Creative Book of 10 Best Short Stories Page 8

  “You know,” Paul said. His voice was like a worm in my ear. “If it’s a problem, I could probably still get a place in a hostel.”

  “No.” The word seemed to leave my mouth under its own will. Once spoken, it hung in the air before me. I felt the alternative fork in the road dissolve. I wasn’t walking away, I would see this through. “No. There’s no problem.”

  As I spoke I looked across the room at my large oak wardrobe. Inside, where they had been for months, I could picture what was there. The hammer, the knife with the eight inch blade. The plastic bin liners, fly spray and disinfectant.

  “It’s all settled.” My voice came from far away, like someone else was phoning in my part in this conversation and all I was doing was listening. “I want you to stay here until we get you sorted out.”

  “I’m so grateful,” Paul said. “You’ve done so much for me already. I don’t know how I can ever pay you back.”

  “No need.” My voice sounded like the unfolding of an ancient parchment. My gaze moved from the wardrobe to the wall above my bed. There was a cork board there, crowded with yellowed newspaper cuttings about Paul’s case.

  “You won’t regret it,” Paul said. “I won’t let you down. I’m really going to start paying something back.”

  Finally my eyes moved on, as they always do, to the three photographs by my bed. One showed me holding my youngest daughter when she was a baby, holding her cradled in one arm while her older sister stood beside me, her hand in mine. The other two shots were of the two of them when they were grown. They both stared out of the pictures with the fearlessness of youth, young women with everything ahead of them.

  “I’m just glad to get the chance to do what I can,” I said. I turned away from the photographs but I could feel Ellie and Sandra’s eyes on my back as I spoke.

  “To help you move on,” I said. “Someone needs to do it.”

  Behind me, my daughters smiled.

  The King's Speech

  Steve Wilson

  The King’s Speech

  “I don’t know why I bother listening to you, Sharon Docherty, you talk rubbish. He’s never been to Britain and he’s never going to come here, I just know it.”

  “Yes he is, Brenda, he’s coming tonight. And I did see him before. He was in a car with Tommy Steele near Buckingham Palace. ”

  “I don’t believe you. You just want to make yourself seem important. More fool me for agreeing to come with you. We’re bound to get detention at least from Miss Watkins – she won’t care why we’ve played truant, she hates his music anyway. And it will all be for nothing. ”

  “No it won’t. I promise you, he’ll be there, and we’ll be there to see the return of the king.”

  The girls were fourth formers at the Notre Dame Catholic School in Cobham. Neither of them had been in trouble before, but when Sharon had received the letter from her brother in Friedberg, they both realised there might never be another opportunity like this; it was worth risking Miss Watkins’ wrath. They had caught the early train from Euston to Glasgow and were now steaming through the countryside on the coastal route through Ayrshire.

  Sharon fidgeted nervously; the train had been delayed, and it was getting close to five pm. She wasn’t sure what time his plane was due to land, but she knew it wouldn’t be too late, as it was only stopping to refuel before taking off for America later that evening. If they were going to get a good viewing spot, they would have to rush to cover the five or so miles from the railway station to Prestwick airport.

  It was dark by the time they reached the airport, and cold; although spring was only a few weeks off, winter seemed intent on making one last attempt to chill the girls through their thin coats. At least there was no longer any doubt in Brenda’s mind about the veracity of Sharon's story; hundreds of screaming teenage girls were packed, dozens deep, against the hastily-erected barricades. He was coming, but would they be able to see him through such a crowd?

  “I can’t see a thing,” said Sharon, “I wish we were taller.”

  “We could do with one of those lanterns we saw at the Chinese New Year celebrations a couple of weeks ago. Isn’t the red one supposed to be for growth?”

  “Red? No, that stands for good fortune. We’ll need that tomorrow with Miss Watkins. I think you mean the green lantern, that’s the growth one.”

  “Yes, I remember now, it was light green like the shoots in the garden.”

  “It doesn’t matter what colour it was, nothing is going to make us grow in time to see him when he lands.”

  The high-pitched screaming intensified, and the reason was immediately obvious; high in the sky, but coming closer every second, bright lights indicated the arrival of the flight from Germany.

  “Come on,” said Sharon, “we didn’t come this far not to see him. Let’s find another way.” Brenda followed, whilst repeatedly looking back over her shoulder with misgiving in her heart as each step took them further away from the throng of teenage girls. “Here,” said Sharon, “try this path.” They crept along a grassy track for a few minutes until they found themselves up against barricades – but with horror Brenda realised they were at another set, way over to the left of the main ones. It was too late to go back, as the plane had landed and a few of the GIs were beginning to embark.

  “He’ll have gone by the time we get back there,” spat Brenda, “why did you make me come all this way for nothing?”

  But Sharon was trying too hard to prevent the tears from flowing to respond. The girls watched as one of the soldiers shook hands with some of the teenagers in the crowd, posed for pictures and signed autographs. “That should have been us,” she whispered in a voice too low for even Brenda to notice. She saw him turn to an officer and say something, but he was too far away for her to hear him, even without the constant screaming from the young fans.

  The party of soldiers then walked away from the crowd, and Brenda tugged Sharon’s arm. “Come on,” she said, “I’m cold. And I don’t really blame you. I did get to see him, even though it was from a hundred yards away.”

  Sharon was about to leave, when she suddenly pulled Brenda back. “Look,” she said, “they’re coming this way.” The soldiers walked over to where they were waiting, and a car drove up alongside the barricades. The lead soldier was about to get into the car when he saw the two open-mouthed girls. He walked towards them and said, in his Tennessee drawl, “How’d you get from there to here so quick?”

  Sharon was struck dumb; he was talking to her, but her mouth wouldn’t work. But just as he started to turn to leave, she heard Brenda’s voice saving the situation. “We weren’t there, Sergeant Presley sir. I mean, we were, but we were too far back, so we ran round here, but then we found we were too far away, and we could hardly see, and we were just going to leave, and then you came over, and Sharon said we should wait, and I’m Brenda, and I’ve always wanted to meet you, and, and…”

  Elvis laughed, “Whoa, slow down a minute. Well, ah think ah understand all that. You sure are lucky, then, this is the car taking me to meet my buddies in the NCO club. You can take my picture if you like.”

  “We haven’t got a camera,” said Sharon, her muteness now at an end.

  “Okay, well, ah’ve got to go now, it’s been nice meeting you, ladies.” He chomped once more on his gum and turned to leave.

  “Can you take you hat off,” babbled Brenda, “I mean so we can see you a bit more clearly and, well, you know…”

  “Ah’m real sorry I cain’t take it off, it kinda breaks the uniform if you know what I mean.”

  “What are you going to do when you’re back home?” asked Sharon, saying the first thing that came to mind in a desperate attempt to keep him talking.

  “Well, first ah’ll get my feet up and have me a rest. Then ah’m booked to do a television show from Hollywood with Frank Sinatra.”

  “Are you ever going to sing over here?” asked Brenda.

  “Ah kind of like the idea of Scotland. Ah’m going to
do a European tour and Scotland will certainly be on my list. But ah’ve really got to go now. Here, ah’ve got something for you, till ah come back again.” And Elvis took a photograph from an inside pocket, and wrote on it, “To Sharon and Brenda, Stuck on You, Elvis. Scotland, March 2nd 1960.” He handed the signed picture to Brenda, saying “Get on home now girls, it’s getting late,” and then he was in the car and out of sight.

  They stood there for several more minutes, watching as the car pulled away. Several other teenage girls reached their spot, but there was nothing for them to see, and they left, disappointed. Eventually, Sharon and Brenda left too, unable to wipe the silly grins from their faces. It was a few minutes before Sharon broke the silence. “See, I told you we’d get to see him, didn’t I Brenda?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. That was better even than hearing him sing.”

  “I know. We’ll never ever see anybody like him over here. We only have people like Pearl Carr and that Johnstone bloke, Them who sang Sing Little Birdie Sing at last year’s Eurovision Song Contest.”

  “Yeah, I know who you mean. Whatever happened to Teddy Johnson? He’s the sort mum listens to. So dull. Why can’t our singers be more like the Americans.”

  “Hey, this is the Chinese Year of the Rat, isn’t it? You’ve heard of that rat pack in America, haven’t you Brenda? You know, it had Humphrey Bogart at first, and Frank Sinatra, people like that? It was mainly film stars, but there was Judy Garland too. Perhaps as it’s their year The Rat Pack might come over here and perform?”

  “Sinatra’s not Elvis, though, is he? Love and marriage? And anyway, who’d want to watch a group called The Rat Pack?” asked Brenda, scornfully.

  “You’re probably right, Brenda” laughed Sharon, “and it could be worse than that even. What if they named a group after an insect? Imagine, The Earwigs or The Beetles. Ugghhh. Nobody would ever buy any of their records?” And laughing, the girls ran back towards the railway station, no longer concerned about the problems they might face at school the next day; whatever happened, it had been worth it.

  BIOGRAPHICAL STATEMENTS

  BIOGRAPHICAL STATEMENT

  ALICE SLATER

  Alice Slater was born in Sheffield in 1986, although her family relocated to London before she was old enough to fully embrace life in the North. At the age of six or seven, she discovered a flair for writing stories, which – aside from a questionable but somewhat obligatory period of angst-ridden poetry in her teens – has remained her primary creative outlet ever since.

  At twenty, she moved from London to Crewe to study creative writing at MMU Cheshire, where she graduated with a first class degree. At twenty-four, she was accepted onto the prestigious creative writing MA at the University of East Anglia, where she studied under novelists Henry Sutton and Giles Foden. There, she met some wonderful friends and inspirational writers, and finished the year with a distinction.

  Her short stories have appeared in an array of zines, e-zines and anthologies, including 6x6, Muse, No. 1 Fake and Pank online, as well as having work read on Insanity Radio, London. She has had work short-listed for several creative writing prizes, including the Bridport Prize and The Fine Line Short Story competition, was long-listed for the Lightship International Prize and highly commended by Fleeting: The Best Short Writing in the World.

  Alice also writes music reviews for A Negative Narrative and DrunkenWerewolf, although her crowning achievement to date is her toilet graffiti blog:

  http://butthenfeminismhappened.blogspot.com. She is currently completing her first novel, tentatively titled ‘In the Frame’. It’s a tale of missing persons set in the railway town of Crewe.

  In her spare time, she enjoys lomography, travel, folk music, ghost stories and watching roller derby.

  BIOGRAPHICAL STATEMENT

  DAAN SPIJER

  Daan Spijer used to work for a living, most often as a self-employed professional. He has worked as a social advocacy lawyer, social worker, masseur, psychotherapist, computer programmer and as CEO of a medical college. His sixteen years at the college saw him editing its quarterly journal and writing for it. This allowed him to hone his skills in technical writing and editing. He now tells the world that he is a full-time writer and finances this conceit by selling his services as a business consultant.

  Daan has been writing for more than fifty-five years. He started with letters to his grandparents, in Dutch, from his new home in Australia, where he migrated as a seven-year-old. At high school he wrote for and edited an astronomy newsletter and at university he wrote and photographed for the student rag. Photography is still an important part of his life.

  As a teen, Daan wrote copious doggerel. Later, while traveling for three-and-a-half years in his late twenties, wrote a string of letters back home; these amount to a decent travelogue and he may one day do something with them to this end. As part of these travels, Daan lived and worked in London for more than two years. While there, he delved into therapy and filled more than ten journals with personal discoveries and observations – another possible source of publishable material.

  Daan now writes short stories, verse, plays (some of which have been performed) and creative and philosophical non-fiction. He has been entering and doing well in writing competitions for more than six years and has had numerous stories, poems and essays published in literary journals and anthologies. His non-fiction tends towards an exploration of social and environmental issues and he exhorts readers to think more critically and honestly.

  Although he does not see himself as a John Mortimer, he envisages ‘The Wisdom of Fools’ as the opening chapter of a novel about its esoteric magistrate. He has also been advised that material he has already written about Robert Dewcliff could form the basis of a comic television series.

  Daan has completed an early-teen novel (which he is still hawking around publishers) and is well on the way with another for older teens. He still finds time to edit novels for other writers (and gets paid for it) and is ghost-writing a book for a doctor who has an unusual practice. Also on his virtual desk is the beginning of a full-length play about dying, family dynamics and the over-medicalization of natural life events.

  In the gaps in all this busyness Daan enjoys life with his wife, Sally, her two grown-up children and their cat and two dogs. They live on the semi-rural Mornington Peninsula, south of Melbourne (Australia, not Florida). On long walks with the dogs there is ample opportunity to point his camera at interesting subjects. Sally, contrary to perceived wisdom, is an excellent and fearless critic of his writing, as is his grown-up son.

  Daan blogs at www.thinking-allowed.com.au

  BIOGRAPHICAL STATEMENT

  GRACE RICHARDSON

  Grace Richardson was born in 1986 and brought up in the city of Sunderland before moving to rural Northumberland at the age of 9. She is a graduate of Sunderland University holding an MA in English Literature. Her studies lead her to be an avid reader and researcher of literature and literary genres covering history to horror, and has also inspired a passion for film.

  She has the ambition to be a successful writer, continuously influenced by favourite works of fiction and her rural surroundings.

  BIOGRAPHICAL STATEMENT

  JEANNE DAVIES

  I live with my husband in West Sussex and we have four daughters and a son. We live in a small village in the shadow of the South Downs and are fortunate to have beautiful countryside on our doorstep.

  As a child, I directed my own plays in the back garden using Mother’s washing sheets as curtains for a make-shift stage. My friends played a myriad of parts and were rewarded with coins from neighbourhood children who had been enticed to come and watch. Later being described as a good organiser, I was a bossy child and my time was spent backstage giving instructions through a piece of rolled-up cardboard.

  School reports remarked “what a vivid imagination (shame about the spelling!).” At the age of 10, I was interrogated in the headmistress’s office abo
ut a poem I’d written at school about snow. She wanted to know why I’d used phrases such as ‘hovering over the open ground’ and ‘the snow had turned to bewitched glass.’ It was published in the local newspaper and very embarrassingly read out to the whole school.

  Mother had a great love of books and even at 85 she was borrowing in the region of 14 novels a month from the local library, until she died suddenly last year. Her sister is a published author who has given me encouragement throughout the years. I eventually gave up reading horror stories after watching the Exorcist at the cinema and spending the next six months (much to my father’s despair), in the parental bed!

  My parents persuaded me to go to secretarial college which gave me a lucrative career as a frustrated writer, composing letters and meeting notes for others. After our first child was born, I joined my husband in his business designing and manufacturing jewellery and we had many wonderful years employing over thirty staff (lots of stories still to be written about them!), whilst raising a large family in office playpens and the factory garden. I started to write fiction again 5 years ago as things got easier with the children.