spot for weeks, but I no longer cared. Elton John had me hooked on another, more sombre number, and by the time autumn began fluttering its leaves onto the surface of the Morrison’s pool, I’d still be sitting by my window singing ‘What’ve I got to do to make you love me?’ feeling very sorry. The hardest word of all.
Judge's comments: Although not a happy story, this was a pleasure to read because of the atmosphere it evoked. The weather was almost a character in itself, such was the intensity of the heat. Indeed, this reads as one intense memory, where the pictures are so vivid the event feels as though it were only yesterday.
Third prize of £25 awarded to Dianne Bown-Wilson of Exeter
Dianne Bown-Wilson is a short-story writer and freelance journalist. She has had her work published in several print and online anthologies including the Momaya Short Story Review and Fresher Writing. She was born in the UK and spent her childhood in New Zealand. After
living in London, Cheshire and Oxfordshire she now lives in Devon (A Very Creative Place) with her partner and two cats. https://diannebownwilson.wordpress.com/
Third - Would Love To Meet
"Gin and tonic, please." The man is unsmiling but polite, impeccably dressed in an elegant grey suit and tie. Tiredness etches crevices in his lightly-tanned face, any spark in his blue eyes is dead.
The barman, hand already outstretched towards his customer’s usual tomato juice, can’t help but comment: "Oh. Pushing the boat out tonight?"
"No, just in need of a pick-me-up." The man sighs; an understatement if ever there was one. In a matter of minutes he’ll be on duty and here he is feeling like a sixty-year-old tortoise hiked out of hibernation.
What was it his teacher had said all those years ago? "If nothing else Watson, you can always be an actor. You could charm the birds off the trees and convince them day was night if you had to, though where that’ll get you in the end, Lord only knows!"
Well, this was where it’d got him - propping up a West End bar waiting to spend the evening as a paid escort to some poor cow who’ll pour out her life story to him over expensive food that no longer tastes of anything and alcohol he can only allow himself to sip. Tonight, as ever, he’ll remain skillfully sober while apparently matching her every glass until, at last, at home and left to his own devices he can gulp down as much as it takes to block out the pain.
"Michael Watson?"
A light touch on his arm - he spins round. His response is immediate, honed by months of practice: "Suzy - I’m so glad to meet you! I can call you Suzy, can’t I? You must call me Mike. But I’m so sorry - here I am, lost in thought, when I should have had my eyes glued on the door awaiting your arrival. Will you ever forgive me?"
The woman, slim, but nearly as tall as he, looks at him quizzically, half-smiling, but proffers no reply other than a slight shrug of her shoulders.
Unfazed, he continues: "Why don’t I order us a nice glass of champagne and we can sit in that cosy corner over there?" As he speaks he slips his hand protectively under her elbow and steers her towards a velvet-clad banquette, signalling his habitual order to the barman. What woman could fail to be impressed?
As they sit down he leads her through his opening repertoire - asking after her journey, complimenting her on some aspect of her appearance - his mind struggling all the while to click into gear in the way it must if he’s to get through the hours ahead. Unfortunately, she seems to be one of the few quiet ones, responding with perfunctory, though pleasant enough, replies, offering him no respite from his struggle to perform. Despite her blonde, slightly faded, good looks and an outfit that suggests an innate and assured sense of style, he sighs inwardly. Judging by her general air of self-composure this one isn’t going to be easy.
He prays that the champagne will provide salvation. "Cheers, here’s to you," he murmurs in a way that usually makes even the most diffident women wilt.
She half-lifts her glass as if agreeing and then stops, fixing him with a look both direct and compelling. For a moment, the blue-green of her eyes draws him like an oasis in a desert and he forces himself to look away.
"Actually, no, here’s to you," she says firmly with a hint of laughter. "What a terrible job you have doing this all the time. At least there’s an element of novelty for me, not having tried this before, but assuming you’re not completely brain dead it must be awful for you. So, definitely, let’s drink to you."
He’s so surprised he laughs out loud, for once at a loss for words.
Her eyes fix him with the intensity of a laser. "So why do you do it?" she asks, hitting him below the belt with a question that only ever comes, if at all, at that stage of the evening when he has to explain in the most tactful way possible that spending the night with them, or any significant physical contact at all, simply isn’t an option.
"I like it," he lies.
She studies him quizzically: "Really? What exactly do you like?"
As she speaks he is distracted by her finely-shaped eyebrows, supressing an impulse to reach out and gently trace round them. Concentrate! He’s glad that he’s answered the question often enough to be able to trot out a lucid explanation: "I’ve been lonely since my wife died and this is a wonderful chance to meet lovely ladies and survey the field without having to be too committed…"
She nods, but looks unconvinced. "I don’t believe a word of it," she smiles. "It’s about as believable as me telling you that I’d paid your agency the equivalent of half a week’s wages for your company simply because I couldn’t get a date any other way. Do you believe that?"
He pauses, disconcerted. This woman is dangerous! On the other hand, just how risky would it be to allow her access to any atom of what he really thinks or feels? She seems so unlike any previous client it’s difficult to know.
At last he speaks: "Actually no, though that situation is true for many of the ladies I meet."
"But if I said that the reason I’m here with you was that in two years I’ve never met a man I could even face the idea of spending one date with and I’m now so desperate for a proper evening out that I’m prepared to pay for it, would you believe me then?" She smiles again, but while her tone is challenging he senses that she’s sincere.
"Um, maybe, though if so then I think that’s very sad."
"Well, there you are then. It’s sad for me and I don’t know what it is for you. So, on that basis why don’t we agree not to play games this evening and just be truthful and have a good time? I don’t know you and you don’t know me so there must be something we can chat about even if you don’t want to unload your secrets. Wouldn’t that be preferable to hours of talking absolute rubbish?"
He nods his agreement, disarmed.
"So, tell me about where you were born, and what your Mum and Dad were like, and where you went to school, and later on you might want to tell me more."
For the first time since meeting his wife Megan thirty years earlier Mike is completely captivated. It isn’t mere physical attraction, although Suzy paints a very pleasing picture; rather the comfort of their rapport which settles around him like a warm blanket on a chill night. Everything about her just seems so natural, as if he’d known her for years. Her conversation is light, engaging, and amusingly frank. Clearly she’s a woman who squares up both to herself and the world around her with pragmatism and good humour, seemingly with none of the neurosis that forms the DNA of most of his clients.
"Trouble is, as a busy, middle-aged maths teacher you don’t easily come across a whole raft of potential suitors to choose from," she confides, matter-of-factly. "But aside from that, post-divorce life is okay. I don’t mind my own company - it’s generally a relief at the end of the sort of day I usually have - but sometimes I long for a night out somewhere like this. A five-star treat, just for me!"
Mike smiles and thinks that he’d love nothing more than to provide a five-star treat for her every day.
As the evening wears on and the waiter brings their final course he is suddenly consumed by a huge sense of disappointment, even panic, at how rapidly the time is passing. Yet, at the same time, an alarm bell begins to sound somewhere in his brain. Is he falling for her? Is this what it feels like? If so, what on earth is he going to do about it? It seems inconceivable that he can just let her go with a peck on the cheek and a hearty "Perhaps I’ll see you again some time" as he does with the others. The fact that she gives every indication of feeling the same way about him makes matters even worse. Can he, should he, tell her the truth?
He can remember exactly what Megan said before the disease completely took hold but tonight is the first time he’s come anywhere near to putting it to the test.
"When it gets to that time, I want you to find someone else. You’ll still be quite young and I know you’ll look after me, but I could go on for years not really being your wife any longer. You must promise me you will."
Eventually he had agreed – but only to soothe her mounting agitation. Now, facing a situation he’d previously believed impossible, can he embark on a relationship with someone new?
By the end of the evening, coffee cups cleared, he knows he’s no option but to try. Taking a deep breath he speaks quietly: "Earlier this evening you asked me why I did this, and I fobbed you off with a lie."
Suzy nods: "Yes, you did."
"I’ve never before told anyone the real reason why I do this, but I want to share it with you." Her sympathetic look encourages him to continue. "In fact my wife isn’t dead, she’s in a home. Although she’s only fifty-eight she has Alzheimer’s disease. So I do this on top of my normal job to pay for her care - I don’t much like it but it’s the least I can do."
Waiting for a reaction, he fumbles with the stem of his glass, unable to look into her eyes for fear of what he might see there. Moments pass, then Suzy finally speaks, "Does that mean you’re still married in your heart?"
"I don’t know - until tonight I’ve never had to consider it. Megan no longer has any idea who I am, so although I still love her and I’ve never had any physical relationship with anyone else, to say that we’re still married seems to be rather stretching the point. I still love her but not in the same way. Does that answer your question?"
She reaches across the table and places her hand lightly on his. "Yes…" she says, "But it does raise another one." At the directness of her tone he braces himself for the worst, wondering what she will ask, unable to contemplate losing her now.
To his astonishment she grins disarmingly. "Is there any chance of seeing you again without paying such an exorbitant fee? If not, you’re going to be a very expensive hobby, Mr Watson."
Judge's comments: Michael is an escort. At first I wasn’t sure if I liked Michael, but as the story moved on I realised he wasn’t doing this out of choice. And that’s what kept me reading. Why? When you find out why, it then raises another moral dilemma. But by the end of the story I’d come to like Michael, and I wanted things to work out for him.
Fourth prize of £25 awarded to Alan Nicholls of Worcester
Alan writes for fun, rather than profit, but is not above accepting cash if offered. He has four published short stories, three of them on line and over a dozen competition short listings.
His work-in-progress novel, Brockberrow, has been more than ten years in gestation and it is probable that the manuscript will be used to stoke the furnace when he fetches up at the Crematorium.
Alan is leader of the Worcester U3A Creative Writing Group, but only because no-one else wanted the job.
http://anoldwhinestale.blogspot.com
THE TRAIL TO COUSIN MYRTLE’S
Fat Abe’s Gas Station was a dirty yard at the far end of Rotting Possum‘s dusty main street. It was littered with oil drums and long-dead tyres and in a corner was a battered pick-up loaded with crates seething with raucous chickens. It boasted a couple of dilapidated gas pumps, a rickety shed with shame-faced pretensions to being an office, and a wooden bench upon which floundered the gargantuan backside of one of the fattest guys I’d ever seen.
"You Fat Abe?" I bawled, to make myself heard above the chickens. "I’m Harry Homer, Myrtle Homer’s cousin from England. I’m just off the bus from Memphis and Myrtle’s arranged for me to pick up her vehicle here to take on to Coyote Falls."
The fat guy stared through me for a moment, then took a long drag on a huge cigar before thoughtfully delving his fat fingers in to the stubbly depths of his multitudinous chins.
"Yup," he admitted, "I’m Fat Abe, but right now Mister I’m closed."
"Closed?"
"Closed," He waved his cigar dismissively. "Break time, Mister, I’m all closed up."
"OK," I yelled, "so, any one here who can help?"
"Nope, been here on my own all morning an’ I’m all tuckered out, so y’all have to wait till my break’s through."
"Guess you’ve had a busy day then?"
Fat Abe pondered, before blowing a large, perfectly circular smoke ring, which slowly disintegrated over my face in an evil-smelling fog.
"Nope, y’all my first customer today, Mister."
"Well then," I said, coughing politely amid the smoke, "how about I pick up Myrtle Homer’s car now, and then you can keep going with your break as long as it suits you?"
"Nope," said Fat Abe, "If I do that, I’ll have folk a-turnin’ up here all hours, just to suit their convenience, y’all gotta wait, Mister."
"OK, OK!" The long, hot, bus ride from Memphis had left me grouchy, "so just tell me when you’ll reopen."
Fat Abe favoured me with another smoke ring. "About half an hour, Mister, if I’m feeling amiable."
"Don’t put yourself out on my account," I murmured.
I heard sniggering behind me, and turning, found a small shifty-looking crowd of townsfolk eying me with disquieting curiosity. I decided to play things cool.
"Anywhere I can get a drink while I’m waiting?"
Fat Abe pointed down the side-walk. "Zak’s Bar’s just down there apiece; Zak’ll rustle you something, if he‘s feelin’ amiable."
"Thanks for all your help," I said.
I pushed through the batwing doors in to the Zak’s Bar, followed by the street crowd, and found more shifty folk clustered around the bar and tables. The bartender eyed me suspiciously.
"You Zak?" I asked.
"Guess I’m Zak," he said
"Beer, Zak," I said, "if you’re feeling amiable."
Zak reached for a bottle, bit off the metal cap and pushed the bottle towards me. "What brings y’all to Rotting Possum then, stranger?"
"I’ve come from England to visit my cousin in Coyote Falls."
This statement provoked a buzz of excitement and a pimply woman wearing tattered dungarees shouted, "Coyote Falls? Y’all a-goin’ to visit Cousin Myrtle Homer?"
I was surprised "Yes, but how do you know that it’s Myrtle Homer who’s my cousin?"
"Well," said Zak, "nobody but Myrtle Homer do live at Coyote Falls, an we all a-knowin’ Myrtle Homer, cos Myrtle’s our cousin too. We’re all cousins round these parts, Mister, ‘ceptin’, of course, if y’all a McNamara who ain’t cousins to no-one but themselves an’ all of ‘em downright onery".
Zak slapped his forehead, dramatically. "Jeez, if Cousin Myrtle’s our cousin, and this dude’s Cousin Myrtle’s cousin, then he gotta be our cousin too!" This observation provoked uproar, and people crowded around, slapping my back, poking my ribs and shouting ‘Welcome Cousin,’ ‘Dang me,’ ‘Lawksamussy,’ and similar rustic phrases. The pimply woman tried to kiss me, but she was ugly and had B.O., so I ducked. I was extremely shaken by this unexpected outbreak of cousins and thought that Cousin Myrtle might previously have mentioned them.
"Lawdy" shouted Zak, "I never knew we had an English cousin. There’s nobody in Rotting Possum ever bin further than Catfish Creek, this is more excitin' than a whole mess o' molasses."
"My hubby Joe always said we come from England way back," said the pimply woman. "Old Zeke Homer, Joe’s Daddy, swore that the Homers was English lords who high-tailed it out ‘cos the King had a mind to be a-sawin’ their heads off."
"Old Zeke Homer died of moonshine poisoning," scoffed a man. "He talked eyewash mostly. The Homers weren’t never lords, not even in Catfish Creek, but come a-runnin’ up here from Missouri after Huckleberry Homer done shot the Sherriff there."
This debate on the Homers’ ancestry was interrupted by the wail of a klaxon. "Hey, that’s Fat Abe’s break time finished," said Zak. "Y’all better get off quick, Cousin, ‘afore he shuts for dinner.
I left the bar immediately, trailed by all my new cousins. Fat Abe was still on the bench, puffing a cigar and cradling a can of beer. I sighed. The thought that this elephantine degenerate was probably a blood relative was humiliating.
"I’ll take Cousin Myrtle’s vehicle, now," I said, "if it’s convenient."
Fat Abe fingered his chins for a moment. "Guess that’s OK, Mister. Looks like y’all next in line,
anyway."
Fat Abe felt in his dungarees pocket and threw me a key, then pointed to the chicken-laden pick up. "There y’are Mister, all gassed up and ready. Myrtle Homer will be most appreciative of you deliverin’ her chickens."
I stared at the pick–up in disbelief. The clucking was deafening and I could almost touch the smell. The interior was filthy, the upholstery torn, and I was sure I could see daylight on the passenger side where the floor was rotting away.
"I‘m not driving that," I said. "Not with all that clucking and chicken stink and anyway that truck’ll disintegrate before it gets out of town. And I understand the road to Coyote Falls is none too good?"
"Not exactly a road," said Zak "It’s just a track as far as Deadmans Creek, then y’all gotta take care you don’t get stuck in the swamp. Them water snakes don’t take kindly to bein’ disturbed, and Cousin Jethro swears there’s ‘gaitors in there . Somethin’ ornery took his leg off a while back anyways. After the swamp, it’s straight over Skull Mountain an’ through the pass, an’ if there ain’t no McNamaras a-waitin to blast your ass, it’s a straight run down to Cousin Myrtle’s."
"I can’t drive that," I whined, " don’t you have a car I can rent?"
"Nope," said Fat Abe. "Had one, but the McNamaras’s shot it up on Skull Mountain. Cousin Elmo Homer got lucky that day, the cougars finished him off afore the McNamaras got to him. Now Mister, y’all better get them chickens a-movin’, cos Myrtle Homer’ll be dang-blasted ornery if they ain’t in Coyote Falls by nightfall."
"Best take ‘em, Cousin Harry," advised Zak. "Cousin Myrtle do get badly riled when she’s crossed and there ain’t no accountin’ what’ll she do when she catches up with y’all."
I left Rotting Possum with the cheers of my new cousins scarcely audible above the noise of the chickens. The pick-up lurched and bounced alarmingly along the deeply rutted trail and the gear stick had a mind of its own, often preferring a different slot to the one I’d selected. The dust was choking me, and the constant jolting was exhausting. However, when I reached Deadmans Creek, an hour down the trail, the ruts became a quagmire concealed beneath standing water, Several times I left the vehicle to check if it was safe to proceed, and was subjected to attacks from squadrons of mosquitoes, cheered on by the ever-vocal chickens.
It was late afternoon before I cleared the swampland and commenced the winding ascent of Skull Mountain. The trail had reverted to its rutted state, making progress slow, and the sun was setting when I eventually drove through the pass and began the descent to Coyote Falls. I hadn’t got far when I saw a notice by the side of the trail:
WARNING
This heres McNamara country!!
HOMERS SHOT ON SIGHT
Yall got that?
So high tail it out RIGHT NOW!!!!!
Although the notice was intimidating, I was more concerned about the pick-up parked beside it, the tall bearded man sitting on the bonnet with a shotgun over his knees, and the three armed, bearded men who were standing grinning at me with malicious anticipation.
"My oh my," said the man on the bonnet, "if that ain’t Myrtle Homers old pick up. Are you in there, Myrtle Homer?"
One of the men sauntered over and peered in at me "Sure don’t look like Myrtle Homer, lots purtier than Myrtle Homer."
Everyone except me laughed.
"Not Fat Abe come a-visitin, Padraig?" asked the man on the bonnet.
"Nope, Shamus" said Padraig, "lots purtier than Fat Abe, too."
Shamus slid off the bonnet and strolled over, his hand cupped round his ear. "Now, what’s all that cluckin’ there, Padraig? I do believe I’m hearin’ chickens."
Shamus examined the chicken crates, casually poking at the protesting birds with the barrel of his shotgun.
"Well now" he said, sorrowfully, "looks like Miss Myrtle got some new chickens, so soon after we hijacked the last lot, too; some folk don’t never learn. And who might you be, Mister?"
"I’m Harry Homer, Myrtle Homer’s English cousin, just passing through. Sorry to be a nuisance; if you could point me in the right direction...?"
"Oh my," said Shamus, "here’s us all a-lyin’ in wait for Homers and one drives up and surrenders." He looked at me, thoughtfully. "Don’t seem right to be a-shootin’ him straight off, though, him bein’ a stranger an’ all, an’ not knowin’ our ways, t‘ain’t hospitable. Not much fun for us neither."
"OK, Harry Homer," he decided. "Myrtles place is down the trail a-ways. You get goin’ now, real quick, cos me and the boys are a-countin’ to ten, then we’re a-comin’ after you and gonna shoot y’all stone dead afore y’all get to Myrtle Homer’s. One………."
I didn’t hear "two", as I was already careering wildly down the trail with the Mcnamaras, whooping excitedly, chasing me down in their truck. In my mirror I could see Shamus on the back of his vehicle, firing at me over the cab. Shot was peppering my pick-up, and hysterical squawking from the chickens indicated that they were taking heavy casualties. Then, unaccountably, the McNamaras’ pick–up swerved and overturned, catapulting Shamus head first in to a bush. Down the trail in front of me a small figure was brandishing a large rifle and jigging about triumphantly.
I drove down and stopped beside the figure, a tiny grey-haired woman, who seemed to be incredibly angry with me.
"Lawd save us, Harry Homer, y’all got my chickens shot, you dang dumb fool."
So this was Cousin Myrtle. Padraig had been right, I was lots prettier than she was.
I followed Cousin Myrtle in to her house and was astounded to find Fat Abe, reclining in an easy chair, drinking beer and blowing smoke-rings.
"What the hell are you doing here," I asked.
"I’m a-visitin’," said Fat Abe. "Myrtle Homer is my Mummy, Cousin Harry."
So Fat Abe was my cousin; my humiliation was confirmed. "But how did you get here before me?" I asked.
"Cousin Young Sherriff Seth brung me in his helicopter, Cousin Harry, cuts out all that crap with the trail, the swamp an’ the McNamaras an’ all."
"You came by helicopter," I yelled, "and I drove the pick up? Couldn’t you have brought me as well?"
" Sure could," said Fat Abe, "but if we’d had given y’all a ride in the helicopter, who in hell would’ve brung Mummys chickens?"
Judge's comments: A brilliantly funny story.
Highly Commended awarded to Kevin Brooke, Worcester for Alternate Voices
Judge's comments:A poignant story of William finally finding his place in the world.
Highly Commended awarded to Pam Eaves, Essex for Getting Found Out
I love it when a daft, elderly character is actually clever enough to fool the authorities!
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