Short Stories to Entertain

George sat at his kitchen table sipping black coffee looking through the window towards the dusty play area in front of the road. Smiling was what he should be doing but he had a distressing suspicion preventing the smile from getting any purchase. The dark-skinned girl sitting on his fence, on her own, took no part. He could see she was just sitting silently suffering. He thought about it but actually knew it was futile to intervene so stood, put the cup in the sink, took one last look then wandered to his study to continue writing what would be his greatest work, unaware that without even the need to intercede, he was in fact, the catalyst to the girl’s salvation.     The fence swayed gently in time with Lucy, rocking back and forth as she sat on the low post joining two sets of two runners, just watching. The huge guard dog behind her growled and snarled, spluttered and coughed at the same time. A long chain clipped to its choke-chain collar tightened as he tugged and ...

  Responding to requests for a TEASER this is chapter 1 of LAUNDRY WARS IN DESENZANO. The book will be available EARLY IN THE NEW YEAR. Details will be posted. It was ten-fifty Monday morning, at least that’s what Emily Ellis’s watch told her as she curled back the cuff of her cream blouse. The six-forty-three express from Desenzano rattled and rocked through a multitude of point changes as it passed endless rows of houses and warehouses finally approaching Roma Termini platform twenty-one. The express was twenty-five minutes late, but of course that didn't matter, the important thing was that she had escaped, so far without any consequences, other than the fact that most of her possessions were still enjoying the view across Lake Garda. She snatched a glance at the sour-face sitting next to her. Emily was not normally a spiteful person but that bitch; she was sure her ankle would suffer for days.

She was upstairs when the telephone rang but she had no problem hearing it. The polished wood flooring of the hallway and lack of soft furnishings created a hard space where the loud bell could echo and resonate throughout the house. Sitting on the bed she inspected her nails. One last swipe with the emery board, the scraping she knew scratched at his nerves which was why she was doing it now, to avoid a later minor skirmish. She saved the doing of it in his presence for when she wanted to make a point, to emphasize an issue, to de liberately get under his skin. She did not rush to answer the call. She was not that sort of person and rarely rushed to do anything. Slowly she put the nail file on the bedside table deliberately placing it where she had asked for a phone to be installed just to remind her how ludicrous it was to deny such a simple and necessary luxury.

  The pipes banged at exactly six-thirty. A resonating thumping that carried through the whole building e very morning the same without fail. It was the cook turning on the cold water to fill the egg poaching pans at the same time as Mrs Gloria Dubonnet stood, pulled up her very ample knickers and flushed the loo in her small flat immediately above the kitchen. The vibrating row persisting until the cistern replenishment was complete. Then resuming as the many guests trotted in their pre-agreed order to the three bathrooms, one on each floor. Each turn of a tap or flush of a loo starting a kind of harmonic organ-like arrangement the sort that might be heard in a very contemporary recital . 

  I had been feeling melancholy for the last few days and was dreamily watching the rain lashing against the window thinking about how life could be such a bitch. Stuff was going down everywhere. Cards cloned and finances flushed down the old crapper. My boss giving me a cardboard box to fill and a cheque for six months' pay without too much explanation. Paddling in the freezer puddle and chucking out rotting food. And the boys? Well, the boys, need I say more. Loud and rushing about. Then the car. What a pile of old rusted junk. I was just thinking how pleasant it would be to be free of all this, to have a life of carefree abandon. Then, after a short spell of silent contemplation, with a shrug of resignation, I abandoned my thoughts in exchange for the sanctuary of my bed.

“So, you’re telling me the fella just fell over in the street. Just like that. No push. No shove. He just simply landed on his face.” This was the policeman talking standing next to the open door of his patrol car. The open door that hung over the pavement. That he was leaning on while he talked to the man.

What would the world have done without cherries? That first bite. That immediate hint of things to come. That’s the thing, isn’t it, the exhilaration of the first bite of anything. The way the mind unscrambles, races to understand what is happening. The outpouring of emotion or the realisation that things just might be about to change. But that bite of the cherry goes hand in hand with taking the plunge. It’s so hard to achieve the first without embracing the second.    Take starting a relationship. Someone attracts you. What’s the immediate question? Are they attracted to you? To find out you buy a carton of cherries, pick one, take a bite, take the plunge and hope for the best. It’s universal. Everyone gets one chance, one bite. Sure, you can have a second nibble at the same fruit but… failure the first time doesn’t make the second chance any easier. In short, if a cherry appears on your radar, sharpen your teeth, open wide and take as big a bite as possible then d...

      Donald Dunkerson, known within his tight circle as The Grand Old Master, resembled how you might imagine Doctor Foster might look, perhaps after the huge bunch of miles and many days or even weeks it took him to finally achieve one of the most rain drenched and futile journeys of all time. And incidentally Donald lived in Gloucester and is, or at least had been, a doctor which eminently qualified him to recognise that being drenched at one in the morning could adversely affect someone approaching their ninetieth birthday. It is easy to assume that his saturated condition was du e to some fairly tedious and persistent rainfall but that is not the case - the three firemen who extracted him from the well can attest to that.  

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    It is quite a long walk to Wood Green Tube Station from where Larry lives but that is what people who live in London do , isn’t it? they walk, up to a point, then they get a cab or a bus or a Boris Bike. For Larry , the thirty minutes did not seem too bad today mainly because it was dry. When it was wet the walk could be purgatory even with an umbrella. The driving rain, if it is driving, soaks his trousers and the drips from the umbrella get down his neck as he moves it to avoid poking people if the street is busy. But it is all worth the effort if you are going on a first date and are excited, nervous even.