Short Stories to Entertain

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 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.   Thursday 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 forty-three seconds is recor...

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 mu ch indeed. Just how much though. That’s the question. Every Wednesday i s 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 Tu esday about three years ago he had said “is it possible we can have something different on a Wednesday ? I feel like a change.” On Wednesday there was no meatloaf. On Thursda y a nd every Thursday after that he had meatloaf. She wanted him to have meatloaf because she thought it was his favourite . He ate it all. And still does. That is how much he loves his wife.          Danny set about his Sunday ...

There are the geniuses. Albert Einstein is 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 prevented mortal blows. At Waterloo, his grandfather five generations back took a step forward and steadied the line as the French advanced. Heroes. His hist ory is littered with heroes.   Cuthbert is 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 glamorous smile that makes hi...

The kettle boiled, the tea was 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 are 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 bookkeeper. No sign of his past good looks. Working with figures in a badly lit room, hunched over reams of paper, had been 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. Starting a...