Category Archives: Short Story

Green Fingers

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Happy Birthday Sally

Green Fingers.  100 Word Wednesday.

I ordered a vegetarian pizza with personality and was impressed with its photo-fit likeness of Sally. I fell over laughing. She stormed off taking the jeep. I begged her to return, but she cleared out my account and left to live up north with Hashish Bob. I counted myself lucky, it was a stolen jeep, and scammed account, but still I miss her, those pearly white dentures, large doe like eyes and her envious warm nature. Occasionally, I would find curly green fibres in my bed and I’d cry. Without her magical green fingers my life has gone to waste.

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Short Story – New Appliance

New Appliance

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ArtsyBee from pixabay.com

Mary finished cleaning the kitchen sink and she gazed out of the window at the dull dark clouds. Rain was on the way and everything seemed miserable as if her whole world had a screw loose, and she wasn’t sure how to fix it.

The fridge motor switched on and interrupted her day dreaming, its humming sound took on a rhythmic beat of da daa . . .  dum dum and she imagined herself in a Viennese Waltz cavorting with a tall Austrian Hussar and so she twirled and turned across the floor.

The hoover in the corner perked up. ‘May I have the pleasure?’ said Mr Dyson.

‘Delighted,’ said Mary and curtsied. She took the hoover by the handle, and they swept around the kitchen dancing to the music.

The sound of the fridge rumbled on as rain washed against the windows sounding like soft violins, the slow-cooker gurgled in delight and the kettle whistled as a flute. The washing machine shuddered out the bass of beating drums and the Dolce Gusto joined in with a whoosh, whoosh, sending aromatic plumes of percolating coffee into the air.

Mary skipped and spun, swinging on the arm of her handsome Mr Dyson as she moved around her tiny ballroom. From the clock, a cuckoo sprang out and trumpeted like a hunting horn as the timer on the oven played an allegro bleeping in consonance with the kitchen orchestra.

The house front door slammed. The music stopped. Mary dropped the hoover into the cupboard under the stairs, it groaned. She walked into the hall.

“I am shattered,” her husband said, “I’m completely worn out.” He gave her a gentle peck on the cheek and slouched into the living room where he slumped onto the sofa.

‘Did I hear our white goods singing?”

“No,” said Mary shaking her head, “besides that’s racist.”

“What!” he said.

“They are not white goods.” Mary undid his jacket.

“I’m too run down to argue.” He kicked off his shoes and laid back.

“We refer to them as appliances these days,” she said. She reached into his trousers’ pocket and pulled out a long flexi-cord that she then plugged into a battery recharging pack and switched it on.

“Ah . . . that’s better,” he said and closed his eyes.

Mary returned to the kitchen and made a call on her mobile.

A loud voice answered. “Mr Wong’s Magical Electrical Emporium, what can I do for you?”

“Mr Wong, it’s Mary.”

All the appliances in the kitchen gave a short gasp, the Dolce Gusto hissed, the hoover peeked out from the cupboard.

“Yes Mary, you need a replacement.”

“Sort of Mr Wong, do you have any Hussars?”

All the appliances gave out an expressive sigh, they were safe, she wasn’t disposing of them.

“You need a new man . . . why not repair the one you have?”

“Mr Wong, my husband is clapped out, worn out and completely flat.”

“We can fit a new battery.”

“It’s no use, he has lost all his energy. I need one with spark, style and stamina.”

“Okay, Mrs Mary I will bring a new one tomorrow, anything else.”

“Yes, there is a screw in my head that rattles and seems to be very loose.”

“Oh dear,” said Mr Wong, “sounds very bad, an emergency.”

“It is, an emergency. Oh, it really is, Mr Wong.”

“I will come very immediately,” Mr Wong laughed. “I bring new parts . . .  again.”

Mary put her mobile down, she grinned. There was always something special about the way Mr Wong fiddled with her parts. He was gentle and made her feel so invigorated that her whole world no longer felt so miserable.

Marie – Short Story

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Photo – Kirkandmimi – pixabay.com

Marie’s father has vowed to kill Carl if he ever returns to Italy, but after twenty years will his love for Marie prevail.

Read the short story – Marie

 

Head in the Sand

100 Word Wednesday – week 29

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Head in the Sand.

(DARK CONTENT WARNING)

Josh liked it that way, in the dark – laptop on his knees.
He typed his reply.
[yea it looks good}
[are you coming]
{No}
[Oh Josh – there’s no one near us. Come on]
{so!!}
[just us – warm sand and sea – we have a wind breaker, no one will see you]
{Yea heard that before}
[Don’t Josh, we love you]
.
.
[Josh, we are coming to get you]
{no don’t come round my Ma will kill me}
{we’re coming}
.
.
Josh checked his pile of candy bars – his hockey stick.
He pulled the AK47 from under his bed, it was loaded -safety off.
.
.
The knocking on the cellar door started.
“Josh! your friends are here.”
Ma is going to kill him.
“Come on Josh! I know you are in there.” she banged harder. “You can’t bury your head in the sand all your life.”
He pointed the barrel of the AK47 at the door.
What life?

The Doctor

The Doctor

100 Word Wednesday – Week 28

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Image by Bikurgurl

Holmes was immortal, and distraught as he felt like an inanimate antique hoarded by an impulsive collector. He was in a delirious mood and was not making sense in his drug induce daze, mumbling about eternal regeneration and the beginning with no end to an infinitive universe.
“Quick, bring some hot chicken broth,” I called to Mrs Hudson.
Holmes leapt to his feet and sprinted from the room.
’Too late,’ I shouted. Running after him, I caught up and found him in a curiosity shop.
“Watson, we are but dusty relics,” said Holmes, and he blew dark smoke from his obnoxious weed across my face.
“I wish you’d refrain.” I coughed. “Why are we here? Pottery?”
“Why does the Doctor need this stoneware from Old Kent Road?”
“A gift or perhaps an inheritance?”
“Yes, his nostalgia for all things London.”
These days, I was at my wits end with Holmes as he had become obsessed, and I often recoiled from his constant rages, madness and frustrations. He was determined to uncover the identity of the Time Lord, the imposter.
“What does this collection tell you Watson?’
“He is having guests for tea.”
“No Watson, can’t you see his next location is surely eighteen hundreds mid-west.”
“Oh, I like the flowers, a nice feminine touch.”
“Damn Watson! It is a woman!”
“About time.” I chuckled, and couldn’t imagine Holmes with a wife.
“No, no, no.” Holmes fell to his knees. “I’m now searching for an elusive woman.”
I put my hand on his shoulder to console the poor chap. I smiled.

Reader Expectations.

I am aware that all readers have their own tastes and expectations when they choose a book. Many are die hard fans of their chosen genre and will consume every variation of their vampire sagas, romantic encounters or else stories about the flawed detective in police procedurals and crime novels. Readers know what they like and what they want!

Do we write to please the reader or please ourselves?  It is almost like two different planets of the universe. Those who write to please the reader live in big houses, while those who write to please themselves are on welfare – I believe – or else have a day job.

Book review:Case of the Mahjong Dragon

The latest review on my collection of Russell Holmes stories has made me consider some awkward realisations about my book.

Have I misled or deceived the readers’ expectations?

By using the name Holmes and having a similar collection of characters, albeit the stories are set in Glasgow rather than London, have I unwittingly sullied the genre? The POV is that of the lead character and the idea is similar in style to Sir Author Conan Doyle’s most famous private detective Sherlock Holmes. However, I did not adhere to the strict code of the true pastiche and have unintentionally varied the imitation such to confuse readers, who may have expected a firm Sherlock Holmes story, by creating conflicting images in their minds.

Perhaps publishing my take on a Victorian detective, I have inadvertently fell into a trap set by Moriarty and dipped my toes in an acidic bath of offence towards all true Holmes fans. But then again for all ‘you’ know I just might have accepted Moriarty’s challenge to subvert all who live in 221B.

I note however the world of films have their own unwritten rules: that is just do what sells.

In all honestly I am grateful to the reviewer for their honest opinion and the fact they have taken the trouble to read my book and I am sure secretly enjoyed it.

Is She my Type?

Blind Date.

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Street Art in Glasgow, Scotland

They said she’s nice, so don’t be late
You’ll recognise her beautiful smile
And she’ll be wearing the latest Prada style
My nervous excitement, on a blind date

I saw her, gorgeous, laughing at the bar
Dressed in fashionable hugging stripes
Enchanting, attracting extroverted types
Like a prowling stag, ready armed for war

There is something about the fading light
That brings out an instinct in my mind
A sort of sublime emotional mating kind
That drives survival, but perhaps not tonight.

 

 

Alice Wants Home

Alice Wants Home – Three Line Tales

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photo by Fleur Treurniet via Unsplash

‘Only the Unicorn knows your way home,’ the owl screeched. ‘Which way, which way, which way.’ It glided into the dark.
‘Wait!’ shouted Alice. Alone she looked around. No entry, one way street going both ways. A window in the yard.
She stamped her foot and wept. Could she really climb the drain pipe? But she must to find the Unicorn.

Three Line Tales – Great Expectations

Three Line Tales -Great Expectations.

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Photo by Annie Sprat via Unsplash

Just another large gin to steady the nerves, must be presentable; you understand.
I hope they bring a red and some Jack Daniels or better, a Glenmorangie.
Food! Too late they are here. Why the white coats? What have I done?

Book Week Scotland -Simply Read Too

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I had a book and CD launch today with the completion of my project for Book Week Scotland.

The book contains the transcripts of a collection of poetry and short stories written by Lanark Writers, which I published. The recordings on the Audio CD, which are the authentic voices of the authors, were arranged by the gentleman on the left, Mr Boom. He also composed the music and did the sound engineering. The result is a professionally finished piece of entertainment. Mr Boom is a TV entertainer as well as a sound recorder for local music groups and bands.

Here is an example of one of the poems; Villanelle for an Ancient Lover by Edith Ryan.

 

How did this lover get to be so old?

Who once was young and in his prime

In whom the fire of the love has not gone cold.

This ardent mate with passion bold

Whose days were full of summertime,

How did this lover get to be so old?

A lover with a heart of beaten gold,

Now slower, all he needs is time

In whom the fire of love has not gone cold.

Life’s race is run, perhaps life’s story told

In fireside tale or ballad rhyme

How did this lover get to be so old?

I thought that he had split the mould

Eternal youth, an ardour so sublime

In whom the fire of love has not gone cold.

Time’s etched his face with line and fold

And on his hair there’s frosty rime.

How did this lover get to be so old?

In whom the fire of love has not gone cold.

*****

Simply Read Too in Other Writings