short story

The Wall

Writer finishes novel draft and wins writing competition.

It’s been a wee while since I posted on here! Life, Christmas and some family health matters have been keeping me busy and, if I’m honest, somewhat distracted. I’ve also had my head down trying to finish the first draft of my current novel, Amenti Rising. I’m pleased to say that I completed this in December. I’ve just finished a first read through and have started the first round of editing. I feel good about this one and am eager to get it published later this year.

But today, in keeping with my habit of documenting my writing successes on here, I am delighted to have something new to share with you. Last week I won first place in the Solihull Writers 2024/25 Fiction Competition. The theme was symmetry and had to be no more than 1000 words.

The Wall

The rhythmic thwump of a ball striking concrete echoed across the barren landscape. Avi was lost in his game, throwing a worn yellow tennis ball against a wall. Throwing. Bouncing. Catching. Each thwump reverberating off the concrete like a heartbeat. Again and again and again. Pleasingly distracted by its repetitiveness and soothed by its normality. Comforted. Oblivious to the diggers behind him clearing the rubble of the latest air strike. Oblivious to the daily symphony of rumbling, crunching, and grinding. Oblivious to the cries of grief-struck mothers and the shouts of angry fathers.

The day was hot and dry and each bounce of the ball raised a small cloud of sand that was carried off and scattered by the Autumn sharav. Rivulets of sweat created dark tracks through the pale dust that coated the boy’s face. His clothes and shoes, that had once had colour, were the same dirty shade of beige as the razed land and devastated buildings around him. His throat was raw and scratchy and his lips dry and cracked. He needed a drink.

He stopped throwing to walk over to where his plastic water bottle nestled in a cool patch of shade between the wall and a broken lump of masonry. He had only taken a couple of steps when he heard the thwump of a ball against concrete. With a small frown, he looked down at the ball in his hand and then up at the tall grey wall in front of him. He laughed at himself and took another step towards his water. Thwump! The sound was real, and it was coming from the other side of the wall.

Avi picked up his bottle and drank long and deep. The ball on the other side continued to bounce. He examined the wall. Its top was lined with vicious coils of razor wire and its surface decorated with shrapnel pock marks and swathes of graffiti. A few feet away to his left, a large projectile had penetrated deep, and he could see a small circle of daylight from the other side. He walked over to the hole and peered through.

The other side looked very much like his own. Broken buildings. Broken people. Rubble. Twisted metal. Dust. Burnt-out cars. Stray dogs. Dirty children. Weeping women. Armed men. He twisted his head towards the sound of the ball. A small skinny boy was throwing it against the wall. A worn yellow tennis ball, just like his. Throwing. Bouncing. Catching. Again and again and again.

“Hey!” Avi called.

The boy stopped throwing and looked towards Avi’s position with a blank expression. He glanced over his shoulder towards the buildings behind him but, seeing no-one, he recommenced his ball throwing.

“Hey!” Avi called again. “I’m over here.”

The boy stopped again and walked slowly towards the hole in the wall, clutching his tennis ball in a small, dirty fist. When he reached the hole in the wall and caught sight of Avi, he stopped and looked nervously back towards the buildings again.

“Hi. I’m Avi. I have a ball like yours!” Avi held up his ball.

The boy held up his own ball and grinned. His brown eyes were round and bright and his small teeth white and even in his dusty face.

“I’m Tariq. I’m nine,” he said.

“I’m nine!” Avi exclaimed

“I have a dog,” Tariq said.

“I have a dog! His name’s Tzippy.”

“Mine’s a girl. She’s called Khalil.”

Avi pondered this for a moment.

Tariq studied his face.

“Do you wanna play ball?” Avi asked.

Tariq looked up at the wall between them.

“Yes,” he said hesitantly.

“OK! Throw. Bounce. Catch. First one to drop it is out.”

“OK!” Tariq nodded enthusiastically.

“Start when I say! On the count of three,” Avi yelled, backing away from the wall.

Tariq moved back as well, and they both got into position.

“Ready?” Avi called.

“Ready!”

“On three! One…two…three…go!”

The boys started throwing and catching. Their balls thwumped in perfect rhythm. The sun beat down. The hot winds blew. The boys panted and sweated. Dust swirled. Diggers rumbled. Rubble crashed. Dogs barked. Gunfire rattled. Drones buzzed overhead. Babies cried. Women wept.

The game stopped when the air raid sirens wailed and both boys ran grinning to the hole in the wall.

“Tie!” Avi gasped.

“Play later?” Tariq asked.

“Sure!” Avi agreed.

“Here again after?”

“Here again. After.”

“Later!”

The boys turned and ran to their shelters, whooping all the way.

Avi emerged three hours later in a haze of dust and smoke. The noise of the diggers had stopped, replaced by the crackle of fire, the creaks and groans of damaged buildings, and the wails of the trapped and injured. Men screamed. Women shouted. But all Avi could think about was getting back to the wall to meet Tariq and resume their unfinished game.

He ignored his mother’s cries as he ran to the wall, leaping over new piles of debris and weaving through crowds of bleeding, tattered people. He reached the tall concrete barrier and peered through the hole. Tariq’s side was as bad as his own. Worse.

There was no sign of Tariq, but a solitary worn yellow tennis ball lay on the ground at the edge of a huge crater where a building had once stood.

Avi turned silently away from the wall. He took his ball from his pocket and resumed the game alone. Throwing. Bouncing. Catching. Each thwump reverberating off the concrete like a heartbeat. Again and again and again. Pleasingly distracted by its repetitiveness and soothed by its normality. Throwing. Bouncing… Avi dropped the ball. The air was hot and suffocating. He raised his small face to the sky. This time the rivulets of sweat that coursed down his cheeks were mixed with his tears.

My Journey in NYC Midnight: From 5452 to the Final 192

After three years, the writer reached the final round in NYC Midnight Challenges, earning recognition for their horror story on sleep paralysis.

Yay!

After 3 years I’ve finally got through to the final round of one of the NYC Midnight Challenges!

My 100 word story about Sleep Paralysis in my favourite genre (Horror!) came in at number 6 in my category. I didn’t even scrape through with an honourable mention! I got a legitimate winning place! I’m delighted that I’m now in a position able to share it with you now. They stipulate that you wait for 10 days after the results area announced before publicly sharing your work.

It’s fair to say I’m feeling very pleased with myself.

Round 1 started out back in April with 5,452 writers in 92 groups. My genre was Romantic Comedy (vile) and had to involve ‘waiting for a number to be called’ and include the word ‘worst’. My entry was called I Found Love in the Same Day Emergency Care Department and it came in 3rd in my group!

One of the judges said “I was bowled over by the impressive, even utilitarian simplicity of style in this submission, that nevertheless managed to relate a warm, even adorable love story between two people close to their worst.”

Round 2 kicked off in June when we were down to 1,380 writers in 24 groups. As I said above, I was ecstatic to get the ‘horror’ genre and my story had to involve the action ‘swerving’ and include the word ‘except’. I went a for a long title again as this works well when words are limited to 100! They allow for a title up to 15 words long. The story was called, Sleep Paralysis: Unexplained phenomenon associated with total immobility and the sense of an evil presence.

My favourite bit of feedback on this one was “I really enjoyed the line ‘she scuttles…’ The sounds that are associated with each of these verbs give such an unpleasant, spine tingling feel to the moment. It’s a wonderful use of language to capture the feeling of approaching horror.”

The final round contained only 192 writers. Everyone got the same assignment:

Genre: Open
Action: Falling in love
Word: enough

I’m reasonably happy with my story but I can’t help feeling that it’s not one of my best. I wrote it during a a long weekend away in a camper van with a good friend. She liked it!

To be honest, just getting through to the last 192 of 5452 writers and receiving such encouraging feedback on my other submission feels like I’ve won already. I’m happy whatever happens next. Writing can be such a mentally torturous activity. You lurch between highs and lows and waves of love and hate for yourself and your work on a daily basis. A negative review on one day can send you spiralling into a storm of self-doubt and impostor syndrome. A single new fan or a tiny positive comment can set you spinning like a top with excitement and pride on another.

But, whatever the outcome of the challenge, there’s not long to wait. The results are in TOMORROW!

In the meantime, here is Sleep Paralysis. I hope you enjoy it:

Sleep Paralysis: Unexplained phenomenon associated with total immobility and the sense of an evil presence.

The hag is here.

My eyes spring wide open. But I am lead. Molten and heavy.

The room is black except for the two glowing red coals staring at me from the form crouched low in the corner.

I swerve my eyes to the flickering orange lettering of the digital clock. 3 am. The hour of Christ’s death. The hour of the devil.

She scuttles. She scurries. She climbs. She pounces.

Heavy on my chest. Hot breath on my face. Pressing air from my lungs. Life from my body.

My eyes bulge. I scream silently.

The hag is here. Again.

NYC Midnight Update – July 2024

The author is out of the Short Story Challenge but still in the 100 Word Challenge, with varied feedback.

Halfway through the year and I’m now out of the Short Story Challenge but still in the 100 Word Challenge.

My 2^nd round entry to the Short Story Challenge, The Cave, which I submitted back in April did not get me through to the 3^rd round. Honestly, I’m not surprised. I’m not making excuses (well I am really). That whole weekend we had visitors who didn’t leave till Sunday afternoon. Much food and drink was consumed and I wasn’t at my best on Sunday afternoon when I sat down to write my story. As a result, my effort was not one of my best and the feedback from the judges confirmed this. General consensus was that, while there were moments of true suspense and tension, the story lacked structure and was error ridden to the point of distraction. Oopsie!

I’m not sure I want to share The Cave with you, but I will do, if only for completeness. You can read it at the end of this post. Apologies in advance. Just a reminder that the requirements were as follows:

Genre: Suspense (one of my favourites which is even more annoying)

Action: Petrified

Character: Milkman

Better news on the 100 Word Challenge. I Found Love in the Same Day Emergency Care Department was well-received, which was good because I was pleased with this one. It was inspired by my own experience of spending a day in this department at our local hospital and my observations of my fellow patients. One of the judges said, “I was bowled over by the impressive, even utilitarian simplicity of style in this submission, that nevertheless managed to relate a warm, even adorable love story between two people close to their worst.” You can read this below. Just a reminder of the requirements:

Genre: Romantic Comedy (Urghh!)

Action: Waiting for a number to be called

Word: Worst

My next entry was submitted on the 14^th of June and the results are due on the 7^th of August. I enjoyed writing this one. The requirements were:

Genre: Horror (YAY!)

Action: Swerving

Word: Except

I chose to write about one of my favourite subjects. Sleep paralysis! I went a for a long title again as this works well when words are limited to 100! They allow for a title up to 15 words long. The story is called, Sleep Paralysis: Unexplained phenomenon associated with total immobility and the sense of an evil presence.

Anyway, fingers crossed…

In the meantime, here are I Found Love in the Same Day Emergency Care Department and The Cave.

I found love in the NHS Same Day Emergency Care Department.

Male, 27, Appendicitis

Female, 25, Viral Meningitis

Hours staring wordlessly over grey cardboard vomit bowls at our pale up-all-night faces, waiting for the numbers on our plastic wristbands to be called.

You: “Fancy a drink?”

Me: “Go on then.”

You: Shuffling to the cooler, with your dangling IV stand, hospital gown gaping at the back.

Me: Smudged mascara eyes ogling your cheeky little bum crack peeking over the top of your faded boxers.

An exchange of wan, stale-breathed smiles over flimsy plastic cups of lukewarm water.

You: “Should’ve worn clean underpants.”

Me “Should’ve washed my hair.”

Worst first date ever.

The Cave

Friends, Trudy and Chris, are heading to Milkman’s Cave and Petrifying Well to petrify their baby’s first shoes. The remote location is said to be named after the legendary Milkman.

Trudy stands beside the car, staring out over the grey, windswept moorland. The sky hangs heavy with unspent rainclouds. Theirs is the only vehicle in the tiny car park and there is nothing but moor grass and heather in all directions for as far as the eye can see. Her hair whips against her face and she tugs her beanie down over her ears to keep the loose strands in place. The moors have always made her feel uneasy and today is no different. As if they are in a place where they are not meant to be. Trespassing on primeval lands, where ancient echoes whisper through the heather, and long-kept secrets lurk beneath the peat.

“Come on, Trud. We need to get going. It’s a forty-minute walk to the cave,” Chris yells from the back of the car, where she perches on the edge of the open boot putting on her hiking shoes. Trudy walks round to join her. Her friend is grinning. Her eyes are sparkling. She loves this place almost as much as I hate it, Trudy thinks, as she slips out of her trainers and starts putting her own boots on.

Once they are fully booted and jacketed, with rucksacks fitted snugly to their backs and walking poles dangling from each wrist, Chris hurries back round to fetch a small carrier bag from the floor of the passenger seat.

“Mustn’t forget these!” she says, waving the bag that holds the sole purpose of their expedition.

“God no!” Trudy agrees as Chris removes a small pair of blue baby-shoes from the bag and thrusts them at her. Trudy takes them and puts them in the inside pocket of her jacket as Chris does the same with a pink pair. They walk over to where a weathered sign marks the start of the footpath. Trudy studies it for a moment.

Milkman’s Cave

and

Petrifying Well

2.3 miles

It had seemed like a good idea when Chris had suggested it. Now, Trudy isn’t so sure. Trudging across the moors to some creepy, wet cave to hang their babies first shoes in the Petrifying Well and return for them years later, by which time they would be preserved in stone for eternity. What had she been thinking? The first spots of rain were beginning to fall. She glances back to the warm, dry car then back to the path ahead. Chris is already striding up the path. Trudy hurries after her.

He is aroused by the sense of someone approaching. No, not one. Two. Two souls. On their way to him. He rises from his chamber and slithers across smooth boulders to the cave with the crack between the rocks. He crouches. He listens. He waits.

The entrance to the cave sits at the bottom of a dip, out of sight from the main path until it’s directly below them. It looks like a gaping black mouth with lacy lips of creeping ivy. Another small sign identifies it as their destination.

“Who was this Milkman anyway?” Trudy mutters, reading the peeling lettering. “And what was he doing delivering milk out here in the middle of nowhere?” she gestures across the barren landscape.

“He wasn’t an actual milkman,” Chris scoffs. “He was just called Milkman because his skin was the colour of milk. Story goes, he’d lived in the dark depths of the cave for so long that his skin turned completely white. And his hair. And his eyes. All white.”

“Jesus!” Trudy shudders. “Why? Why did he stay down there? That’s horrible!”

“It’s only a story, Trud. A myth.”

“No! I don’t like it! I’m not going in there.” Trudy closes her eyes, presses her lips together and vigorously shakes her head.

“Don’t be daft. He’s not real. There’s no one in there. Nothing in there, except a mouldering collection of petrified toys and teddy bears. Come on!”

“I don’t know…”

“Trud, we’ve come all this way. Let’s just do what we came to do. It’ll only take a minute.”

Trudy watches in horror as Chris scrambles down the slope and ducks beneath the ivy before she disappears inside the cave. Now Trudy is alone on the path. The car park long out of sight behind them. The wind moans around her and a crow caws in the distance, its call raw and harsh. Suddenly, the thought of standing here on her own is more terrifying than going inside. She picks her way down to the mouth of the cave and slips through.

His senses are under assault. He covers his ears against the thud of their footsteps. Their breathing. Covers his nose and mouth against the smell of their bodies. Their sweat. Their perfume. Cowers and folds in on himself as the air they disturb sends ripples over his tender skin.

As her eyes adjust to the darkness, it is the smell that hits Trudy first. Earthy and damp and metallic. But beneath that there is something else. Something organic and rotting. First the smell, and then the cold. Although she is just a couple of steps inside the entrance, the temperature has dropped by several degrees. Her eyes gradually adjust until she can see Chris, a dark shape just ahead of her. There is a soft electronic click and a circle of light from Chris’s phone torch illuminates the wall in front of them. Trudy gasps.

The wall is wet and glistening. At its foot is a small pool surrounded by rocks and vegetation. Around the pool on the rocks and hanging from strings that crisscross the surface of the wall, are hundreds of items in various stages of petrification. Dolls, teddy bears, toy cars, figurines, keys, hats, jewellery, hats, handbags, and shoes, all turned or turning to stone. The bottom of the pool is littered with petrified coins.

Trudy is mesmerised. She walks past Chris to the edge of the pool. All fear forgotten. It is magical. Beautiful. Like stepping into a fairy story.

“Wow,” she breathes.

“See? Isn’t it amazing?” Chris says.

“Amazing,” Trudy echoes.

They spend a few moments taking in the scene. Trudy lights her own phone torch and examines the details of some of the objects.

His senses have settled slightly. Grown accustomed to the onslaught of new stimulation. He watches and listens to them through the crack. His vision is dim. He can only make out their blurry shapes. But he can feel them. Hear them. Taste them.

“We better make a move,” Chris says, after a while. “Don’t want to run our phone batteries down.”

She takes Ella’s baby shoes out of her pocket and ties the laces together to hang them over an empty spot on a loop of string. The string itself is thick and solid. Trudy takes out Jake’s shoes. His have tiny straps and buckles and she interlocks them to hook them over the string beside Ella’s. They stand back to silently admire their handiwork. The shoes are bright and clean amid the other grey-brown objects.

“Right, let’s go.” Chris switches off her torch and heads back to the entrance. “Shit!” she exclaims, making Trudy jump and spin around.

“What?” Trudy asks. “What is it?” She follows Chris’s gaze to the opposite wall of the cave.

“I…I saw something. Something…white.”

“Stop it!”

“I’m not kidding. I did. I saw something.”

“Chris! You’re freaking me out. Please”

Trudy hurries towards the entrance. But Chris walks slowly towards the wall ahead, her eyes fixed on a specific spot that is darker than the rest of the grey green surface.

It happens quickly. A gasp. A soft rustle of fabric on stone, then silence.

Trudy feels an absence.

She turns around.

Chris is gone.

All her senses are screaming at her to run, but Trudy forces herself to walk deeper into the darkness. Tears well in her eyes and roll down her cheeks. Her breath is shallow. Her heart racing. Her whole body is trembling.

“Chris?” she whispers. “Chris, are you there? Chris?”

She is almost at the wall. She can see the long crack now. The dark crease.

Something white flashes behind it!

Trudy shrieks. Stumbles. Loses her footing. Steps to the side. Into empty air. And then she is falling. Sliding. Into blackness.

The Milkman lets out a long high-pitched keen. He scuttles from his hiding place back to his chamber. He is confused. Violated. He is panicked. Agitated. He is terrified of what is to come.

When Trudy hits the bottom, it knocks the breath out of her. She is gasping and crying. It is black. So black. Something is moving beside her. Touching her. Pawing at her. She screams and bats it off.

“It’s me!” Chris hisses. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Trudy can’t speak. She takes a couple of deep, painful breaths.

“Trud?”

“I’m OK,” she croaks. “Just winded.”

“Thank, god!” Chris sighs.

Trudy can feel her crawling around beside her. Grunting and huffing.

“Are you OK? What are you doing?”

“Dropped…my…phone,” Chris mumbles. “Ah,” she sighs with relief and, a moment later, the comforting light from her torch lights up the space.

The two women look around in silence. It is another cave. Bigger than the one above but still small. Chris directs the light above their heads revealing the wide crevasse and almost vertical rockface that they have slipped down.

“We’re not getting back up there,” Chris grumbles. “We’re going to have to find another way out. Can you stand?” She helps Trudy to her feet.

Trudy’s teeth are chattering. She thinks she might throw up.

“What was that…thing?” she croaks.

Chris pointedly ignores her. Walks across the cave towards an opening on the other side.

Trudy starts to follow her but something on the ground catches her eye. A small cluster of objects tucked neatly in a corner. She bends to examine them.

“Chris. Look. Shine the light back here a minute.”

Chris directs the light at the group of objects.

“Oh,” Trudy’s voice is small. Something tugs at her heart.

The objects are a petrified hairbrush and a baby rattle. They are resting on a photograph. Trudy moves them aside. The photograph is creased and faded but she can see that it is of a man and a woman, and a baby. The man and woman are smiling. They hold the baby between them. She feels the love radiating from the image. But when she looks again at the stone comb and baby rattle, a wave of sorrow rushes through her.

“Leave that. We have to get out of here.” Chris’s tone is terse. It tells Trudy that her ever-stoical friend is just as afraid as she is. She wordlessly falls into step behind her as they follow the bobbing circle of light out of the cave and into the next.

Both women gasp at the sight that greets them.

Another wet, glistening wall. Another rockpool. Another well. But this one is not surrounded by petrifying toys and trinkets. The pair of petrified objects dangling in this well are something else entirely. One small. One larger. Although their features are smoothed by layers of hardened sediment, they are immediately recognisable for what they are. The shape of the human form is unmistakable. A woman and child. A mother and her baby. Immortalised in stone.

Close by in a dark corner of the cave, the Milkman crouches. His skin so pale it is translucent. His long hair and beard, white as cream. His nails yellowed and thick. His eyes are cloudy. He is weeping.

NYC Midnight Competitions 2024: Recent Entries and Results

The 2024 NYC Midnight Competitions are in full swing. The writer participated in the 100-Word Challenge with a Romantic Comedy entry, and the 250-Word Challenge where they received an Honourable Mention. Their Short Story Challenge entry, “Stop the Boats,” made it to the next round. The next rounds are scheduled for June and July.

It’s halfway through May already and we’re well into the 2024 NYC Midnight Competitions. Since my last post, I have also entered the 100 Word Challenge as it’s always good fun and not too time consuming. I submitted my first round entry on the 20th April. My genre was Romantic Comedy (again!) and had to involve ‘waiting for a number to be called’ and include the word ‘worst’. My entry was called I Found Love in the Same Day Emergency Care Department. I quite like it but we will see…

I got the results of the 250 Word Challenge on the 4th of April and, although I didn’t get through to the final round, I did get an Honourable Mention for There’s Something I Haven’t Told You, which I am delighted to share with you below. My estimates of the numbers tell me that I got through to the last 250 from 4000 participants and I’m happy with that!

In the Short Story Challenge, much to my surprise, Stop the Boats did get me through to the next round. Again, I have shared this with you at the end of this post. My genre for the next round was Suspense and had to be about being ‘petrified’ and include a character who is a ‘milkman’. I submitted my entry called The Cave on the 14th of April.

So, to summarise, I’m out of the 250 Word Challenge, the next round of the 100 Word Challenge is in the week commencing June 10th, and the next round of the Short Story Challenge in the week commencing July 22.

In the meantime, here are There’s Something I Haven’t Told You and Stop the Boats.

There’s Something I Haven’t Told You.

(Action Adventure/Warming Hands/Hitch)

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” I begin, looking at you over the small campfire where I squat, warming my hands against the night chill.

The forest around us is dark and still. My heightened senses alert to any sudden crack or creeping shadow. My body primed and ready to move. To grab your hand, to run, again, deeper, further.

The red and gold flames flicker in your wide blue eyes as they rise to meet mine. Your smile is soft. Patient. You nod your encouragement.

“I am not who you think I am,” I continue. A slight hitch in my voice. I am about to break your heart. “I know things. There are people who wish me dead.” You wait for more. I owe you more. An explanation for why you have been torn from your bed in the middle of the night. For why we have fled to the depths of the forest. For why I have betrayed your love. Your loyalty.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” You begin, rising and walking around the fire towards me.

The dark forest closes around us.

“I am not who you think I am,” you continue. There is no hitch in your voice. Your eyes are blue steel.

“You know things. There are people who wish you dead.” Your voice is ice, as you draw the stiletto from your sleeve. It glints in the moonlight and my heart breaks as the blade slides in.

Stop the Boats

(Political Satire/Free Spirit/A Check-Up)

“So, Prime Minister, its time for your annual check-up.” Henry looked down at the top of his boss’s head. Not a strand of his dark, glossy hair was out of place. The aide inadvertently rubbed the top of his own bald pate.

“OK, Henry, just book me into The Cromwell as usual,” Suni muttered as he continued to read the open file in front of him. “I’m up to my neck in this tiresome business of how to ‘stop the boats.’ Damned immigrants. Will they never give up?”

On the other side of the large oak desk, Henry paused and shuffled from foot to foot before he spoke again. “Erm…that’s the thing, Prime Minister. We were thinking…”

Suni’s head shot up. His eyes narrowed as they met Henry’s behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Thinking? Why does it always worry me when you say that you’ve been thinking, Henry?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Suni held Henry’s gaze. Henry rubbed his long thin fingers together with a rasping sound that set Suni’s teeth on edge.

“Well,” Suni snapped. “I’m waiting.”

“Waiting? I really don’t know, Prime Minister.”

“You don’t know what you’ve been thinking about! Jesus, am I completely surrounded by idiots?”

“No…I meant I don’t know why you worry when I say that we’ve been thinking, sir. I know what we’ve been thinking about…”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake! It was a rhetorical question, Henry. Rhetorical! Do you know what that means?”

“Yes, sir. It means…”

“I KNOW what it means, Henry. You don’t need to tell me!”

“Sorry, sir.”

“So, just tell me. Please.”

“Tell you what, sir. You just said don’t tell you…”

“Good grief, man! What you’ve been thinking! About my check-up. Come on, man. JUST TELL ME!”

“Oh. Sorry. Well, sir, we’ve been thinking that it might be prudent not to go to The Cromwell for it this year.” Henry paused.

Suni folded his arms and leant back in his green leather armchair. “Continue,” he said, now giving Henry his full attention.

“Well, we were thinking that it might be best to go somewhere less…you know…ostentatious. What with the current cost of living crisis and public opinion and all that.”

“OK, I can see that.” Suni nodded. “Where are you thinking? The Cleveland or Blackheath?”

“Erm, no, sir. We were actually thinking you should go over the bridge, to St Thomas’s or maybe down to Chelsea and Westminster.”

Suni paled. “Are you saying go…NHS?” His voice lowered and he glanced around the oak panelled room.

“Yes, Prime Minister. We think it would be…”

“I know,” Suni interrupted him. “Prudent. Hmmm.” He stroked his chin.

Henry watched the wheels of cognition turning in his boss’s mind. Watched him processing the pros and cons. Deducing what was in it for him. Calculating the political opportunity. He jumped when Suni suddenly stood up and banged his hands, palm down, on the desk.

“Great idea, Henry! Let’s do it! Let’s show our support for the NHS. Bump the Shadow Home Secretary and book me in for Friday afternoon.”

“Erm, I’ve already taken the liberty of checking availability, sir. The first date they can fit you in is on the 24^th of June.”

“June!” Suni spluttered.

“Yes, I’m afraid so, sir.”

“But that’s weeks away!”

“Yes. Six weeks, sir. Waiting lists, you see. They actually put you to the top of the list. Special dispensation. Given your…you know…status.”

“For Christ’s sake. The things I do for this country. Go on then. Book me in for the 24^th of June. And, Henry, make sure the press knows. I’m not putting myself through all this for nothing.”

“Yes, sir. Will do, sir. Thank you, sir.” Henry backed away a couple of paces before turning to leave the room.

Suni shook his head slowly as he resumed his reading.

“Damned immigrants,” he said again.

Meena examined herself in the scratched mirror of the staff toilet. She pulled her dark brown curls into a scrunchy and unfastened her gold nose ring. Apparently, a nose ring didn’t create the right impression. Meena frowned. What was she doing? She wasn’t here to make impressions. She was here to treat patients. Sick patients. Patients who needed her. And now she was being taken away from these patients to conduct a routine health check on a perfectly healthy individual. An individual with more wealth than a small country. An individual who was only having it performed here for the sole purpose of raising his opinion poll ratings. She refastened her nose ring and strode out of the room. The jingle of the tiny silver bells in the hem of her skirt echoed in the empty space as the door slowly closed behind her.

The Prime Minister was standing by the window talking on his phone. Big Ben and the parliament buildings were visible on the other side of the river. A dark suited security man loitered just inside the room. There was another in the corridor outside.

“He’ll be perfectly safe in here with me, if you’d like to wait with your colleague outside?” Meena gestured to the door.

The man opened his mouth to speak but Meena stopped him with a raised palm.

“Outside. Thank you.” She said with a smile, closing the door behind him as he left without further protest.

“You’ll have to turn that off in here I’m afraid, Prime Minister. No phones allowed.”

Suni shushed her with his finger and continued talking.

Meena approached him and held out her hand.

“I said, no phones.”

His eyes widened and he covered the mouthpiece to address her.

“I’m on an important call,” he hissed.

“I’m sure you are but, as I said, no phones. It affects the equipment,” she lied.

He looked at her for a long moment before he spoke through gritted teeth, “Do you know who I am?”

“Of course, I do. But in here you’re just a patient like everyone else. Now, either put away your phone or give it to me please.”

“I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back,” Suni snapped at the person on the other end of the call. Slowly and deliberately, he put his phone in his pocket, never taking his eyes from Meena’s face.

“That’s better,” said Meena. “I’m Meena Malik. I’ll be doing your examination today.”

“I thought I was seeing Professor Eadie?”

“I’m afraid Professor Eadie has been delayed at his private practice this morning. They brought me in to cover for him. He’s very sorry.”

“I’m sure he is! Are you even a doctor?” The brown-skinned woman looked like a gypsy with her wild hair, nose ring and flamboyant clothes.

“A locum consultant, yes. As I said, I’m covering for him today.”

Suni huffed.

“Anyway, let’s get started shall we. Strip off down to your underpants and pop onto the couch for me please.”

She pulled the papery curtain around him as he removed is Saville Row suit jacket. His silent irritation seeped into the room and a small smirk tickled at the corners of Meena’s mouth as she opened his file.

“I see you are Suni Rasheek,” she said. Do you prefer Mr Rasheek or Suni?”

“Actually, convention dictates that you address me as, sir or Prime Minister.” His voice was muffled from behind the curtain.

“I’m not big on convention. I’ll stick with Suni if that’s OK? I like to keep things informal. Relaxed. Better for the blood pressure. Are you ready in there?”

“Yes.”

Meena flung the curtain back to reveal Suni lying on the couch. He’d covered himself with a thin blanket. She whipped it off with a flourish.

“No need for that! Let’s have a good look at you.”

“It’s bloody freezing in here,” Suni grumbled with a shiver.

“It is, isn’t it. Cuts. Can’t afford to heat the place. But I suppose you know all about that.”

“It’s filthy too,” Suni said, looking around at the peeling paint and scuffed woodwork.

“No, not filthy.” Meena shot him a glance. “Just in need of an upgrade. A lick of paint. But again you…”

“Alright. You’ve made your point,” he interrupted her.

They were silenced by the loud hum of the blood pressure machine.

“Hmmm. BP’s a bit high, Suni,” said Meena.

“Really, you do surprise me!”

“I’m just going to do your heart tracing now. I need to shave off some of your chest hair to make sure the leads stick, if that’s OK?”

“Whatever,” Suni sighed. “Let’s just get this over with. I’ve got things to do.”

He winced as the cheap razor scraped across his skin. She stuck disposable electrodes on the bare patches in his thick dark chest hair.

“Any chance of a hot drink?” he asked, wistfully recalling the warm, plush examination rooms at The Cromwell. The soft blankets. The sparkling cleanliness. The smell of the coffee machine. The delicious canapes.

“Of course, when we’re finished. What would you like?”

“I’ll have a Chai Latte, soya milk, no sugar.”

Meena suppressed a snort.

“It’s just tea or instant coffee on offer. With milk and sugar of course. We have that.”

“I’ll leave it.”

“No problem. Let me know if you change your mind. I’m sure we could rustle up a Rich Tea biscuit, or two, if you fancy.” She emphasised the word ‘rich’ but her provocative play on words elicited no reaction.

She shrugged and started attaching the ECG leads.

“Where are you from, Dr Malik?” Suni changed the subject.

“East London. Dulwich. Call me Meena, please.”

“No, I mean where are you from? You have a slight accent.”

“Oh, I see.” Meena stopped what she was doing and looked at him. “My parents came here as refugees from Iran in 2001. I was seventeen at the time.”

“Ah, I see.” Suni nodded sagely. “So, you did your medical training here then. That’s good.”

“So where are you from, Suni?”

“Me? I’m British of course. I was born and raised just down the road in Surrey in fact.”

“No, I mean where are you from? Your name? Your heritage?”

“Well, its not really relevant but, if you must know, my grandparents immigrated here in the 1960’s from Kenya.”

“Oh, also refugees then?”

“Well, not really. Not in the true sense of the word. They made a choice. An economic choice.”

Meena didn’t answer. She was frowning as the ECG machine whirred and the paper started to curl out of the machine.

“Something wrong?” Suni asked.

“Possibly…” Meena examined the tracing.

Suni felt his heart thumping in his chest as the medic pored over the recording. She looked up at him with a serious expression.

“Mr Rasheek, I’m afraid there are some…anomalies…on the heart tracing. I think we should do an urgent exercise stress test before you leave. Record the ECG again while you are walking on the treadmill. Is that OK?”

“Really? Today? Are you sure that’s absolutely necessary?”

“I would definitely recommend it, Mr Rasheek. Just to be on the safe side.”

Thirty minutes later, a bare-footed and bare-chested Suni was fully wired up and walking on a treadmill that was gradually increasing in speed. They had permitted him the small dignity of putting his trousers back on. Meena was sitting on a swivel chair watching a monitor with a white-coated technician. Their expressions were grim.

“Are you alright, Mr Rasheek?” Meena asked.

“Yes,” Suni panted, but he wasn’t sure he was. His chest was tight. He couldn’t catch his breath. He’d let himself get so unfit. But he couldn’t show these people that. After this was sorted out, he’d have to get back into the gym. Start jogging again.

“Just a little faster for a few minutes and then we’re done.” Meena called.

Suni was sweating now. It was pouring from him. Black spots were floating around the edges of his vision. The tightness in his chest had become more of an ache. A cramp.

“Are you alright? Are you sure?” Meena was walking towards him. “Stop the treadmill, Gary!”

The deep heavy ache was spreading down his arm. He felt sick. Dizzy.

“Shit!” he heard Meena say, just before the world went dark.

Henry observed his boss from behind the bullet proof glass of his suite at The Cromwell. His security detail stood on either side of the door. The Prime Minister was propped up in bed surrounded by newspapers. He was reading the front page of The Times. Wires snaked from beneath the sheets to a beeping cardiac monitor on the wall. A breakfast tray on the bedtable was laden with fresh fruit and croissants. Vases of flowers and cards from well-wishers covered all the other surfaces.

Henry knocked once and entered the room. The Prime Minister looked up from his paper.

“Good morning, sir. How are you feeling?” Henry asked.

“Much better today thanks, Henry.”

“Good. I see you’ve got the papers.” Henry nodded at the array of newspapers on the bed. They all focused on the same main story. The Prime Ministers cardiac arrest and resuscitation at St. Thomas’ Hospital the previous day. Many of them focused specifically on the female doctor who had saved his life. Henry looked at the tabloid closest to him. The headline read:

GRANDAUGHTER OF IRANIAN REFUGEE SAVES PM’S LIFE.

Underneath the headline, a large photograph of a smiling Meena Malik filled the top half of the page. She was looking over her shoulder as she got into a coral pink Fiat 500, surrounded by photographers.

“Certainly got the attention of the press, sir.” Henry said, picking up the paper for a closer look.

“Yes, but maybe not in the way I was expecting,” Suni gazed out of the large picture window at the familiar London skyline.

Henry cleared his throat.

“I know you’re going to be out of action for a bit, and of course the Deputy PM will take over in your absence, sir, but the ‘stop the boats’ bill goes to the commons today and I know this is a big priority for you…”

“Yes, well, I’ve been thinking about that, Henry.”

Henry supressed the urge to say that it worried him when the Prime Minister said he’d been thinking.

Instead, he said, “Oh.”

Yes, Henry. I’ve been thinking that maybe it would be prudent to have another look at the NHS funding bill before we progress with ‘stopping the boats’. Just for now at least.”

“Good idea, sir.”

“Yes, Henry. I rather think it is.”

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A Shovelful of Serendipity.

The 2024 NYC Midnight competition offers multiple categories this year. The author participated in the 250-word Microfiction and Short Story challenges. The results of the 1st Round for the Short Story Challenge will be disclosed on April 9th. They have advanced to the 2nd Round in the Microfiction Challenge. The story “A Shovelful of Serendipity” portrays a romantic encounter.

So, the 2024 NYC Midnight competitions have started. This year there seem to be more categories than ever to enter. I’ve opted for two; The 250-word Microfiction Challenge and the Short Story Challenge.

The 1st Round of the Short Story Challenge took place in January. On the 19th I received my category and had to submit my 2000 word (max) story by the 27th. My Genre was Political Satire (yuk!). My Subject was A Check Up. My Character was A Free Spirit. I struggled with the genre but managed to get something submitted by the deadline called Stop the Boats – you can guess what it’s about. There are over 6000 entries this year and I’m not feeling very hopeful about getting through to the next round. But, we will see. The results of the 1st Round will be published on the 9th of April.

I’m feeling more positive abut the 250-word Microfiction Challenge. The 1st Round actually took place between the 8th and 10th of December 2023. My Genre was Romantic Comedy (yuk again!). My Action was Shoveling Snow. My Word was Measure. Again, I struggled with the genre but managed to get my story A Shovelful of Serendipity submitted by the deadline. This time there were over 4000 participants and I was delighted to learn, on the 7th of February, that I had made it through to the 2nd Round with abut 1000 other writers.

For the 2nd Round, my Genre was Action/Adventure, my Action was Warming Hands and my Word was Hitch. It took me a while to come up with an idea that I was happy with, but I submitted There’s Something I Haven’t Told You on the 11th of February and will get the results on the 3rd of April.

In the meantime I am able to share my 1st Round 250-word Romantic Comedy, A Shovelful of Serendipity, with you. I hope you like it!

A Shovelful of Serendipity

Ezra was sweating inside his parka, despite the cold. It was going to be worth it, he thought, shovelling snow from around the car tyres. He’d already cleared the vehicle itself. This was the final measure of the grand gesture that would finally capture the attention of the new girl at No. 26.

He looked at his watch. She’d be out soon. He rehearsed his line. I was doing mine, so it just made sense to do yours too.

The door to No. 26 opened. His heart quickened. She emerged, aloof and beautiful as ever even swaddled in her winter clothes. Dark curls escaping her beanie. Cheeks rosy, Sapphire eyes looking … straight past him?

The door to No. 28 opened and old Mrs. Barker shuffled down her path, hunched and frowning against the chill. She looked at Ezra standing by the snow-free car and her wizened, whiskery face broke into a grin.

“Ezra! You are a good boy!” she cackled.

“That’s alright, Mrs Barker.” Ezra’s smile was tight. “I was doing mine, so it just made sense to do yours too.” He almost choked on the words, shrivelling with frustration and disappointment.

As Mrs Barker drove off, he turned to see the girl from No. 26 intent on clearing snow from her own windscreen. He was still invisible to her.

He started the miserable trudge to his own car when she lifted her head and looked at him. Saw him.

“That was really kind,” she said.

And then she smiled.

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The Day That Doesn’t Count.

My entry to the 2024 Solihull Writers Group Creative Fiction Competition on the theme of Leap Year.

2024 is a Leap Year. So, this year the Solihull Writers Group chose Leap Year as the theme for our Creative Fiction competition.

I did a bit of research on the subject as it was too easy to go down the clichéd route of female marriage proposals etc. I read some interesting stuff about the 29th of February sometimes presenting a unique challenge from a legal perspective and it historically being seen as a day when usual conventions do not apply. Hence the idea of women being able to propose to men.

I took this idea a little further and played with the idea of the 29th February being a day that didn’t count. A day when people could do anything they liked and get away with it. A bit like The Purge movies.

I asked a few women friends what they would do with a day that didn’t count. this. One said that she would ‘Get a gun. Rob a bank. Buy a house and hold the solicitor at gunpoint to make him complete all the paperwork that day’.

That was the idea finally inspired my story .

I didn’t win. I was beaten on the day by some other outstanding entries that you will soon be able to read on our web-site.

Here is mine…

(P.S. we had a word limit of 1000)

The Day That Doesn’t Count

Mel yawned as she pressed the Double Expresso button and waited for her coffee. Too late, she realised she hadn’t lined the cup up properly and she swore as scalding liquid hissed and spurted over her fingers when she adjusted its position.

“Bad day?”

Mel jumped and more hot coffee sloshed over the back of her hand. Dione from accounts, of the caterpillar eyebrows and scarlet talons was standing behind her.

“No worse than any other,” Mel grumbled as she took her coffee and stepped aside to let Dione get to the machine, wondering how the woman had managed to creep up like that without her noticing. The coffee machine was situated at the end of the chrome and glass corridor that looked over parklands surrounding the building. The corridor had been empty when she’d come out and she hadn’t heard the soft swoosh of any office doors opening.

But Dione was here, smelling faintly of incense and tobacco, long thick hair unnaturally black, fully made-up even at this ungodly hour. Mel was still wearing the remnants of yesterday’s clumpy mascara and hadn’t had time to straighten her auburn curls which were gradually morphing into an explosion of frizz. She already had a ladder in her tights where Zack’s backpack had caught them as she got the kids into the car.

“Oh dear, that sounds bad.” Dione pouted in what Mel could only imagine was her much-practised Instagram sympathy pose.

“Yeah, well two kids under five, an absent jerk of a baby-Daddy, being two months behind with your rent and waking up to a humongous gas and electric bill will do that to you I suppose,” Mel snapped, as she sprinkled sugar into her cup.

Dione’s face darkened. She raised her eyebrows and held Mel’s gaze.

“It doesn’t have to be like that you know,” her tone was molten lava.

“What doesn’t?” Mel was irritated. She needed to get back to her desk. She turned away.

“Your life. It doesn’t have to be like that. You have…options.” Dione raised her voice. Only slightly, but enough to pique Mel’s interest and make her turn back.

“What options?” she said, in spite of herself.

“You do know it’s a leap year, don’t you? That it’s the 29^th of February tomorrow.”

“Yeah. So what?”

“You know,” Dione gently tapped the side of her nose with the tip of one long red fingernail. “The day that doesn’t count.”

“No, I don’t know! Honestly, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”

“The 29^th of February. It’s the day that doesn’t count. 365 legit days in a year but this one is extra. Like a bonus day. A day when you can break all the rules. Do anything you want. It’s what the whole idea of women proposing to men is based on. Breaking conventions. No regrets. No repercussions.”

Dione was bright now. The darkness of before, melted away. Mel wondered if she had imagined her previous sinister air. The woman was harmless. Bonkers but harmless.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mel said.

“I’m not! I’m completely serious! I’ve been celebrating it for a while now. We all have.”

“We?”

“Me and my friends. Other women. Like us.”

“What do you mean, ‘celebrating’?”

“You know. Doing stuff.”

“No, I don’t know! What sort of stuff?”

Dione looked around theatrically before she moved in close to whisper in Mel’s ear.

“Taking what we want. Doing what we want. Righting wrongs. Exacting revenge. Sex. Drugs. Violence…” – she lowered her voice even more – “Murder.”

“Jesus!” Mel gasped.

“Cool huh!” Dione was grinning now and again Mel wondered if she had imagined some of what she’d said. “So, what would you do?”

“Me!” Mel took a step back from the other woman, looking her up and down with unconcealed indignation. “Nothing! Are you insane? I’d never do stuff like that. Whether it counted or not. You’ve got me all wrong.”

“Have I? Are you sure about that? You can’t tell me there’s nothing bad you’d do if you thought you could get away with it. You must have at least thought about it. Fantasised about it. We all have.”

“No. Not me.”

“Ok. So, think about it now. Go on. Just go with me for a minute. For fun. For the hell of it. If you could do anything you wanted, and it wouldn’t count, what would you do. There must be something! Your life can’t be that perfect!”

“It’s not. Of course, it’s not. I think you know that already.”

“So come on then. Let your imagination run riot. Humour me.”

Dione smiled encouragingly but something flicked behind her eyes that made Mel cold for a moment. For the first time in the interaction, she felt fear. She forced her face into a tight smile. Made the decision to humour the woman and get back to work.

“So,” Mel took a deep breath. “I’d get a gun. Rob a bank. Buy a house and hold the solicitor at gunpoint to make him complete all the paperwork that day.”

Dione laughed. “There we have it. That’s more like it. That’s my girl!”

Mel walked back towards her office.

“Is that it? Is that all?” Dione called after her.

“Oh yeah, and I’d murder my jerk of a baby Daddy,” Mel called back over her shoulder.

She went back to her desk with Dione’s laughter ringing in her ears.

She sat down at her desk.

She started to type.

The words in her browser bar read:

How to buy a gun?

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The Soul Thief

My Dad has end-stage dementia. The man I knew has gone and he kind of slipped away without any of us having the chance to grieve or say goodbye. It’s a cruel disease in so many ways. This year we had to make the difficult decision to place him in a care home.

My category for the NYC 2023 100 Word Competition was Romance involving ‘walking on a red carpet’ and had to include the word ‘faith’.

As my Dad was on my mind so much at the time, I decide to write a piece about dementia, based on my parents 65 year marriage.

For the first time in a while, despite getting positive feedback from the judges, it didn’t progress me to the next round thus ending my journey prematurely in this competition.

The Soul Thief

Seventy years have passed since we walked the red carpet together.

Sparkling smiles.

Laughing eyes.

Aglow with love and faith in our future.

Where have you gone my love?

You are here but you are not present.

An empty shell.

Slack mouth that cannot speak my name.

Vacant eyes that do not know me.

Cold, grey skin.

I see you but can’t find you.

You slipped away when I wasn’t looking.

Taken by the soul thief.

One piece at a time.

Day by day.

Secreted away.

Where are you now?

You left me.

But we never got to say goodbye.

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Shakespeare in Solihull

Shakespeare’s Lost Years

This summer celebrates the 400 year anniversary of the first publication of the plays of William Shakespeare in 1623. The First Folio, as it has come to be known, was published seven years after his death. During the anniversary celebrations, The First Folio will visit Solihull as part of a tour of Birmingham, courtesy of The Everything to Everybody Project at The Library of Birmingham.

https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-birmingham-65064648.amp

In anticipation of the visit, Solihull Writers Group chose Shakespeare in Solihull as the theme of their 2023 Creative Fiction Writing Competition. My offering, was awarded third place. You can read it below:

Shakespeare in Solihull – The Lost Years

Scholars often refer to the years between 1585 and 1592 as Shakespeare’s “lost years”. All historical records pertaining to him cease after the birth of his twins in Stratford-on-Avon in 1585, and only resume in 1592 when he reappears in the London theatre community.

There has been much speculation as to where he was and what he was doing during these “lost” years, alongside just as much speculation about his sexuality and the mysterious “Fair Youth” that is the subject of his first 126 sonnets …

Shafts of morning sunlight streamed through the leaded window bathing the naked youth in warm shades of pink and gold. The light down of golden hair that covered his soft, smooth skin sparkled with a cherubic glow. He was stretched out across the bed in the deep, worry-free sleep of youth so envied by the old. He was indeed a beauty. Long athletic limbs, flat belly, rounded buttocks, muscled back and shoulders. But, if his body was a study in perfection, his face was a triumph of grace and beauty. Porcelain, unmarked skin, a strong jaw supporting otherwise fine and delicate features framed by a tangle of yellow curls, long dark lashes that in sleep concealed laughing eyes of the brightest blue.

William stood by the side of the bed. He reached down to touch him then sighed and withdrew his hand. He must learn to deny himself. Last night had been their final one together. By the days end he would be riding south to London, where he could lay low until interest in his transgressions had waned, where he could walk the streets unnoticed and merge into the sea of afflicted and troubled souls seeking to do the same.

Outside, the solid clang of metal on metal signified the start of the working day for the famed blacksmiths of Solihull. Soon it would be joined by the hiss of steam and the air would be thick with the scent of molten iron and burning charcoal. Within the hour, le Smythstreet would be bustling with people bringing plough blades and weapons to be sharpened and horses to be shod. He moved to the window and looked down at the street below the tavern where he had taken rooms for the summer.

The events of the previous evening weighed heavy on his mind and heavier still on his heart. The youth knew nothing, and so it must remain. He had already retired for the night when William had stepped out to take some air and, as much ale had been consumed over the course of the afternoon, to relieve himself before bed.

If truth be told, he had feared that he was about to be robbed, or worse, when the hooded figure stepped from the shadows and silently approached him.

“Who is thither? What doeth thou want?” He had called with as much bravado as he could muster, all the while regretfully picturing his casually discarded dagger lying on the bedroom mantel.

The figure continued to move towards him, and as it drew closer, he realised it was slight. Almost certainly female. A whore. Why else would a member of the fairer sex be wandering the streets alone at this hour. He raised his hand to dismiss her. She was not to know that his passions lay elsewhere and that a fair youth awaited him in his bedchamber directly above the place where they stood.

But before he could speak, she dropped her hood and he gasped with shocked recognition as her long auburn curls cascaded over her shoulders and her wronged green eyes locked with his.

“Anne! Mine lady wife. What brings thou to the town at this hour. Is something amiss? Are the children well?

Her eyes shimmered with tears.

“The children are well, husband. It is I who am in distress.”

“What ails thee, wife? Are thou ill?”

“Mine heart is in pain, husband, and it is thee who hath delivered the blow.”

“How? What hast I done?”

“Doeth not taketh me for a fool, husband. We both know thou hast betrayed me.” She cast her eyes up to the window above.

“Anne. Anne. What can I say? I am undone. But, wife, doeth not make too much of it. She is but a whore.”

“William, I wilt say again. Doeth not taketh me for a fool. I know it is a youth that thou hast ensconced in thy rooms above the tavern. The rooms thou took for the summer to pursue thy writing ambitions unfettered by the responsibilities of a wife and children.”

“Anne! Dear wife …”

“Nay! William, dear husband! The timeth for sorry is long past. I can ne’r taketh thee back to mine bed. Now it is timeth for the price to art paid. Thou art a sodomite, husband, and by the Queens law must art put to death for thy crimes. By the morrow the Sherriff of Birmingham wilt hast heard tidings of thy foul acts and wilt art on his way to arrest thou.”

A sob escaped her lips as she pulled her hood up, turned and walked away. Before she disappeared into the night, William saw her head bow and her shoulders sag and shake.

Now, he looked again at the sleeping youth on the bed, and it was he who allowed a sob to escape his lips. He must go before he awoke. But before that he must write one last verse for the fair youth who had captured his heart.

William sat down at his desk and lifted his quill from the ink pot.

He began to write …

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate …

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NYC 250 Microfiction Challenge – The Loving Dead

Image by Bertrand Fines from Pixabay

So my attempt at a romantic comedy, involving ‘riding a merry-go-round’ and featuring the word ‘decent’, didn’t get me through to the final round of the 2023 NYC Microfiction Challenge but it did get me an honourable mention in the penultimate round. This is the best I have done to date and I’m very happy with that.

I’m especially happy as, for the first time in the three years I have been participating in this competition, I nearly gave up. I was on holiday with some friends at the time the piece had to be written and the temptation to lie in the sun and drink rum was almost too strong to resist. In fact, I didn’t write anything until the evening and only submitted with an hour left to go.

One of my friends jokingly suggested I write a zombie romance and while I initially dismissed the idea as a silly one that was beyond my writing abilities, I suddenly thought why not? I scurried inside and spent the next hour tapping away on my lap-top. When I emerged later that evening and read it to them and my husband and they all laughed out loud at the end, I did a final edit and went ahead and submitted. Honestly, I was just pleased to have actually produced something.

Image my surprise and delight then when I received an honourable mention for The Loving Dead. Here it is for you pleasure and (I hope) amusement.

The Loving Dead

Eliza was riding the merry-go-round the day Jacob caught her eye. As she had for the seven years since the world died. Doomed to wander forever between the prancing carousel horses, hands brushing over faded, peeling manes and rusting carriages.

Her looks had been decent once. But now, soft curves were long withered and leathered. Summer frock, tattered strips of yellow gingham. Once-blue eyes, dirty grey and clouded. Plump, pink cheeks, sunken and brown. But she still had hair! A few surviving auburn wisps clinging precariously to an otherwise bare skull. And teeth too! Albeit a couple of tombstones jutting crookedly from her lower jaw.

Jacob was a carnie. For the same seven years he had circled the carousel, clothes gone to rags, coins rattling in the leather money belt that dangled from his wizened frame. Shuffling around and around, hour after hour, day after day, week after week. If she had been able to recall, Eliza would have remembered his twinkling green eyes, his jaunty smile, the tanned smooth skin of his muscled forearms below the rolled up cuffs of his blue plaid shirt.

The chances of Jacob passing at the exact moment that Eliza stumbled over a broken foot plate causing her right eye to pop from its socket, were next to nothing. But it hit his chest and bounced into the hand he raised reflexively to catch it. Jacob paused. Looked up. His eyes met her remaining one and the rest, as they say, was history.

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NYC 250 Microfiction Challenge – Corn

This year, the only NYC Midnight competition I entered was the 250-word Microfiction Challenge. It kicked off in November 2022, when 5,439 writers submitted their Round 1 assignments in 125 groups containing approximately 44 writers per group.

My challenge was to write a story in the Suspense genre that involved ‘getting lost’ and featured the word ‘sound’.

I wrote a story called Corn (which you can read below) and am delighted to say that it got me through to the next round by the skin of my teeth, coming in at 9^th in the top 10 places.

So, my Round 2 challenge, which came through last week, was to write a Romantic Comedy, that involves ‘riding a merry go round’ and features the word ‘decent’. This round places the 1,250 remaining writers in 25 groups of around 50.

Romantic Comedy is possibly my least favourite genre ever. Funnily enough though, I recently had a go at a Romance short story for a JAMS homework prompt, but it’s very much out of my comfort zone.

I spent most of the day getting absolutely nowhere and had almost given up when the seed of an idea formed in my head, and I decided just to have a go. I banged it out in a couple of hours in the evening. I’m not feeling very confident, but we will see … Better to have tried and failed and all that.

Anyway, here is Corn. I Hope you enjoy it.

Corn

The impenetrable forest of corn, taller than a man, loomed all around her. Watching with a thousand unseen eyes. Taunting. Waiting with malevolent patience to draw her into its depths. Envelop her. Suffocate her. Erase her.

Fear and panic jostled for control. Her mouth was dry. Her heart thudded in her chest. Fast, shallow breaths dizzied her. Which way?

The afternoon was hot and still. The cloudless blue sky a relentless dome of heat that raised a film of sweat on her skin. Salt and dust combining to sting her eyes and the bloodied scratches that criss-crossed her bare limbs. She had to keep moving.

Ahead, the narrow uneven path forked in two. Left or right? Right or left? Her mind a confusion of indecision. A dried-out husk of corn and a couple of withered stalks lay on the ground at the entrance to the left fork. Was there something familiar about the irregular shape they formed? Had she passed that way before?

The corn whispered.

Emma went right …

The corn is angry. Tendrils reach for her. Graze her skin. Snag her hair.

And then a voice! The thrill of recognition.

“Emma! Over here.”

She rushes towards the sound. Sobbing and gasping with relief. Throws herself into his arms.

He laughs.

She cries.

As they walk to the car she turns back and reads the sign at the entrance to the cornfield.

A smiling head of corn. Yellow and green and grotesquely cheery.

“Can YOU beat the Maize Maze?”

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