Edward Davies's Blog, page 8
June 8, 2015
Short Story : Is That Your Final Answer?
Eric couldn’t believe he’d managed to get a place on his favourite game show, ‘Why Do You Want To Be A Billionaire?’ He’d been applying for a spot on the show at regular intervals since the show began fifteen years ago, and finally his ship had come in. All he had to do was answer fifteen simple questions, and the money would be his.
Eric had read more books than you could imagine. He’d been the top reviewer for his part of the world for five consecutive years on his favourite website, Goodreads, and had read over ten thousand books in his life, if you counted the books he’d read before he’d discovered the site. And that didn’t count all the comic books he read – this was strictly hard literature we were talking here.
He had degrees in biology, chemistry, physics, mathematics, history, geography, film studies, philosophy, art appreciation, both English Literature and Language, and more languages than you could shake a stick at, but if anything came up about radio, he’d be stuffed.
Of all the topics that they had on the show, radio programmes was the only one Eric was weak on. He thought that the radio was an outdated means of entertainment, used only by those who weren’t good enough to get their own TV show. Thankfully his work colleague Ernie had agreed to be his lifeline, meaning that if he got stuck on a question he could call him up and ask him to answer for him.
And Ernie loved the radio.
If he wasn’t listening to The Archers or Seekers or one of the more popular game shows like Just A Minute, he was reading about them or listening to them on CD. He was an avid fan of all things radio.
To be honest, Eric had been surprised that Ernie has agreed to be his lifeline. He’d always poked fun at Ernie for liking the radio, and how he thought that the radio version of The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy was vastly superior to the television series, the movie, or even the books. But Ernie had agreed, so if all else failed Eric should be okay.
He squirmed in his seat under the hot studio lights, staring almost blindly at the presenter of the show, Talent McGuire. Talent stared back at Eric, a wry smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“So, Eric,” Talent oozed in a slightly Australian accent, “You’ve answered fourteen questions correctly. This is your final question for the jackpot prize!”
“Yes Talent,” Eric swallowed nervously.
“Well, let’s see,” Talent pretended to consult his computer as an animation whirled on the screen behind them, “This week’s top category for the jackpot prize is...”
Eric crossed his fingers, hoping it was something he was good at. Just so long as it wasn’t...
“...Literature!” Talent announced.
Oh no. Eric sagged in his seat. He hadn’t wanted literature to come up. He’d wanted to win this on his own. Once the question came up, he’d be forced to use one of his remaining lifelines – call a chum.
“Okay, Eric,” Talent seethed, somehow annoyingly, “Are you ready for your final question? Remember, if you get it wrong, you go home with... nothing!”
“Yes, Talent,” Eric swallowed nervously. The worst thing about the jackpot questions was that they weren’t multiple choice. You either knew the answer or you didn’t. Luckily, if he didn’t, he had his call a chum lifeline left and he could get hold of Ernie.
“Right then,” Talents teeth gleamed, “here goes.”
Eric cringed as the game show’s music boomed through the studio and the lights dimmed, leaving two spotlights – one on Eric and one on Talent.
“And here’s the final question, for the jackpot prize...” Talent peeked from behind his cue cards.
“Which radio game show, first airing in April 1972, was originally hosted by jazz trumpeter and bandleader Humphrey Lyttelton, with Jack Dee taking over as host following Lyttelton’s death in 2008?”
Eric looked panic stricken. He didn’t know the first thing about radio game shows, only the ones he enjoyed on TV. He’d heard of Just A Minute, but he didn’t think that was correct. Ideally he’d wanted to finish the show with all of his lifelines unused, but it seemed that was not meant to be.
“I’d like to use one of my lifelines, Talent,” Eric said reluctantly.
“Really?” Talent said smugly, “but you’ve been doing so well, all on your own.”
“I know,” Eric replied, “but radio isn’t my strong point.”
“Fair enough,” Talent turned to the camera, “and who are you going to call?”
Eric smiled, “My work colleague, Ernie,” he said.
“Eric and Ernie?” Talent grinned, “You sound like quite the double act.”
Eric chuckled, thinking back to Morecambe and Wise in the 60s and 70s. “Yes, I guess we are,”
Talent picked up the phone that sat on his podium – a phone that purely for show and didn’t actually connect to any sort of telephone exchange, and pretended to dial. A ringing sounded echoed through the studio as someone behind the scenes actually called the number.
After five painful rings, Ernie picked up.
“Hello,” his voice echoed through the studio.
“Hello, is that Ernie?” Talent asked.
“Speaking,” Ernie replied.
“This is Talent McGuire from televisions ‘Why Do You Want To Be A Billionaire?’ I’m sitting here with your good friend Eric, who is on the final question before he wins the jackpot prize.”
“Really?” Ernie said suspiciously, “How... interesting.”
“Yes,” Talent agreed, “It is. Now here’s Eric with the final question. You have sixty seconds to help him out once he finishes the question. Eric, over to you.”
Eric spoke nervously, “Hi Ernie, how’s it going?”
“Not bad,” Ernie replied, “You?”
“Not bad,” he replied, “You know, same old.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Well,” Eric swallowed again, “here’s the final question.”
“Go ahead.”
Eric repeated the question, “Which radio game show, first airing in April 1972, was originally hosted by jazz trumpeter and bandleader Humphrey Lyttelton, with Jack Dee taking over as host following Lyttelton’s death in 2008?”
Ernie was silent as the clock started to count down the sixty seconds.
“Ernie?” Eric said, “Are you still there?”
“Oh, I’m still here,” Ernie answered, sounding to Eric as if he was smirking, “Do you honestly not know the answer?”
“You know I don’t know anything about radio programmes,” Eric said, “Do you know the answer? There’s only forty seconds left on the clock.”
“Oh Eric,” Ernie sighed, “If only you hadn’t mocked my interests so much. Just because you don’t like the radio you belittled me in front of everyone – even in front of Ursula.”
“Who’s Ursula,” Eric asked, almost forgetting there was less than thirty seconds left on the clock.
“The receptionist at work,” Ernie said, “she was all ready to go out with me until you started to take the mickey out of me, saying that the radio was for losers and that it’s a dead format.”
“I was only teasing,” Eric said, “Please, if you know the answer, just tell me! There’s fifteen seconds left!”
“I’m sorry,” Ernie teased, “Maybe if you hadn’t ruined my chances with Ursula I might have helped you. Maybe if you’d respect my love of the radio I would have given you the answer. Unfortunately I’m not going to give you the answer so you can just go and fu-”
The line went dead.
“Hello? Hello?” Eric screamed, panicking that he was about to lose everything he’d worked towards on the entire show, “Ernie! What’s the answer? What’s the bloody answer?”
“Well,” Talent frowned into the camera, “It looks like Ernie wasn’t as helpful as you hoped. He didn’t give you an answer, so it’s all down to you. Do you want to take a guess?”
Eric stared blankly through Talent McGuire, trying not to cry. He didn’t know the answer, he had no idea what the answer might be. With a distinct air of defeat, Eric said the only thing he knew was absolutely correct;
“I’m sorry,” he sniffed, “I haven’t a clue.”
Talent stared at the poor defeated Eric, his frown slowly lifting into a smile.
“That’s... the correct answer!” Talent cried out, as streamers and confetti rained down on Eric’s head. He was completely confused.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
"The answer to the question. The name of the game show. It was ‘I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue!” Talent beamed, “You’ve won tonight’s jackpot prize!”
Eric couldn’t believe it. He’d won! He hadn’t known the answer and he’d still won. As the audience stood up from their seats, applauding loudly, Talent handed Eric a giant novelty cheque for the value of one billion pounds, and Eric, overjoyed, began to cry.
Originally Posted 8/6/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
Eric had read more books than you could imagine. He’d been the top reviewer for his part of the world for five consecutive years on his favourite website, Goodreads, and had read over ten thousand books in his life, if you counted the books he’d read before he’d discovered the site. And that didn’t count all the comic books he read – this was strictly hard literature we were talking here.
He had degrees in biology, chemistry, physics, mathematics, history, geography, film studies, philosophy, art appreciation, both English Literature and Language, and more languages than you could shake a stick at, but if anything came up about radio, he’d be stuffed.
Of all the topics that they had on the show, radio programmes was the only one Eric was weak on. He thought that the radio was an outdated means of entertainment, used only by those who weren’t good enough to get their own TV show. Thankfully his work colleague Ernie had agreed to be his lifeline, meaning that if he got stuck on a question he could call him up and ask him to answer for him.
And Ernie loved the radio.
If he wasn’t listening to The Archers or Seekers or one of the more popular game shows like Just A Minute, he was reading about them or listening to them on CD. He was an avid fan of all things radio.
To be honest, Eric had been surprised that Ernie has agreed to be his lifeline. He’d always poked fun at Ernie for liking the radio, and how he thought that the radio version of The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy was vastly superior to the television series, the movie, or even the books. But Ernie had agreed, so if all else failed Eric should be okay.
He squirmed in his seat under the hot studio lights, staring almost blindly at the presenter of the show, Talent McGuire. Talent stared back at Eric, a wry smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“So, Eric,” Talent oozed in a slightly Australian accent, “You’ve answered fourteen questions correctly. This is your final question for the jackpot prize!”
“Yes Talent,” Eric swallowed nervously.
“Well, let’s see,” Talent pretended to consult his computer as an animation whirled on the screen behind them, “This week’s top category for the jackpot prize is...”
Eric crossed his fingers, hoping it was something he was good at. Just so long as it wasn’t...
“...Literature!” Talent announced.
Oh no. Eric sagged in his seat. He hadn’t wanted literature to come up. He’d wanted to win this on his own. Once the question came up, he’d be forced to use one of his remaining lifelines – call a chum.
“Okay, Eric,” Talent seethed, somehow annoyingly, “Are you ready for your final question? Remember, if you get it wrong, you go home with... nothing!”
“Yes, Talent,” Eric swallowed nervously. The worst thing about the jackpot questions was that they weren’t multiple choice. You either knew the answer or you didn’t. Luckily, if he didn’t, he had his call a chum lifeline left and he could get hold of Ernie.
“Right then,” Talents teeth gleamed, “here goes.”
Eric cringed as the game show’s music boomed through the studio and the lights dimmed, leaving two spotlights – one on Eric and one on Talent.
“And here’s the final question, for the jackpot prize...” Talent peeked from behind his cue cards.
“Which radio game show, first airing in April 1972, was originally hosted by jazz trumpeter and bandleader Humphrey Lyttelton, with Jack Dee taking over as host following Lyttelton’s death in 2008?”
Eric looked panic stricken. He didn’t know the first thing about radio game shows, only the ones he enjoyed on TV. He’d heard of Just A Minute, but he didn’t think that was correct. Ideally he’d wanted to finish the show with all of his lifelines unused, but it seemed that was not meant to be.
“I’d like to use one of my lifelines, Talent,” Eric said reluctantly.
“Really?” Talent said smugly, “but you’ve been doing so well, all on your own.”
“I know,” Eric replied, “but radio isn’t my strong point.”
“Fair enough,” Talent turned to the camera, “and who are you going to call?”
Eric smiled, “My work colleague, Ernie,” he said.
“Eric and Ernie?” Talent grinned, “You sound like quite the double act.”
Eric chuckled, thinking back to Morecambe and Wise in the 60s and 70s. “Yes, I guess we are,”
Talent picked up the phone that sat on his podium – a phone that purely for show and didn’t actually connect to any sort of telephone exchange, and pretended to dial. A ringing sounded echoed through the studio as someone behind the scenes actually called the number.
After five painful rings, Ernie picked up.
“Hello,” his voice echoed through the studio.
“Hello, is that Ernie?” Talent asked.
“Speaking,” Ernie replied.
“This is Talent McGuire from televisions ‘Why Do You Want To Be A Billionaire?’ I’m sitting here with your good friend Eric, who is on the final question before he wins the jackpot prize.”
“Really?” Ernie said suspiciously, “How... interesting.”
“Yes,” Talent agreed, “It is. Now here’s Eric with the final question. You have sixty seconds to help him out once he finishes the question. Eric, over to you.”
Eric spoke nervously, “Hi Ernie, how’s it going?”
“Not bad,” Ernie replied, “You?”
“Not bad,” he replied, “You know, same old.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Well,” Eric swallowed again, “here’s the final question.”
“Go ahead.”
Eric repeated the question, “Which radio game show, first airing in April 1972, was originally hosted by jazz trumpeter and bandleader Humphrey Lyttelton, with Jack Dee taking over as host following Lyttelton’s death in 2008?”
Ernie was silent as the clock started to count down the sixty seconds.
“Ernie?” Eric said, “Are you still there?”
“Oh, I’m still here,” Ernie answered, sounding to Eric as if he was smirking, “Do you honestly not know the answer?”
“You know I don’t know anything about radio programmes,” Eric said, “Do you know the answer? There’s only forty seconds left on the clock.”
“Oh Eric,” Ernie sighed, “If only you hadn’t mocked my interests so much. Just because you don’t like the radio you belittled me in front of everyone – even in front of Ursula.”
“Who’s Ursula,” Eric asked, almost forgetting there was less than thirty seconds left on the clock.
“The receptionist at work,” Ernie said, “she was all ready to go out with me until you started to take the mickey out of me, saying that the radio was for losers and that it’s a dead format.”
“I was only teasing,” Eric said, “Please, if you know the answer, just tell me! There’s fifteen seconds left!”
“I’m sorry,” Ernie teased, “Maybe if you hadn’t ruined my chances with Ursula I might have helped you. Maybe if you’d respect my love of the radio I would have given you the answer. Unfortunately I’m not going to give you the answer so you can just go and fu-”
The line went dead.
“Hello? Hello?” Eric screamed, panicking that he was about to lose everything he’d worked towards on the entire show, “Ernie! What’s the answer? What’s the bloody answer?”
“Well,” Talent frowned into the camera, “It looks like Ernie wasn’t as helpful as you hoped. He didn’t give you an answer, so it’s all down to you. Do you want to take a guess?”
Eric stared blankly through Talent McGuire, trying not to cry. He didn’t know the answer, he had no idea what the answer might be. With a distinct air of defeat, Eric said the only thing he knew was absolutely correct;
“I’m sorry,” he sniffed, “I haven’t a clue.”
Talent stared at the poor defeated Eric, his frown slowly lifting into a smile.
“That’s... the correct answer!” Talent cried out, as streamers and confetti rained down on Eric’s head. He was completely confused.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
"The answer to the question. The name of the game show. It was ‘I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue!” Talent beamed, “You’ve won tonight’s jackpot prize!”
Eric couldn’t believe it. He’d won! He hadn’t known the answer and he’d still won. As the audience stood up from their seats, applauding loudly, Talent handed Eric a giant novelty cheque for the value of one billion pounds, and Eric, overjoyed, began to cry.
Originally Posted 8/6/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
June 7, 2015
Poem : The Good Samaritan
The volunteers all sit alone
Await the ringing of the phone
They try to talk the caller out
Of giving in to fear and doubt
They do the best with what they’ve got
(To be fair to them not a lot)
They try to be quite altruistic
Stopping one more sad statistic
It’s these souls who offer aid
Who tell us not to be afraid
They live a life of hope and dread
With constant regrets in their head
They do their best to counsel those
Who’ve faced the worst of life’s dread blows
But sometimes they fail to provide
Help to those who wish suicide
Originally Posted 7/6/2015
Result - 3rd Place
Await the ringing of the phone
They try to talk the caller out
Of giving in to fear and doubt
They do the best with what they’ve got
(To be fair to them not a lot)
They try to be quite altruistic
Stopping one more sad statistic
It’s these souls who offer aid
Who tell us not to be afraid
They live a life of hope and dread
With constant regrets in their head
They do their best to counsel those
Who’ve faced the worst of life’s dread blows
But sometimes they fail to provide
Help to those who wish suicide
Originally Posted 7/6/2015
Result - 3rd Place
June 1, 2015
Short Story : Once I'm Gone
Sitting alone in her spare bedroom, Mary stared at the screen of her laptop computer.
What stared back at her was a word document with a flashing cursor sat at the beginning of a new paragraph.
It had been sat like that, on and off, for four months.
Four months since Mary had been able to write anything down, four months since she’d last worked on her novel, four months since...
...She didn’t want to think about it.
As she stared at the screen, Mary imagined that it was staring back at her, giving her an unnerving feeling of being watched. She shuddered, standing up from the roller chair that neatly tucked into her desk and wandered into the kitchen.
Opening the fridge, Mary took stock of what she had left to eat. A bottle of milk sat suspiciously in the fridge door, while a lump of half eaten cheese changed colour before her very eyes. The last of her ready meals sat on the top shelf, while in the vegetable crisper a floppy cucumber nestled comfortably with a lettuce that was well on its way to turning brown. Reaching for the ready meal, Mary took it from the fridge and held it in one hand.
As she closed the door, her cat Mittens suddenly appeared in the room, lacing its way between Mary’s ankles. Mary kneeled down, kneading her fingers gently into the fur behind Mittens neck.
“Hey there, boy,” Mary soothed, putting the ready meal on the counter, “where’ve you been? I haven’t see you in a while.”
“Well, a cat’s got to eat,” Mittens replied, “You haven’t been feeding me, so I found a place where they’re more than happy to give me their left over scraps.”
Mary stood up again, “I’m sorry, boy,” she said to the cat sadly, “I’ve had things on my mind.”
“That stupid book of yours is more important to you than I am,” Mittens purred loudly, “ever since Clive died you’ve done nothing but sit in that room, staring at that screen.”
Mary picked up a fork and punctured the plastic on her ready meal before placing it in the microwave and setting the timer for three minutes, “I’ve got to finish the story,” Mary sighed, walking away from the cat, “If I don’t, then who else will?”
“Does it really matter if you finish the story?” Mittens asked, following Mary into the spare room, “Clive’s dead – that’s how the story should end. Writing a tale about your love for each other might have been a good idea once, but all you’ve got left is a depressing story of loss and regret – no-one wants to read about that.”
“Someone might,” Mary said, taking a seat at her desk once again.
The cat jumped up onto the desk, seeming to read the words on the screen.
“So, are you going to stick to the truth?” he asked, “Are you going to write that Clive died and a part of you died too?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Mary said, her finger hovering over the keyboard but not actually touching the keys, “I just can’t think right now.”
“You could always change the ending,” Mittens suggested, “you know, make it more upbeat. Just because Clive is dead it doesn’t mean he has to die in the book. You could write the happy ending that you always dreamed of.”
“But that would be a lie,” Mary said, her hands not moving from above the keyboard, “my readers wouldn’t believe my story unless it was true.”
“And how many readers do you actually have?” Mittens asked, “There’s what, three followers on your blog? Three sad losers who have been waiting more than four months for your latest update. They’ve probably given up by now, moved on to something new, like piano-playing cats. They probably won’t even realise when you upload your next entry.”
“Someone will notice,” Mary said sadly, “someone has to notice once I’m gone.”
Mittens stared at his owner, his head tilting to one side in a questioning fashion, “What do you mean by that? Once you’re gone? You’re not going anywhere.”
“I will be,” Mary said flatly, “once I finish this.”
Mary’s fingers fell to the keys and started to type. Mittens watched the words as they appeared on the screen and swallowed nervously.
“When Clive died in that car crash,” Mary wrote, “I didn’t know how I could live on without him. He’d been my guiding light, my one true friend, and the only person who supported me in my dream of becoming a writer. No one would publish me, so I fell to that old stand-by of writing a blog and uploading my stories there. This is the one story I wanted to tell; the story of Clive and my love for each other, but it wasn’t supposed to end like this.
“I don’t know what happened to the other driver – the driver who ran Clive’s car off the road – but I suspect he didn’t get half the sentence that I’ve been facing. The last four months has felt like umpteen life sentences without Clive, and even Mittens has abandoned me...”
“Hey!” Mittens interrupted Mary’s flow, “I’m still here.”
“But you don’t want to be,” Mary told him, hearing the microwave ping in the kitchen, “like you said, I’m in no fit state to feed you. Why don’t you go to those other people that have been taking care of you?”
“Because I like it here,” Mittens said as Mary stood up from her seat, the cat following her into the kitchen, “I want to stay here with you. Someone has to look out for you as well, you know. This has always been a reciprocal relationship.”
Mary chuckled, “That’s an odd thing for a cat to say,” Mary smiled, “no-one should have to rely on a pet for emotional advice.”
“My point is,” Mittens said, eyeing the ready meal as Mary took it from the microwave, “that you’re not alone. You have me.”
“I can’t rely on a cat for emotional support,” Mary shook her head as she peeled back the film from her meal, “it’s bad enough I think that you’re talking to me.”
Mittens meowed loudly, “I may not be talking to you,” he said, “but a part of you is. A part of your brain, no matter how small, is trying to talk you out of this.”
“Maybe,” Mary said, carrying the meal into the spare room and sitting back down at her laptop, “but it’s only a small part. A much larger part is telling me that this is what I have to do.”
Mary started to type again;
“...and even Mittens has abandoned me, moving on to a better place where he can still be fed by a loving family.
“As I said before, Clive was my guiding light, and without that light all I can see in my future is darkness. I can’t go on without him, and it’s taken me this long to realise that...”
Mary stopped typing and reached into a drawer in her desk, taking out a small yellow container filled with powder. The label on the container featured a sinister skull.
“What are you doing?” Mittens asked, pawing at the bottle as Mary tried to unscrew the cap.
“Something I should have done four months ago,” Mary told him, pouring the contents of the bottle over her meal before placing the now empty bottle neatly on the desk. She then resumed typing;
“So if you’re reading this, then I’ve logged my final entry on this blog. I hope you enjoyed the lighter moments of this story, and I’m sorry it had to end this way. Perhaps, once I’m gone, you’ll all understand.”
Mary pressed save on the word document then copied the text onto her blog, pressing save to update the entry.
“Thank you Mittens,” Mary said, sticking a fork into her tray of food.
Mittens stared at her, “What for?” he asked.
“For listening to me,” Mary said, eating a mouthful of the food, “for trying to be my voice of reason.”
“That wasn’t me,” Mittens told you, “what you’re hearing is your voice, your words, trying to tell you not to do this. But you wouldn’t listen.”
“What would be the point in listening?” Mary asked, swallowing her first mouthful before picking up another with her fork, “Why would I take advice from a mad woman.”
Originally Posted 1/6/2015
Result - Joint 5th Place
What stared back at her was a word document with a flashing cursor sat at the beginning of a new paragraph.
It had been sat like that, on and off, for four months.
Four months since Mary had been able to write anything down, four months since she’d last worked on her novel, four months since...
...She didn’t want to think about it.
As she stared at the screen, Mary imagined that it was staring back at her, giving her an unnerving feeling of being watched. She shuddered, standing up from the roller chair that neatly tucked into her desk and wandered into the kitchen.
Opening the fridge, Mary took stock of what she had left to eat. A bottle of milk sat suspiciously in the fridge door, while a lump of half eaten cheese changed colour before her very eyes. The last of her ready meals sat on the top shelf, while in the vegetable crisper a floppy cucumber nestled comfortably with a lettuce that was well on its way to turning brown. Reaching for the ready meal, Mary took it from the fridge and held it in one hand.
As she closed the door, her cat Mittens suddenly appeared in the room, lacing its way between Mary’s ankles. Mary kneeled down, kneading her fingers gently into the fur behind Mittens neck.
“Hey there, boy,” Mary soothed, putting the ready meal on the counter, “where’ve you been? I haven’t see you in a while.”
“Well, a cat’s got to eat,” Mittens replied, “You haven’t been feeding me, so I found a place where they’re more than happy to give me their left over scraps.”
Mary stood up again, “I’m sorry, boy,” she said to the cat sadly, “I’ve had things on my mind.”
“That stupid book of yours is more important to you than I am,” Mittens purred loudly, “ever since Clive died you’ve done nothing but sit in that room, staring at that screen.”
Mary picked up a fork and punctured the plastic on her ready meal before placing it in the microwave and setting the timer for three minutes, “I’ve got to finish the story,” Mary sighed, walking away from the cat, “If I don’t, then who else will?”
“Does it really matter if you finish the story?” Mittens asked, following Mary into the spare room, “Clive’s dead – that’s how the story should end. Writing a tale about your love for each other might have been a good idea once, but all you’ve got left is a depressing story of loss and regret – no-one wants to read about that.”
“Someone might,” Mary said, taking a seat at her desk once again.
The cat jumped up onto the desk, seeming to read the words on the screen.
“So, are you going to stick to the truth?” he asked, “Are you going to write that Clive died and a part of you died too?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Mary said, her finger hovering over the keyboard but not actually touching the keys, “I just can’t think right now.”
“You could always change the ending,” Mittens suggested, “you know, make it more upbeat. Just because Clive is dead it doesn’t mean he has to die in the book. You could write the happy ending that you always dreamed of.”
“But that would be a lie,” Mary said, her hands not moving from above the keyboard, “my readers wouldn’t believe my story unless it was true.”
“And how many readers do you actually have?” Mittens asked, “There’s what, three followers on your blog? Three sad losers who have been waiting more than four months for your latest update. They’ve probably given up by now, moved on to something new, like piano-playing cats. They probably won’t even realise when you upload your next entry.”
“Someone will notice,” Mary said sadly, “someone has to notice once I’m gone.”
Mittens stared at his owner, his head tilting to one side in a questioning fashion, “What do you mean by that? Once you’re gone? You’re not going anywhere.”
“I will be,” Mary said flatly, “once I finish this.”
Mary’s fingers fell to the keys and started to type. Mittens watched the words as they appeared on the screen and swallowed nervously.
“When Clive died in that car crash,” Mary wrote, “I didn’t know how I could live on without him. He’d been my guiding light, my one true friend, and the only person who supported me in my dream of becoming a writer. No one would publish me, so I fell to that old stand-by of writing a blog and uploading my stories there. This is the one story I wanted to tell; the story of Clive and my love for each other, but it wasn’t supposed to end like this.
“I don’t know what happened to the other driver – the driver who ran Clive’s car off the road – but I suspect he didn’t get half the sentence that I’ve been facing. The last four months has felt like umpteen life sentences without Clive, and even Mittens has abandoned me...”
“Hey!” Mittens interrupted Mary’s flow, “I’m still here.”
“But you don’t want to be,” Mary told him, hearing the microwave ping in the kitchen, “like you said, I’m in no fit state to feed you. Why don’t you go to those other people that have been taking care of you?”
“Because I like it here,” Mittens said as Mary stood up from her seat, the cat following her into the kitchen, “I want to stay here with you. Someone has to look out for you as well, you know. This has always been a reciprocal relationship.”
Mary chuckled, “That’s an odd thing for a cat to say,” Mary smiled, “no-one should have to rely on a pet for emotional advice.”
“My point is,” Mittens said, eyeing the ready meal as Mary took it from the microwave, “that you’re not alone. You have me.”
“I can’t rely on a cat for emotional support,” Mary shook her head as she peeled back the film from her meal, “it’s bad enough I think that you’re talking to me.”
Mittens meowed loudly, “I may not be talking to you,” he said, “but a part of you is. A part of your brain, no matter how small, is trying to talk you out of this.”
“Maybe,” Mary said, carrying the meal into the spare room and sitting back down at her laptop, “but it’s only a small part. A much larger part is telling me that this is what I have to do.”
Mary started to type again;
“...and even Mittens has abandoned me, moving on to a better place where he can still be fed by a loving family.
“As I said before, Clive was my guiding light, and without that light all I can see in my future is darkness. I can’t go on without him, and it’s taken me this long to realise that...”
Mary stopped typing and reached into a drawer in her desk, taking out a small yellow container filled with powder. The label on the container featured a sinister skull.
“What are you doing?” Mittens asked, pawing at the bottle as Mary tried to unscrew the cap.
“Something I should have done four months ago,” Mary told him, pouring the contents of the bottle over her meal before placing the now empty bottle neatly on the desk. She then resumed typing;
“So if you’re reading this, then I’ve logged my final entry on this blog. I hope you enjoyed the lighter moments of this story, and I’m sorry it had to end this way. Perhaps, once I’m gone, you’ll all understand.”
Mary pressed save on the word document then copied the text onto her blog, pressing save to update the entry.
“Thank you Mittens,” Mary said, sticking a fork into her tray of food.
Mittens stared at her, “What for?” he asked.
“For listening to me,” Mary said, eating a mouthful of the food, “for trying to be my voice of reason.”
“That wasn’t me,” Mittens told you, “what you’re hearing is your voice, your words, trying to tell you not to do this. But you wouldn’t listen.”
“What would be the point in listening?” Mary asked, swallowing her first mouthful before picking up another with her fork, “Why would I take advice from a mad woman.”
Originally Posted 1/6/2015
Result - Joint 5th Place
May 31, 2015
Poem : Penny
Penny is so lonely,
She cannot keep a friend.
She sits at home all day, alone,
Waiting for the end.
Thirty-nine years-old and very cold,
She seldom wears her clothes.
She spends her days watching Crystal Maze
And other cancelled shows.
She still has VHS cassettes
To play on her TVs
She’s never heard of BluRay or
Even of DVDs!
She rarely cooks, she never cleans,
Her house is such a tip!
Remote control and popcorn bowl
Are always close to hip.
Her skin’s not seen the light of day
Since nineteen ninety four,
There’s black paint on her windows
And there’s fungus on the floor.
There’s waxy build up in her ears
And, strangely, in her eyes.
She heats it in the microwave
To strip her inner thighs
She hasn’t left that empty house
Since she was just a teen.
Her parents died - she barely cried,
Like some sort of machine.
She’s not entirely to blame
You couldn’t call her naughty
She’s had two decades to reflect
Now that she’s nearly forty
The accident was not her fault
Now, don’t call her a liar
She didn’t mean to go so far
And start that fatal fire.
She soon become a weird recluse;
Outside she never ventures,
She’s missed two dozen dental dates -
She now requires dentures.
She suffers from agoraphobia;
A fear of open space.
A shame her fear was not of what
Can fester on her face.
The doctors say she’ll be okay,
They believe she’ll be fine.
She’s just obsessed with being undressed
And her spreading panty line.
But Penny had a relapse -
Total reversal trip!
Remote control, Ed Tudor-Pole,
Her house is still a tip!
Penny is so lonely,
Her only friends are flies.
She sits at home all day, alone,
Until the day she dies.
Originally Posted 31/5/2015
Result - Joint 3rd Place
She cannot keep a friend.
She sits at home all day, alone,
Waiting for the end.
Thirty-nine years-old and very cold,
She seldom wears her clothes.
She spends her days watching Crystal Maze
And other cancelled shows.
She still has VHS cassettes
To play on her TVs
She’s never heard of BluRay or
Even of DVDs!
She rarely cooks, she never cleans,
Her house is such a tip!
Remote control and popcorn bowl
Are always close to hip.
Her skin’s not seen the light of day
Since nineteen ninety four,
There’s black paint on her windows
And there’s fungus on the floor.
There’s waxy build up in her ears
And, strangely, in her eyes.
She heats it in the microwave
To strip her inner thighs
She hasn’t left that empty house
Since she was just a teen.
Her parents died - she barely cried,
Like some sort of machine.
She’s not entirely to blame
You couldn’t call her naughty
She’s had two decades to reflect
Now that she’s nearly forty
The accident was not her fault
Now, don’t call her a liar
She didn’t mean to go so far
And start that fatal fire.
She soon become a weird recluse;
Outside she never ventures,
She’s missed two dozen dental dates -
She now requires dentures.
She suffers from agoraphobia;
A fear of open space.
A shame her fear was not of what
Can fester on her face.
The doctors say she’ll be okay,
They believe she’ll be fine.
She’s just obsessed with being undressed
And her spreading panty line.
But Penny had a relapse -
Total reversal trip!
Remote control, Ed Tudor-Pole,
Her house is still a tip!
Penny is so lonely,
Her only friends are flies.
She sits at home all day, alone,
Until the day she dies.
Originally Posted 31/5/2015
Result - Joint 3rd Place
May 24, 2015
Short Story : Waiting Together
Lily sat on a bench, overlooking the shipyard as she watched Ethan slowly approaching in the distance. She reached into a picnic hamper that sat by her side as Ethan trudged along the dock, making his way up the hill that led to Lily. Retrieving two plastic forks, she placed them on two napkins by her side, carefully positioning her cell phone to weigh down the napkins and prevent them from blowing away.
“All done,” Ethan said, all business-like as he took a seat next to Lily, “Now all we have to do is wait.”
“Would you like something to drink?” Lily asked, pulling a thermos of hot water out of the hamper, “I’ve got coffee here, or tea if you prefer.”
“Tea would be splendid,” Ethan smiled, looking at the basket with a humorous twinkle in his eye, “I can’t drink coffee after midday or I’m up all night.”
“Your wife must be a very lucky lady,” Lily chuckled mischievously, pouring some tea into a plastic cup and handing it to Ethan.
“I’m not married,” Ethan said, taking the cup of tea and blowing on it absent-mindedly, “Never met the right girl.”
“That’s a shame,” Lily raised an eyebrow, “You’d make quite the catch for some lucky woman.”
Ethan took a sip of his tea, “This is good,” he said, staring out over the shipyard at the vessels below him, “what is it?”
“PG Tips,” Lily stated matter-of-factly, pouring herself a coffee.
“Seriously?” Ethan smiled, “It never tastes like this when I make it.”
“The secret ingredient is love,” Lily beamed, putting her cup of coffee down on the bench next to her, “Are you hungry?”
“Have you got any sandwiches in there?” Ethan asked, arching his neck for a peek into the hamper.
“What do you take me for?” Lily smiled, “Of course I do. What would you like?”
“Anything with ham,” Ethan said, taking another swig of his tea, “I love ham.”
Lily pulled out a plastic plate with some cling-film covered sandwiches and placed them next to her coffee. Ethan shook his head.
“You really did come prepared, didn’t you.” he grinned.
“Well, I wasn’t sure how long we’d be waiting,” Lily shrugged, “my husband isn’t exactly known for his time keeping.”
“It probably doesn’t help that he’s been having an affair, either,” said Ethan, carefully pulling back a corner of the cling film and helping himself to a sandwich, “Who’d know where’s he’s coming from.”
“Or who he’s coming with,” Lily quipped, a little sadly.
Ethan nodded, choosing not to comment, and took a bite from his sandwich.
“How’s the sandwich?” Lily asked, trying to avoid any awkward silences.
“It’s good,” Ethan said, “You’re a wonderful cook.”
“Well, it’s hardly cooking,” Lily smiled, “there isn’t really any art to making a sandwich.”
“Well, these are a work of art,” said Ethan, finishing his sandwich and motioning for another, “May I?”
“Be my guest,” said Lily, sipping at her coffee and holding it between her hands for warmth, “No use letting them go to waste.”
“So is this where he, you know,” Ethan asked, taking a bite from his second sandwich.
“Sometimes,” Lily said, “I found some underwear behind one of the seats on our boat – they weren’t mine.”
“And he says he’s coming here to work on the boat every Saturday afternoon?” Ethan asked.
Lily nodded, “Yes, he says he’s working on the boat – more likely working on those sluts of his.”
“Do you reckon he brings them here?” Ethan asked.
Lily shrugged, “All I know is that he always brings back something from the boat, as if he’s trying to alibi himself; as if to prove he was actually here.”
“So it’s possible we might even catch him in the act,” Ethan suggested, finishing his sandwich and picking up his cup of tea.
“I hope so,” said Lily, “and if not, well there’s always plan A.”
Ethan nodded in agreement, “So,” he asked, “what do you do for a living?”
Lily laughed out loud, rocking on the bench, “Oh, you sweet man,” she said, “I don’t work. Do you have any idea how rich my husband is? I don’t have to work for anything.”
“Except for his love,” Ethan said sympathetically, “clearly that was a wasted effort.”
“Yes,” Lily said, finishing off her coffee, “clearly I’m better off focussing my efforts elsewhere.”
“Too true,” said Ethan, reaching for a third sandwich.
“You know,” Lily smiled at Ethan, “I never properly thanked you for doing this.”
“Not a problem,” Ethan said, swallowing the bit of sandwich that he had in his mouth, “it’s what I do.”
“I know,” said Lily, “but it must be hard.”
Ethan shrugged, “It’s a living,” he said, “honestly, I’m thinking about giving it up.”
“Really?” asked Lily, “How come?”
“Well, it can be a pretty dangerous game, you know,” he said, “sometimes the people I’m watching notice me, and things can turn ugly.”
“I suppose,” Lily said, “you don’t think my husband has veer spotted you watching him?”
“I doubt it,” said Ethan, “this has been a pretty open-and-shut case. You’ve made everything really easy.”
“I’m happy to oblige,” Lily said, then stood up from the bench.
“I think that’s him now,” she said, gesturing towards the dock.
“Sit down, will you,” Ethan warned, grabbing Lily’s hand and pulling her gently back to the bench, “you don’t want him to see you, do you?”
“He’s with someone,” Lily said, sitting back down.
Ethan looked towards the boat where Lily’s husband was walking with a tall leggy blonde.
“She’s something, alright,” Ethan whistled, “though I’ve always preferred brunettes.”
Lily ran her fingers through her brown hair and gazed towards the boat, “That’s our neighbour’s daughter!” she said, sounding almost disgusted, “She’s barely nineteen.”
“Lucky fella,” said Ethan, “I couldn’t pull nineteen year-olds when I was nineteen!”
“We’ve known her since she was a child,” Lily shook her head, “it’s disgusting.”
“Well, it’ll all be over soon,” Ethan said, patting Lily’s hand, “we’ve got all the evidence we need now.”
Lily looked down at where Ethan was patting her hand, and gently laced her fingers into his.
“Do you think I’m still attractive?” she asked.
Ethan raised his eyebrows, “You’re a very desirable woman,” he admitted, “what the movies would call a timeless beauty. Too good for that no good cheater, anyway.”
Lily smiled at Ethan, glancing one more time down to the boat where her husband and her neighbour’s daughter had just climbed on board. The girl had tripped and stumbled as she climbed aboard, Lily’s husband catching her. She could imagine the juvenile giggle rising from the girl’s throat as her husband groped her back onto her feet again. She looked with disgust as her husband put a large clammy hand on the girl’s perfect pert breast and leaned in to slip his tongue down her throat.
“Why did he do this to me?” Lily asked Ethan, “Why would he throw seventeen years of marriage down the drain.”
“Men do stupid things sometimes, Lily,” Ethan said, “I can call you Lily, can’t I?”
“Of course,” Lily said, turning back to Ethan as her husband and his jailbait bit on the side disappeared below deck, “I’d like to think this was more than just a business arrangement.”
Ethan smiled, “That’s a nice idea,” he said, “but do you think it’s a practical one. After all, what would people say if you suddenly started seeing someone else?”
“I wouldn’t care,” Lily said, “I don’t plan on staying around here for much longer, anyway. My only friends were my neighbours, and after this I don’t think I could ever look at them again.”
“That’s fair enough,” Ethan said, picking up Lily’s cell phone, “would you like to do the honours?”
Lily smiled at Ethan, “I would love to,” she said, taking the cell phone from his free hand and calling a pre-set number.
As she pressed send, an almighty explosion echoed through the air as her husband’s boat exploded, sending debris and flame flying into the sky.
“Well, what’s done is done.” Lily said, rubbing a finger under one eye, and holding the phone up in the air, “What should I do with this?”
“I’ll get rid of it for you,” Ethan said, taking the phone and placing it in the picnic hamper before lifting the hamper off the bench, “Say, would you like to come back to my place for some dinner later on tonight?”
Lily smiled, taking Ethan’s free hand, “Why wait until dinner?” she asked, “You’ve done so much for me, maybe we should move straight on to desert.”
The two of them walked away from the bench, heading to Ethan’s waiting car, and the two napkins that had sat between them billowed into the air, spinning circles around each other before landing on the ground in a tangled embrace.
Originally Posted 24/5/2015
Result - 1st Place
“All done,” Ethan said, all business-like as he took a seat next to Lily, “Now all we have to do is wait.”
“Would you like something to drink?” Lily asked, pulling a thermos of hot water out of the hamper, “I’ve got coffee here, or tea if you prefer.”
“Tea would be splendid,” Ethan smiled, looking at the basket with a humorous twinkle in his eye, “I can’t drink coffee after midday or I’m up all night.”
“Your wife must be a very lucky lady,” Lily chuckled mischievously, pouring some tea into a plastic cup and handing it to Ethan.
“I’m not married,” Ethan said, taking the cup of tea and blowing on it absent-mindedly, “Never met the right girl.”
“That’s a shame,” Lily raised an eyebrow, “You’d make quite the catch for some lucky woman.”
Ethan took a sip of his tea, “This is good,” he said, staring out over the shipyard at the vessels below him, “what is it?”
“PG Tips,” Lily stated matter-of-factly, pouring herself a coffee.
“Seriously?” Ethan smiled, “It never tastes like this when I make it.”
“The secret ingredient is love,” Lily beamed, putting her cup of coffee down on the bench next to her, “Are you hungry?”
“Have you got any sandwiches in there?” Ethan asked, arching his neck for a peek into the hamper.
“What do you take me for?” Lily smiled, “Of course I do. What would you like?”
“Anything with ham,” Ethan said, taking another swig of his tea, “I love ham.”
Lily pulled out a plastic plate with some cling-film covered sandwiches and placed them next to her coffee. Ethan shook his head.
“You really did come prepared, didn’t you.” he grinned.
“Well, I wasn’t sure how long we’d be waiting,” Lily shrugged, “my husband isn’t exactly known for his time keeping.”
“It probably doesn’t help that he’s been having an affair, either,” said Ethan, carefully pulling back a corner of the cling film and helping himself to a sandwich, “Who’d know where’s he’s coming from.”
“Or who he’s coming with,” Lily quipped, a little sadly.
Ethan nodded, choosing not to comment, and took a bite from his sandwich.
“How’s the sandwich?” Lily asked, trying to avoid any awkward silences.
“It’s good,” Ethan said, “You’re a wonderful cook.”
“Well, it’s hardly cooking,” Lily smiled, “there isn’t really any art to making a sandwich.”
“Well, these are a work of art,” said Ethan, finishing his sandwich and motioning for another, “May I?”
“Be my guest,” said Lily, sipping at her coffee and holding it between her hands for warmth, “No use letting them go to waste.”
“So is this where he, you know,” Ethan asked, taking a bite from his second sandwich.
“Sometimes,” Lily said, “I found some underwear behind one of the seats on our boat – they weren’t mine.”
“And he says he’s coming here to work on the boat every Saturday afternoon?” Ethan asked.
Lily nodded, “Yes, he says he’s working on the boat – more likely working on those sluts of his.”
“Do you reckon he brings them here?” Ethan asked.
Lily shrugged, “All I know is that he always brings back something from the boat, as if he’s trying to alibi himself; as if to prove he was actually here.”
“So it’s possible we might even catch him in the act,” Ethan suggested, finishing his sandwich and picking up his cup of tea.
“I hope so,” said Lily, “and if not, well there’s always plan A.”
Ethan nodded in agreement, “So,” he asked, “what do you do for a living?”
Lily laughed out loud, rocking on the bench, “Oh, you sweet man,” she said, “I don’t work. Do you have any idea how rich my husband is? I don’t have to work for anything.”
“Except for his love,” Ethan said sympathetically, “clearly that was a wasted effort.”
“Yes,” Lily said, finishing off her coffee, “clearly I’m better off focussing my efforts elsewhere.”
“Too true,” said Ethan, reaching for a third sandwich.
“You know,” Lily smiled at Ethan, “I never properly thanked you for doing this.”
“Not a problem,” Ethan said, swallowing the bit of sandwich that he had in his mouth, “it’s what I do.”
“I know,” said Lily, “but it must be hard.”
Ethan shrugged, “It’s a living,” he said, “honestly, I’m thinking about giving it up.”
“Really?” asked Lily, “How come?”
“Well, it can be a pretty dangerous game, you know,” he said, “sometimes the people I’m watching notice me, and things can turn ugly.”
“I suppose,” Lily said, “you don’t think my husband has veer spotted you watching him?”
“I doubt it,” said Ethan, “this has been a pretty open-and-shut case. You’ve made everything really easy.”
“I’m happy to oblige,” Lily said, then stood up from the bench.
“I think that’s him now,” she said, gesturing towards the dock.
“Sit down, will you,” Ethan warned, grabbing Lily’s hand and pulling her gently back to the bench, “you don’t want him to see you, do you?”
“He’s with someone,” Lily said, sitting back down.
Ethan looked towards the boat where Lily’s husband was walking with a tall leggy blonde.
“She’s something, alright,” Ethan whistled, “though I’ve always preferred brunettes.”
Lily ran her fingers through her brown hair and gazed towards the boat, “That’s our neighbour’s daughter!” she said, sounding almost disgusted, “She’s barely nineteen.”
“Lucky fella,” said Ethan, “I couldn’t pull nineteen year-olds when I was nineteen!”
“We’ve known her since she was a child,” Lily shook her head, “it’s disgusting.”
“Well, it’ll all be over soon,” Ethan said, patting Lily’s hand, “we’ve got all the evidence we need now.”
Lily looked down at where Ethan was patting her hand, and gently laced her fingers into his.
“Do you think I’m still attractive?” she asked.
Ethan raised his eyebrows, “You’re a very desirable woman,” he admitted, “what the movies would call a timeless beauty. Too good for that no good cheater, anyway.”
Lily smiled at Ethan, glancing one more time down to the boat where her husband and her neighbour’s daughter had just climbed on board. The girl had tripped and stumbled as she climbed aboard, Lily’s husband catching her. She could imagine the juvenile giggle rising from the girl’s throat as her husband groped her back onto her feet again. She looked with disgust as her husband put a large clammy hand on the girl’s perfect pert breast and leaned in to slip his tongue down her throat.
“Why did he do this to me?” Lily asked Ethan, “Why would he throw seventeen years of marriage down the drain.”
“Men do stupid things sometimes, Lily,” Ethan said, “I can call you Lily, can’t I?”
“Of course,” Lily said, turning back to Ethan as her husband and his jailbait bit on the side disappeared below deck, “I’d like to think this was more than just a business arrangement.”
Ethan smiled, “That’s a nice idea,” he said, “but do you think it’s a practical one. After all, what would people say if you suddenly started seeing someone else?”
“I wouldn’t care,” Lily said, “I don’t plan on staying around here for much longer, anyway. My only friends were my neighbours, and after this I don’t think I could ever look at them again.”
“That’s fair enough,” Ethan said, picking up Lily’s cell phone, “would you like to do the honours?”
Lily smiled at Ethan, “I would love to,” she said, taking the cell phone from his free hand and calling a pre-set number.
As she pressed send, an almighty explosion echoed through the air as her husband’s boat exploded, sending debris and flame flying into the sky.
“Well, what’s done is done.” Lily said, rubbing a finger under one eye, and holding the phone up in the air, “What should I do with this?”
“I’ll get rid of it for you,” Ethan said, taking the phone and placing it in the picnic hamper before lifting the hamper off the bench, “Say, would you like to come back to my place for some dinner later on tonight?”
Lily smiled, taking Ethan’s free hand, “Why wait until dinner?” she asked, “You’ve done so much for me, maybe we should move straight on to desert.”
The two of them walked away from the bench, heading to Ethan’s waiting car, and the two napkins that had sat between them billowed into the air, spinning circles around each other before landing on the ground in a tangled embrace.
Originally Posted 24/5/2015
Result - 1st Place
Poem : Behemoths
The beasts sail in
They dock near shore
Those behemoths
Of ancient lore
Their iron hulls
Once safe in sea
Exposed to air
Become rusty
Abandoned crates
Left not alone
Like-minded friends
That share their home
Forgotten of
Forever more
Those behemoths
Of ancient lore
Originally Posted 24/5/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
They dock near shore
Those behemoths
Of ancient lore
Their iron hulls
Once safe in sea
Exposed to air
Become rusty
Abandoned crates
Left not alone
Like-minded friends
That share their home
Forgotten of
Forever more
Those behemoths
Of ancient lore
Originally Posted 24/5/2015
Result - Joint 2nd Place
May 18, 2015
Short Story : The Interview
Mickey was always late, and today was no exception. Sweat streaked down his face and chest, firmly gripped his shirt to his armpits as he ran down the street towards his local tube station. Struggling with an A3 plastic portfolio filled with props for his presentation, he sprinted through the station entrance, only slowing down to slip his travel card through the barrier gate.. It was his first job interview in months, and if he didn’t hurry he was going to be very late. Very late indeed.
He ran down the station escalator, praying to whatever deity might be listening that he wasn’t already too late to catch his tube. If he missed it, it could be another ten minutes before the next one, and he still had to change at Bond Street.
As he tripped onto the platform he could see his tube sat there, waiting for him. He breathed a sigh of relief that instantly turned to panic as the doors started to close. Sprinting as fast and as hard as he could, Mickey launched himself through the nearest closing doors, tumbling across the newspaper strewn floor and colliding with the closed doors on the other side of the carriage.
“Hey, watch it, will you?” a voice yelled at him. Mickey looked up to see an attractive pair of legs leading up to a curvaceous bottom that tapered off into a perfect waist, leading upwards to a sensational pair of breasts that seemed to support the shoulders, neck and face of the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen.
Mickey picked himself up off the ground, “Sorry,” he apologised as he managed to reach his feet, just as the tube lurched into gear. He staggered sideways, flailing his hands out to stop himself from falling over, dropping his portfolio in the process. His hands found the attractive woman’s breasts.
“What the hell!” she shouted as Mickey tried not to squeeze them, “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, “I fell.”
The woman glared at Mickey, kicking out at his leg. Mickey flinched, trying his best to turn sideways, but this only resulted in the kick hitting him in the side of the knee, where it seemed to do more damage. He winced, clutching his knee and struggling to stay standing up.
Picking up his slightly battered portfolio, Mickey looked around the tube carriage, spotting an empty seat at the far end. Hobbling slightly, he made his way through the crowd of people until he found himself standing in front of the surprisingly empty seat. He looked at the reasonably pretty woman sat in the seat next to it; she was trying to suppress a smirk behind her newspaper, but on meeting his eyes she couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“Smooth move, Mister Smooth,” she chuckled, lowering the paper, her earphones jiggling against her long neck. Mickey grimaced as he took the seat next to her.
“I wouldn’t sit there if I were you,” the woman with the earphones said after Mickey had already taken a seat.
“Why not?” Mickey asked, starting to get a little annoyed with how his day had so far started out.
“The last guy who sat there may have had a problem with incontinence,” she smiled, putting the back of her hand to her mouth in a losing attempt to suppress further laughter. She failed.
Mickey tilted his bottom upwards, looking at the slightly damp seat beneath him. It didn’t look like there was any dampness on his actual trousers, and the way his knee was feeling he wasn’t about to stand up for the remainder of his journey. Instead he grabbed a copy of the Metro newspaper from the back of his seat and placed it underneath him.
“Much better,” he said, placing his portfolio on his lap and tilting an eyebrow at earphones-girl. She smiled slightly, turning back to her own newspaper.
As Mickey settled back to enjoy the long tube journey to the best of his ability, he took a look at his watch. It was ten thirty-five, and his interview was at eleven. It was possible he still might make it in time. As he told himself this, he felt a jerk as the tube ground to a halt.
“Oh, what now?” he mumbled to himself as he looked out the window behind him. All he could see was the faint outline of the cabling that ran along the tunnel wall – other than that, there was nothing but blackness.
“Looks like someone pulled the emergency cord,” earphones-girl sighed, “Guess we aren’t going anywhere for a while.”
“This is brilliant,” Mickey complained to her, assuming she cared, “I’m already running late for a job interview.”
“Really?” she asked, “I’m due at a job interview too. Where’s yours?”
Mickey looked at the girl suspiciously, “It’s a publishing company...” he offered cautiously.
“Me too!” earphones-girl beamed, “Which one?”
“What is this, twenty questions?” Mickey asked, “What are you playing at?”
“Nothing,” she said, “I just thought we could kill the boredom by having a chat. So, what firm are you interviewing with?”
“I’m not sure how that’s any of your business,” Mickey replied. He wasn’t sure about his girl – what if she was going for an interview with a different firm and hadn’t heard about the job opportunity he was hoping to fill? She might call them up and go for an interview as well. And what if she got the job? It would be Mickey’s fault for giving her inside information.
Earphones-girl rolled her eyes, “How about if I give you information first,” she suggested, “I’m interviewing with Arbitrary Abode - how about you?”
Dammit! Mickey cursed in his head. He was interviewing at Arbitrary Abode, one of the biggest book publishing houses in the UK. And now he was faced with competition. Should he admit he was going for the same interview? Or lie and say he was going to another company?
Earphones-girl looked down at the portfolio that Mickey had sat on his lap, “Looks like you are heading to the same interview,” she smiled.
Mickey looked down at the portfolio where the corner had caved in slightly when he’d dropped it. An envelope could be seen through the crack in the plastic, and the red stamp design on the front clearly read Arbitrary Abode. The question was, had this girl seen that before or after she said she had an interview with them?
“Yes, I am,” Mickey admitted, “I’m going to be pretty late now, what with being stuck in this tunnel.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” earphones-girl shrugged, “You know what publishing companies are like – the interviewer will probably be late as well. They might even be stuck on the same train – it’ll give you something to talk to them about.”
That actually helped Mickey to relax a little, and he felt himself sinking into his seat as his tense muscles loosened up. Then he remembered his urine-soaked seat and every muscle tensed back up again.
“So, what’s you favourite book?” earphones-girl asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re favourite book,” she repeated, “What’s your favourite one?”
Mickey frowned, “I don’t know really, I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“You know they’re bound to ask that in the interview,” she told him, “You’re going for a job interview in a publishing house – they’ll want to know what your tastes are like. And they won’t want you to come up with obvious authors, either. They won’t want to hear about how much you love Graham Swift or Ben Okri, and as for Hilary Mantel – well, that buck toothed old crone needs to let someone else win a prize or two.”
Mickey could tell he looked confused. When it came to popular, award winning literature, he was pretty clueless. He thought Graham Swift might have been the guy who wrote Gulliver’s Travels, but Ben Okri sounded like a character from Star Wars. He decided not to comment on those authors, and instead tried to think of one he did like that not many people would have heard of.
“Robin Jarvis is quite good,” he said, unsure of whether his suggestion was any good, “I liekd him when I was a kid.”
“The mice guy?” earphones-girl asked, referring to Jarvis’s Deptford Mice series of books. Mickey nodded, “Well, I guess he’s a pretty good children’s author. Very dark. Did you ever read his Dancing Jax books?”
Mickey shook his head.
“You really should,” earphones-girl smiled, “There’s some messed up stuff in those books, I tell you.”
“What about you?” Mickey asked, “What authors do you like?”
“Have you heard of Connie Willis?” she asked.
Mickey smiled, “The time-travel woman?”
“Yeah,” earphones-girl grinned, “Isn’t she awesome?”
“I loved To Say Nothing Of The Dog,” Mickey said enthusiastically, turning his body towards earphones-girl, actually finding himself enjoying the conversation, “I never got around to reading those World War Two books she did though.”
“You definitely should read those,” earphones-girl’s eyes widened, “They might not be as good as Doomsday Book, but they’re still a good read. Though it did annoy me that she kept referring to Murder On The Orient Express by its American name when the characters were meant to be English.”
Mickey nodded, “That happens a lot – Americans never spot it, though.”
“Well, I guess that’s what you’ll be doing when you get this job,” earphones-girl smiled, “checking for errors in people’s manuscripts and stuff like that.”
“If I get the job,” Mickey corrected, “At this rate I won’t even make it to the interview.”
Earphones-girl held out her hand to Mickey, “By the way, my name is Maxine.”
Maxine? Mickey thought to himself, shaking hands with the girl. Why did that name ring a bell...
“Maxine Priestley?” Mickey half-asked, his hand lingering in hers, “But I’ve got my interview with you?”
“That’s right.”
“But you said you were going for the same interview that I am.” Mickey questioned.
“I am,” Maxine chuckled, “but I didn’t say I was the interviewee. I’m the interviewer. Well, one of them – I’m part of the team you’ll be working with.”
Mickey lowered his head, finally releasing Maxine from their hand shake, “And you saw me fall over and grab that woman’s tits.”
Maxine’s chuckle got louder, “That was funny,“ she admitted, “but it wasn’t your fault.”
Mickey sighed, “I guess I’m not getting the job after my performance this morning, huh?”
“Far from it,” Maxine beamed, “We’re looking for someone with unorthodox tastes in books. It’s kind of depressing when people have googled Booker Prize winners and just reel them off in an interview. They’re usually in the same reverse order of winning, as well. They don’t even mix it up by throwing in some runners up. Just once I’d have liked someone to mention Tan Twan Eng or Karen Joy Fowler.”
“Didn’t she write Sarah Canary?”
“See,” Maxine smiled, “most people would have mentioned The Jane Austen Book Club because of that stupid movie. Even the smart ones would go for We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves, which got nominated last year, but not you. You, my friend, think outside the box.”
“Which is ironic, since we’re trapped in this one,” Mickey chuckled.
“And you’re funny, too,” Maxine chuckled. As she did so, the tubes engine whirred into life and the tube started to move again.
“I guess they scraped that particular corpse of the rails,” Maxine joked a little sickly. Mickey actually found the joke quite heartening – it was the kind he would make with his friends. Maybe he and Maxine could be friends. They certainly got on quite well, plus it helped that she was quite pretty. Now that he’d spoken to her she seemed even prettier to him.
“Does this mean I got the job?” Mickey asked a little nervously.
Maxine nodded, “Definitely,” she smiled, “When can you start?”
“Just name the day and I’m there,” Mickey smiled, “Will I be working under you?”
Maxine raised her eyebrows, “Only if you play your cards right,” she said, “How about we discuss things over breakfast?”
Mickey looked at his watch which now read ten to eleven, “Isn’t it a little late for breakfast?” he asked.
Maxine leaned towards Mickey, “Who said anything about breakfast today?” she smiled, leaning in to kiss Mickey on the lips.
Originally Posted 18/5/2015
Result - Joint 1st Place
He ran down the station escalator, praying to whatever deity might be listening that he wasn’t already too late to catch his tube. If he missed it, it could be another ten minutes before the next one, and he still had to change at Bond Street.
As he tripped onto the platform he could see his tube sat there, waiting for him. He breathed a sigh of relief that instantly turned to panic as the doors started to close. Sprinting as fast and as hard as he could, Mickey launched himself through the nearest closing doors, tumbling across the newspaper strewn floor and colliding with the closed doors on the other side of the carriage.
“Hey, watch it, will you?” a voice yelled at him. Mickey looked up to see an attractive pair of legs leading up to a curvaceous bottom that tapered off into a perfect waist, leading upwards to a sensational pair of breasts that seemed to support the shoulders, neck and face of the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen.
Mickey picked himself up off the ground, “Sorry,” he apologised as he managed to reach his feet, just as the tube lurched into gear. He staggered sideways, flailing his hands out to stop himself from falling over, dropping his portfolio in the process. His hands found the attractive woman’s breasts.
“What the hell!” she shouted as Mickey tried not to squeeze them, “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, “I fell.”
The woman glared at Mickey, kicking out at his leg. Mickey flinched, trying his best to turn sideways, but this only resulted in the kick hitting him in the side of the knee, where it seemed to do more damage. He winced, clutching his knee and struggling to stay standing up.
Picking up his slightly battered portfolio, Mickey looked around the tube carriage, spotting an empty seat at the far end. Hobbling slightly, he made his way through the crowd of people until he found himself standing in front of the surprisingly empty seat. He looked at the reasonably pretty woman sat in the seat next to it; she was trying to suppress a smirk behind her newspaper, but on meeting his eyes she couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“Smooth move, Mister Smooth,” she chuckled, lowering the paper, her earphones jiggling against her long neck. Mickey grimaced as he took the seat next to her.
“I wouldn’t sit there if I were you,” the woman with the earphones said after Mickey had already taken a seat.
“Why not?” Mickey asked, starting to get a little annoyed with how his day had so far started out.
“The last guy who sat there may have had a problem with incontinence,” she smiled, putting the back of her hand to her mouth in a losing attempt to suppress further laughter. She failed.
Mickey tilted his bottom upwards, looking at the slightly damp seat beneath him. It didn’t look like there was any dampness on his actual trousers, and the way his knee was feeling he wasn’t about to stand up for the remainder of his journey. Instead he grabbed a copy of the Metro newspaper from the back of his seat and placed it underneath him.
“Much better,” he said, placing his portfolio on his lap and tilting an eyebrow at earphones-girl. She smiled slightly, turning back to her own newspaper.
As Mickey settled back to enjoy the long tube journey to the best of his ability, he took a look at his watch. It was ten thirty-five, and his interview was at eleven. It was possible he still might make it in time. As he told himself this, he felt a jerk as the tube ground to a halt.
“Oh, what now?” he mumbled to himself as he looked out the window behind him. All he could see was the faint outline of the cabling that ran along the tunnel wall – other than that, there was nothing but blackness.
“Looks like someone pulled the emergency cord,” earphones-girl sighed, “Guess we aren’t going anywhere for a while.”
“This is brilliant,” Mickey complained to her, assuming she cared, “I’m already running late for a job interview.”
“Really?” she asked, “I’m due at a job interview too. Where’s yours?”
Mickey looked at the girl suspiciously, “It’s a publishing company...” he offered cautiously.
“Me too!” earphones-girl beamed, “Which one?”
“What is this, twenty questions?” Mickey asked, “What are you playing at?”
“Nothing,” she said, “I just thought we could kill the boredom by having a chat. So, what firm are you interviewing with?”
“I’m not sure how that’s any of your business,” Mickey replied. He wasn’t sure about his girl – what if she was going for an interview with a different firm and hadn’t heard about the job opportunity he was hoping to fill? She might call them up and go for an interview as well. And what if she got the job? It would be Mickey’s fault for giving her inside information.
Earphones-girl rolled her eyes, “How about if I give you information first,” she suggested, “I’m interviewing with Arbitrary Abode - how about you?”
Dammit! Mickey cursed in his head. He was interviewing at Arbitrary Abode, one of the biggest book publishing houses in the UK. And now he was faced with competition. Should he admit he was going for the same interview? Or lie and say he was going to another company?
Earphones-girl looked down at the portfolio that Mickey had sat on his lap, “Looks like you are heading to the same interview,” she smiled.
Mickey looked down at the portfolio where the corner had caved in slightly when he’d dropped it. An envelope could be seen through the crack in the plastic, and the red stamp design on the front clearly read Arbitrary Abode. The question was, had this girl seen that before or after she said she had an interview with them?
“Yes, I am,” Mickey admitted, “I’m going to be pretty late now, what with being stuck in this tunnel.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” earphones-girl shrugged, “You know what publishing companies are like – the interviewer will probably be late as well. They might even be stuck on the same train – it’ll give you something to talk to them about.”
That actually helped Mickey to relax a little, and he felt himself sinking into his seat as his tense muscles loosened up. Then he remembered his urine-soaked seat and every muscle tensed back up again.
“So, what’s you favourite book?” earphones-girl asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re favourite book,” she repeated, “What’s your favourite one?”
Mickey frowned, “I don’t know really, I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“You know they’re bound to ask that in the interview,” she told him, “You’re going for a job interview in a publishing house – they’ll want to know what your tastes are like. And they won’t want you to come up with obvious authors, either. They won’t want to hear about how much you love Graham Swift or Ben Okri, and as for Hilary Mantel – well, that buck toothed old crone needs to let someone else win a prize or two.”
Mickey could tell he looked confused. When it came to popular, award winning literature, he was pretty clueless. He thought Graham Swift might have been the guy who wrote Gulliver’s Travels, but Ben Okri sounded like a character from Star Wars. He decided not to comment on those authors, and instead tried to think of one he did like that not many people would have heard of.
“Robin Jarvis is quite good,” he said, unsure of whether his suggestion was any good, “I liekd him when I was a kid.”
“The mice guy?” earphones-girl asked, referring to Jarvis’s Deptford Mice series of books. Mickey nodded, “Well, I guess he’s a pretty good children’s author. Very dark. Did you ever read his Dancing Jax books?”
Mickey shook his head.
“You really should,” earphones-girl smiled, “There’s some messed up stuff in those books, I tell you.”
“What about you?” Mickey asked, “What authors do you like?”
“Have you heard of Connie Willis?” she asked.
Mickey smiled, “The time-travel woman?”
“Yeah,” earphones-girl grinned, “Isn’t she awesome?”
“I loved To Say Nothing Of The Dog,” Mickey said enthusiastically, turning his body towards earphones-girl, actually finding himself enjoying the conversation, “I never got around to reading those World War Two books she did though.”
“You definitely should read those,” earphones-girl’s eyes widened, “They might not be as good as Doomsday Book, but they’re still a good read. Though it did annoy me that she kept referring to Murder On The Orient Express by its American name when the characters were meant to be English.”
Mickey nodded, “That happens a lot – Americans never spot it, though.”
“Well, I guess that’s what you’ll be doing when you get this job,” earphones-girl smiled, “checking for errors in people’s manuscripts and stuff like that.”
“If I get the job,” Mickey corrected, “At this rate I won’t even make it to the interview.”
Earphones-girl held out her hand to Mickey, “By the way, my name is Maxine.”
Maxine? Mickey thought to himself, shaking hands with the girl. Why did that name ring a bell...
“Maxine Priestley?” Mickey half-asked, his hand lingering in hers, “But I’ve got my interview with you?”
“That’s right.”
“But you said you were going for the same interview that I am.” Mickey questioned.
“I am,” Maxine chuckled, “but I didn’t say I was the interviewee. I’m the interviewer. Well, one of them – I’m part of the team you’ll be working with.”
Mickey lowered his head, finally releasing Maxine from their hand shake, “And you saw me fall over and grab that woman’s tits.”
Maxine’s chuckle got louder, “That was funny,“ she admitted, “but it wasn’t your fault.”
Mickey sighed, “I guess I’m not getting the job after my performance this morning, huh?”
“Far from it,” Maxine beamed, “We’re looking for someone with unorthodox tastes in books. It’s kind of depressing when people have googled Booker Prize winners and just reel them off in an interview. They’re usually in the same reverse order of winning, as well. They don’t even mix it up by throwing in some runners up. Just once I’d have liked someone to mention Tan Twan Eng or Karen Joy Fowler.”
“Didn’t she write Sarah Canary?”
“See,” Maxine smiled, “most people would have mentioned The Jane Austen Book Club because of that stupid movie. Even the smart ones would go for We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves, which got nominated last year, but not you. You, my friend, think outside the box.”
“Which is ironic, since we’re trapped in this one,” Mickey chuckled.
“And you’re funny, too,” Maxine chuckled. As she did so, the tubes engine whirred into life and the tube started to move again.
“I guess they scraped that particular corpse of the rails,” Maxine joked a little sickly. Mickey actually found the joke quite heartening – it was the kind he would make with his friends. Maybe he and Maxine could be friends. They certainly got on quite well, plus it helped that she was quite pretty. Now that he’d spoken to her she seemed even prettier to him.
“Does this mean I got the job?” Mickey asked a little nervously.
Maxine nodded, “Definitely,” she smiled, “When can you start?”
“Just name the day and I’m there,” Mickey smiled, “Will I be working under you?”
Maxine raised her eyebrows, “Only if you play your cards right,” she said, “How about we discuss things over breakfast?”
Mickey looked at his watch which now read ten to eleven, “Isn’t it a little late for breakfast?” he asked.
Maxine leaned towards Mickey, “Who said anything about breakfast today?” she smiled, leaning in to kiss Mickey on the lips.
Originally Posted 18/5/2015
Result - Joint 1st Place
May 17, 2015
Poem : Aimless
A poem often has a start
A middle, and an end
But when they lack these elements
Confusion reigns, my friend
You’re not sure if the idea comes
From somewhere up above
Or if it’s just the ravings of
A lunatic in love
There are a lot of useful words
That give us some intention
Of what the poet has in mind
Through abstract circumvention
But in the end the poem falls
Quite flatly on its face
And leaves us wondering what they meant
To say in the first place
Originally Posted 17/5/2015
Result - Joint 4th Place
A middle, and an end
But when they lack these elements
Confusion reigns, my friend
You’re not sure if the idea comes
From somewhere up above
Or if it’s just the ravings of
A lunatic in love
There are a lot of useful words
That give us some intention
Of what the poet has in mind
Through abstract circumvention
But in the end the poem falls
Quite flatly on its face
And leaves us wondering what they meant
To say in the first place
Originally Posted 17/5/2015
Result - Joint 4th Place
May 11, 2015
Short Story : Taking A Chance
Standing up in front of an audience always made Jeffrey nervous. Ever since he’d been a little kid and he’d been forced into playing an inn keeper in the school nativity play he’d been terrified of so much as speaking in public. Perhaps it was a combination of the fact that he’d not only forgotten his lines - instead of saying “There’s no room at the inn,” he’d adlibbed the line “Sod off Jesus’ mum,” - but he had then wet himself quite noticeably in front of his parents and the parents of all of his friends. He’d only been five, but that sort of trauma could stay with someone for a very long time, and children have very long memories.
Now that he was twenty-two, he’d decided he wanted to be a magician. He had all the material, and even he had to admit that his tricks were pretty good and his jokes with the audience were pretty funny, but he just couldn’t handle the pressure of public speaking.
But if he wanted to enter the talent contest and have a chance of actually getting passed the first round of auditions, he had to try to overcome his fears. And if he wanted to win, he really needed to pull something off that would really dazzle the judges. Standing in front of them and urinating might win him hits on YouTube, but in the real world it would just result in him being asked to vacate the stage.
But he had to take that chance.
Jeffrey’s best friend Trish had agreed to come to the preliminary audition with him, and she stood in the wings with him as Jeffrey nervously clutched the handles on his prop trolley. They’d met at college and become firm friends, though Jeffrey had always hoped they could have been more.
“I know you can do this,” said Trish, trying her best to keep him motivated, “I’ve seen your tricks, and they’re really good, and your jokes are hilarious!”
“You really think so?” Jeffrey asked, totally unsure of himself as he looked out on the stage where an inappropriately dressed thirteen year old was juggling flaming sticks while gyrating her under developed hips, “Some of these other acts looked pretty impressive.”
“They’re just novelty acts,” Trish said, “So what if she can juggle and dance. Being able to create unique illusions is a real talent that very few people can manage successfully. Anyone can juggle while dressed as a teen prostitute.”
Jeffrey smiled. Trish always knew the right thing to say to cheer him up, and if he hadn’t been so shy they’d probably have been more than just friends by now. He fancied her the first time he set eyes on her, but that hadn’t lasted long. Once she’d actually spoken to him and they’d gotten to know each other, he had slowly but surely fallen in love with her.
But he couldn’t say anything to her.
If she didn’t feel the same way, he would have been devastated, so he’d decided they should just remain friends so he could avoid any heart breaking moments that might result in him losing his best friend.
He smiled – that sounded like a ‘No Doubt’ lyric.
“I don’t know if I could,” Jeffrey said.
Trish looked at him, a little confused, “Could what?” she asked.
Jeffrey smiled, “Dress like a teen prostitute,” he chuckled.
Trish jokingly punched Jeffrey on the arm, “Just get out there and wow them,” she told him, “and remember, if you do mess up, you get a second attempt later in the show tonight.”
Jeffrey nodded as the fire juggler curtsied to the judges and walked off stage, brushing passed Trish and Jeffrey.
“Good luck following that, losers,” the teen spat pretentiously, directing the comment at no one in particular. But Jeffrey felt like the comment had been fixed directly at him. After all, he was the next act.
“I can’t do this,” Jeffrey said, his lip trembling, “I’m too scared.”
“Of course you can do it,” Trish said, nudging Jeffrey towards the stage, “I have faith in you.”
Jeffrey looked Trish straight in the eye, something he found almost impossible with most people. Trish said nothing more; she simply nodded a little, which Jeffrey took as his sign to go on stage.
As he walked into the spotlight, wheeling his trolley filled with magic props, Jeffrey lifted a hand to shield his eyes. The light wasn’t particularly bright; it’s just that this was something he often did when he had to speak in public. By shielding his eyes slightly, he could block out a whole chunk of the audience and just look like he’d been dazzled a little. That way he might be able to trick his mind into thinking there were less people in the audience than there really were.
This trick was unlikely to work this time. Even with the top right hand corner of the audience blocked out, Jeffrey could still see nearly a thousand people in the audience. He swallowed nervously, or at least tried to, as he felt his throat closing up as his eyes settled on the four judges that sat at the front of the audience, nestled in among the cameras that were recording his every move. If he performed in a mediocre way, no-one would ever see this. If he was amazing, he’d go out on TV and everyone would cheer at his success.
But if he was awful...
Then everyone would see him in the opening shows, amongst all the terrible acts that inevitably made it into the first few weeks for everyone to laugh at.
“And what’s your name?” the lead judge, Ryman Powell, asked, eyeing Jeffrey’s prop trolley derisively. Jeffrey knew how notorious Powell could be, and he also knew he shouldn’t have brought props, but they were necessary for most of his act to work. You can’t make animals disappear if you haven’t got any animals to begin with
“J-Jeffrey,” Jeffrey managed to say quietly.
“And what’s your talent today, J-Jeffrey?” Powell asked, mocking Jeffrey’s stammer.
“The same as it was yesterday,” Jeffrey smiled, garnering a small laugh from the audience. That was good, he told himself, at least some of the audience found his lamest joke funny.
“I’m guessing you’re some sort of comedian,” Powell said.
“Actually I’m a magician,” Jeffrey nodded, feeling nervous again.
“Okay then,J-Jeffrey” Powell folded his arms across his tight t-shirt, “dazzle us!”
Jeffrey swallowed again, feeling like he’d just eaten a big bag of cotton wool, and picked up a small lizard from his trolley.
“What is that, a newt?” Powell asked.
Jeffrey started to panic. That was the wrong feed line. What he wanted was someone to ask if it was a lizard so he could say it was his pet tiny. The punch line was weak, but the trick would make up for it.
“This here is Tiny,” Jeffrey said loudly, “he’s my newt.”
Ryman Powell face-palmed himself. He actually face-palmed himself. Jeffrey knew that the whole my newt / minute joke was an old one, but no one had ever face-palmed themselves over it. Nervously Jeffrey carried on with the act.
“I will now make Tiny disappear,” he said, feeling more than a little self-conscious.
“That won’t take much,” Powell chuckled, and the audience joined in. Slowly, Jeffrey took Tiny the newt in his hand and closed his fingers around him. Then rotating his wrist he opened his hand again.
Tiny had vanished.
For all of a second the judges actually looked impressed, until Tiny crawled slowly out of Jeffrey’s sleeve.
“This is rubbish,” Powell shouted, “What else have you got?”
Jeffrey started to panic, feeling his bladder filling and loosening as he looked into the wings. Trish was stood there, egging him on enthusiastically, so he moved on to another trick.
And another.
And another.
Until eventually he had tried and failed all but one trick he had ever attempted.
“For my final trick,” Jeffrey began, clearing his throat, “I will levitate.”
Powell folded his arms, looking as if he actually wanted to see this trick be performed. He would have known if anything had been set up on stage before hand, and if there were any pulleys available to Jeffrey with which he could pull of some mind blowing levitation tricks.
There were none.
Jeffrey planted his feet firmly on the stage, looking up into the rafters, and began to levitate. Well, not exactly levitate – he was more standing on tip toes. Powell shook his head in disgust and gestured at Jeffrey in a shooing motion.
“Come back later when you’ve sorted out your act,” he said, “we’ll be going through the second chance round after 5pm if you’re actually interested in humiliating yourself again.”
Jeffrey’s shoulders slumped as he wheeled his trolley of props off the stage.
“That could have gone better,” Trish told him as he stopped the trolley next to her, “if you like I’ll try to help you out with some of the tricks that went wrong.”
“I don’t know,” Jeffrey sighed, “I’m starting to think that trying to do magic is nothing but a waste of time. I’m too terrified to manage any of my tricks in public, so I might as well just go home.”
Trish frowned at Jeffrey, “I know it’s scary out there,” she told him, “and I know how much this means to you.” She placed her hand on his shoulder, “But you have to try this, just one more time, to prove to yourself you can do it. I know you can do this. I have faith in you.”
Jeffrey smiled at Trish, whose eyes were twinkling in the reflected light from the stage. As he looked at her, she leaned forward and planted her lips on his.
The kiss seemed to Jeffrey to last for hours, though it was less than a minute, and when they finished Jeffrey gasped happily.
“Wow,” he beamed, “I wasn’t expecting that!”
Trish looked embarrassed, “I’ve never been sure if you liked me as more than just a friend,” she said, “but when I saw you standing there, looking so miserable, I just had to take a chance.”
Jeffrey chuckled, “Well, I’ve always liked you Trish,” he revealed, “I was just never sure if you liked me back, and I was too scared to make any sort of move. I didn’t want to lose you as a friend.”
“Maybe we could go somewhere after this,” Trish suggested, “you know, like on a proper date?”
Jeffrey smiled, “I’d like that,” he said.”
“Anyway, let’s go and practise these tricks of yours,” Trish said enthusiastically, “I want you to win this thing.”
Jeffrey frowned jokingly, “Don’t pressurise me,” he said, “you know I get nervous on stage.”
“Maybe you need a glamorous assistant to help you out. You know, to take some of the pressure off,” Trish suggested, taking Jeffrey’s hand.
Jeffrey squeezed her hand back, “Maybe,” he replied, “I think I’d like that.”
And so the two of them headed back to Jeffrey’s house to work on his tricks for the evening audition, and also to discuss their budding relationship and where they might go on their first date.
I suppose you’re wondering if Jeffrey got through to the next round of the talent contest.
Or if he won!
Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it?
That’s not what this story was about...
Originally Posted 11/5/2015
Result - Joint 4th Place
Now that he was twenty-two, he’d decided he wanted to be a magician. He had all the material, and even he had to admit that his tricks were pretty good and his jokes with the audience were pretty funny, but he just couldn’t handle the pressure of public speaking.
But if he wanted to enter the talent contest and have a chance of actually getting passed the first round of auditions, he had to try to overcome his fears. And if he wanted to win, he really needed to pull something off that would really dazzle the judges. Standing in front of them and urinating might win him hits on YouTube, but in the real world it would just result in him being asked to vacate the stage.
But he had to take that chance.
Jeffrey’s best friend Trish had agreed to come to the preliminary audition with him, and she stood in the wings with him as Jeffrey nervously clutched the handles on his prop trolley. They’d met at college and become firm friends, though Jeffrey had always hoped they could have been more.
“I know you can do this,” said Trish, trying her best to keep him motivated, “I’ve seen your tricks, and they’re really good, and your jokes are hilarious!”
“You really think so?” Jeffrey asked, totally unsure of himself as he looked out on the stage where an inappropriately dressed thirteen year old was juggling flaming sticks while gyrating her under developed hips, “Some of these other acts looked pretty impressive.”
“They’re just novelty acts,” Trish said, “So what if she can juggle and dance. Being able to create unique illusions is a real talent that very few people can manage successfully. Anyone can juggle while dressed as a teen prostitute.”
Jeffrey smiled. Trish always knew the right thing to say to cheer him up, and if he hadn’t been so shy they’d probably have been more than just friends by now. He fancied her the first time he set eyes on her, but that hadn’t lasted long. Once she’d actually spoken to him and they’d gotten to know each other, he had slowly but surely fallen in love with her.
But he couldn’t say anything to her.
If she didn’t feel the same way, he would have been devastated, so he’d decided they should just remain friends so he could avoid any heart breaking moments that might result in him losing his best friend.
He smiled – that sounded like a ‘No Doubt’ lyric.
“I don’t know if I could,” Jeffrey said.
Trish looked at him, a little confused, “Could what?” she asked.
Jeffrey smiled, “Dress like a teen prostitute,” he chuckled.
Trish jokingly punched Jeffrey on the arm, “Just get out there and wow them,” she told him, “and remember, if you do mess up, you get a second attempt later in the show tonight.”
Jeffrey nodded as the fire juggler curtsied to the judges and walked off stage, brushing passed Trish and Jeffrey.
“Good luck following that, losers,” the teen spat pretentiously, directing the comment at no one in particular. But Jeffrey felt like the comment had been fixed directly at him. After all, he was the next act.
“I can’t do this,” Jeffrey said, his lip trembling, “I’m too scared.”
“Of course you can do it,” Trish said, nudging Jeffrey towards the stage, “I have faith in you.”
Jeffrey looked Trish straight in the eye, something he found almost impossible with most people. Trish said nothing more; she simply nodded a little, which Jeffrey took as his sign to go on stage.
As he walked into the spotlight, wheeling his trolley filled with magic props, Jeffrey lifted a hand to shield his eyes. The light wasn’t particularly bright; it’s just that this was something he often did when he had to speak in public. By shielding his eyes slightly, he could block out a whole chunk of the audience and just look like he’d been dazzled a little. That way he might be able to trick his mind into thinking there were less people in the audience than there really were.
This trick was unlikely to work this time. Even with the top right hand corner of the audience blocked out, Jeffrey could still see nearly a thousand people in the audience. He swallowed nervously, or at least tried to, as he felt his throat closing up as his eyes settled on the four judges that sat at the front of the audience, nestled in among the cameras that were recording his every move. If he performed in a mediocre way, no-one would ever see this. If he was amazing, he’d go out on TV and everyone would cheer at his success.
But if he was awful...
Then everyone would see him in the opening shows, amongst all the terrible acts that inevitably made it into the first few weeks for everyone to laugh at.
“And what’s your name?” the lead judge, Ryman Powell, asked, eyeing Jeffrey’s prop trolley derisively. Jeffrey knew how notorious Powell could be, and he also knew he shouldn’t have brought props, but they were necessary for most of his act to work. You can’t make animals disappear if you haven’t got any animals to begin with
“J-Jeffrey,” Jeffrey managed to say quietly.
“And what’s your talent today, J-Jeffrey?” Powell asked, mocking Jeffrey’s stammer.
“The same as it was yesterday,” Jeffrey smiled, garnering a small laugh from the audience. That was good, he told himself, at least some of the audience found his lamest joke funny.
“I’m guessing you’re some sort of comedian,” Powell said.
“Actually I’m a magician,” Jeffrey nodded, feeling nervous again.
“Okay then,J-Jeffrey” Powell folded his arms across his tight t-shirt, “dazzle us!”
Jeffrey swallowed again, feeling like he’d just eaten a big bag of cotton wool, and picked up a small lizard from his trolley.
“What is that, a newt?” Powell asked.
Jeffrey started to panic. That was the wrong feed line. What he wanted was someone to ask if it was a lizard so he could say it was his pet tiny. The punch line was weak, but the trick would make up for it.
“This here is Tiny,” Jeffrey said loudly, “he’s my newt.”
Ryman Powell face-palmed himself. He actually face-palmed himself. Jeffrey knew that the whole my newt / minute joke was an old one, but no one had ever face-palmed themselves over it. Nervously Jeffrey carried on with the act.
“I will now make Tiny disappear,” he said, feeling more than a little self-conscious.
“That won’t take much,” Powell chuckled, and the audience joined in. Slowly, Jeffrey took Tiny the newt in his hand and closed his fingers around him. Then rotating his wrist he opened his hand again.
Tiny had vanished.
For all of a second the judges actually looked impressed, until Tiny crawled slowly out of Jeffrey’s sleeve.
“This is rubbish,” Powell shouted, “What else have you got?”
Jeffrey started to panic, feeling his bladder filling and loosening as he looked into the wings. Trish was stood there, egging him on enthusiastically, so he moved on to another trick.
And another.
And another.
Until eventually he had tried and failed all but one trick he had ever attempted.
“For my final trick,” Jeffrey began, clearing his throat, “I will levitate.”
Powell folded his arms, looking as if he actually wanted to see this trick be performed. He would have known if anything had been set up on stage before hand, and if there were any pulleys available to Jeffrey with which he could pull of some mind blowing levitation tricks.
There were none.
Jeffrey planted his feet firmly on the stage, looking up into the rafters, and began to levitate. Well, not exactly levitate – he was more standing on tip toes. Powell shook his head in disgust and gestured at Jeffrey in a shooing motion.
“Come back later when you’ve sorted out your act,” he said, “we’ll be going through the second chance round after 5pm if you’re actually interested in humiliating yourself again.”
Jeffrey’s shoulders slumped as he wheeled his trolley of props off the stage.
“That could have gone better,” Trish told him as he stopped the trolley next to her, “if you like I’ll try to help you out with some of the tricks that went wrong.”
“I don’t know,” Jeffrey sighed, “I’m starting to think that trying to do magic is nothing but a waste of time. I’m too terrified to manage any of my tricks in public, so I might as well just go home.”
Trish frowned at Jeffrey, “I know it’s scary out there,” she told him, “and I know how much this means to you.” She placed her hand on his shoulder, “But you have to try this, just one more time, to prove to yourself you can do it. I know you can do this. I have faith in you.”
Jeffrey smiled at Trish, whose eyes were twinkling in the reflected light from the stage. As he looked at her, she leaned forward and planted her lips on his.
The kiss seemed to Jeffrey to last for hours, though it was less than a minute, and when they finished Jeffrey gasped happily.
“Wow,” he beamed, “I wasn’t expecting that!”
Trish looked embarrassed, “I’ve never been sure if you liked me as more than just a friend,” she said, “but when I saw you standing there, looking so miserable, I just had to take a chance.”
Jeffrey chuckled, “Well, I’ve always liked you Trish,” he revealed, “I was just never sure if you liked me back, and I was too scared to make any sort of move. I didn’t want to lose you as a friend.”
“Maybe we could go somewhere after this,” Trish suggested, “you know, like on a proper date?”
Jeffrey smiled, “I’d like that,” he said.”
“Anyway, let’s go and practise these tricks of yours,” Trish said enthusiastically, “I want you to win this thing.”
Jeffrey frowned jokingly, “Don’t pressurise me,” he said, “you know I get nervous on stage.”
“Maybe you need a glamorous assistant to help you out. You know, to take some of the pressure off,” Trish suggested, taking Jeffrey’s hand.
Jeffrey squeezed her hand back, “Maybe,” he replied, “I think I’d like that.”
And so the two of them headed back to Jeffrey’s house to work on his tricks for the evening audition, and also to discuss their budding relationship and where they might go on their first date.
I suppose you’re wondering if Jeffrey got through to the next round of the talent contest.
Or if he won!
Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it?
That’s not what this story was about...
Originally Posted 11/5/2015
Result - Joint 4th Place
May 10, 2015
Poem : A Fear Of Clowns
Psychopathic clown
Doesn’t really care
He will strike you down
If you would so much as stare
At
His red nose, his crying eyes,
His daily painted on disguise,
His oversized overalls,
His squeaking horn and juggling balls
Psychopathic clown
He’ll commit a crime
He never seems to frown
As he screams out “It’s show time!”
He
Fires guns
Hurls a knife
Ending a bank tellers life
Escaping in a tiny car
The police search near and far
For
Psychopathic clown
He joined a fair
He’s coming to town
So you had better beware
His
Giant shoes, his pointed hat,
And don’t forget his flower that
Shoots water when you least surmise.
Don’t fall for any surprise
Of
Psychopathic clown
Originally Posted 10/5/2015
Result - 1st Place
Doesn’t really care
He will strike you down
If you would so much as stare
At
His red nose, his crying eyes,
His daily painted on disguise,
His oversized overalls,
His squeaking horn and juggling balls
Psychopathic clown
He’ll commit a crime
He never seems to frown
As he screams out “It’s show time!”
He
Fires guns
Hurls a knife
Ending a bank tellers life
Escaping in a tiny car
The police search near and far
For
Psychopathic clown
He joined a fair
He’s coming to town
So you had better beware
His
Giant shoes, his pointed hat,
And don’t forget his flower that
Shoots water when you least surmise.
Don’t fall for any surprise
Of
Psychopathic clown
Originally Posted 10/5/2015
Result - 1st Place
