Edward Davies's Blog, page 12
January 6, 2015
Short Story : Stoopid Compass
Mikey was lost.
He’d been forced by his mum and dad to come on this camping trip with the local scout division, and he really hadn’t wanted to come. He might only be eight years old, but he really didn’t want to wear shorts anymore, and his woggle was getting on his nerves.
It didn’t help that one of the kids he’d been stuck with was his neighbour, Gilroy Jenkins, a ginger kid who enjoyed playing practical jokes on people. Only that morning he’d hidden Mikey’s underwear up a tree, and all but one pair had been pecked full of holes by the local bird population. Hopefully Gilroy had finished playing jokes on Mikey and would move onto the next kid but, if familiarity breeds contempt, then Gilroy would have a whole heap of contempt for Mikey as he was the only kid he’d known before this trip began.
After a day of traipsing around the woods singing ging-gang-gooley or whatever with a bunch of over-eager children with permanent grins plastered to their faces, and led by a man who, if he wasn’t already a sex offender, would certainly be arrested as one by the end of the week, Mikey had decided that enough was enough.
Once everyone had clambered into their tents and drifted off to sleep, Mikey packed up his belongings in his over-sized backpack, exited his tent, and headed out into the woods in the direction of the main road. He knew that the main road was North of here, so he held his compass firmly in his hand and made sure he was following the needle North.
After about an hour, Mikey realised he didn’t seem to be making any progress. He looked at his compass and frowned at the needle; it was wobbling a little erratically, but he did seem to be following it North, so he carried on walking through the woods. Hopefully it wouldn’t be much longer before he reached the road, then he could head to the bus station and go home.
After another thirty minutes, Mikey stopped again. He sat down under a tree, taking a bag of crisps out of his backpack and started to eat them. He was starving, and all this walking was just making him hungrier. Once the crisps were finished, he again looked at his compass. It still looked a little erratic, but it still seemed to be pointing him in the right direction so, packing his backpack back up and hoisting it onto his back, Mikey carried on into the woods.
It was almost dawn before Mikey made it out of the woods. He was standing on a clearing that looked out over the mountains. This can’t be right, he thought to himself, the mountains are South of the campsite, not North. He looked at the compass, which was still twitching, insisting that the mountains were North of his location. The compass must be wrong.
“Stoopid compass.” Mikey sulked, throwing it to the ground. As it hit, something snapped off the back, catching Mikey’s eye. He stooped down, picking up the object.
It was a magnet.
“What the hell?” Mikey cursed, turning the magnet over in his hands. Two letters were scratched into the back of the magnet, and Mikey swore when he saw them.
G.J.
Mikey hated practical jokes.
Originally Poster 7/1/2015
Result - Joint 5th Place
He’d been forced by his mum and dad to come on this camping trip with the local scout division, and he really hadn’t wanted to come. He might only be eight years old, but he really didn’t want to wear shorts anymore, and his woggle was getting on his nerves.
It didn’t help that one of the kids he’d been stuck with was his neighbour, Gilroy Jenkins, a ginger kid who enjoyed playing practical jokes on people. Only that morning he’d hidden Mikey’s underwear up a tree, and all but one pair had been pecked full of holes by the local bird population. Hopefully Gilroy had finished playing jokes on Mikey and would move onto the next kid but, if familiarity breeds contempt, then Gilroy would have a whole heap of contempt for Mikey as he was the only kid he’d known before this trip began.
After a day of traipsing around the woods singing ging-gang-gooley or whatever with a bunch of over-eager children with permanent grins plastered to their faces, and led by a man who, if he wasn’t already a sex offender, would certainly be arrested as one by the end of the week, Mikey had decided that enough was enough.
Once everyone had clambered into their tents and drifted off to sleep, Mikey packed up his belongings in his over-sized backpack, exited his tent, and headed out into the woods in the direction of the main road. He knew that the main road was North of here, so he held his compass firmly in his hand and made sure he was following the needle North.
After about an hour, Mikey realised he didn’t seem to be making any progress. He looked at his compass and frowned at the needle; it was wobbling a little erratically, but he did seem to be following it North, so he carried on walking through the woods. Hopefully it wouldn’t be much longer before he reached the road, then he could head to the bus station and go home.
After another thirty minutes, Mikey stopped again. He sat down under a tree, taking a bag of crisps out of his backpack and started to eat them. He was starving, and all this walking was just making him hungrier. Once the crisps were finished, he again looked at his compass. It still looked a little erratic, but it still seemed to be pointing him in the right direction so, packing his backpack back up and hoisting it onto his back, Mikey carried on into the woods.
It was almost dawn before Mikey made it out of the woods. He was standing on a clearing that looked out over the mountains. This can’t be right, he thought to himself, the mountains are South of the campsite, not North. He looked at the compass, which was still twitching, insisting that the mountains were North of his location. The compass must be wrong.
“Stoopid compass.” Mikey sulked, throwing it to the ground. As it hit, something snapped off the back, catching Mikey’s eye. He stooped down, picking up the object.
It was a magnet.
“What the hell?” Mikey cursed, turning the magnet over in his hands. Two letters were scratched into the back of the magnet, and Mikey swore when he saw them.
G.J.
Mikey hated practical jokes.
Originally Poster 7/1/2015
Result - Joint 5th Place
December 30, 2014
Short Story : Bad Resolution
“Hey Pete, take a look at this.”
Pete put down his lunch, which consisted of a cheese and ham sandwich and a bag of salt and vinegar crisps, and took a look at the ipad screen that Steve had thrust under his nose. The screen showed an image of… something. Pete couldn’t quite make out what it was, the resolution was so poor.
“What is it?” he asked Steve, squinting at the screen. He noticed some of the pixels change almost subliminally, but he still couldn’t make out what it was.
“It’s a video,” Steve answered, “It arrived in my inbox this morning. I didn’t recognise the address, but it’s a bit weird.”
“You probably shouldn’t have opened it,” Pete warned, “it might have a virus embedded in it or anything. Maybe this has pixelated all of your videos - your ipad might be screwed!”
“No, everything else is fine,” Steve said, “it’s just this one video. I really want to find out what it is.”
Pete furrowed his brow, “But you can’t – the quality is too bad. You’ll never get a good view of what it’s supposed to be.”
Steve smiled, “I have my ways,” he said, “When I get home I’ll do a bit of tweaking on my system there. I’m sure I can figure it out.”
Pete shrugged, “Well, if you want to waste your time, you can. It’s no skin off my nose.”
“It won’t be a waste of time.” Steve said, “come around tonight at about eight. We can take a look at it together. I finish early today, so when you get off work just head on over.”
Later that evening, as Pete left work at around seven thirty, a message came through on his phone. He flicked the screen and looked at who it was from.
It was from Steve.
Opening the message, he saw that all it contained was a video attachment. Opening the attachment he saw it was the same video Steve had been showing him earlier. Pete furrowed his brow – what was the point in that? He was heading over to Steve’s now to see how he’d progressed with cleaning up the resolution on the video, so why send him the original grainy one?
Pete climbed into his car and started the engine, pulling out of his work carpark and heading onto the main road. As he drove, Pete thought to himself about how it seemed a bit weird that Steve had sent him the video. Glancing at the message on his phone again, he suddenly noticed that, rather than being sent just to him, the video had been forwarded to a large mailing list. In fact it looked like it had been forwarded to Steve’s entire address book. Pete tutted;
“It probably was a virus then,” he told himself, “forwarding itself onto the recipients entire address book.”
This had happened to another friend of his before, and really annoyingly it had looked as if the message had come from him, even the wording. This one was a little lazier, what with there being no message and just an attachment. Pete shook his head, realising what a waste of time this visit to Steve’s was going to be. At least, he hoped, he might get a couple of beers out of it.
Pete pulled in to Steve’s driveway, parking behind Steve’s truck and climbing out of the car. Walking up to the front door, he noticed how quiet it was. He stood on the porch, pressing the doorbell. It chimed eerily, but there was no reply. Trying again, Pete tried to peer through the window pane in the door, then noticed that the door wasn’t locked.
Cautiously, Pete eased the door open and stepped into the hallway. There were lights on, but he couldn’t hear anyone in the house.
“Hello?” Pete called out, waiting for a response, but there was none.
He walked into Steve’s living room, but there was no-one there. Confused, Pete wandered to Steve’s bedroom, but there was no-one there either.
Finally he found himself in Steve’s study room, where he saw Steve sat in front of a computer screen. The screen was flickering silently, and Steve wasn’t moving.
“Steve?” Pete half-asked, reaching out slowly to touch him on the shoulder. As he did so, Steve’s chair swivelled round and Pete staggered backwards in terror.
Steve’s dead face was a mask of horror, his eyes wide in fear and his mouth hanging open as if in mid scream. His hair had turned a strange shade of white and his nose was covered in dry blood, as if it had haemorrhaged recently.
Pete’s eyes moved from Steve’s dead body to the computer screen. The words ‘conversion complete’ were written on the right-hand screen, while Media Player was open on the left screen. Clearly it had recently played a video, and two words were written on the screen that sent a chill up Pete’s spine;
‘PLAY AGAIN?’
Originally Posted 31/12/2014
Result - Joint 3rd Place
Pete put down his lunch, which consisted of a cheese and ham sandwich and a bag of salt and vinegar crisps, and took a look at the ipad screen that Steve had thrust under his nose. The screen showed an image of… something. Pete couldn’t quite make out what it was, the resolution was so poor.
“What is it?” he asked Steve, squinting at the screen. He noticed some of the pixels change almost subliminally, but he still couldn’t make out what it was.
“It’s a video,” Steve answered, “It arrived in my inbox this morning. I didn’t recognise the address, but it’s a bit weird.”
“You probably shouldn’t have opened it,” Pete warned, “it might have a virus embedded in it or anything. Maybe this has pixelated all of your videos - your ipad might be screwed!”
“No, everything else is fine,” Steve said, “it’s just this one video. I really want to find out what it is.”
Pete furrowed his brow, “But you can’t – the quality is too bad. You’ll never get a good view of what it’s supposed to be.”
Steve smiled, “I have my ways,” he said, “When I get home I’ll do a bit of tweaking on my system there. I’m sure I can figure it out.”
Pete shrugged, “Well, if you want to waste your time, you can. It’s no skin off my nose.”
“It won’t be a waste of time.” Steve said, “come around tonight at about eight. We can take a look at it together. I finish early today, so when you get off work just head on over.”
Later that evening, as Pete left work at around seven thirty, a message came through on his phone. He flicked the screen and looked at who it was from.
It was from Steve.
Opening the message, he saw that all it contained was a video attachment. Opening the attachment he saw it was the same video Steve had been showing him earlier. Pete furrowed his brow – what was the point in that? He was heading over to Steve’s now to see how he’d progressed with cleaning up the resolution on the video, so why send him the original grainy one?
Pete climbed into his car and started the engine, pulling out of his work carpark and heading onto the main road. As he drove, Pete thought to himself about how it seemed a bit weird that Steve had sent him the video. Glancing at the message on his phone again, he suddenly noticed that, rather than being sent just to him, the video had been forwarded to a large mailing list. In fact it looked like it had been forwarded to Steve’s entire address book. Pete tutted;
“It probably was a virus then,” he told himself, “forwarding itself onto the recipients entire address book.”
This had happened to another friend of his before, and really annoyingly it had looked as if the message had come from him, even the wording. This one was a little lazier, what with there being no message and just an attachment. Pete shook his head, realising what a waste of time this visit to Steve’s was going to be. At least, he hoped, he might get a couple of beers out of it.
Pete pulled in to Steve’s driveway, parking behind Steve’s truck and climbing out of the car. Walking up to the front door, he noticed how quiet it was. He stood on the porch, pressing the doorbell. It chimed eerily, but there was no reply. Trying again, Pete tried to peer through the window pane in the door, then noticed that the door wasn’t locked.
Cautiously, Pete eased the door open and stepped into the hallway. There were lights on, but he couldn’t hear anyone in the house.
“Hello?” Pete called out, waiting for a response, but there was none.
He walked into Steve’s living room, but there was no-one there. Confused, Pete wandered to Steve’s bedroom, but there was no-one there either.
Finally he found himself in Steve’s study room, where he saw Steve sat in front of a computer screen. The screen was flickering silently, and Steve wasn’t moving.
“Steve?” Pete half-asked, reaching out slowly to touch him on the shoulder. As he did so, Steve’s chair swivelled round and Pete staggered backwards in terror.
Steve’s dead face was a mask of horror, his eyes wide in fear and his mouth hanging open as if in mid scream. His hair had turned a strange shade of white and his nose was covered in dry blood, as if it had haemorrhaged recently.
Pete’s eyes moved from Steve’s dead body to the computer screen. The words ‘conversion complete’ were written on the right-hand screen, while Media Player was open on the left screen. Clearly it had recently played a video, and two words were written on the screen that sent a chill up Pete’s spine;
‘PLAY AGAIN?’
Originally Posted 31/12/2014
Result - Joint 3rd Place
December 22, 2014
Short Story : Under The Tree
He deserved to die.
She’d spent most of an evening back in November digging the hole in her garden, making sure nobody knew what she was doing until she’d finished. The hole wasn’t as deep as she’d have liked, and definitely not as wide, but she’d put good use to her secateurs to ensure that the cloth sack would fit. Filling the hole back in was just as much hard work, but eventually she was done. A long shower was taken after that back breaking work, followed by a night of constantly interrupted sleep.
By December, she started to notice the shoots coming up from the ground where she’d buried the sack. Mostly they were green, but she was sure that some of them were tinged with red. She didn’t like the look of them, but she ignored them.
By April, the starting of a tree had begun to grow in the garden. She couldn’t understand what could have happened. She hadn’t planted anything there, nothing but...
She had turned from the kitchen window, telling herself that it was nothing, and that what was happening in her garden was perfectly normal. But it wasn’t.
By August, the tree had already grown to three feet. Three feet in nine months? It didn’t seem possible to her. People had finally stopped talking about his mysterious disappearance, how he’d walked out on her last Autumn, but now she was faced with this waist high reminder, right there, where she’d put him. Whenever she did the dishes after dinner, breakfast, lunch, she could see the tree out there, taunting her with its branches, like hands waving mockingly at her.
It was November, a full year after she’d dug the hole, and the tree was now towering above her. Its trunk was thick and strong, and its leaves were somehow still in bloom, despite it being Autumn once again, and she was starting to panic. What if people noticed, she asked herself. What if people questioned such a quick growing tree? No-one had mentioned it so far, but paranoia is a wonderful thing.
She continued to watch the tree from her kitchen window, watching the leaves billow in the breeze. She hadn’t cleaned any dishes in three months, choosing to leave them in the sink and just buy paper plates instead. Or eat takeaway. Anything to avoid that window and its view of the tree. Yet every day she found herself inexplicably drawn back to that vantage point, watching as the tree continued its taunts. Finally, she came to a decision.
She bought an axe from the hardware store, wrapped in paper, carrying it home in her shopping trolley. She parked the trolley next to the tree when she arrived home, removing the paper from the axe and flexing her fingers over the grip. Taking a stance and feeling her toes gripping the earth through her shoes, she took her first tentative swing. The axe hit the trunk of the tree, digging deeply into the bark, and she struggled to pull it free to take a second swing. Once she’d freed the axe, she glanced at the tree.
A thick crimson liquid was flowing from the cut she’d just inflicted on the tree. In the fading afternoon light it looked like it could be...
No, that would be silly.
She looked more carefully at the tree, noticing for the first time a faint pattern in the whorls of the wood. Was that a... a face?
His face?!
Panicking anew, she took another swing of the axe, this time burying it in the face she thought she’d seen in the bark of the tree. Placing her foot against the trunk, she pulled the axe out and swung again.
And again.
And again.
After what seemed like forever, she had managed to chop halfway through the tree, and it was starting to creak. She looked up into the leaves, most of them now red, and watched as the tree tumbled towards her. Crushing her beneath their weight and killing her instantly.
Even in the end, he’d won.
Originally Posted 23/12/2014
Result - 2nd Place
She’d spent most of an evening back in November digging the hole in her garden, making sure nobody knew what she was doing until she’d finished. The hole wasn’t as deep as she’d have liked, and definitely not as wide, but she’d put good use to her secateurs to ensure that the cloth sack would fit. Filling the hole back in was just as much hard work, but eventually she was done. A long shower was taken after that back breaking work, followed by a night of constantly interrupted sleep.
By December, she started to notice the shoots coming up from the ground where she’d buried the sack. Mostly they were green, but she was sure that some of them were tinged with red. She didn’t like the look of them, but she ignored them.
By April, the starting of a tree had begun to grow in the garden. She couldn’t understand what could have happened. She hadn’t planted anything there, nothing but...
She had turned from the kitchen window, telling herself that it was nothing, and that what was happening in her garden was perfectly normal. But it wasn’t.
By August, the tree had already grown to three feet. Three feet in nine months? It didn’t seem possible to her. People had finally stopped talking about his mysterious disappearance, how he’d walked out on her last Autumn, but now she was faced with this waist high reminder, right there, where she’d put him. Whenever she did the dishes after dinner, breakfast, lunch, she could see the tree out there, taunting her with its branches, like hands waving mockingly at her.
It was November, a full year after she’d dug the hole, and the tree was now towering above her. Its trunk was thick and strong, and its leaves were somehow still in bloom, despite it being Autumn once again, and she was starting to panic. What if people noticed, she asked herself. What if people questioned such a quick growing tree? No-one had mentioned it so far, but paranoia is a wonderful thing.
She continued to watch the tree from her kitchen window, watching the leaves billow in the breeze. She hadn’t cleaned any dishes in three months, choosing to leave them in the sink and just buy paper plates instead. Or eat takeaway. Anything to avoid that window and its view of the tree. Yet every day she found herself inexplicably drawn back to that vantage point, watching as the tree continued its taunts. Finally, she came to a decision.
She bought an axe from the hardware store, wrapped in paper, carrying it home in her shopping trolley. She parked the trolley next to the tree when she arrived home, removing the paper from the axe and flexing her fingers over the grip. Taking a stance and feeling her toes gripping the earth through her shoes, she took her first tentative swing. The axe hit the trunk of the tree, digging deeply into the bark, and she struggled to pull it free to take a second swing. Once she’d freed the axe, she glanced at the tree.
A thick crimson liquid was flowing from the cut she’d just inflicted on the tree. In the fading afternoon light it looked like it could be...
No, that would be silly.
She looked more carefully at the tree, noticing for the first time a faint pattern in the whorls of the wood. Was that a... a face?
His face?!
Panicking anew, she took another swing of the axe, this time burying it in the face she thought she’d seen in the bark of the tree. Placing her foot against the trunk, she pulled the axe out and swung again.
And again.
And again.
After what seemed like forever, she had managed to chop halfway through the tree, and it was starting to creak. She looked up into the leaves, most of them now red, and watched as the tree tumbled towards her. Crushing her beneath their weight and killing her instantly.
Even in the end, he’d won.
Originally Posted 23/12/2014
Result - 2nd Place
December 18, 2014
Short Story : Sorry
“Sorry.”
Bob looked up from the television, glancing at Jim who had just entered the room.
“What for?” he asked.
Jim sat down on the sofa next to Bob, “You mean you don’t know?”
Bob glared at Jim, “Don’t know what?”
Jim shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
Bob picked up the remote control from the coffee table, switched the television off, then replaced the remote on the table, “What have you done this time?” he asked, half-turning towards Him.
Jim shrugged again, “It doesn’t matter,” he said, picking up the remote and turning the television back on.
Bob snatched the remote from Jim, turning the television back off and then shoving the remote between the sofa cushions on the side Jim couldn’t reach, “What,” Bob repeated, getting slightly cross, “have you done?”
“I told you,” Jim said, picking up the bowl of peanuts that seemed to permanently sit on the coffee table, “it doesn’t matter.”
“Saying it doesn’t matter isn’t telling me,” Bob said angrily, “so I’ll ask you one more time; what did you do?”
Jim, who was now chewing on a handful of peanuts, put the bowl back on the table, “You really want to know?” he asked after swallowing his mouthful.
“Yes please,” Bob said patronisingly.
“Well,” Jim began, looking at Bob, then stopped, “it doesn’t matter.”
“Just tell me,” Bob said with mild annoyance.
“You promise not to get angry?” Jim asked.
“I’m already angry,” Bob said angrily, “the only thing that might make me less angry is if you told me what you did!”
Jim breathed a sigh, preparing himself to speak, “Well,” he began, “you know your mum?”
Bob rolled his eyes, “I have met her once or twice, yes.”
“Well, I had a message about her,” Jim continued.
“A message?” Bob repeated, “From my mum?”
“Not from your mum,” Jim corrected, “About her.”
“What about her?” Bob asked, getting more annoyed by the second.
“Well,” Jim said, “she’s sort of...”
“Sort of what?” Bob prompted.
“Please don’t interrupt,” Jim said, “this isn’t easy for me.”
“Sorry,” Bob said.
“You’re forgiven,” Jim nodded to acknowledge Bob’s apology.
“So anyway...” Bob prompted again.
“Anyway,” Jim continued, “about your mum. She’s sort of...”
“Yes?”
“Dead.”
Bob’s jaw dropped, “She’s what?”
“She’s dead,” Jim repeated, “Massive heart attack, apparently.”
“My mum’s dead?” Bob stared into nothingness, “My mum?”
“Yes,” Jim nodded, “your dad left a message.”
“Did he say when,” Bob swallowed, “when the funeral is?”
“Yes, he did.”
“When is it?” Bob asked, trying not to cry.
“This morning.” Jim said.
Bob stared at the clock – 5.37pm – then stared at Jim.
“This morning?” he repeated, “And my dad only left the message today?”
Jim rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “Well actually...”
“What?”
“He left the message last Tuesday.”
“Last Tuesday?” Bob repeated.
“Yes,” Jim said, “that’s why I said sorry. I forgot to tell you. Am I forgiven?”
Jim’s funeral was the following Thursday.
Originally Posted 19/12/2014
Result - Joint 6th Place
Bob looked up from the television, glancing at Jim who had just entered the room.
“What for?” he asked.
Jim sat down on the sofa next to Bob, “You mean you don’t know?”
Bob glared at Jim, “Don’t know what?”
Jim shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
Bob picked up the remote control from the coffee table, switched the television off, then replaced the remote on the table, “What have you done this time?” he asked, half-turning towards Him.
Jim shrugged again, “It doesn’t matter,” he said, picking up the remote and turning the television back on.
Bob snatched the remote from Jim, turning the television back off and then shoving the remote between the sofa cushions on the side Jim couldn’t reach, “What,” Bob repeated, getting slightly cross, “have you done?”
“I told you,” Jim said, picking up the bowl of peanuts that seemed to permanently sit on the coffee table, “it doesn’t matter.”
“Saying it doesn’t matter isn’t telling me,” Bob said angrily, “so I’ll ask you one more time; what did you do?”
Jim, who was now chewing on a handful of peanuts, put the bowl back on the table, “You really want to know?” he asked after swallowing his mouthful.
“Yes please,” Bob said patronisingly.
“Well,” Jim began, looking at Bob, then stopped, “it doesn’t matter.”
“Just tell me,” Bob said with mild annoyance.
“You promise not to get angry?” Jim asked.
“I’m already angry,” Bob said angrily, “the only thing that might make me less angry is if you told me what you did!”
Jim breathed a sigh, preparing himself to speak, “Well,” he began, “you know your mum?”
Bob rolled his eyes, “I have met her once or twice, yes.”
“Well, I had a message about her,” Jim continued.
“A message?” Bob repeated, “From my mum?”
“Not from your mum,” Jim corrected, “About her.”
“What about her?” Bob asked, getting more annoyed by the second.
“Well,” Jim said, “she’s sort of...”
“Sort of what?” Bob prompted.
“Please don’t interrupt,” Jim said, “this isn’t easy for me.”
“Sorry,” Bob said.
“You’re forgiven,” Jim nodded to acknowledge Bob’s apology.
“So anyway...” Bob prompted again.
“Anyway,” Jim continued, “about your mum. She’s sort of...”
“Yes?”
“Dead.”
Bob’s jaw dropped, “She’s what?”
“She’s dead,” Jim repeated, “Massive heart attack, apparently.”
“My mum’s dead?” Bob stared into nothingness, “My mum?”
“Yes,” Jim nodded, “your dad left a message.”
“Did he say when,” Bob swallowed, “when the funeral is?”
“Yes, he did.”
“When is it?” Bob asked, trying not to cry.
“This morning.” Jim said.
Bob stared at the clock – 5.37pm – then stared at Jim.
“This morning?” he repeated, “And my dad only left the message today?”
Jim rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “Well actually...”
“What?”
“He left the message last Tuesday.”
“Last Tuesday?” Bob repeated.
“Yes,” Jim said, “that’s why I said sorry. I forgot to tell you. Am I forgiven?”
Jim’s funeral was the following Thursday.
Originally Posted 19/12/2014
Result - Joint 6th Place
Short Stories And Poetry
I'm gonna start blogging my entries for the Goodreads short story and poetry compettitions. I hope you all like them. First one to follow...
