Short Stories to Entertain

“Hi there matey, you new here?” “Yup, arrived yesterday. See that big lump of mountain over there, somewhere on it there’s a rope that’s snapped. That’s mine. The ends are probably all frayed and flapping in the wind. I went down two hundred metres and landed on my head on an ice covered rock where all that lovely soft snow had blown off. Each side there was a deep snow hole. It probably would have made no difference though. Name’s Ernie, Ernest Edwards, from Newcastle.” “Burt from London. Nice to meet you.” “Likewise Burt. So what happened to you then?” “The winding road going up to your big Mountain, it’s very steep with incredibly sharp bends. I was going too fast in a low cloudy, rainy, fog, couldn't slow down and went straight off the edge. Stupid really, I only had to wait for an hour or so, but no, impatience is my middle name… just could not wait. Mont Blanc, that’s what it’s called, isn't it?”  “That’s the fella, yes, Mont Blanc, the easiest climb or so I was told. Whe...

       Tommy Frink, that was his given name. His father, Edward Frink, an alcoholic, inveterate gambler and swindler, with the capacity to psychologically maim all around him, particularly those close to him. Tommy’s mother for instance. The sweetest creature ever to walk along Poplar High Street in the East End of London, that area historically perceived as notorious and synonymous with violent crime. With a graceful, elegant entrance she could captivate the entire audience of the local pub. Margaret Wlison, known as Maisie, loved by all and envied by many. He ruined her. Wooed her with flowery words and promises of endless riches. That was his way, a silver tongue and ability to deceive, his natural charm and good looks seducing many a victim. Maisie fell under his spell at eighteen, was pregnant by nineteen and married out of duty. That was the word, although all who knew Maisie’s father, Billy, a tall, strong, well respected enforcer, thought differently. ...

The telephone on the reception desk was ringing. It had a stuttering ring, reluctant, as though it had better things to do than alert an attentive listener. Mr Benton was attentive, he had to be, it was his business after all. But just at that moment he chose to ignore it. Unlike him it was true but today he was feeling melancholy. Recently memories had been catching up with him. Instead he was concentrating on morning coffee and his usual two Bourbon biscuits. The ringing stopped abruptly and he stopped just as abruptly. Caught by a sudden recall, his expression forlorn, he instantly regretted his laxity. He was known as Benton to everyone other than his residents, having long ago dispensed with his given name as an inconvenience that over complicated his work. The small hotel close to the beach had been his escape twenty years ago, when his employers had retired him following the misadventure in Berlin before the wall came down. The interesting nature of the building had attracted hi...