Tag Archives: story

A Short Story

Once upon a time…

… there was a short story.

It wasn’t long at all;

and it wasn’t at all tall.

So short it was,

and set out so,

that it thought it was a poem;

but, it wasn’t.

It didn’t have much to say;

but, one day,

under the bluest of skies,

It left it’s home

and went off to seek fame and fortune.

Finding neither,

the short story settled down

with an extract from Coleridge’s Mariner,

and they lived happily ever after.


Deadmen Point – a Story (in one sitting) for Halloween.

Celtic? Who knows?

Deadmen Point from the South West

Deadmen Point – a story in one sitting for Halloween.
I was lost. I’d been lost before, but this time I was ‘not’ going to find my way out, or be found… alive.
How I got here was no riddle – I was directed down this road by ‘seemingly-cloned’ chaps who I thought were drop-outs from a Penzance Pirate Party. Slightly lacking in the small-talk department, they all unnervingly pointed me southwards when I asked for directions to the A38.
Then the car stopped – one of those ‘I’m not going any further, today!’ sort of stoppages. I swore a bit. Then, I swore a lot.
I tried turning it off and on again – nothing, nada, zipperoni. More words to the gods.
So, I left it. And walked.
I walked in what I thought was the direction back to the main road; but, I seemed to be drawn inevitably towards the coast.
The darkened night was staying out late, and I was the unwilling traveller set upon a course to an unknown destination.
I hadn’t dressed for the chill; and my footwear was too ‘Berluti’ to cope with the rigours of these Cornish highways. This wasn’t a Sunday walk across the estate to survey one’s inheritance – this was a nightmare.
I stumbled, fell, tore the knee on my Canalis, and swore a bit more – I was certainly filling up the swear-jar tonight!
Picking myself up, and dusting myself off, I continued. On. To ‘who-knows-where?’
After an endless succession of steps, I reached the headland. Cross? There certainly was. A huge ‘Celtic?’one.

No, it didn’t seem to be Celtic in origin – it was squarer, and what did I know? Were there ‘squarer’ Celtic crosses?
Anyway, by the cross was a small brazier and a gathering of souls. They huddled in that area like proverbial moths. 
I was drawn. With little say in the matter my scuffed footwear headed toward the enticement of the flames.
The group of barely detailed bodies (bodies?!) moved aside to let me through. As I passed amongst them their cold breath left their lungs and wrapped around me.
I was lost. I’d been lost before; but, this time, I was really lost.

Thy found the car the next morning – its engine still running – in a layby on the A38.
They never found me.

A Man Walks Into a Bar


From a prompt by Jane Goldsack

Prompt: Man walks into a bar

Arthur Deco walked into the Nineteen-Twenty bar in downtown Cityville; his need for a strong drink overriding his desire to get home.
Arthur walked up to the bar and ordered a neat double- malt bourbon and a Copycat to follow.

“A ‘Copycat,’ sir? What’s one of those?” asked the slim and anxious-looking bartender.

“A ‘Copycat’ means the same again. You just keep ’em comin’ – when I tell you to stop… ‘then’ you can just close the shop up for me.”

“Does that mean I can ‘stop’ serving you? You sure make it hard for a man to unnerstan’ what you are sayin’ mister!”

“Just you pour the drinks into my glass and I’ll relocate them down my throat. It’s that simple.”

The bartender / customer relationship worked well after this, as all conversation was muted and both sides kept to their tasks.

Eventually, Arthur positioned his hand over his empty glass.

“All done?” asked the bartender, just to confirm Arthur’s signal.

Arthur nodded.

Taking his wallet from inside his jacket, Arthur released two big bills to momentary freedom on the bar. The bartender rounded them up and rehomed them in seconds, and Arthur nodded his thanks before leaving.

Back in his auto, Arthur started the engine and drove off toward his home.

Drink-driving is a bad, bad thing; but, Arthur was as uncaring about that as he was about the parking ticket under his wiper.

Since his wife and daughter had been killed by a drunk-driver two months ago, Arthur had been on a path to disaster with only one outcome.

The man in the boot was the clown that had killed his loved ones; now, ‘he’ was about to meet a grizzly death.

The pounding from behind him was growing in intensity as Arthur coaxed a bit more MPH out of the old gal -they were doing nearly 90 when they didn’t make the turn on I48.

Arthur was soon reunited with his loved ones.

Sometimes Life throws you a handgrenade; sometimes it has a pin in it.

Start of a Novel – The Man in the Gabardine Mac.


Start Sentence – man in the gabardine mac

The man in the gabardine mac rose to leave seconds after I had exited the room; pushing his way through the crowded après-theatre luvvies and onto London’s glistening streets – freshly cleansed with rain a la mode – to find that I had spirited myself into thin air; causing him to stop two paces beyond the entryway, where he glanced right, left, and right again.
“All safe to cross.” I softly spoke – my gun poised the obligatory five feet away from his back to avoid a spinning kick. The safety was off and I had no need to ask any questions.
“Move forward and let’s head for that black van.”
He moved forwards and, ducking down, spun.
Quieter than even he could hear, I had gone.
He cursed; but, I wasn’t there to hear it.

Where Did All The Money Go?


As inheritances go, this one soon went. The millions were lost (never to be found) in various non-profit-making adventures – though that hadn’t been the intention – and within a year there were no visible a signs of the fortune – and very few signs that ‘he’ had had the misfortune to lack the business acumen to cope with it.
This meant that life had to get back to a reduced reality that only seemed to rub his snub nose into the dirt and shout at him ‘You idiot!’ on a regular basis. Circumstances had meant that he returned to a windowless ground floor (basement, if you like) of an apartment block, where he used to have a pleasant south-facing third-floor suite; and, until recently, owned the whole top-floor penthouse suite with its 360 degree views of the hoi-polloi below – literally as well as figuratively.

Times change. And, sometimes, all too quickly.

Dream Sequences (a story in creation)

A 1926 Bentley

A 1926 Bentley

If he’d turned that starting-handle once, he’d turned it a thousand times – truth be told, he’d never ‘cranked’ an engine into life, in his life; but, in his dreams, still he tried.
“Damn and blast this heap of junk!” he cried to the world. The world seemed to ignore him – then sent him a saviour in the form of Alice Pevensey.

“Hullo! Can I be of some help?” came the soft voice to the ears of Henry Hoshper. “It could be your plugs need a clean.”

Henry looked to where the voice was coming from; and had to gather his composure quite an amount before he could remove the caustic reply he had intended and replaced it with the slightly tame: “Be my guest.”

As is the case with dreams, a lot of the details are cloudy, inconsistent, or outright nonsensical; so, the fact that she had exactly the right size spanners and feeler-gauges to remove, clean, adjust and refit the plugs in the matter of minutes was par for the course.

Obviously the engine now started with the lightest of cranks and purred into life.

“Thanks.” Henry offered. Then added, with a bit more control (and a lot less fluster) “Thank you; that was efficient. Most impressive, Miss…?”

“Pevensey, Alice Pevensey; my friends call me ‘The Mechanic!’ ” she laughed. “Actually, they call me ‘Warden’ due to my initials – Rowan being my middle name.”
There was a twinkling lightness to her voice as if it we’re announcing the arrival of angels.

“I’m Henry Hoshper,” he offered, “as if I was Christened whilst the vicar was under the influence – though it’s never ever been ‘Hotspur’ in my family… I checked.” The offering seemed pretty lame even to him, but Alice kept smiling and patted the bonnet of the 1926 Bentley with a polishing cloth that had appeared in her spotless hand courtesy of the dream’s continuing providence.

Then Henry woke. This was the way of dreams, he thought; just start getting interesting and… “Good morning! Reality here.”

Henry thought for a while. He considered the significance of his dream. Then he quickly realised he didn’t have a clue about the significance of dreams. And why a 1926 Bentley? Did that signify his father, born in 1926, but, long gone now? ARP – there was a Second World War reference for instance; or did they have ARPs in the First World War – for the Zeppelins? No, the Bentley meant in or after 1926. Alice? Was she (or her name) relevant? Wonderland was surely a dream for Alice in Lewis Carroll.

Henry’s head had started hurting. It did that when he thought too hard. He went in search of a pen and some paper – or, even better, a notebook.

Armed with these, and a steaming mug of coffee, (always ‘steaming’ as an adjective, he thought – then dismissed that as being ‘off topic’) he went into the sitting-room (‘old-fashioned term’ he thought – almost called it a ‘parlour’). It was going to be one of ‘those’ days.

Anyway, his dad was never a Bentley; an Austin 7 perhaps; but, never a Bentley.

And why would Henry have one? His tastes didn’t stretch to (or couldn’t afford to) the price of classic cars.

NB this is just the start of an idea written whilst on my walks this morning. If it has any hopes for continuation, then my work gas just begun. Any thoughts on the above please let me know. Thank you, G:)

Tails From The New Forest #1 Squirrel’s Detective Agency?

In the forest
The mighty forest
The squirrel sleeps tonight.

Except for this one night
When he was awoken
By a strange ‘un-forest-like’ noise…

“Ker-a-vick! Ker-a-vick! Ker-a-vick-ma!”

Squizzel (for that was his name) rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and shook his head to clear away his dreams of hidden treasure. He leant out of his bole-hole in an old Oak tree and listened carefully for the sound to happen once more.

In a short time…

“Ker-a-vick! Ker-a-vick! Ker-a-vick-ma-da-na!”

He heard the sound – which was more a single voice – coming from the direction of the fallen tree-trunk.

“I shall have to go take a looksie.” Proclaimed Squizzel, to nobody in particular. And he prepared himself for… “An ‘adventure!’ ”

Squizzel was an only child.

And he lived on his own.

But, he was a good squirrel, a red one at that, with a sense of humour and a love of squirrel-life.

He was also particularly brave. Or stupid about the dangerousness of danger. However, he had reached the ripe old age of three, and was an essential part of the forest scene.

Squizzel uttered his battle-cry “Chir-a-chir-chip!” and set forth.