This is the third of three (exactly) fifty-word stories that I wrote for the Brian Dibble Shortest Story Competition. I didn't win.
Sarah was a pimply, pudgy teenager. Her mother tenderly took her hand, and told her the story of "The Ugly Duckling".
"One day," she said, "you'll become a beautiful swan."
"You don't just think I'm ugly," said Sarah, between sobs. "You think I'm a whole different species!"
Monday, November 23, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Fifty
This is the second of three (exactly) fifty-word stories that I wrote for the Brian Dibble Shortest Story Competition. I didn't win.
I broke down in tears when I tried to write a story in only fifty words. I threw my pen across the room and swore.
"That's not a story," I said to the scribbling on my notebook. "That's a paragraph!"
I went back to working on my novel.
I broke down in tears when I tried to write a story in only fifty words. I threw my pen across the room and swore.
"That's not a story," I said to the scribbling on my notebook. "That's a paragraph!"
I went back to working on my novel.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Inconsiderate
A piercing shriek reverberates throughout the train carriage. It stings my ears, and I cover them with my hands. The muscles in my neck clench up and spasms shoot down past my shoulders. I stop breathing momentarily. The hubbub of conversation and laughter within the carriage stops cold, and an elderly man across the aisle clutches desperately at his hearing aid.
The apocalyptic cry came from a young boy, a toddler really, sitting two rows in front of me. I seethe as I fix my eyes on him. He's sitting next to a woman who I assume is his mother. She looks ghastly, though she would not yet be thirty years old. The woman doesn't react to the child, but continues to stare out of the window.
How inconsiderate! She should do something about that child.
The child hits the woman's arm and shouts at her, "Mummy!"
The woman turns slowly from the window, focuses on the boy, gives him a weak smile. "Yes, Danny?"
The boy says nothing, but turns around and wriggles backwards into his mothers side. She puts her arm around him, kisses the top of his head, and then turns back to the window.
The other passengers in the train return to their own books, newspapers and conversations. Minutes pass; we stop at Indooroopily Station, and then continue towards Ipswich.
As we are leaving Oxley Station, the boy screams again. My nerves are still frayed from the first outburst. The noise invades my flesh like some demonic force. I feel a stabbing pain in behind my eyes, and my neck clenches up again. A tic starts in my right cheek. I glare at the mother with freshly kindled wrath, yet she continues to stare into the window.
It is just unacceptable to allow that sort of behaviour. How inconsiderate!
I continue to stare, hoping she will glance my way, so that my scowling scrutiny might communicate my intense disapproval. I see that she truly is a loathsome creature. Her hair is a mess. Her eyes are bloodshot, and there are dark orbs beneath them on her cheeks.
Probably on drugs. Calls herself a mother? Where is the boy's father? Perhaps she doesn't even know who the father is! Some people in this world are just trash; it makes me sick.
I look around the carriage. Some of the other passengers are also trying to stare the woman down. A few of them share a knowing look with me. The mother is unperturbed, however. She sits, vacantly drawn to the world outside her window, her head rocking slightly with the sway of the carriage.
Someone needs to tell that woman to bring her child into line. It's upsetting not just me, but everyone else on the train. She may be inconsiderate of others, but I'm not. I'm going to do something about it, for everyone's sake.
I walk over to the woman and take the seat opposite. I say, "Excuse me", but there is no reaction. I cough, and again say, "Excuse me".
She is completely ignoring me.
I reach out and tap her on the shoulder, and quite loudly now, say, "Excuse me!"
She turns her head from the window and focuses her bleary eyes on mine. "Sorry," she says, "can I help you?"
"Yes, I think you can," I reply, pointing at the child. "Your boy really is very loud, and is causing quite a disturbance to the good people on this carriage. I'd just like to ask you to show some consideration, and keep him a little more under control."
There: I said it.
The woman looks around the carriage, and seems to notice for the first time that every eye and ear in the place is on her.
The automated public address system announces to the hushed carriage, "The next station is Darra."
Tears form in the woman's eyes as she says, "I'm so sorry. Danny's having a lot of trouble coping; we both are, really. My husband – his father – we just had the funeral yesterday. This our station coming up right now. We won't bother you much longer."
The apocalyptic cry came from a young boy, a toddler really, sitting two rows in front of me. I seethe as I fix my eyes on him. He's sitting next to a woman who I assume is his mother. She looks ghastly, though she would not yet be thirty years old. The woman doesn't react to the child, but continues to stare out of the window.
How inconsiderate! She should do something about that child.
The child hits the woman's arm and shouts at her, "Mummy!"
The woman turns slowly from the window, focuses on the boy, gives him a weak smile. "Yes, Danny?"
The boy says nothing, but turns around and wriggles backwards into his mothers side. She puts her arm around him, kisses the top of his head, and then turns back to the window.
The other passengers in the train return to their own books, newspapers and conversations. Minutes pass; we stop at Indooroopily Station, and then continue towards Ipswich.
As we are leaving Oxley Station, the boy screams again. My nerves are still frayed from the first outburst. The noise invades my flesh like some demonic force. I feel a stabbing pain in behind my eyes, and my neck clenches up again. A tic starts in my right cheek. I glare at the mother with freshly kindled wrath, yet she continues to stare into the window.
It is just unacceptable to allow that sort of behaviour. How inconsiderate!
I continue to stare, hoping she will glance my way, so that my scowling scrutiny might communicate my intense disapproval. I see that she truly is a loathsome creature. Her hair is a mess. Her eyes are bloodshot, and there are dark orbs beneath them on her cheeks.
Probably on drugs. Calls herself a mother? Where is the boy's father? Perhaps she doesn't even know who the father is! Some people in this world are just trash; it makes me sick.
I look around the carriage. Some of the other passengers are also trying to stare the woman down. A few of them share a knowing look with me. The mother is unperturbed, however. She sits, vacantly drawn to the world outside her window, her head rocking slightly with the sway of the carriage.
Someone needs to tell that woman to bring her child into line. It's upsetting not just me, but everyone else on the train. She may be inconsiderate of others, but I'm not. I'm going to do something about it, for everyone's sake.
I walk over to the woman and take the seat opposite. I say, "Excuse me", but there is no reaction. I cough, and again say, "Excuse me".
She is completely ignoring me.
I reach out and tap her on the shoulder, and quite loudly now, say, "Excuse me!"
She turns her head from the window and focuses her bleary eyes on mine. "Sorry," she says, "can I help you?"
"Yes, I think you can," I reply, pointing at the child. "Your boy really is very loud, and is causing quite a disturbance to the good people on this carriage. I'd just like to ask you to show some consideration, and keep him a little more under control."
There: I said it.
The woman looks around the carriage, and seems to notice for the first time that every eye and ear in the place is on her.
The automated public address system announces to the hushed carriage, "The next station is Darra."
Tears form in the woman's eyes as she says, "I'm so sorry. Danny's having a lot of trouble coping; we both are, really. My husband – his father – we just had the funeral yesterday. This our station coming up right now. We won't bother you much longer."
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Farewell Gift [Part 5 of 5]
Welcome to "Farewell Gift", a 2,500 short story I wrote earlier this year. I've decided to present it to you here on Surge Bin in five parts. Why not start with part 1, and work your way through? Enjoy!
(...continued)
Marcelle glanced at the clock: three sixteen. It was only two minutes since she had last looked. She went to the kitchen and asked Laura, "You want some tea?"
"Sure thing," she replied, "Why don't you just relax. We know he took the suitcase, we know he got on the plane, and we know the plane has landed. It will all work out. He'll be tied up with customs and the police for a while. You may not get a phone call for hours, even days."
But the phone did ring. Marcelle rushed to answer it, leaving the kettle in the sink.
"Marcelle speaking!"
"Hello Marcelle." The sound of Gary's voice made her heart jolt.
"Gary. You landed safely?"
"Yes, we're all safe in Thailand now. It took me an hour longer than everyone else to get through customs, but never mind. You'd think they'd never seen Prada before."
"You're through customs?" Marcelle's voice tripped over her words. She began to realise that the plan had gone very wrong.
Gary continued, "Look Marcelle, I've decided to change our plans a bit. After the sessions with the university, Cindy and I are going hang out in Thailand for a few months, and really get to know the place, and each other."
"Cindy? Laura's Cindy?" Marcelle only became more confused.
"I suppose that may come as a bit of a surprise. I did try to prepare you by getting Cindy to tell her mother I was in a relationship with a student. I knew Laura wouldn't keep her mouth shut, of course. And then you didn't seem to bat an eyelid. I wondered what was going on, until you gave me my farewell gift."
"Farewell gift?" repeated Marcelle, struggling to keep up with what was happening. Laura was now standing beside her, craning her head, desperately trying to hear Gary's voice on the phone.
"Yes, the farewell gift," said Gary, his voice still relaxed. "Given that you were fully aware that I was in a relationship with a much younger woman, who was also a student, you can imagine my surprise that you wanted to give me an expensive new suitcase. So I looked into it, so to speak, and good thing I did. Beware of jilted women bearing gifts."
He chuckled at his own joke and then paused for a few seconds. "That was a lot of heroin, Marcelle. I've decided to return it to you however, as my own little farewell gift. It will be something to remember me by, until I come back to finalise my divorce. I really can't stay married to a drug dealer, you know. I'm sure the judge will see my point of view."
Gary hung up. Marcelle stood holding the beeping phone, reeling. What happened? She tried to explain to Laura, "Gary found the drugs. I think he's left them here with me. He's with Cindy, Laura. He's having an affair with your daughter Cindy. He's going to divorce me. What am I going to do? What are we going to do?"
Laura's face went pale, but she didn't reply. There was a thumping at the door. Marcelle went and opened it. It was the police – lots of them. They rattled through rehearsed phrases, showed some papers, and demanded her car keys. They went through her car, taking out panels and carpets. Very soon, small white packets began to appear. Marcelle and Laura sat down next to each other on the front steps and began to cry.
(End).
(...continued)
Marcelle glanced at the clock: three sixteen. It was only two minutes since she had last looked. She went to the kitchen and asked Laura, "You want some tea?"
"Sure thing," she replied, "Why don't you just relax. We know he took the suitcase, we know he got on the plane, and we know the plane has landed. It will all work out. He'll be tied up with customs and the police for a while. You may not get a phone call for hours, even days."
But the phone did ring. Marcelle rushed to answer it, leaving the kettle in the sink.
"Marcelle speaking!"
"Hello Marcelle." The sound of Gary's voice made her heart jolt.
"Gary. You landed safely?"
"Yes, we're all safe in Thailand now. It took me an hour longer than everyone else to get through customs, but never mind. You'd think they'd never seen Prada before."
"You're through customs?" Marcelle's voice tripped over her words. She began to realise that the plan had gone very wrong.
Gary continued, "Look Marcelle, I've decided to change our plans a bit. After the sessions with the university, Cindy and I are going hang out in Thailand for a few months, and really get to know the place, and each other."
"Cindy? Laura's Cindy?" Marcelle only became more confused.
"I suppose that may come as a bit of a surprise. I did try to prepare you by getting Cindy to tell her mother I was in a relationship with a student. I knew Laura wouldn't keep her mouth shut, of course. And then you didn't seem to bat an eyelid. I wondered what was going on, until you gave me my farewell gift."
"Farewell gift?" repeated Marcelle, struggling to keep up with what was happening. Laura was now standing beside her, craning her head, desperately trying to hear Gary's voice on the phone.
"Yes, the farewell gift," said Gary, his voice still relaxed. "Given that you were fully aware that I was in a relationship with a much younger woman, who was also a student, you can imagine my surprise that you wanted to give me an expensive new suitcase. So I looked into it, so to speak, and good thing I did. Beware of jilted women bearing gifts."
He chuckled at his own joke and then paused for a few seconds. "That was a lot of heroin, Marcelle. I've decided to return it to you however, as my own little farewell gift. It will be something to remember me by, until I come back to finalise my divorce. I really can't stay married to a drug dealer, you know. I'm sure the judge will see my point of view."
Gary hung up. Marcelle stood holding the beeping phone, reeling. What happened? She tried to explain to Laura, "Gary found the drugs. I think he's left them here with me. He's with Cindy, Laura. He's having an affair with your daughter Cindy. He's going to divorce me. What am I going to do? What are we going to do?"
Laura's face went pale, but she didn't reply. There was a thumping at the door. Marcelle went and opened it. It was the police – lots of them. They rattled through rehearsed phrases, showed some papers, and demanded her car keys. They went through her car, taking out panels and carpets. Very soon, small white packets began to appear. Marcelle and Laura sat down next to each other on the front steps and began to cry.
(End).
Monday, November 16, 2009
Farewell Gift [Part 4 of 5]
Welcome to "Farewell Gift", a 2,500 short story I wrote earlier this year. I've decided to present it to you here on Surge Bin in five parts. Why not start with part 1, and work your way through? Enjoy!
(...continued)
On Wednesday, they went to the Queen Street Mall and found a classy Prada suitcase that met their requirements perfectly.
Laura spent the rest of the day removing stitching and carefully packing the drugs into the walls of the case. She painstakingly resewed the linings closed.
When Marcelle came around to her apartment, she was impressed.
"Wow Laura, that's amazing!" she said, running her hands over the case, inside and out. She examined the stitching closely. "You can't tell that it's not just a brand new suitcase. It's perfect."
As they admired the farewell gift, Marcelle imagined the look on Gary's face when he saw the hidden contents, and laughed.
"This will be perfect, Laura. Thank you so much."
Laura smiled wearily. "That's okay, Sweetie. It was harder work than my paid job, though – which I'd better get back to tomorrow. The rest is up to you."
(To be continued...)
(...continued)
On Wednesday, they went to the Queen Street Mall and found a classy Prada suitcase that met their requirements perfectly.
Laura spent the rest of the day removing stitching and carefully packing the drugs into the walls of the case. She painstakingly resewed the linings closed.
When Marcelle came around to her apartment, she was impressed.
"Wow Laura, that's amazing!" she said, running her hands over the case, inside and out. She examined the stitching closely. "You can't tell that it's not just a brand new suitcase. It's perfect."
As they admired the farewell gift, Marcelle imagined the look on Gary's face when he saw the hidden contents, and laughed.
"This will be perfect, Laura. Thank you so much."
Laura smiled wearily. "That's okay, Sweetie. It was harder work than my paid job, though – which I'd better get back to tomorrow. The rest is up to you."
(To be continued...)
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