Edward Davies's Blog, page 5
September 28, 2015
Short Story : Nothing Lasts Forever
Those photographs hadn’t seen the light of day in almost thirty years, and when I saw them again I could understand why she’d kept them hidden away. It was like looking at a distorted portrait from the past, with my best friend made up to look like some kind of elderly creature from beyond the grave. It’s frightening when I think about that story by Oscar Wilde, and how Mary had somehow managed to channel it into her own life.
But I’m getting ahead of myself...
It was the end of the summer of ’87 that I think it all began. Rick Astley was at number one in the charts; the biggest movie of the moment was, of all things, Stakeout; and Thatcher was still in power. It was a different time.
My best friend Mary and I had spent much of the summer playing with our new Polaroid camera. I say our, as we had saved up our pocket money and combined our resources to purchase it together. It was so much fun watching those photos poke out from the front of the camera, and then shaking them until the image emerged. We looked so silly, as in order to get us both in the picture we had to guess at our location and take a sort of pre-dated selfie. I remember how young we’d looked when I first saw the pictures, but now that I’m looking at them again we don’t look so young. Well, I do, but not Mary. She... she doesn’t look right.
Mary’s mother had died when she was very young, and ever since she had developed a sort of obsession with staying young. Not that he mother had been old; she’d only been twenty-seven when she’d finally popped it, but Mary didn’t seem to let that sink in. We were fifteen in the summer of ’87, and now that I’m close to being in my mid-forties it seems strange imagining Mary’s mother dying when she was so much younger than us.
By the autumn of that year the weather had become extremely bitter, and we’d spent most of our time sitting together, either in my room or in Mary’s, looking over our Polaroid collection.
“I wish we could afford some more film,” Mary sighed, “I had so much fun with these pictures.”
“We’ll get our pocket money soon enough,” I said, smiling at my friend.
“I don’t think I can spend it this month on film,” Mary said, holding her forefinger and thumb up to one eye and stretching the lids apart, “Can you see that?”
“See what?” I asked.
“Crow’s feet!” Mary exclaimed, “I’m fifteen years old and already I have crow’s feet!”
“You don’t have crow’s feet,” I chuckled, “that’s just a laughter line.”
“Well, I don’t find it funny,” Mary said seriously, “just because you have flawless skin doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t need to invest in makeup to cover up our sins.”
I frowned at Mary as she collected up our photographs and slipped them into a padded brown envelope, “I’m going to keep these pictures as a reminder of how we should look,” she told me, “and as a warning to myself for when I start to age badly.”
It was just something to say, I remember thinking, just one of those throw away comments that people make about the future when they’re still young. I didn’t honestly think that Mary would try to do something about it, but it explained why she didn’t seem to change much in the next few years, other than her persona and the amount of black makeup she took to wearing.
Once it got to our university days between ’91 and ’94, we started to lose touch. Months sometimes went by between phone calls or letters, and when we did meet up in the summertime and at Christmas, things just weren’t the same.
Except Mary was the same.
She hadn’t changed a bit, to tell you the truth. Normally people change quite drastically between the age of fifteen and twenty-two; they get taller, they fill out, they develop larger breasts, but not Mary. She still has the physique of a teen and skin of a child, even managing to bypass that awkward acne ridden phase most of us develop at university. I found it incredibly uncomfortable trying to talk with her when we did meet up because I felt so much older than her. We were once the same height, but at this stage I was a full six inches taller than her, even though I was only five foot five.
Once we graduated university we moved on into a working environment. I took up a job teaching underprivileged kids, while Mary took on a role at our local library. She spent most of her time there, reading through the large collection of books the building housed, and even though we had both moved back to our home town we didn’t see each other as much as we used to.
On the one occasion that we did get together and actually talk – our ten year school reunion in ’98 – I noticed just how much she hadn’t changed. The dark makeup she’d taken to wearing had hidden the fact quite well that she still looked fifteen years old. Now that we were in our mid to late twenties it became something of a talking point amongst all the kids we once went to school with. People whispered about her behind her back, some people being complementary while others called her Dorian Gray. If I’d have known at the time how right they’d been in their choice of nickname I might have tried to do something about it.
Mary seemed to enjoy the attention she got from all the boys we once went to school with. Some of the better looking girls from our years had already had kids, and as a result had lost their slender figures, while Mary was still the same weight and build as she’d been a decade earlier. As with all things, school reunions bring out the worst in all of us, and we revert to type, but that isn’t so easy for the popular mean girls who now look so mumsy. Mary loved the idea of being the good looking girl, I could see it in her eyes.
“Clearly youth is the true sign of beauty,” she smiled.
After that we drifted apart even further, and it was another fifteen years before we really saw each other again. We’d obviously seen each other in the area every so often, but we hadn’t spent any time together. It was 2013 when I had my next full blown conversation with Mary, and it was an eerie time for me.
“Mary?” I remember half-asking as I saw her walking down the street, “Is that you?”
Mary was staggering down the street, a bottle of booze clutched in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her make-up was askew and her clothes were hanging off her, but other than that she looked exactly the same. Even though she was clearly drunk out of her skull, her eyes were clear behind her thick eyeliner, and although she was staggering on a pair of open-toed heels that were clearly too tight for her, her feet didn’t look any the worse for wear.
“Hey you,” Mary beamed at me, her eyes shifting in and out of focus, “How’ve you been?”
“Better than you, I think,” I commented.
Mary glared at me through the drunken haze that hadn’t seemed to affect her vision, “That’s rich,” Mary chuckled, “you’re looking old, lady.”
Mary had a point, obviously. I was in my forties now, and though I didn’t look it, I still looked considerably older than she did. She was like Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver – looking like a teenaged prostitute in spite of being the same age as me.
I looked Mary up and down, and couldn’t help admiring how she’d managed to remain looking the same age in spite of her vices. I furrowed my brow before asking, “So, Mary. What’s your secret?”
“My secret?” Mary grinned knowingly, but her eyes seemed lost for a moment, “Wouldn’t you just love to know. I tell you one thing; if I could bottle it, I’d be a millionaire by now.”
I didn’t see Mary again for almost two years, then one day I saw her when I was passing her parents house. She’d never moved out, it seemed, and I could only assume that she was still living in the same bedroom as her parent’s house didn’t have a garage or a granny flat.
She skipped down the steps of the house, appearing completely nonchalant to her surroundings, and headed off down the street. A thought wormed its way into my mind as I watched Mary trundle off down the street and, once she was out of view, I crossed the street and headed up the steps to the house.
Ringing the doorbell, I waited until Mary’s mother opened the door. When she saw me, a smile spread itself across her face.
“Well, my goodness,” she said, “I haven’t seen you in years. My how you’ve grown up to be an attractive young girl.”
I smiled at the complement, but that wasn’t why I was there, “Is Mary in?” I asked, as if I hadn’t seen her leave moments before.
“Why, you just missed her,” Mary’s mother told me, “she shouldn’t be more than half an hour or so if you’d care to wait.”
I smiled at Mary’s mother, “That would be lovely, thank you,” I said, walking into the house.
“Can I get you a cup of tea while you’re waiting?” she asked me as I followed her down the hallway into the living room.
“That would be lovely, thank you,” I said, watching Mary’s mother head in the direction of the kitchen. Instead of going into the living room, I took a left turn into Mary’s bedroom, unseen by her mother.
I was taken aback when I walked in there – it wasn’t just Mary that hadn’t changed over the years. Her room was identical to how it had looked back in 1987, right down to the sheets on the bed and the posters on the wall. It was as if the room had been preserved; trapped in a time so many years gone for most, but still ever present for Mary.
I remember jokingly thinking back on the comparison’s I’d made between Mary and Dorian Gray, and the idea that she had sold her soul to preserve her youthful looks, but it wasn’t until I started rummaging through her belongings that I realised how close to the truth I had been. After a quick glance through her things, I found a small metal box in the drawer next to her bed. It wasn’t locked, so I opened it up to look at the contents. I don’t know what made me route around through her things. Idle curiosity I guess, but part of me is glad that I did.
It contained the Polaroids from that summer almost thirty years ago, but like I said, they weren’t the same. I looked just as I had, the fifteen year old me mugging for the camera, but Mary... Mary looked wrong.
She wasn’t the fifteen year old I remembered from back then, she looked like she had spent decades taking every drug under the sun. Her hooded eyes were rimmed with redness from years of smoking, and her lips were puckered into a wrinkled pout. I dropped the first picture to the ground in shock, but the other remained in my hands.
“So, you’ve found them.”
I turned in surprise to see Mary standing in the doorway, looking just the same as she had the last time I’d seen her, and every time before then for the last thirty years.
“Mary,” I said slowly, “what did you do?”
“I made a deal.” she told me, “With who? That doesn’t matter. What matters is that I want out of it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’ve kept the photos all these years,” Mary explained, “trying to reverse the changes in them. It’s worked to some extent, but I need more time to make sure that I don’t turn into... turn into what’s in those photographs.”
I shook my head in disbelief, “So, the reason you still look fifteen years old is--”
“—Because I’m still fifteen years old,” Mary nodded, “and I thought that would be a good thing, until I realised some of the bad points.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“I can’t get into night clubs,” Mary said, “even with legitimate ID, they think it’s fake. And sex?”
“Sex?” I repeated, “What about it?”
“It’s horrible!” she told me, “Remember that red headed vampire from that show True Blood? Every time is like the first time, and it hurts so bad. Some guys seem to like it that way, but believe me it gets real old real fast.”
“Unlike you,” I quipped.
“Unlike me,” Mary repeated sadly.
“So, what are you going to do?” I asked calmly.
Mary shrugged, “I don’t know,” she replied honestly, “but I’ve got to do something.”
“Maybe we could get rid of the pictures,” I suggested.
“Get rid of them?” Mary asked, “Get rid of them how?”
“Well, we won’t stab them!” I chuckled, remembering the end of Dorian Gray, but Mary didn’t laugh, “Maybe we could burn them.”
“Burn them?” Mary sounded scared, “But what if it burns me.”
“We could singe a corner of one of them,” I said, “see what happens.”
Reluctantly Mary agreed, producing a lighter from her handbag. I held out one of the Polaroids and Mary flicked the flint on her lighter, watching the flame lick the corner of the picture seductively. My eyes moved from Mary to the Polaroid, watching the photo curl until it started to burn the part of the image where Mary’s hand was visible.
“Do you feel anything?” I asked.
“No,” Mary replied as the photo continued to burn. Soon the flames were close to my fingers, and I dropped the picture into Mary’s waste bin.
“Well,” I smiled a little, “it looks like burning the photos won’t hurt you. Even if it’s just symbolic, it might be a start on getting you onto the road to recovery.
Mary nodded as she held out the lighter for another Polaroid. We lit that one and dropped it into the waste bin, then dropped the rest of them in as well. Soon they were flickering away, burning whatever was left of our summer back in 1987.
I looked at Mary as the flames sent distorted light around the room, and although it was subtle I could see the changes coming. Her cheeks seemed to sag into her face, her eyes became hooded and dull, and she actually appeared to get taller. Her chest expanded, then sunk, and her teeth began to discolour. She looked at me hopefully, and I stared back.
“Well,” Mary asked, “am I me?”
“You were always you, Mary,” I told her, putting my hand comfortingly on hers, “now we just need to make you the best you you can be.”
“Being young wasn’t everything I thought it would be,’ Mary told me quietly, “part of me wanted to grow up and experience the consequences of my actions. Part of me wanted to see the bad I was doing to myself so I could stop. Just looking at those old snapshots wasn’t enough.”
“Maybe now you can stop,” I said, “With the right help we can turn you around. It isn’t just the good things that come to an end, like being young. The bad things eventually have to stop too. Nothing lasts forever, Mary, not our youth or our sins.”
“No,” Mary agreed, “but they can be fun, for a time.”
Originally Posted 28/9/2015
Result - UNKNOWN
But I’m getting ahead of myself...
It was the end of the summer of ’87 that I think it all began. Rick Astley was at number one in the charts; the biggest movie of the moment was, of all things, Stakeout; and Thatcher was still in power. It was a different time.
My best friend Mary and I had spent much of the summer playing with our new Polaroid camera. I say our, as we had saved up our pocket money and combined our resources to purchase it together. It was so much fun watching those photos poke out from the front of the camera, and then shaking them until the image emerged. We looked so silly, as in order to get us both in the picture we had to guess at our location and take a sort of pre-dated selfie. I remember how young we’d looked when I first saw the pictures, but now that I’m looking at them again we don’t look so young. Well, I do, but not Mary. She... she doesn’t look right.
Mary’s mother had died when she was very young, and ever since she had developed a sort of obsession with staying young. Not that he mother had been old; she’d only been twenty-seven when she’d finally popped it, but Mary didn’t seem to let that sink in. We were fifteen in the summer of ’87, and now that I’m close to being in my mid-forties it seems strange imagining Mary’s mother dying when she was so much younger than us.
By the autumn of that year the weather had become extremely bitter, and we’d spent most of our time sitting together, either in my room or in Mary’s, looking over our Polaroid collection.
“I wish we could afford some more film,” Mary sighed, “I had so much fun with these pictures.”
“We’ll get our pocket money soon enough,” I said, smiling at my friend.
“I don’t think I can spend it this month on film,” Mary said, holding her forefinger and thumb up to one eye and stretching the lids apart, “Can you see that?”
“See what?” I asked.
“Crow’s feet!” Mary exclaimed, “I’m fifteen years old and already I have crow’s feet!”
“You don’t have crow’s feet,” I chuckled, “that’s just a laughter line.”
“Well, I don’t find it funny,” Mary said seriously, “just because you have flawless skin doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t need to invest in makeup to cover up our sins.”
I frowned at Mary as she collected up our photographs and slipped them into a padded brown envelope, “I’m going to keep these pictures as a reminder of how we should look,” she told me, “and as a warning to myself for when I start to age badly.”
It was just something to say, I remember thinking, just one of those throw away comments that people make about the future when they’re still young. I didn’t honestly think that Mary would try to do something about it, but it explained why she didn’t seem to change much in the next few years, other than her persona and the amount of black makeup she took to wearing.
Once it got to our university days between ’91 and ’94, we started to lose touch. Months sometimes went by between phone calls or letters, and when we did meet up in the summertime and at Christmas, things just weren’t the same.
Except Mary was the same.
She hadn’t changed a bit, to tell you the truth. Normally people change quite drastically between the age of fifteen and twenty-two; they get taller, they fill out, they develop larger breasts, but not Mary. She still has the physique of a teen and skin of a child, even managing to bypass that awkward acne ridden phase most of us develop at university. I found it incredibly uncomfortable trying to talk with her when we did meet up because I felt so much older than her. We were once the same height, but at this stage I was a full six inches taller than her, even though I was only five foot five.
Once we graduated university we moved on into a working environment. I took up a job teaching underprivileged kids, while Mary took on a role at our local library. She spent most of her time there, reading through the large collection of books the building housed, and even though we had both moved back to our home town we didn’t see each other as much as we used to.
On the one occasion that we did get together and actually talk – our ten year school reunion in ’98 – I noticed just how much she hadn’t changed. The dark makeup she’d taken to wearing had hidden the fact quite well that she still looked fifteen years old. Now that we were in our mid to late twenties it became something of a talking point amongst all the kids we once went to school with. People whispered about her behind her back, some people being complementary while others called her Dorian Gray. If I’d have known at the time how right they’d been in their choice of nickname I might have tried to do something about it.
Mary seemed to enjoy the attention she got from all the boys we once went to school with. Some of the better looking girls from our years had already had kids, and as a result had lost their slender figures, while Mary was still the same weight and build as she’d been a decade earlier. As with all things, school reunions bring out the worst in all of us, and we revert to type, but that isn’t so easy for the popular mean girls who now look so mumsy. Mary loved the idea of being the good looking girl, I could see it in her eyes.
“Clearly youth is the true sign of beauty,” she smiled.
After that we drifted apart even further, and it was another fifteen years before we really saw each other again. We’d obviously seen each other in the area every so often, but we hadn’t spent any time together. It was 2013 when I had my next full blown conversation with Mary, and it was an eerie time for me.
“Mary?” I remember half-asking as I saw her walking down the street, “Is that you?”
Mary was staggering down the street, a bottle of booze clutched in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her make-up was askew and her clothes were hanging off her, but other than that she looked exactly the same. Even though she was clearly drunk out of her skull, her eyes were clear behind her thick eyeliner, and although she was staggering on a pair of open-toed heels that were clearly too tight for her, her feet didn’t look any the worse for wear.
“Hey you,” Mary beamed at me, her eyes shifting in and out of focus, “How’ve you been?”
“Better than you, I think,” I commented.
Mary glared at me through the drunken haze that hadn’t seemed to affect her vision, “That’s rich,” Mary chuckled, “you’re looking old, lady.”
Mary had a point, obviously. I was in my forties now, and though I didn’t look it, I still looked considerably older than she did. She was like Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver – looking like a teenaged prostitute in spite of being the same age as me.
I looked Mary up and down, and couldn’t help admiring how she’d managed to remain looking the same age in spite of her vices. I furrowed my brow before asking, “So, Mary. What’s your secret?”
“My secret?” Mary grinned knowingly, but her eyes seemed lost for a moment, “Wouldn’t you just love to know. I tell you one thing; if I could bottle it, I’d be a millionaire by now.”
I didn’t see Mary again for almost two years, then one day I saw her when I was passing her parents house. She’d never moved out, it seemed, and I could only assume that she was still living in the same bedroom as her parent’s house didn’t have a garage or a granny flat.
She skipped down the steps of the house, appearing completely nonchalant to her surroundings, and headed off down the street. A thought wormed its way into my mind as I watched Mary trundle off down the street and, once she was out of view, I crossed the street and headed up the steps to the house.
Ringing the doorbell, I waited until Mary’s mother opened the door. When she saw me, a smile spread itself across her face.
“Well, my goodness,” she said, “I haven’t seen you in years. My how you’ve grown up to be an attractive young girl.”
I smiled at the complement, but that wasn’t why I was there, “Is Mary in?” I asked, as if I hadn’t seen her leave moments before.
“Why, you just missed her,” Mary’s mother told me, “she shouldn’t be more than half an hour or so if you’d care to wait.”
I smiled at Mary’s mother, “That would be lovely, thank you,” I said, walking into the house.
“Can I get you a cup of tea while you’re waiting?” she asked me as I followed her down the hallway into the living room.
“That would be lovely, thank you,” I said, watching Mary’s mother head in the direction of the kitchen. Instead of going into the living room, I took a left turn into Mary’s bedroom, unseen by her mother.
I was taken aback when I walked in there – it wasn’t just Mary that hadn’t changed over the years. Her room was identical to how it had looked back in 1987, right down to the sheets on the bed and the posters on the wall. It was as if the room had been preserved; trapped in a time so many years gone for most, but still ever present for Mary.
I remember jokingly thinking back on the comparison’s I’d made between Mary and Dorian Gray, and the idea that she had sold her soul to preserve her youthful looks, but it wasn’t until I started rummaging through her belongings that I realised how close to the truth I had been. After a quick glance through her things, I found a small metal box in the drawer next to her bed. It wasn’t locked, so I opened it up to look at the contents. I don’t know what made me route around through her things. Idle curiosity I guess, but part of me is glad that I did.
It contained the Polaroids from that summer almost thirty years ago, but like I said, they weren’t the same. I looked just as I had, the fifteen year old me mugging for the camera, but Mary... Mary looked wrong.
She wasn’t the fifteen year old I remembered from back then, she looked like she had spent decades taking every drug under the sun. Her hooded eyes were rimmed with redness from years of smoking, and her lips were puckered into a wrinkled pout. I dropped the first picture to the ground in shock, but the other remained in my hands.
“So, you’ve found them.”
I turned in surprise to see Mary standing in the doorway, looking just the same as she had the last time I’d seen her, and every time before then for the last thirty years.
“Mary,” I said slowly, “what did you do?”
“I made a deal.” she told me, “With who? That doesn’t matter. What matters is that I want out of it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’ve kept the photos all these years,” Mary explained, “trying to reverse the changes in them. It’s worked to some extent, but I need more time to make sure that I don’t turn into... turn into what’s in those photographs.”
I shook my head in disbelief, “So, the reason you still look fifteen years old is--”
“—Because I’m still fifteen years old,” Mary nodded, “and I thought that would be a good thing, until I realised some of the bad points.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“I can’t get into night clubs,” Mary said, “even with legitimate ID, they think it’s fake. And sex?”
“Sex?” I repeated, “What about it?”
“It’s horrible!” she told me, “Remember that red headed vampire from that show True Blood? Every time is like the first time, and it hurts so bad. Some guys seem to like it that way, but believe me it gets real old real fast.”
“Unlike you,” I quipped.
“Unlike me,” Mary repeated sadly.
“So, what are you going to do?” I asked calmly.
Mary shrugged, “I don’t know,” she replied honestly, “but I’ve got to do something.”
“Maybe we could get rid of the pictures,” I suggested.
“Get rid of them?” Mary asked, “Get rid of them how?”
“Well, we won’t stab them!” I chuckled, remembering the end of Dorian Gray, but Mary didn’t laugh, “Maybe we could burn them.”
“Burn them?” Mary sounded scared, “But what if it burns me.”
“We could singe a corner of one of them,” I said, “see what happens.”
Reluctantly Mary agreed, producing a lighter from her handbag. I held out one of the Polaroids and Mary flicked the flint on her lighter, watching the flame lick the corner of the picture seductively. My eyes moved from Mary to the Polaroid, watching the photo curl until it started to burn the part of the image where Mary’s hand was visible.
“Do you feel anything?” I asked.
“No,” Mary replied as the photo continued to burn. Soon the flames were close to my fingers, and I dropped the picture into Mary’s waste bin.
“Well,” I smiled a little, “it looks like burning the photos won’t hurt you. Even if it’s just symbolic, it might be a start on getting you onto the road to recovery.
Mary nodded as she held out the lighter for another Polaroid. We lit that one and dropped it into the waste bin, then dropped the rest of them in as well. Soon they were flickering away, burning whatever was left of our summer back in 1987.
I looked at Mary as the flames sent distorted light around the room, and although it was subtle I could see the changes coming. Her cheeks seemed to sag into her face, her eyes became hooded and dull, and she actually appeared to get taller. Her chest expanded, then sunk, and her teeth began to discolour. She looked at me hopefully, and I stared back.
“Well,” Mary asked, “am I me?”
“You were always you, Mary,” I told her, putting my hand comfortingly on hers, “now we just need to make you the best you you can be.”
“Being young wasn’t everything I thought it would be,’ Mary told me quietly, “part of me wanted to grow up and experience the consequences of my actions. Part of me wanted to see the bad I was doing to myself so I could stop. Just looking at those old snapshots wasn’t enough.”
“Maybe now you can stop,” I said, “With the right help we can turn you around. It isn’t just the good things that come to an end, like being young. The bad things eventually have to stop too. Nothing lasts forever, Mary, not our youth or our sins.”
“No,” Mary agreed, “but they can be fun, for a time.”
Originally Posted 28/9/2015
Result - UNKNOWN
September 24, 2015
Poem : One Moment In Time
One moment in time
Forever preserved between transparent sticky sheets
Kept safe in tightly bound confines
Rarely looked at, often forgotten
One moment in time
Uploaded to the world wide web
Shared with all who choose to see
Remembered for a while, then vanishes into the abyss
One moment in time
Forever embedded in our minds
Looked back upon with limbic thoughts
Never mislaid or put out of your mind
One moment in time
We will never forget
Originally Posted 24/9/2015
Result - UNKNOWN
Forever preserved between transparent sticky sheets
Kept safe in tightly bound confines
Rarely looked at, often forgotten
One moment in time
Uploaded to the world wide web
Shared with all who choose to see
Remembered for a while, then vanishes into the abyss
One moment in time
Forever embedded in our minds
Looked back upon with limbic thoughts
Never mislaid or put out of your mind
One moment in time
We will never forget
Originally Posted 24/9/2015
Result - UNKNOWN
September 17, 2015
Short Story : Gasp!
The crew of the Titan Saturn System Mission Mark Three – or TSSM3 for short - had been travelling through space for more than five years, and still hadn’t reached their destination – Titan, one of the many moons of Saturn. Once there, the crew’s job was to collect samples of the local environment, while also to take pictures of the landscape and return them to Earth.
Spending most of the journey in cryostasis did have its perks – spending an eighteen year round trip not ageing at the same rate as the people on Earth for one – but there were bad things too. Family would age much faster back on Earth, children would grow into adults, and most of the crew’s time on board was spent alone while the rest of the crew continued to hibernate.
Commander Kristen Bartlett sat at one of the control stations, checking how the rest of the crew were getting on. It was her turn to run the monthly checks, and ensure that none of the capsules in which the crew slept had been damaged or compromised in any way. Things had been going pretty smoothly, but with at least another thirteen years to go before they’d be back on Earth, she didn’t want to count her chickens quite yet.
Bartlett munched on a ration bar, swallowing the sticky flavourless tar-like substance until she could no longer feel it in her throat. If there was one thing she wouldn’t miss about space missions, it was the food. Absently she flicked through the readings coming from the cryostasis pods, checking for any unusual peaks or troughs in the readings that might indicate a problem with the capsule. As she came to the final set of readings, her brow furrowed and she placed the remainder of her ration bar down on the counter.
There was an unusual peak in the oxygen readings for Command Pilot Eugene Alden, indicating that there may have been a loss in pressure inside the capsule. Bartlett gently pushed herself away from the counter, standing up and walking into the area where the cryostasis pods were located.
Alden hadn’t been Bartlett’s first choice for Command Pilot, but unfortunately her first choice had been exposed to a case of chicken pox and, as such, had been grounded from the mission. Instead she had been given Eugene Alden – a capable enough pilot, though a little too fond of himself for her liking. Vanity is all well in good in the right place and at the right time, but on a space mission it really didn’t have any right to rear its attractive head.
Bartlett glanced over the readings on the pod itself, looking through the window at Alden’s face. He was a handsome man, but Bartlett would never let him hear her say so. Using her gloved hand, Bartlett gently wiped away some condensation from the front of the thick glass, though this didn’t remove the condensation from the inside. But it was enough for her to see what the problem was.
A small fissure was running from the top left hand corner of the glass for about 3 inches. It didn’t look like much, but as Bartlett leaned over the pod, she could distinctly hear the sound of escaping oxygen from the pod.
“Dammit to hell!” Bartlett cursed, pressing the controls that would release Alden from cryostasis. She was going to have to set him up in the emergency backup pod until she could repair the leak on his pod.
After the countdown release had completed, the cover to Alden’s cryostasis pod whooshed upwards, sending out cold white steam into the room. Slowly Alden blinked himself awake, leaning up in the pod to see what was going on.
“Is it February already?” he mumbled to himself, not realising Bartlett was standing over him.
“No, it’s still September,” Bartlett spoke. Alden jumped, hitting his head on the lid to his pod.
“Jesus!” he hissed, “What are you still doing up, Kris?”
“There was a problem with your pod,” Bartlett told him, “And it’s Commander Bartlett to you.”
“Sorry,” Alden rubbed his forehead, “I’m still a little drowsy. There’s a problem with the pod, you say?”
“Yes,” Bartlett replied, “I need your help to set up the backup pod so we can get you back into cryo sleep.”
“Sure thing,” Alden said, throwing his legs over the side of the pod, “just give me a second to get my bearings.”
Alden breathed deeply, taking in as much oxygen as her could. Clearly he’d already been feeling the effects of oxygen deprivation, but thankfully he hadn’t started to take in any carbon dioxide. Once he was happy that he had caught his breath, Alden stood up and joined Bartlett in the other room.
The two of them shuffled the spare pod over to where Alden’s damaged one was sitting, removing the cables from the old pod and attaching them to the new one. Once it was connected, the tow of them started to lower the pod to the ground.
“Hold on,” Alden suddenly cried, “I’m losing my grip.”
“Well, try to angle yourself underneath it better,” Bartlett ordered, “we can’t afford to drop this thing.”
As Bartlett finished those words, she saw Alden’s hands slip from under the pod and he fell backwards onto the cabin floor. Bartlett frantically reached out for the pod as is clattered to the ground, but wasn’t quick enough to catch it.
“You idiot,” Bartlett growled, “You better not have damaged this pod too. It’s our only spare.”
Bartlett started to examine the readings on the pod’s screen, and saw similar information to that which had been on the broken pod...
...This one had an oxygen leak too, but this one seemed to be coming from one of the built-in tubes that the oxygen tanks attached to.
“Well, you’ve broken it,” Bartlett said angrily, “Now what are we supposed to do?”
“I could take your pod until your due to go back into stasis,” Alden suggested.
“Then what?” Bartlett asked, “You do realise that there are periods where nobody is out of stasis? Your idea would result in someone constantly being out of the pods, which would quickly use up the cabin’s oxygen supply.”
“Couldn’t we use the supply from the unused pods?” Alden suggested.
Bartlett shook her head, “There wouldn’t be enough to fill the cabin. We’d still run out in less than a year.”
Alden raised his eyebrows, “The two of us could share a pod,” he suggested.
Bartlett glared at him, “Definitely not.”
“Then we’re screwed!” Alden threw his hands up in the air.
“Not if we can try to repair the damage to one of the pods,” Bartlett suggested, “we could take some of the glass that isn’t damaged and use it to replace the damaged glass in the other pod.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” Alden asked.
“The oxygen content is too high in the cabin,” Bartlett said, “we need to close off the cabin, flush the oxygen supply, then secure the glass in place. We can’t use the welding equipment before we do this or the ship might explode.”
“Then let’s do it,” Alden agreed, “I’ll wait here.”
“Oh, no,” Bartlett shook her head, “you can stay in the cabin and perform the repairs. I’ll need to monitor the others closely in case of any more spikes in the readings.”
Reluctantly Alden started to climb into one of the space suits, securing the helmet and making sure that his gloves were comfortably locked to his sleeves. In the meantime, Bartlett dragged the two damaged cryopods into the main cabin. Once this was task was complete, the two astronauts turned to each other.
“Well,” Alden said, “wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” Bartlett smiled, watching Alden walk into the main cabin before sealing the door behind him.
She turned to the monitor that showed a view of the main cabin and press the comms button.
“Can you hear me?” she asked, waiting for a response.
“Loud and clear,” Alden relied, his voice sounding echoey and filled with static.
“Then I’ll flush the oxygen back into the tanks,” Bartlett told him before performing the job.
With all of the oxygen now gone from the main control cabin, Alden started work on the cryopod with the broken glass, replacing it with one of the undamaged panes from the non-functioning pod.
“How’s it looking?” Bartlett asked, watching Alden as he worked on the pod.
“Almost there,” he told her, “but I think I’ve spotted another problem.”
Bartlett paused before pressing the communication button, “What is it now?” she asked.
“I think I’ve spotted a crack in the main windshield,” he told her, “it’ll need to be repaired from the outside.”
“Can’t you repair it from there?” Bartlett asked.
“I don’t think so,” Alden replied, “the main bulk of the damage is on the outside. It looks like it needs to be filled in or replaced.”
“Well, we can’t replace it,” Bartlett said, “I’ll have to go out and inspect the damage.”
Bartlett donned her own space suit, preparing herself to go outside the ship. She picked up the equipment to repair the glass and entered the airlock, closing the door behind her then opening the external doors. Gently she floated through them and out into space, her boots magnetising themselves to the hull. Slowly, feeding her tether out behind her, Bartlett made her way to the front of the ship where Alden had indicated that the damage was based.
“Where’s the damage?” Bartlett asked, having quickly looked over the glass window, “I can’t see anything obvious.”
Bartlett peered through the window at Alden, who was standing still, looking up at her through the glass. It was hard to make out through his helmet, but Bartlett could have sworn he was smiling.
After a silence that seemed to go on forever, but in fact lasted no more than thirty seconds, Alden spoke.
“Oh, Kristen,” he said, his voice mocking her, “there isn’t any damage to the glass.”
Bartlett glared at Alden, ignoring the fact that he had once again called her by her given name, “Then why did you send me out here?” she asked, though suspected the answer to be an obvious one.
Alden chuckled, “Because I wanted you off the ship.” he admitted, “This pod can’t be repaired, and as soon as I realised that I decided that I had a choice,”
“A choice?”
“Yes, Kristen,” Alden continued, “A choice between asphyxiation from lack of oxygen, or sacrificing your life so that I might live on.”
Bartlett started to walk back to the airlock, “Let me back in, Alden,” she spoke into her suits com, struggling with the door to the airlock that appeared to be locked from the inside, “if you let me back in right now we can forget this ever happened.”
“I can’t do that,” Alden replied, “you said so yourself, there isn’t enough oxygen left to keep us both alive. And with the rest of the crew in stasis, no-one need ever know what I’ve done.”
“They’ll figure it out,” Bartlett said angrily, “they’ll notice that one of the pods is damaged and put two and two together that you killed me.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” Alden said, “the vacuum of space will do that for me.”
Bartlett walked quickly back to the windshield so she could see Alden. He had taken a seat and was looking expectantly through the windshield.
“Let me in, Alden,” Bartlett fumed, “Let me in right now!”
“Sorry, Kristen,” Alden folded his arms defiantly across his chest, “That’s not going to happen.”
As he finished speaking, a strange noise came from his suit, and he felt the pressure inside change.
“What was that?” Alden asked.
Bartlett smiled, “I knew you were up to something, Eugene,” she said, “so I drained some of the oxygen from your suit. You have about two minutes worth of air left before you start to suffocate. So, let me in and live, or leave me out here and die. Your decision.”
“You’re lying,” Alden laughed, “you wouldn’t let me suffocate.”
“I’m not letting you suffocate,” Bartlett grinned, mirroring Alden’s words, “the vacuum in your space suit will do that for me. Now let me in!”
Alden started to make his way back to the doors that would lead him out of the main cabin and back into the habitat area of the ship. Fumbling with the door, he started keying in the code that would open it back up for him again.
“That won’t work,” Bartlett admitted, “I changed your code when you went in there. You need to let me back in first, then I can get to you. Ninety seconds.”
Alden stared out the window at Bartlett, “Nice try, lady,” he gasped, “I’m not falling for that one. Open the door for me, right now!”
“I can’t from outside the ship,” Bartlett told him, “you need to let me in first. Sixty seconds”
Angrily, Alden moved over to the control console, feeling his head starting to swim. He looked at the control screen, his vision starting to blur as the oxygen in his suit began to run out. He blinked, trying to focus, and started inputting the code to open the airlock.
“Come on,” Bartlett said, starting to get a little worried, “Thirty seconds.”
Alden entered the code, and a red cross flashed up on the screen. He’d got it wrong. He looked blearily at the keyboard, noticing that caps lock was on.
“Fifteen seconds,” Bartlett said loudly, starting to think that her ruse wasn’t going to work.
Alden licked his cold lips, re-entering the code and pressing return. The red cross flashed on the screen again.
“Five seconds!”
Alden looked at the keyboard, realising that num lock was switched off, then chuckled before collapsing on the terminal.
“Alden?” Bartlett shouted into her intercom, “Alden, can you hear me? Eugene, get up now!’
But Alden couldn’t hear her.
He was dead.
Bartlett stared through the windshield, wondering if she’d be able to break through the glass. She thought to herself how the next member of the crew due to wake from stasis wasn’t for another six months, and that she only had enough oxygen left for another two hours. Hastily she started to hammer at the glass shield with her fists, thinking all the while about how stupid she’d been not to trust Alden. Maybe he would have let her back in without her having to threaten him, but now she’d never know.
She banged her hands against the window, staring through tear-streaked eyes at the glass which didn’t have a dent in it. Maybe she could try breaking through the airlock, she thought to herself, moving across the ship to the doors. It was possible with the equipment she had she could get through the doors, but it might take longer than two hours. With determination, Kristen Bartlett started trying to break through the door, hoping all the time that she’d make it back on board in time...
Originally Posted 17/9/2015
Result - 1st Place
Spending most of the journey in cryostasis did have its perks – spending an eighteen year round trip not ageing at the same rate as the people on Earth for one – but there were bad things too. Family would age much faster back on Earth, children would grow into adults, and most of the crew’s time on board was spent alone while the rest of the crew continued to hibernate.
Commander Kristen Bartlett sat at one of the control stations, checking how the rest of the crew were getting on. It was her turn to run the monthly checks, and ensure that none of the capsules in which the crew slept had been damaged or compromised in any way. Things had been going pretty smoothly, but with at least another thirteen years to go before they’d be back on Earth, she didn’t want to count her chickens quite yet.
Bartlett munched on a ration bar, swallowing the sticky flavourless tar-like substance until she could no longer feel it in her throat. If there was one thing she wouldn’t miss about space missions, it was the food. Absently she flicked through the readings coming from the cryostasis pods, checking for any unusual peaks or troughs in the readings that might indicate a problem with the capsule. As she came to the final set of readings, her brow furrowed and she placed the remainder of her ration bar down on the counter.
There was an unusual peak in the oxygen readings for Command Pilot Eugene Alden, indicating that there may have been a loss in pressure inside the capsule. Bartlett gently pushed herself away from the counter, standing up and walking into the area where the cryostasis pods were located.
Alden hadn’t been Bartlett’s first choice for Command Pilot, but unfortunately her first choice had been exposed to a case of chicken pox and, as such, had been grounded from the mission. Instead she had been given Eugene Alden – a capable enough pilot, though a little too fond of himself for her liking. Vanity is all well in good in the right place and at the right time, but on a space mission it really didn’t have any right to rear its attractive head.
Bartlett glanced over the readings on the pod itself, looking through the window at Alden’s face. He was a handsome man, but Bartlett would never let him hear her say so. Using her gloved hand, Bartlett gently wiped away some condensation from the front of the thick glass, though this didn’t remove the condensation from the inside. But it was enough for her to see what the problem was.
A small fissure was running from the top left hand corner of the glass for about 3 inches. It didn’t look like much, but as Bartlett leaned over the pod, she could distinctly hear the sound of escaping oxygen from the pod.
“Dammit to hell!” Bartlett cursed, pressing the controls that would release Alden from cryostasis. She was going to have to set him up in the emergency backup pod until she could repair the leak on his pod.
After the countdown release had completed, the cover to Alden’s cryostasis pod whooshed upwards, sending out cold white steam into the room. Slowly Alden blinked himself awake, leaning up in the pod to see what was going on.
“Is it February already?” he mumbled to himself, not realising Bartlett was standing over him.
“No, it’s still September,” Bartlett spoke. Alden jumped, hitting his head on the lid to his pod.
“Jesus!” he hissed, “What are you still doing up, Kris?”
“There was a problem with your pod,” Bartlett told him, “And it’s Commander Bartlett to you.”
“Sorry,” Alden rubbed his forehead, “I’m still a little drowsy. There’s a problem with the pod, you say?”
“Yes,” Bartlett replied, “I need your help to set up the backup pod so we can get you back into cryo sleep.”
“Sure thing,” Alden said, throwing his legs over the side of the pod, “just give me a second to get my bearings.”
Alden breathed deeply, taking in as much oxygen as her could. Clearly he’d already been feeling the effects of oxygen deprivation, but thankfully he hadn’t started to take in any carbon dioxide. Once he was happy that he had caught his breath, Alden stood up and joined Bartlett in the other room.
The two of them shuffled the spare pod over to where Alden’s damaged one was sitting, removing the cables from the old pod and attaching them to the new one. Once it was connected, the tow of them started to lower the pod to the ground.
“Hold on,” Alden suddenly cried, “I’m losing my grip.”
“Well, try to angle yourself underneath it better,” Bartlett ordered, “we can’t afford to drop this thing.”
As Bartlett finished those words, she saw Alden’s hands slip from under the pod and he fell backwards onto the cabin floor. Bartlett frantically reached out for the pod as is clattered to the ground, but wasn’t quick enough to catch it.
“You idiot,” Bartlett growled, “You better not have damaged this pod too. It’s our only spare.”
Bartlett started to examine the readings on the pod’s screen, and saw similar information to that which had been on the broken pod...
...This one had an oxygen leak too, but this one seemed to be coming from one of the built-in tubes that the oxygen tanks attached to.
“Well, you’ve broken it,” Bartlett said angrily, “Now what are we supposed to do?”
“I could take your pod until your due to go back into stasis,” Alden suggested.
“Then what?” Bartlett asked, “You do realise that there are periods where nobody is out of stasis? Your idea would result in someone constantly being out of the pods, which would quickly use up the cabin’s oxygen supply.”
“Couldn’t we use the supply from the unused pods?” Alden suggested.
Bartlett shook her head, “There wouldn’t be enough to fill the cabin. We’d still run out in less than a year.”
Alden raised his eyebrows, “The two of us could share a pod,” he suggested.
Bartlett glared at him, “Definitely not.”
“Then we’re screwed!” Alden threw his hands up in the air.
“Not if we can try to repair the damage to one of the pods,” Bartlett suggested, “we could take some of the glass that isn’t damaged and use it to replace the damaged glass in the other pod.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” Alden asked.
“The oxygen content is too high in the cabin,” Bartlett said, “we need to close off the cabin, flush the oxygen supply, then secure the glass in place. We can’t use the welding equipment before we do this or the ship might explode.”
“Then let’s do it,” Alden agreed, “I’ll wait here.”
“Oh, no,” Bartlett shook her head, “you can stay in the cabin and perform the repairs. I’ll need to monitor the others closely in case of any more spikes in the readings.”
Reluctantly Alden started to climb into one of the space suits, securing the helmet and making sure that his gloves were comfortably locked to his sleeves. In the meantime, Bartlett dragged the two damaged cryopods into the main cabin. Once this was task was complete, the two astronauts turned to each other.
“Well,” Alden said, “wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” Bartlett smiled, watching Alden walk into the main cabin before sealing the door behind him.
She turned to the monitor that showed a view of the main cabin and press the comms button.
“Can you hear me?” she asked, waiting for a response.
“Loud and clear,” Alden relied, his voice sounding echoey and filled with static.
“Then I’ll flush the oxygen back into the tanks,” Bartlett told him before performing the job.
With all of the oxygen now gone from the main control cabin, Alden started work on the cryopod with the broken glass, replacing it with one of the undamaged panes from the non-functioning pod.
“How’s it looking?” Bartlett asked, watching Alden as he worked on the pod.
“Almost there,” he told her, “but I think I’ve spotted another problem.”
Bartlett paused before pressing the communication button, “What is it now?” she asked.
“I think I’ve spotted a crack in the main windshield,” he told her, “it’ll need to be repaired from the outside.”
“Can’t you repair it from there?” Bartlett asked.
“I don’t think so,” Alden replied, “the main bulk of the damage is on the outside. It looks like it needs to be filled in or replaced.”
“Well, we can’t replace it,” Bartlett said, “I’ll have to go out and inspect the damage.”
Bartlett donned her own space suit, preparing herself to go outside the ship. She picked up the equipment to repair the glass and entered the airlock, closing the door behind her then opening the external doors. Gently she floated through them and out into space, her boots magnetising themselves to the hull. Slowly, feeding her tether out behind her, Bartlett made her way to the front of the ship where Alden had indicated that the damage was based.
“Where’s the damage?” Bartlett asked, having quickly looked over the glass window, “I can’t see anything obvious.”
Bartlett peered through the window at Alden, who was standing still, looking up at her through the glass. It was hard to make out through his helmet, but Bartlett could have sworn he was smiling.
After a silence that seemed to go on forever, but in fact lasted no more than thirty seconds, Alden spoke.
“Oh, Kristen,” he said, his voice mocking her, “there isn’t any damage to the glass.”
Bartlett glared at Alden, ignoring the fact that he had once again called her by her given name, “Then why did you send me out here?” she asked, though suspected the answer to be an obvious one.
Alden chuckled, “Because I wanted you off the ship.” he admitted, “This pod can’t be repaired, and as soon as I realised that I decided that I had a choice,”
“A choice?”
“Yes, Kristen,” Alden continued, “A choice between asphyxiation from lack of oxygen, or sacrificing your life so that I might live on.”
Bartlett started to walk back to the airlock, “Let me back in, Alden,” she spoke into her suits com, struggling with the door to the airlock that appeared to be locked from the inside, “if you let me back in right now we can forget this ever happened.”
“I can’t do that,” Alden replied, “you said so yourself, there isn’t enough oxygen left to keep us both alive. And with the rest of the crew in stasis, no-one need ever know what I’ve done.”
“They’ll figure it out,” Bartlett said angrily, “they’ll notice that one of the pods is damaged and put two and two together that you killed me.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” Alden said, “the vacuum of space will do that for me.”
Bartlett walked quickly back to the windshield so she could see Alden. He had taken a seat and was looking expectantly through the windshield.
“Let me in, Alden,” Bartlett fumed, “Let me in right now!”
“Sorry, Kristen,” Alden folded his arms defiantly across his chest, “That’s not going to happen.”
As he finished speaking, a strange noise came from his suit, and he felt the pressure inside change.
“What was that?” Alden asked.
Bartlett smiled, “I knew you were up to something, Eugene,” she said, “so I drained some of the oxygen from your suit. You have about two minutes worth of air left before you start to suffocate. So, let me in and live, or leave me out here and die. Your decision.”
“You’re lying,” Alden laughed, “you wouldn’t let me suffocate.”
“I’m not letting you suffocate,” Bartlett grinned, mirroring Alden’s words, “the vacuum in your space suit will do that for me. Now let me in!”
Alden started to make his way back to the doors that would lead him out of the main cabin and back into the habitat area of the ship. Fumbling with the door, he started keying in the code that would open it back up for him again.
“That won’t work,” Bartlett admitted, “I changed your code when you went in there. You need to let me back in first, then I can get to you. Ninety seconds.”
Alden stared out the window at Bartlett, “Nice try, lady,” he gasped, “I’m not falling for that one. Open the door for me, right now!”
“I can’t from outside the ship,” Bartlett told him, “you need to let me in first. Sixty seconds”
Angrily, Alden moved over to the control console, feeling his head starting to swim. He looked at the control screen, his vision starting to blur as the oxygen in his suit began to run out. He blinked, trying to focus, and started inputting the code to open the airlock.
“Come on,” Bartlett said, starting to get a little worried, “Thirty seconds.”
Alden entered the code, and a red cross flashed up on the screen. He’d got it wrong. He looked blearily at the keyboard, noticing that caps lock was on.
“Fifteen seconds,” Bartlett said loudly, starting to think that her ruse wasn’t going to work.
Alden licked his cold lips, re-entering the code and pressing return. The red cross flashed on the screen again.
“Five seconds!”
Alden looked at the keyboard, realising that num lock was switched off, then chuckled before collapsing on the terminal.
“Alden?” Bartlett shouted into her intercom, “Alden, can you hear me? Eugene, get up now!’
But Alden couldn’t hear her.
He was dead.
Bartlett stared through the windshield, wondering if she’d be able to break through the glass. She thought to herself how the next member of the crew due to wake from stasis wasn’t for another six months, and that she only had enough oxygen left for another two hours. Hastily she started to hammer at the glass shield with her fists, thinking all the while about how stupid she’d been not to trust Alden. Maybe he would have let her back in without her having to threaten him, but now she’d never know.
She banged her hands against the window, staring through tear-streaked eyes at the glass which didn’t have a dent in it. Maybe she could try breaking through the airlock, she thought to herself, moving across the ship to the doors. It was possible with the equipment she had she could get through the doors, but it might take longer than two hours. With determination, Kristen Bartlett started trying to break through the door, hoping all the time that she’d make it back on board in time...
Originally Posted 17/9/2015
Result - 1st Place
September 15, 2015
Poem : Future Looking Bleak
Broken windows, shattered dreams,
Future looking bleak
Hope and longing, torn at seams,
Difficult to speak
Hope for something better soon
Wants and needs and yearns
Shooting, useless, for the moon
How re-entry burns
Dream of love embrace enfold
Simple recognition
Fight to have your story told
Jockey for position
Nothing more than futile schemes
Tears roll down your cheek
Broken windows, shattered dreams,
Future looking bleak
Originally Posted 15/9/2015
Result -Didn't Place
Future looking bleak
Hope and longing, torn at seams,
Difficult to speak
Hope for something better soon
Wants and needs and yearns
Shooting, useless, for the moon
How re-entry burns
Dream of love embrace enfold
Simple recognition
Fight to have your story told
Jockey for position
Nothing more than futile schemes
Tears roll down your cheek
Broken windows, shattered dreams,
Future looking bleak
Originally Posted 15/9/2015
Result -Didn't Place
September 14, 2015
Short Story : Cat’s Cradle
When Steve met Katherine, he instantly fell in love with her. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something about her that he just couldn’t resist. There was only one problem…
She thought she was a cat.
It started innocently enough, with her suggesting that Steve call her Kitty for short, but that wasn’t where it ended. He didn’t mind the cat suits that she started to wear – he’d always had a thing for Julie Newmar in the old Batman TV series – but when she was asleep, she didn’t snore – she purred!
Steve did think that some of this behaviour was odd, but he had to admit that Katherine was exceptionally sexy. The idea that she sometimes thought of herself as a cat wasn’t totally unappealing to him, even when she sometimes ate cat food, but the fact that she could stretch her leg high into the air and lick its full length was more than enough to win him over.
One afternoon, Steve organised to take Katherine – sorry, Kitty – out for a meal, where he planned to ask her a question.
“So,” Kitty smiled at Steve across the table, nibbling at her starter of fishcakes, “what’s all this in aid of? It’s not our anniversary is it?”
“Well,” Steve swallowed nervously, fumbling in his jacket pocket, “I wanted to ask you a question.”
“A question?” Kitty repeated, almost purring, “What kind of a question?”
Steve produced an engagement ring from his pocket, opening the box which held it and presenting it to Kitty, “My question is,” he said nervously, “will you marry me?”
Kitty grinned from ear to ear, like a certain feline from Cheshire, and clapped her hands happily, “Yes!” she screamed, “Yes, I’ll marry you!”
A few months later the two married – Kitty obviously organising a cat-themed wedding, the details of which I won’t go into – and before long they had more good news…
“Steve?” Kitty said one evening, “How would you feel if we had a baby?”
Steve’s eyes widened, “What are you saying?” he asked, “Are you pregnant.”
Kitty nodded demurely, “Uh-huh.”
Steve was ecstatic; he’d always wanted kids, and now he was going to have one.
“That’s great news,” he smiled, and hugged his pregnant wife tightly.
Two months later, Steve was beginning to get very concerned about his wife.
“Should you be so big already?” he asked, looking at Kitty’s huge stomach.
“What do you mean?” Kitty asked, stroking her massive tummy.
“Well, you’re not due for another seven months,” he pointed out, “we haven’t even gone for a scan yet and you already look like you’re ready to drop!”
“Are you calling me fat?” Kitty asked angrily.
Steve shook his head, “No,” he told her, “don’t be silly. I’m just concerned that there might be something wrong with the baby, something that’s making you put on weight so quickly, all in one place.”
Steve had a point. Kitty’s weight was pretty much localised just to her stomach; she hadn’t put on any weight in her face, and her arms and legs looked as slender as normal.
“It’s perfectly normal in my family to put on weight so quickly,” Kitty explained, “My mother was huge just before she had me, and her mother was huge just before she had her.”
“But this isn’t just before you’re having a baby!” Steve said loudly, “You’ve still got seven months to go.”
Kitty chuckled, “Don’t be silly, honey,” she smiled, “the baby will be due within the week.”
“Within the week?” Steve couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “You can’t be due in a week?”
“Of course I can,” Kitty smiled mysteriously, “That’s how long a cat’s gestation period is.”
A short time later, Steve made his excuses to pop out to the shops, taking his cell phone with him. Once he was a good distance from the house he made a call to a local psychiatrist.
“So she thinks she’s a cat?” the psychiatrist concluded once Steve had relayed all the details to him, “Well, I can’t see any harm in it. She’ll soon realise that she isn’t going to give birth this week and she’ll accept the fact that she has a few more months to go.”
“Thank you doc,” Steve said, “That makes me feel a little better.”
“You’re very welcome,” the doctor replied.
“By the way, doc,” Steve continued, “Are you supposed to give advice out over the phone like this?”
The doctor laughed, “I don’t see why not,” he replied, “After all, this is just a story.”
Steve hung up on the doctor and headed back home, but he couldn’t find Kitty anywhere. After a frantic search of the house, he finally found her curled up in the airing cupboard.
“What are you doing in there?” he asked, watching as Kitty curled her head round to look at him.
“You know cat’s like to give birth in a quiet private place,” she told him.
“But you’re not a cat!” Steve cried.
“Call the midwife,” Kitty said through her teeth, her face dripping with sweat, “The baby’s coming.”
“It can’t be,” Steve shook his head, starting to panic about his wife’s mental well-being, “You’re not due for another seven months, I’ve told you that over and over!”
“Just call the midwife!” Kitty hissed, and Steve was too scared not to obey her.
In short time the doctor arrived, and so did the baby. Steve had waited in the living room while the doctor helped Kitty give birth in the bedroom. About thirty minutes after the midwife had arrived she walked back into the living room, a look of concern on her face.
“What is it?” Steve asked, standing up from his seat, “Is something wrong? Is Kitty okay? The baby?”
“They’re both fine,” the midwife said nervously, “I guess.”
“What do you mean, you guess?” Steve asked.
The midwife opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind, “You’d better come and have a look,” she finally said.
Steve followed the midwife into the bedroom where Kitty was sat up in bed, holding a bundle in her hands.
Their new baby.
Steve smiled walking over to Kitty and the baby, and ventured to take a peek. Before he could, the midwife gripped his arm;
“Now, don’t be shocked,” she warned Steve, “the baby looks a little… peculiar.”
“Peculiar?” Steve repeated, then motioned to move back the swaddling from the baby’s face.
The baby’s eyes blinked rapidly, slanting slightly under its furry brow. The triangular nose twitched above its small curved mouth. Its ears flicked back and forth as it looked up into its mother’s eyes and cooed quietly.
“Meow,” said the baby.
“Oh, honey,” Kitty smiled up at a stunned and disbelieving Steve, “She said mummy!”
Originally Posted 14/9/2015
Result - 2nd Place
She thought she was a cat.
It started innocently enough, with her suggesting that Steve call her Kitty for short, but that wasn’t where it ended. He didn’t mind the cat suits that she started to wear – he’d always had a thing for Julie Newmar in the old Batman TV series – but when she was asleep, she didn’t snore – she purred!
Steve did think that some of this behaviour was odd, but he had to admit that Katherine was exceptionally sexy. The idea that she sometimes thought of herself as a cat wasn’t totally unappealing to him, even when she sometimes ate cat food, but the fact that she could stretch her leg high into the air and lick its full length was more than enough to win him over.
One afternoon, Steve organised to take Katherine – sorry, Kitty – out for a meal, where he planned to ask her a question.
“So,” Kitty smiled at Steve across the table, nibbling at her starter of fishcakes, “what’s all this in aid of? It’s not our anniversary is it?”
“Well,” Steve swallowed nervously, fumbling in his jacket pocket, “I wanted to ask you a question.”
“A question?” Kitty repeated, almost purring, “What kind of a question?”
Steve produced an engagement ring from his pocket, opening the box which held it and presenting it to Kitty, “My question is,” he said nervously, “will you marry me?”
Kitty grinned from ear to ear, like a certain feline from Cheshire, and clapped her hands happily, “Yes!” she screamed, “Yes, I’ll marry you!”
A few months later the two married – Kitty obviously organising a cat-themed wedding, the details of which I won’t go into – and before long they had more good news…
“Steve?” Kitty said one evening, “How would you feel if we had a baby?”
Steve’s eyes widened, “What are you saying?” he asked, “Are you pregnant.”
Kitty nodded demurely, “Uh-huh.”
Steve was ecstatic; he’d always wanted kids, and now he was going to have one.
“That’s great news,” he smiled, and hugged his pregnant wife tightly.
Two months later, Steve was beginning to get very concerned about his wife.
“Should you be so big already?” he asked, looking at Kitty’s huge stomach.
“What do you mean?” Kitty asked, stroking her massive tummy.
“Well, you’re not due for another seven months,” he pointed out, “we haven’t even gone for a scan yet and you already look like you’re ready to drop!”
“Are you calling me fat?” Kitty asked angrily.
Steve shook his head, “No,” he told her, “don’t be silly. I’m just concerned that there might be something wrong with the baby, something that’s making you put on weight so quickly, all in one place.”
Steve had a point. Kitty’s weight was pretty much localised just to her stomach; she hadn’t put on any weight in her face, and her arms and legs looked as slender as normal.
“It’s perfectly normal in my family to put on weight so quickly,” Kitty explained, “My mother was huge just before she had me, and her mother was huge just before she had her.”
“But this isn’t just before you’re having a baby!” Steve said loudly, “You’ve still got seven months to go.”
Kitty chuckled, “Don’t be silly, honey,” she smiled, “the baby will be due within the week.”
“Within the week?” Steve couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “You can’t be due in a week?”
“Of course I can,” Kitty smiled mysteriously, “That’s how long a cat’s gestation period is.”
A short time later, Steve made his excuses to pop out to the shops, taking his cell phone with him. Once he was a good distance from the house he made a call to a local psychiatrist.
“So she thinks she’s a cat?” the psychiatrist concluded once Steve had relayed all the details to him, “Well, I can’t see any harm in it. She’ll soon realise that she isn’t going to give birth this week and she’ll accept the fact that she has a few more months to go.”
“Thank you doc,” Steve said, “That makes me feel a little better.”
“You’re very welcome,” the doctor replied.
“By the way, doc,” Steve continued, “Are you supposed to give advice out over the phone like this?”
The doctor laughed, “I don’t see why not,” he replied, “After all, this is just a story.”
Steve hung up on the doctor and headed back home, but he couldn’t find Kitty anywhere. After a frantic search of the house, he finally found her curled up in the airing cupboard.
“What are you doing in there?” he asked, watching as Kitty curled her head round to look at him.
“You know cat’s like to give birth in a quiet private place,” she told him.
“But you’re not a cat!” Steve cried.
“Call the midwife,” Kitty said through her teeth, her face dripping with sweat, “The baby’s coming.”
“It can’t be,” Steve shook his head, starting to panic about his wife’s mental well-being, “You’re not due for another seven months, I’ve told you that over and over!”
“Just call the midwife!” Kitty hissed, and Steve was too scared not to obey her.
In short time the doctor arrived, and so did the baby. Steve had waited in the living room while the doctor helped Kitty give birth in the bedroom. About thirty minutes after the midwife had arrived she walked back into the living room, a look of concern on her face.
“What is it?” Steve asked, standing up from his seat, “Is something wrong? Is Kitty okay? The baby?”
“They’re both fine,” the midwife said nervously, “I guess.”
“What do you mean, you guess?” Steve asked.
The midwife opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind, “You’d better come and have a look,” she finally said.
Steve followed the midwife into the bedroom where Kitty was sat up in bed, holding a bundle in her hands.
Their new baby.
Steve smiled walking over to Kitty and the baby, and ventured to take a peek. Before he could, the midwife gripped his arm;
“Now, don’t be shocked,” she warned Steve, “the baby looks a little… peculiar.”
“Peculiar?” Steve repeated, then motioned to move back the swaddling from the baby’s face.
The baby’s eyes blinked rapidly, slanting slightly under its furry brow. The triangular nose twitched above its small curved mouth. Its ears flicked back and forth as it looked up into its mother’s eyes and cooed quietly.
“Meow,” said the baby.
“Oh, honey,” Kitty smiled up at a stunned and disbelieving Steve, “She said mummy!”
Originally Posted 14/9/2015
Result - 2nd Place
September 9, 2015
Poem : From Call Girl To Cat Lady
I remember years ago
When your breasts were not on show
We were close as close could be
Me to you, and you to me
But you threw it all away
For an increase in your pay
Everybody wants to be
Close to you but far from me
When you started turning tricks
Having sex and sucking dicks
You made cash hand over fist
Our friendship you never missed
You spread your legs, your body beckons
“Make you cum in sixty seconds”
Everybody wants to be
Close to you but far from me
Soon your model looks were spotted
The world with you became besotted
Acting jobs on television
Bent into every position
Set you up in a sexy pose
Sugar candy for your nose
Everybody wants to be
Close to you but far from me
Posed for Penthouse, posed for Knave
Not a hair you wouldn’t shave
Your breasts were firm, your breasts were pert
(I bet the implants really hurt)
Took centre stage in the arena
Posters of you in Athena
Everybody wants to be
Close to you but far from me
Beauty doesn’t last for ever
As a friend fame is fair-weather
Soon the jobs began to dwindle
Your career you can’t rekindle
So you go back to old ways
But your bod’s seen better days
Everybody wants to be
Far from you and far from me
Soon your life becomes depressing
Can’t make money by undressing
All you have left is your home
In which you still live alone
Though your cleavage’s like a canyon
Your pet cat’s your lone companion
Everybody wants to be
Far from you and far from me
Start to lose your motivation
Hang round at the bus station
Push a trolley filled with trash
Selling cans for extra cash
Your one cat soon becomes two
Then another joins you
Everybody wants to be
Far from you and far from me
People start to think your nuts
Choosing kitties over mutts
Living in a house of waste
Still, to each their unique taste
Lots of cats to keep you sane
Slowly eating at your brain
Everybody wants to be
Far from you and far from me
You could have come to me for aid
There’s no need to be afraid
I’d have been there as a friend
From the start until the end
But now you’ve left it too late
Keeping cats isn’t that great
Everybody wants to be
Far from you and far from me
With your cats you die alone
And you didn’t even phone
No-one saw your spirit go
Until the smell began to grow
Only felines left behind
Only they were ever kind
Everybody wants to be
Remembered, when they die, fondly.
Originally Posted 9/9/2015
Result - Didn't Place
When your breasts were not on show
We were close as close could be
Me to you, and you to me
But you threw it all away
For an increase in your pay
Everybody wants to be
Close to you but far from me
When you started turning tricks
Having sex and sucking dicks
You made cash hand over fist
Our friendship you never missed
You spread your legs, your body beckons
“Make you cum in sixty seconds”
Everybody wants to be
Close to you but far from me
Soon your model looks were spotted
The world with you became besotted
Acting jobs on television
Bent into every position
Set you up in a sexy pose
Sugar candy for your nose
Everybody wants to be
Close to you but far from me
Posed for Penthouse, posed for Knave
Not a hair you wouldn’t shave
Your breasts were firm, your breasts were pert
(I bet the implants really hurt)
Took centre stage in the arena
Posters of you in Athena
Everybody wants to be
Close to you but far from me
Beauty doesn’t last for ever
As a friend fame is fair-weather
Soon the jobs began to dwindle
Your career you can’t rekindle
So you go back to old ways
But your bod’s seen better days
Everybody wants to be
Far from you and far from me
Soon your life becomes depressing
Can’t make money by undressing
All you have left is your home
In which you still live alone
Though your cleavage’s like a canyon
Your pet cat’s your lone companion
Everybody wants to be
Far from you and far from me
Start to lose your motivation
Hang round at the bus station
Push a trolley filled with trash
Selling cans for extra cash
Your one cat soon becomes two
Then another joins you
Everybody wants to be
Far from you and far from me
People start to think your nuts
Choosing kitties over mutts
Living in a house of waste
Still, to each their unique taste
Lots of cats to keep you sane
Slowly eating at your brain
Everybody wants to be
Far from you and far from me
You could have come to me for aid
There’s no need to be afraid
I’d have been there as a friend
From the start until the end
But now you’ve left it too late
Keeping cats isn’t that great
Everybody wants to be
Far from you and far from me
With your cats you die alone
And you didn’t even phone
No-one saw your spirit go
Until the smell began to grow
Only felines left behind
Only they were ever kind
Everybody wants to be
Remembered, when they die, fondly.
Originally Posted 9/9/2015
Result - Didn't Place
September 3, 2015
Short Story : House Hunt
“What do you mean, it’s gone?”
“It’s just gone,” Malcolm told his wife down the phone, “the house has vanished, without a trace.”
“You’re drunk!” his wife, Sheila stated flatly, “You must be drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” Malcolm insisted.
“Then you’re high!”
“I’m not high!”
“Then there’s got to be some sort of mistake.”
“There isn’t,” Malcolm said loudly, “I’m standing outside the garden gate, right now, looking at a vacant lot! Honestly, it’s like the end scenes of Carrie where the house gets sucked into hell!”
Malcolm wasn’t playing some elaborate joke on his wife, Sheila. He’d arrived home from work at four thirty to find that where his house used to be there was now nothing more than a giant hole in the ground. The lawn and back garden didn’t appear to have been touched, but the house itself had simply vanished without a trace.
“Have you called the police?” Sheila asked Malcolm, who was still standing dumbfounded at the garden gate.
“And say what?” Malcolm sighed, “That we’ve been robbed?”
“Well, we have been robbed!”
“Well, I know that, but the police might see it in a different light,” Malcolm stared into the hole, seeing a small dog playing in the bottom of it, “Burglars don’t tend to steal entire houses now, do they?”
“Well, you should still tell them,” Sheila replied, “Even if it’s not theft, it’s definitely criminal damage if the whole building isn’t there anymore. It must have been burnt down or something.”
“It hasn’t been burnt down,” Malcolm groaned, “if it had there’d be debris. There’s literally nothing left. It’s like aliens have taken it or something.”
“What about the insurance company?” Sheila asked,, “Have you called the insurance company?”
“I only think we have contents insurance,” Malcolm said.
“Well, the contents have been stolen,” Sheila growled.
“But they’re most likely still in the house, wherever it is,” Malcolm countered, “If the contents are all still safely in the house, then we can’t make a claim on them having been stolen.”
“But the house has been stolen!” Sheila screamed, “Can’t you get that through your thick skull? The house has gone! Now do something about it!”
She hung up.
Malcolm stared at the now vacant lot, his expression every bit as vacant. He couldn’t believe this; his own house, completely gone. Everything inside of it, decades of memories gone without so much as a warning that something so devastating was going to happen.
They’d only just finished paying off the mortgage last year, and now they’d been left with nothing.
Malcolm stared at his phone again, this time dialling 9, then pausing.
Instead, he called his best friend Clive.
“Hi Clive,” he said when the man answered.
“Malcolm!” Clive said enthusiastically, “What’s up?”
“It’s not good,” Malcolm said sadly, “My house. It’s gone!”
“Gone?” Clive repeated, “You mean someone burnt it down? Aw, mate, I’m sorry to hear that.”
Malcolm shook his head, though Clive clearly couldn’t see this on the other end of the line, “It’s not burnt down,” he said, “it’s gone.”
“How can it be gone?” Clive asked, “A house doesn’t just get up and walk away.”
“Well, mine must have,” said Malcolm, “There’s nothing but a big hole right in the middle of our section, where the house used to be. I don’t know what to do.”
“Have you told Sheila?” Clive asked.
“Yes.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said to call the police,” Malcolm told him, “but I don’t know what to say to them.”
“Just say that the house has gone,” Clive advised, “they’ll come and see you’re telling the truth. You haven’t been drinking, have you?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Malcolm shouted.
“Well, you have been known to have a few,” Clive reminded him, “Remember that time when you drank all that whisky and threw up on the chicken shop window?”
“That was years ago,” Malcolm argued, “and anyway, what’s that got to do with my house disappearing?”
“Don’t you remember?” Clive chuckled, “You kept saying someone had stolen your car. You called the police and everything, and it turned out you’d parked around the corner.”
“Well, I haven’t parked the house around the corner, have I?” Malcolm shouted.
“Are you sure?” Clive asked calmly.
“Of course I’m...” Malcolm hesitated, stopping what he was saying to get a good look around. He looked at the familiar fence that surrounded what used to be his house, then looked at the garden that used to lead up to his house, then he looked at the neighbours house.
“Something isn’t right,” Malcolm mumbled, suddenly thinking Clive might be right.
“What was that?” Clive asked from the other end of the phone, “Did you say something?”
“No,” Malcolm said absently, “I’ll... I’ll call you back.”
Malcolm hung up the phone, or what he thought was a phone.
It was actually an old shoe, the loose sole acting like the mouthpiece of a flip phone. Malcolm looked at where his house had been again. It still wasn’t there, but he could clearly see where it had once been. A bulldozer was sat in the back garden, having torn it down after whatever had happened had happened.
Malcolm stared into the distance, realising the truth.
He hadn’t just spoken to Sheila, or to Clive.
They’d both died in the fire.
The fire his drunkenness had caused.
The house had burned down a few months before, and the property developers who had bought the land had only just gotten around to gutting the place. The money they’d paid Malcolm hadn’t lasted long; he’d spent it all on drink, and later had moved onto harder substances.
A tear trickled down Malcolm’s cheek.
“Maybe Sheila was right,” he said to himself, “maybe I am drunk.”
Malcolm dropped the shoe to the ground, then fell to his knees, his shabby trousers tearing slightly as they scraped the concrete pavement.
What had Malcolm done with his life?
He’d killed his wife.
Killed his best friend.
All because he’d drunkenly fallen asleep in front of the fire place, and his open bottle of whisky had rolled into the flames and ignited.
Some said he’d been lucky to get out alive...
...Malcolm wasn’t so sure.
Originally Posted 3/9/2015
Result - 1st Place
“It’s just gone,” Malcolm told his wife down the phone, “the house has vanished, without a trace.”
“You’re drunk!” his wife, Sheila stated flatly, “You must be drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” Malcolm insisted.
“Then you’re high!”
“I’m not high!”
“Then there’s got to be some sort of mistake.”
“There isn’t,” Malcolm said loudly, “I’m standing outside the garden gate, right now, looking at a vacant lot! Honestly, it’s like the end scenes of Carrie where the house gets sucked into hell!”
Malcolm wasn’t playing some elaborate joke on his wife, Sheila. He’d arrived home from work at four thirty to find that where his house used to be there was now nothing more than a giant hole in the ground. The lawn and back garden didn’t appear to have been touched, but the house itself had simply vanished without a trace.
“Have you called the police?” Sheila asked Malcolm, who was still standing dumbfounded at the garden gate.
“And say what?” Malcolm sighed, “That we’ve been robbed?”
“Well, we have been robbed!”
“Well, I know that, but the police might see it in a different light,” Malcolm stared into the hole, seeing a small dog playing in the bottom of it, “Burglars don’t tend to steal entire houses now, do they?”
“Well, you should still tell them,” Sheila replied, “Even if it’s not theft, it’s definitely criminal damage if the whole building isn’t there anymore. It must have been burnt down or something.”
“It hasn’t been burnt down,” Malcolm groaned, “if it had there’d be debris. There’s literally nothing left. It’s like aliens have taken it or something.”
“What about the insurance company?” Sheila asked,, “Have you called the insurance company?”
“I only think we have contents insurance,” Malcolm said.
“Well, the contents have been stolen,” Sheila growled.
“But they’re most likely still in the house, wherever it is,” Malcolm countered, “If the contents are all still safely in the house, then we can’t make a claim on them having been stolen.”
“But the house has been stolen!” Sheila screamed, “Can’t you get that through your thick skull? The house has gone! Now do something about it!”
She hung up.
Malcolm stared at the now vacant lot, his expression every bit as vacant. He couldn’t believe this; his own house, completely gone. Everything inside of it, decades of memories gone without so much as a warning that something so devastating was going to happen.
They’d only just finished paying off the mortgage last year, and now they’d been left with nothing.
Malcolm stared at his phone again, this time dialling 9, then pausing.
Instead, he called his best friend Clive.
“Hi Clive,” he said when the man answered.
“Malcolm!” Clive said enthusiastically, “What’s up?”
“It’s not good,” Malcolm said sadly, “My house. It’s gone!”
“Gone?” Clive repeated, “You mean someone burnt it down? Aw, mate, I’m sorry to hear that.”
Malcolm shook his head, though Clive clearly couldn’t see this on the other end of the line, “It’s not burnt down,” he said, “it’s gone.”
“How can it be gone?” Clive asked, “A house doesn’t just get up and walk away.”
“Well, mine must have,” said Malcolm, “There’s nothing but a big hole right in the middle of our section, where the house used to be. I don’t know what to do.”
“Have you told Sheila?” Clive asked.
“Yes.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said to call the police,” Malcolm told him, “but I don’t know what to say to them.”
“Just say that the house has gone,” Clive advised, “they’ll come and see you’re telling the truth. You haven’t been drinking, have you?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Malcolm shouted.
“Well, you have been known to have a few,” Clive reminded him, “Remember that time when you drank all that whisky and threw up on the chicken shop window?”
“That was years ago,” Malcolm argued, “and anyway, what’s that got to do with my house disappearing?”
“Don’t you remember?” Clive chuckled, “You kept saying someone had stolen your car. You called the police and everything, and it turned out you’d parked around the corner.”
“Well, I haven’t parked the house around the corner, have I?” Malcolm shouted.
“Are you sure?” Clive asked calmly.
“Of course I’m...” Malcolm hesitated, stopping what he was saying to get a good look around. He looked at the familiar fence that surrounded what used to be his house, then looked at the garden that used to lead up to his house, then he looked at the neighbours house.
“Something isn’t right,” Malcolm mumbled, suddenly thinking Clive might be right.
“What was that?” Clive asked from the other end of the phone, “Did you say something?”
“No,” Malcolm said absently, “I’ll... I’ll call you back.”
Malcolm hung up the phone, or what he thought was a phone.
It was actually an old shoe, the loose sole acting like the mouthpiece of a flip phone. Malcolm looked at where his house had been again. It still wasn’t there, but he could clearly see where it had once been. A bulldozer was sat in the back garden, having torn it down after whatever had happened had happened.
Malcolm stared into the distance, realising the truth.
He hadn’t just spoken to Sheila, or to Clive.
They’d both died in the fire.
The fire his drunkenness had caused.
The house had burned down a few months before, and the property developers who had bought the land had only just gotten around to gutting the place. The money they’d paid Malcolm hadn’t lasted long; he’d spent it all on drink, and later had moved onto harder substances.
A tear trickled down Malcolm’s cheek.
“Maybe Sheila was right,” he said to himself, “maybe I am drunk.”
Malcolm dropped the shoe to the ground, then fell to his knees, his shabby trousers tearing slightly as they scraped the concrete pavement.
What had Malcolm done with his life?
He’d killed his wife.
Killed his best friend.
All because he’d drunkenly fallen asleep in front of the fire place, and his open bottle of whisky had rolled into the flames and ignited.
Some said he’d been lucky to get out alive...
...Malcolm wasn’t so sure.
Originally Posted 3/9/2015
Result - 1st Place
September 1, 2015
Poem : Living On The Street
Homelessness isn’t a joke
It really isn’t funny
It isn’t always someone’s fault
They haven’t any money
Some people blame their addictions
To drugs or sometimes drink
But even so some bear no fault
For bearing nature’s stink
Sometimes it’s down to happenstance
Or other home conditions
That mean that someone can end up
In unwelcome positions
They might have abusive parents
Or suffer mental ills
They may have lost their money due
To addiction to pills
They may have been a gambler
And lost it all in Vegas
They might have bought some magic beans
From some sinister Magus
No matter what their circumstance
We really shouldn’t judge
For we could end up just like them
If just for one life fudge
Originally Posted 1/9/2015
Result - Joint 3rd Place
It really isn’t funny
It isn’t always someone’s fault
They haven’t any money
Some people blame their addictions
To drugs or sometimes drink
But even so some bear no fault
For bearing nature’s stink
Sometimes it’s down to happenstance
Or other home conditions
That mean that someone can end up
In unwelcome positions
They might have abusive parents
Or suffer mental ills
They may have lost their money due
To addiction to pills
They may have been a gambler
And lost it all in Vegas
They might have bought some magic beans
From some sinister Magus
No matter what their circumstance
We really shouldn’t judge
For we could end up just like them
If just for one life fudge
Originally Posted 1/9/2015
Result - Joint 3rd Place
August 25, 2015
Short Story : This Little Piggy Went To Market...
Georgia liked nothing more than going to the markets on a Sunday morning and browsing through other peoples unwanted items. Sometimes she’d find an out of print book, or a toy she loved as a child, but rarely did she find anything that was really special.
Until one weekend she did.
As she looked through a box that appeared to be mainly filled with junk, she saw it.
A porcelain pig.
But it wasn’t just any porcelain pig; it was a collectable she remembered from her youth.
One of her auntie’s had died when Georgia was just a little girl and had left her a collection of ornamental pigs. Georgia had always been fond of them as a child, and had kept them in pristine condition, but over the years she had stopped loving them quite as much as she once had.
She’d gone on line one day to see if anyone would be interested in buying them, and to her surprise she’d found that there was more than one person knocking around who would be ecstatic about owning her collection.
Unfortunately, of the nine pigs she owned, she was missing just one.
The most valuable one.
The one that would result in her collections’ value rising from $1,000 to $10,000!
At least!
Georgia whet her lips as she looked at the pig, its eyes twinkling as it appeared to look back at her. Taunting her. Georgia wondered to herself how much the stall owner wanted for the pig.
Or if they even knew how much it was worth.
Hastily Georgia picked up the box of mostly rubbish that contained the porcelain pig and brought it over to the stall owner.
“How much for all this?” she asked him.
The stall owner widened his eyes, surprised that someone was actually wanting to buy a whole box of his rubbish. He shrugged with his mouth;
“How does $20 sound?” he asked.
“Sold,” Georgia smiled, placing the box down on the table to take out her purse from her handbag. She opened it up, rummaging through for a crisp $20 note and handed it to the man.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” she beamed, turning to pick up the box.
A strange man was standing over the box, holding the porcelain pig in his hands, “How much for this?” he asked the stall owner.
Georgia widened then narrowed her eyes, “Sorry, I’ve just bought that box of things.”
The man stared dully at Georgia, “The pig wasn’t in the box,” he said, “it was on the table.”
“No it wasn’t!” Georgia insisted, “It was in this box that I’ve just purchased, now hand it over.”
The stall owner stood up from his folding chair, “I don’t think it was in the box, lady,” he said, “I distinctly remember placing it on the table.”
“Not you as well,” Georgia fumed, “I bought that box of crap, including that porcelain pig, and I demand you hand it over.”
The man who now held the pig turned to the stall owner, “How much did she pay for the box?” he asked.
“Twenty bucks,” the stall owner told him.
“I’ll give you thirty.”
“Now hold on a minute,” Georgia spoke up angrily at the two men who were talking over her, “I’ve already paid for that pig fair and square.”
“No you haven’t,” said the man holding the pig, “it wasn’t in the box.”
“It bloody was!”
“It bloody wasn’t!”
“Look, we can argue about this all day, but this gentleman here,” the man sighed, pointing at the stall owner, “has just told both of us that this pig was not in your box. So take your box of possessions and bugger off.”
Georgia’s mouth gaped at the man, “How dare you use such language!” she shouted, “I’ve got a good mind to call the police on you.”
“And say what?” the man chuckled, “That I stole your pig? Like I said, it was on the table and I picked it up. End of discussion.”
Georgia was furious with the man, but she didn’t know what to do. The stall owner wasn’t backing her up, and the man was right that no-one would believe her. Picking up the box, Georgia faced the fact that she only had one option left to her.
Facing the man who was holding the pig, she swung the box into his face, knocking him to the ground. As he fell he dropped the pig on the grass and Georgia hastily retrieved it, placing it in the box and running with it in her hands. The stall owner shouted after her as the man lay still on the ground, but Georgia was too quick for them. She reached her car, putting the box in the passenger seat, and drove off down the street heading home.
Georgia was sweating with worry by the time she pulled into her driveway. She wouldn’t be able to go back to the markets now, at least not for a while. Someone was bound to recognise her from hitting that man, but at least she had the pig.
She picked up the box from the passenger seat of her car and carried it into her house, placing it on teh kitchen table next to her car keys. She picked up the pig from the top of the box and smiled to herself. She’d be able to make a fortune out of her auntie’s collection now that it was complete. Carefully she put the pig down on the counter, thinking about all the money she’d be able to make out of him once she listed them all on ebay, or sold them at auction. She’d be rolling in money.
Happily, Georgia started to rifle through the box of nicknacks that the pig had come with.
“There might be a book or something worth keeping in here,” she told herself as she looked through the contents of the box.
Then her heart stopped.
Sitting near the bottom of the box, underneath an old place mat, was another pig!
Identical to the one on the kitchen counter.
Georgia started to chuckle, then burst out laughing. So the man at the market had been telling the truth all along.
“Oh well,” Georgia smiled to herself, placing the two pigs side by side, “I’ve got two of the pigs now. That one on its own is easily worth $400.”
As she continued to celebrate, moving to the cupboard to pour herself a glass of wine, she heard a crashing noise from the front door. Peeking around the doorway, she saw four armed police officers bursting through the door and pushing her into the kitchen.
“You’re under arrest!” the first police officer shouted, “You have the right to remain silent—“
“It was only a pig!” Georgia cried as one of the officers spun her around and cuffed her, “It was only a bloody pig!”
“This isn’t about a pig,” the arresting officer told her, “You’re under arrest for murder.”
“Murder?” Georgia repeated. Had the man at the market died when she knocked him to th ground? Somehow that didn’t seem likely.
“Let me explain,” Georgia pleaded with the arresting officer, trying to turn around.
“Please don’t resist, ma’am,” the officer warned pushing her against the kitchen counter. As he did so, Georgia nudged against the box, which slid across the counter.
“NO!” she screamed, unable to stop the box from moving due to her cuffed hands.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the box nudged into the two porcelain pigs, sending them spinning off the counter and towards the ground where they smashed into a thousand pieces.
Ten thousand pieces, to be precise.
Originally Posted 25/8/2015
Result - 4th Place
Until one weekend she did.
As she looked through a box that appeared to be mainly filled with junk, she saw it.
A porcelain pig.
But it wasn’t just any porcelain pig; it was a collectable she remembered from her youth.
One of her auntie’s had died when Georgia was just a little girl and had left her a collection of ornamental pigs. Georgia had always been fond of them as a child, and had kept them in pristine condition, but over the years she had stopped loving them quite as much as she once had.
She’d gone on line one day to see if anyone would be interested in buying them, and to her surprise she’d found that there was more than one person knocking around who would be ecstatic about owning her collection.
Unfortunately, of the nine pigs she owned, she was missing just one.
The most valuable one.
The one that would result in her collections’ value rising from $1,000 to $10,000!
At least!
Georgia whet her lips as she looked at the pig, its eyes twinkling as it appeared to look back at her. Taunting her. Georgia wondered to herself how much the stall owner wanted for the pig.
Or if they even knew how much it was worth.
Hastily Georgia picked up the box of mostly rubbish that contained the porcelain pig and brought it over to the stall owner.
“How much for all this?” she asked him.
The stall owner widened his eyes, surprised that someone was actually wanting to buy a whole box of his rubbish. He shrugged with his mouth;
“How does $20 sound?” he asked.
“Sold,” Georgia smiled, placing the box down on the table to take out her purse from her handbag. She opened it up, rummaging through for a crisp $20 note and handed it to the man.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” she beamed, turning to pick up the box.
A strange man was standing over the box, holding the porcelain pig in his hands, “How much for this?” he asked the stall owner.
Georgia widened then narrowed her eyes, “Sorry, I’ve just bought that box of things.”
The man stared dully at Georgia, “The pig wasn’t in the box,” he said, “it was on the table.”
“No it wasn’t!” Georgia insisted, “It was in this box that I’ve just purchased, now hand it over.”
The stall owner stood up from his folding chair, “I don’t think it was in the box, lady,” he said, “I distinctly remember placing it on the table.”
“Not you as well,” Georgia fumed, “I bought that box of crap, including that porcelain pig, and I demand you hand it over.”
The man who now held the pig turned to the stall owner, “How much did she pay for the box?” he asked.
“Twenty bucks,” the stall owner told him.
“I’ll give you thirty.”
“Now hold on a minute,” Georgia spoke up angrily at the two men who were talking over her, “I’ve already paid for that pig fair and square.”
“No you haven’t,” said the man holding the pig, “it wasn’t in the box.”
“It bloody was!”
“It bloody wasn’t!”
“Look, we can argue about this all day, but this gentleman here,” the man sighed, pointing at the stall owner, “has just told both of us that this pig was not in your box. So take your box of possessions and bugger off.”
Georgia’s mouth gaped at the man, “How dare you use such language!” she shouted, “I’ve got a good mind to call the police on you.”
“And say what?” the man chuckled, “That I stole your pig? Like I said, it was on the table and I picked it up. End of discussion.”
Georgia was furious with the man, but she didn’t know what to do. The stall owner wasn’t backing her up, and the man was right that no-one would believe her. Picking up the box, Georgia faced the fact that she only had one option left to her.
Facing the man who was holding the pig, she swung the box into his face, knocking him to the ground. As he fell he dropped the pig on the grass and Georgia hastily retrieved it, placing it in the box and running with it in her hands. The stall owner shouted after her as the man lay still on the ground, but Georgia was too quick for them. She reached her car, putting the box in the passenger seat, and drove off down the street heading home.
Georgia was sweating with worry by the time she pulled into her driveway. She wouldn’t be able to go back to the markets now, at least not for a while. Someone was bound to recognise her from hitting that man, but at least she had the pig.
She picked up the box from the passenger seat of her car and carried it into her house, placing it on teh kitchen table next to her car keys. She picked up the pig from the top of the box and smiled to herself. She’d be able to make a fortune out of her auntie’s collection now that it was complete. Carefully she put the pig down on the counter, thinking about all the money she’d be able to make out of him once she listed them all on ebay, or sold them at auction. She’d be rolling in money.
Happily, Georgia started to rifle through the box of nicknacks that the pig had come with.
“There might be a book or something worth keeping in here,” she told herself as she looked through the contents of the box.
Then her heart stopped.
Sitting near the bottom of the box, underneath an old place mat, was another pig!
Identical to the one on the kitchen counter.
Georgia started to chuckle, then burst out laughing. So the man at the market had been telling the truth all along.
“Oh well,” Georgia smiled to herself, placing the two pigs side by side, “I’ve got two of the pigs now. That one on its own is easily worth $400.”
As she continued to celebrate, moving to the cupboard to pour herself a glass of wine, she heard a crashing noise from the front door. Peeking around the doorway, she saw four armed police officers bursting through the door and pushing her into the kitchen.
“You’re under arrest!” the first police officer shouted, “You have the right to remain silent—“
“It was only a pig!” Georgia cried as one of the officers spun her around and cuffed her, “It was only a bloody pig!”
“This isn’t about a pig,” the arresting officer told her, “You’re under arrest for murder.”
“Murder?” Georgia repeated. Had the man at the market died when she knocked him to th ground? Somehow that didn’t seem likely.
“Let me explain,” Georgia pleaded with the arresting officer, trying to turn around.
“Please don’t resist, ma’am,” the officer warned pushing her against the kitchen counter. As he did so, Georgia nudged against the box, which slid across the counter.
“NO!” she screamed, unable to stop the box from moving due to her cuffed hands.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the box nudged into the two porcelain pigs, sending them spinning off the counter and towards the ground where they smashed into a thousand pieces.
Ten thousand pieces, to be precise.
Originally Posted 25/8/2015
Result - 4th Place
Poem : One Man’s Trash...
The tat that others just don’t want
That clutters up their attic
Might be a gift from heaven above
And make someone ecstatic
You might have kept it in the loft
Or deep down in your cellar
You might not know it’s worth a grand
To the right gal or fella
And so you take it to the market
Hoping just to sell it
The eagerness of passersby,
Why, you can almost smell it
They hesitate just by your stall
They stare then look away
They perform this act for a while
The finally they say
“How much for those?” they point askance
At nothing that’s too certain
A book, a toy, an ornament,
An off-cut from a curtain
You state a price, they um and ah
Then finally they settle
And walk off with an ornament
An old toy and a kettle
You wonder later what it was
That drew their lusty interest
You look the goods up on eBay
Then curse about self incest
The kettle, fine, that was just junk,
The toy worth not a thing
But when you saw the ornament
It really made you sting
It fetched about twelve thousand pounds
For more than one keen seller
And if it went to auction, well
You’d be one loaded fella
So careful what you give away
Or sell on from a stall
It might be worth a bob or two
Or nothing much at all.
Originally Posted 25/8/2015
Result - Didn't Place
That clutters up their attic
Might be a gift from heaven above
And make someone ecstatic
You might have kept it in the loft
Or deep down in your cellar
You might not know it’s worth a grand
To the right gal or fella
And so you take it to the market
Hoping just to sell it
The eagerness of passersby,
Why, you can almost smell it
They hesitate just by your stall
They stare then look away
They perform this act for a while
The finally they say
“How much for those?” they point askance
At nothing that’s too certain
A book, a toy, an ornament,
An off-cut from a curtain
You state a price, they um and ah
Then finally they settle
And walk off with an ornament
An old toy and a kettle
You wonder later what it was
That drew their lusty interest
You look the goods up on eBay
Then curse about self incest
The kettle, fine, that was just junk,
The toy worth not a thing
But when you saw the ornament
It really made you sting
It fetched about twelve thousand pounds
For more than one keen seller
And if it went to auction, well
You’d be one loaded fella
So careful what you give away
Or sell on from a stall
It might be worth a bob or two
Or nothing much at all.
Originally Posted 25/8/2015
Result - Didn't Place
