Short Stories to Entertain

A Cup of Tea and The Well As usual on a Thursday Stuart Maloney is being difficult. That is his nature. Just a bloody difficult bastard. Everyone he knows says so. That is everyone who knows him says so. There is a subtle difference. Some would prefer not to know him. In fact everyone would prefer it. If something is so very blatantly red he would demand an apology if you even mildly asserted it is red when he had pronounced it is orange. That is how difficult he is. Always. Thursdays is cleaning day. Mrs Elsie Mop, yes that is her real name, arrives normally at nine o’clock after dropping her two kids at school. Except today it is ten past nine. She had received a call from Mrs Maloney, Ruth, that if she wanted cream milk for her tea to buy some as only fully skimmed was at home. A bad start is not good but a very bad start in these circumstances is simply the epitome of worst. Ten minutes falls into the worst category. Adds fuel to an already troubled soul. Ten minutes and fo

This and the post about Paul Dubois are extracts from a longer work “The Recreational Bandits”. To read go to new and click on the link. A Puff of Smoke and Leather Brogues Detective sergeant Micky Jones forty and a tall, well built rough diamond capable of real damage if pushed to it. One of those well used faces. A rough chin. Short dark hair and eyes that drill right through. Nose that had seen the wrong side of a fist a few too many times. Had a too much booze and not enough sleep look that was deceptive. He was all there, always. Right on the ball. One of the best right hand men in the business. Micky is out and about poking in all the corners, touching nerves, applying pressure. It is his job, he is good at it and he likes it. The street work. Mixing it with the villains and the scum that follow them about. He is upsetting people, turning the screw, renewing enemies animosity. Making sure they know he’s on the prowl. He turns the corner of a dirty backstreet around the b

The Photograph, Lemon and a Piece of Cake Sitting on the crapper on Sunday morning after his breakfast of muesli, toast and hot, black coffee Danny suddenly realised that he has never discussed with himself exactly how much he loves his wife . He knows he loves her very much. In fact he is able to suggest that he loves her very much indeed. Just how much though. That's the question. Every Wednesday is meatloaf day. It has been over the thirty years they have been married. The problem. He hates her meatloaf. She puts pickle in it. But he never complains. Eats it all. Then one Tuesday about three years ago he said “is it possible we can have something different on a Wednesday. I feel like a change.” On Wednesday there was no meatloaf. But on Thursday he had meatloaf. She wanted him to have meatloaf because she perceived it was his favourite. He ate it all. And still does. That is how much he loves his wife. He finished and set about his Sunday routine. He cleaned the house the

The Sports Car and the White Line There are the geniuses. Albert Einstein the best example. There are people of immense ability. Inventors perhaps. There are thinkers. All those ancient Greek bods with their philosophical nonsense. And then of course there is Cuthbert Montgomery Reginald Carruthers the last in the line of famous Carruthers stretching back over many centuries. His ancestors have stood next to kings. Their swords preventing mortal blows. At Waterloo his grandfather five generations back took a step forward and steadied the faltering line as the French advanced. Heroes. His history is littered with heroes. Cuthbert known as Monte to all his friends. Thirty six. Extraordinarily good looking. Perfectly groomed blond hair of a length to sway romantically in the breeze but not get tangled or flap around his eyes. Those eyes. The most vibrant steely blue set within the immensely strong features of his face. Nose slightly Roman but perfectly proportioned to compliment the

The Fur Coat and the Lift The kettle boiled, the tea is made and the shout went up. “Tea’s ready.” Phillip came into the kitchen in his usual way. The slapping of loose slippers on the solid wooden floor. The same slippers that he has worn for over twenty years. Soiled, frayed and leather soles no better than ice skate blades. He walks with his toes curled up. A habit engineered over the years that prevented a landing on his backside. He is at least fifty. Maybe at least sixty. Difficult to tell really. No glasses but the squinty slightly watering eyes of a book keeper. No sign of his past good looks. Working with figures in a badly lit room, hunched over reams of paper had put paid to them long ago. Just the thought of fresh air affected his metabolism. A cold sweat. Today he is wearing the same brown trousers and white creased shirt but with a bright yellow short sleeved pullover. The only concession to his drab existence. A sleeveless pullover. Seven colours, seven pullovers.

Newspaper and Park Bench George picks up the newspaper discarded by a previous occupant and sits down. It is damp but it has  not rained so he assumed it is the dew. It is four days old. He swept his long dark hair back from his eyes. They are dark, very dark brown and kind of sad. Had a strained look with an appearance of some small recent weight loss. A hint of some inner turmoil. Although at nine in the morning it was chilly he is wearing just a shirt, grey trousers and brown slip on shoes. Momentarily he looks up at the sound of the distant Labrador barking as it chased the ball thrown overarm. Opened the paper at a random page and started reading the article on the top left hand corner. There is a large bruise to the left hand side of his face yellowing as it heals. Maybe five days old. The bench is at the top of a small hill giving panoramic views of the park. Again he brushes back his hair lifts his vision from the paper and takes in the view with a sweeping glance that l

Paul Dubois fails to be a Car Thief Brian Morris, twenty six and has firmly settled with being a bit on the stupid side. A petty villain who also calls himself Paul Dubois. “Has a nice effect on women," he will say, which might be true of course. Certainly better than Brian Morris. He goes round nicking stuff mostly at random, whatever crops up. Sells it where he can, usually for not a lot. Not bad looking he is at least tidy and clean. Always dresses reasonable, in trousers, never jeans, thinks trousers are smart. Jeans are for cowboys. On their horses. His clothes pretty dull, does not like to be obvious. “Blending in” is the term he uses. Lives in a bedsit just around the corner from the Multi Storey Car Park with a frightening landlady who would scare the pants of Michael Myers, who drives him bonkers, makes him kippers each morning which he throws out the window. Hates kippers, has told her a million times but still they appear on the tray outside his door. The sharp rapp