Stories written for BBC Radio Kent Competitions (7)

As I drew back the curtains and looked across the fields, I felt sure something was different.  Even with the dusting of snow  it still didn't seem quite right.  I stood in the kitchen, coffee cup in hand, staring out like it was a puzzle like one of those funny pictures, for about a quarter of an hour, but still it alluded me.  So I put the untouched and lukewarm coffee down and out went in my slippers and dressing gown, determined I wouldn’t go to work with the mystery still at large. 

And that was how the end of my partner’s life began.  Looking back on it, I wish I had ignored the feeling, obviously, it’s just, I… I can’t help feel I never had a choice.  Did they know (whoever “they” are?) how curious I can be, how I can’t let anything go- whether it’s a creased duvet or an untidy room or even just a vague feeling?  Whatever, I went out there in the cold and wandered across the cold, hard ground glancing about me into the distance and at the ground, trying to spot the difference.  After failing to spot it from a simple scan, I took to scouring the furrowed ground to see if I’d subconsciously spotted something. 

I found it about 20 metres from the house, right in the bottom of a dip and surely out of view from the kitchen.  I thought nothing of it at the time, I was too intent on looking at it more closely and trying to figure out what it was.  And I was really cold.

The bureau in our office was usually uncluttered and right next to a radiator so I took it there to study.  I sat down on the chair, flipping up the roll-top as my bum made contact with the seat and placing my find onto the desk top before moving the chair soundlessly across the carpet so my legs were right under the desk, and closer to the beautifully warm radiator, where I could study it properly, whatever it was. 

I switched on the desk lamp to see it better, turning it around and around to introduce myself to its every side and its basic appearance.  Once done, I began to examine it more closely, using the magnifying glass I usually used for reading fine print, taking in its colour and textures, noticing the strange way it reflected light and the foreign text carved into it.  It was all so mystifying, though, that after half an hour I felt like I knew everything about its appearance but nothing about it, which was really infuriating.  I was getting hot and irritable, undid my dressing gown cord.  It was maddening.  I’ve already said how curious I can be.  Well, when that curiosity goes unsatisfied I can get quite nasty. I threw it down roughly, smashing it open, spilling the contents across my desk, mesmerising me with a simple beauty and elegance, like a perfect rose and a dew drop web.

When I touched it, it hurt. It didn’t burn me or cut me, it just hurt me somehow - right in the centre of my head, sharp as knives. I yelled in pain, holding my head in my hands and falling off my chair, skinning my knees a little as I skidded slightly on hitting the carpet. And then I was sick over my front and thighs and the pain went away suddenly just as Jenny entered the room wearing a look of concern and fear as I blacked out.

She was always much purer than me. Clearer skin, cleaner hair, prettier in every way and nicer too. Where I might fly off the handle, she would always stay calm. I don’t think I ever heard her say a bad word about anyone. She wouldn’t have thrown it down like I did, she’d have shown more patience and care, have carried on observing, maybe even got to the bottom of it or at least come up with a better solution.

I was woken by a man I employed to help in the fields.  He had seen me through the window, feared the worst and broken in. I asked him where Jenny was but he said he didn’t know. I stood and looked at the desk. It had been cleaned. “My turn to fear the worst,” I told him before passing out again from the general confusion and a headrush.

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Stories written for BBC Radio Kent Competitions (6): His death was sudden and unexpected

While stoking the fire in The Oast, Alex looked up to see more than just hops.  There stood, largely hidden by his shadow, was what could only be described, judging by its ugly hybrid outline, as a monster. 

Alex stood slowly and carefully before side-stepping to his right to allow a better look at this strange newcomer.  It had the head of an owl whose eyes were surveying Alex coldly, checking for signs of fear; its face otherwise showed no emotion.  Alex had always liked owls, he thought it was cute how small their skulls were and had always wanted to poke a finger into the thick covering of feathers on one’s head to see how much of it would disappear.  Faced with an owl’s head now, he could do nothing but stare at the perfect (ie, muscular, hairless and spotless) male torso that started where the owl feathers ended, making the necklace that was the last feathers look like the neck of some hideous jumper.  Under other circumstances, this observation might have made Alex smile, but this mongrel had a gaping hole in his chest where a heart should be, the arms of a bear and the sexless front legs of a stag.  He guessed this monstrosity had no need for hands that could sew or write or build anything and was designed for something else entirely.  This thought made him sure he had smiled for the last time and dread filled his chest; and was confirmed by its shadow and from the small section of the wings he could see rising above the monster’s shoulders.  Alex would have said they were the wings of an angel if it weren’t for the fact that they were Raven black. 

“Hey,” Alex finally said, having taken in the scene and noticing the thing was being a little quiet.  It continued only to stare at him, unblinking, as if it was trying to bore through Alex’s head with telekinetic powers.  Alex tried again in a slow and awkward manner, “Hello, my name’s Alex, this is my house.  My girlfriend’ll be back soon…. Er, hey…” “I know.”  Its beak never moved, Alex heard its voice in his head, right in the very centre.  And very loudly, he was sure his teeth rattled.  And it was as cold and emotionless as its ornithological face.  “Why are you here, mate?”  He hoped this sneaked-in chumminess would go down well with this cold and nasty looking individual.  “I’m not your mate, Alex” said the God-like voice in his head, “I’m your death.”  Obviously it was not.  “Oh,” was all Alex could manage to begin with.  Then a second later, “But I’m only twenty-five.  And my girlfriend’s in the kitchen.”  “I know Alex, but the fates and your heart are working against you.”  Images of fast food and beer flashed through Alex’s mind and he looked down at his gut regretfully.  “As the condemned man, you have one wish.”  Alex could only laugh hysterically at this: the realisation that, no matter how nice he might be, how law-abiding, he was now as equal as any man moments before the trap-door opened and his neck was snapped.  Eventually he regained control and asked what almost every person asked their death for.  “So it shall be done,” the uncaring voice boomed in Alex’s head and he didn’t believe a word.  Its wings briefly flicked air away and Death and was suddenly on top of Alex, pinning the poor lad to the floor and stomping one hoof into his chest before dropping to his knees and starting to tear out his heart by swiping at his chest with its great paws.  The sharp stabbing pains running down Alex’s left arm were as excruciating as they were bewildering while his chest felt, quite simply, like death- final and empty.  Alex’s final thoughts were of his life and how it had all come down to this.  Once his breath had stopped, Death got up and left.  Only then did time start up once more.

***

Michelle came back from powdering her nose five minutes later to find her boyfriend gone from this world and lying, rather ironically, in a scene he had created for romance.  The doctors assured her that though the heart attack had been massive, his death had been very quick and relatively painless.

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Stories written for BBC Radio Kent Competitions (5)

With all the courage she could muster, she opened her eye and saw with horror that it was still there.  Standing in the opposite corner of the bedroom from her (head) on a plinth positioned under two tall cupboard doors.  Staring straight forward with dead eyes taking in nothing, using its other senses to detect enemies.

Jane hardly dared breath.  She took in as little air as possible, was holding her duvet slightly above her chest to prevent movement- an act that was beginning to take its toll, the muscles in Jane's arms tightening and starting to ache.  She prayed her sister in the upper bunk was alright and would remain so.  Jane couldn't hear her breath but that was normal, she reminded herself, Davina was a shallow breather.

She studied the creature as she lay in the dark.  There it stood- her height- stock still with a small and deformed elephant-shaped head without ears on a human body- a trunk dangling down its front, hanging behind the gun it was holding.  The gun, Jane knew, that would glow when the trigger was pulled and scramble her insides if she wasn't careful enough.  The gun that would end it all.  She had seen it already, hadn't she?  A whole family wiped out by one hiding behind their curtains.  The whole family killed together after dinner.  Mother thought she saw a draught and presented their executioner. 

What else did she know of these things?  Jane remembered a man being pulled into a swamp by long reaching tentacles.  Taken under and half drowned, tortured before being slopped back on the bank while others were mistreated.  Defending soldiers hidden in nests shooting up at the invaders in tanks on tall legs.  The soldiers frying in their hidey-holes, shot by Martian lasers.  Jane was unsure how she knew all of this, of how it was in her head.  All these memories seemed to involve her somehow, as if she were the protagonist each time.  How could that be?  Sleep was still clouding her view - in time she felt she would know.

In the dark she lay, sweat starting to build on her brow.  Overheating from her covers ("10 tog for winter," her mother had said) and knowing she had to put up with it, be brave and see this thing through.  Statuesque it stood, almost as if mimicking Jane.  Its skin was ugly, repulsive even, to her.  Dry and cold it was heavily wrinkled and flaking away; white, old, dead.  The way the flaky bits were stained yellow by the street lights made Jane feel sick.  She felt a snarl want to form and repressed it.  And then

It blinked.  Looked toward the window, eyes lit suddenly- a dull, threatening, red.  Jane stopped everything, or everything in her stopped.  She dropped the cover slightly (her arms heaving a sigh of relief).  And it seemed to go back to standing its awful patrol, eyes still lit.  For a brief moment Jane had hoped.  Hoped it had heard something in the street and would go out there.  Give her enough time to round up her family, hide or escape.  Hope that was eternal, and empty, and futile.  Then: movement again?  Had it nodded to the window?  Its head went back to its original position, its eyes died again.  Was there another behind the curtain?  Jane didn't dare look, fearing even more for her life now.  It jogged her mind to life, though, and made her remember something dim and distant in her memory.

She looked again.  Still there.  Jane stared, transfixed at this beast playing its eternal waiting game- scared she might move and it would win.  Fully awake now, she couldn't take her eyes off it as she slowly resigned herself to her grizzly fate.  She rather liked her insides and ten was a bit young, she thought, to die.  She scanned it one last time as resignation took over and noticed something new.  A book at its foot, half tipped off a pile of stuff, revealing its cover: a black border and writing on an orange background, no picture.  "War of the Worlds.  H.G. Wells," the print read and she remembered her current reading, listening to the musical at school. 

And it was gone.  Only a dream?  It had seemed so real. 

(Later Jane would realise this was the scariest thing that had ever happened to her and die pleased this was the case).

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Stories written for BBC Radio Kent Competitions (4)

It was only after clicking 'send' that Rebecca realised what she had done and went white.  For a moment she became deeply jealous of her mother.  It was alright for her:  the empty space in her house a constant reminder of the accident two days before.  For Rebecca, three thousand miles away, life was just the same.  When the moment passed, Rebecca went a little whiter and knew she should phone home straight away.

She found the phone under the sofa cushions and pressed the button marked 'home.'  In a second or two the ringtone sounded and Rebecca began to worry about how she might explain it.  She had never been terribly close to her parents.  Her twin sister, Amanda, had phoned about the accident and this would be the first time Rebecca had spoken to her mother since.  Amanda had been the close one and the one to adore: pretty, talented, energetic.  Rebecca spent her teenage years in her room doing homework and listening to music while her parents were out at one of Amanda's plays or hockey matches.  Such segregation made the move abroad easy.

The ringing finally stopped.  "Hello, Maidstone ######."  Instantly, Rebecca, knew her mother didn't need this.  She sounded tired, much smaller and older.  Not the eager lady who answered with a put-on posh accent. 

"Hey, Ma, it's Becky."  "Was that too cheery?" Rebecca thought and found a more caring tone, "How are you?"  "That was just plain patronising."  Rebecca's face dropped another shade.

"Ah, hello, dear.  Not so bad, considering."  Rebecca wondered how her mother managed to sound so strong when she had sounded so worn out only a second before (but was also relieved she had not collapsed into tears).  Maybe she was just pleased to hear Rebecca's voice.....  The thought both cheered Rebecca and made her feel more guilty.

The cheeriness part lasted only a second.  "'Manda's here with me, helping with the arrangements."  "Well, naturally," thought Rebecca, "She always was the angel." 

"Though Becca, just between you and me, she has taken it awfully hard."  ("Is it wrong to smile?")  "She hides it well and is trying to be strong for my sake.  I think she needs you here."

"ME!?"  The colour drained away completely, Rebecca couldn't believe it.  Her and Amanda had been even less close than her and her parents.  Ever since their adolescence had forged two very different young women, the twins had irritated each other horribly.  They hung out in different groups at school and chose Universities at opposite ends of the country.  Rebecca saw Amanda as an airy, pretty, stuck-up socialite while Amanda saw Rebecca as an awkward, prickly, over-sensitive socialist. 

"What could I do, Mum?"

"She needs a sister to look after her and grieve with, not a mother to be strong for, someone who's shoulder she can let go and cry onto.  You two were once so close.  It would do you both good.  Please come home sooner."

The colour finally came back to Rebecca's cheeks and she felt like crying.  One minute strong, one minute weak, her mother sounded frail and helpless again, buried under too much emotional baggage.  She probably just needed space of her own to grieve in, remember the times before the twins were born and after they left home.  Rebecca at home could make that possible.  And maybe Amanda really did need her for the first time in years.  Like when they were ten and their grandmother had died.  They stayed up all night, sitting on the top bunk remembering her and crying together, trying to make sense of death.  Maybe, deep down, Rebecca needed her mother and sister too.  Or would when she got home and it all became real.

Rebecca promised to book new tickets home and phone back with the details immediately.  But first- "Mum, I'm afraid I've done something a bit mean.  That's why I phoned, really."

"What's that, dear?"

"I forgot about the accident and sent you and Dad an e-mail today, I'm so sorry."

Rebecca's mother let out a short laugh.  "That's fine, dear, I did the same and sent 'Manda to get your father in from the garden for tea.  It's alright, dear, I understand.  It must be odd for you- nothing has really changed for you like it has for us."

"Yes, it really will hit me when I get home."

The two said their goodbyes.  Rebecca hung-up with her finger, released the pressure and rang her usual airline.

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Stories written for BBC Radio Kent Competitions (3): William and Jo

            The light was disappearing and a cold blanket began to envelope the couple.  He held her hand, gave it a squeeze and was gone.  That, as Jo knew all too well, is the problem with courting a ghost.  At the first sign of dark, the cold of death would reclaim him. 

            She left the house, her heart taking flight, as it tends to when lovers part; and her mind flooded with mutinous thoughts.

            Jo had been seeing William for about six months.  An unfortunate obsession with Jane Austen had left her intolerant of modern men.  They were either arrogant rather than dashing or shy rather than brooding. 

            She saw them in pubs and bars sitting idle, expanding their bellies with beer.  Then, later, in clubs, they would not ask you to dance.  At least not in a civilised manner.

            As weeks, months and years drifted by, Jo became so disenchanted with the cretins on offer that she decided to tap other sources. 

            Her first encounter with a ghost had been as a Guide at summer camp.  Too much Coke at an illegal midnight feast had caused her to wake up at about dawn in dire need of a pee. 

            On the way back to the tent, Jo was approached by a Guide in a retro uniform.  The apparition was soaked to the skin. 

            "I've become separated from my team," she said by way of an explanation, "Do you know where the oaks trees are?  We haven't got the acorn yet." 

            Jo, confused and wanting rid, said they were up by the entrance of the site.  She received a daisy for her troubles ("As a fair trade.  We picked lots, you see.  I do love daisies.") and the ghost-girl, poor Susie Watkins, who had drowned while on a ramble, walked away.

            In her late-twenties Jo's hope for future happiness was ebbing away, and she decided it was time to exploit the ghost market.  The experience with Susie had shown her that ghosts could interact with, and touch, humans and so she could see no reason why she should not look for a ghost boyfriend.

            Jo's search began and ended at the old house in her local park one Friday night.  She reckoned the place looked old enough to be Georgian.  Maybe a long-since expired gentleman was still waiting up there for love. 

            With that in mind she sat out the night on the doorstep wrapped in her old Guides blanket, waiting for the period after dawn before the dog walkers appeared. 

            There Jo sat until about two, when, wishing upon a star she drifted into sleep.

            She was woken after dawn by a hand gently shaking her shoulder and a male voice asking, "Are you alright?  Do you need any help?" 

            Jo jumped and looked around, her face pale with shock for a moment before smiling.  She was looking into a kindly, concerned face with deep brown eyes, lined with well-kept hair and, to her surprise and delight, the man was dressed just like Darcy, Knightley and the rest. 

            Feeling suddenly assertive she answered, "I think I will be just fine, thank-you.  My name is Jo and I am very pleased to meet you."

            "Oh!"  William was slightly shocked by this.  He was used to people being scared of him or thinking he was a nut.  "Mine is William.  What brings you to be here so early, if you don't mind me asking?"

            "You, actually.  I have been looking for a man to court."

            Smiling, William said, "I'm not sure I can help you there.  You do know that I am dead?"

             "Yes, but you can touch and feel still."  Jo heard a dog barking in the distance.  "Can we go inside for a chat?  I don't want to disturb the dog walkers."

             "That would be lovely.  It is not very often I have someone to speak with.  Other ghosts tend not to come through here and the rest of my family were contented to cross-over but I never was a restful soul."

            William produced a key and inside they went.  Jo was expecting an empty, desolate and run-down interior.  She was right about the emptiness but the house was dressed in the decoration of William's time. 

            He took her to a reception room and they spent the whole day together becoming more acquainted, talking endlessly about their lives.  That night, as sunset approached, she agreed to come back the next day.

            Very soon, Jo was spending her days off with William inside the house that looked desolate on the outside but was actually a cocoon of blossoming love.  And once they shared their first kiss, they were officially courting.

            Daylight hours were spent in a variety of indoor pursuits from both their eras.  William even spent a week arranging a ghostly ball after which they gave in and took part in the indoor pursuit that survives all ages.

            Every night they would face the same problem, the night coming in to take William away.  By now it was winter and Jo had too much time to herself to mull over the relationship.  She didn't feel she could tell anyone about it and they couldn't ever marry or have a family.  Hell, they couldn't even spend 24 hours together. 

            As she walked home that evening Jo wondered if she should leave him.  Sure they had a great time together and the sex was amazing.  But it was all so fake. 

            Their world, their beautiful nutshell, was nothing but that- a bubble cutting them off from reality.  They spent days together among furniture that was just an apparition, made love in a bed that would disappear at nightfall.  However wonderful that world was, and no matter how long Jo had dreamed of such a man, it was not what she wanted.  They had no future.

            And so she walked on in tears, wondering if, and how, she could leave him.

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Stories written for BBC Radio Kent Competitions (2): The Waiting Game

Jo wasn't looking forward to be being the rear end of a tap-dancing pantomime cow again because there is nothing good whatsoever about being the rear end of a tap-dancing pantomime cow.  She knew this oh-too-well - this was Jo's third year in a third town with a third list of z-list celebrities and other failed stars; with a third obnoxious and uppity front end taking all the credit simply because they were the head.  Four weeks bent over at a right angle for hours a day, and two or three times a day for the middle fortnight.  And in a cow costume under bright and very hot theatre lights that were tantamount to torture.  Jo was always surprised her sweat didn't seep out through the underbelly (or worse, between the legs) and make a puddle, only to cause children to remark, "Look, Mummy, its wet itself."  It poured off her and made the inside of the underbelly more and more unbearable as the production went on.   Sodden at the end of each night, dried stiff and stinking the following day.  At the peak of the run, when the costume went on three times a day, Jo would have to summon all the strength she had to stop from throwing up when her face was smeared through the wet patch of her difficult work.  It was so bad that Jo had nightmares all year round involving the Spanish Inquisition attaching her to a spit and roasting her inside the costume, the sweat pouring off her being collected in a cup and thrown back in her face.  And how are you supposed to tap dance when you can't see your feet - or those you are supposed to be dancing in tandem with?  True - Jo had mastered this nicely (this was her third year) but on top of everything else, it was one hell of a headache (plus she'd been tap-dancing since the age of four and was used to much better).

Still; it was a blessed break from waiting tables and hoping there would be a message when she got home.  And it dulled the pain of the weekly call to the agent to find out he had nothing for her.  And it meant she couldn't audition, something she had come to hate.  The paranoia and the fear and the sweats and the stammering.  The faces of those behind The Desk fading from welcoming to disinterested as she gradually lost them because of nervousness.  At school it had been so easy up there under the lights with your mates, dressed in costume and caked in make-up.  In panto she was, at least, disguised and anonymous.  Auditions were so very lonely and degrading.  In a cold and echoey room, your failure just comes straight back off the wall to slap you in the face.  Yes, being the rear end of a tap-dancing pantomime cow (again) was far better than the waiting game.

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Stories written for BBC Radio Kent Competitions (1): Odd Dream

I was prepared to listen to her advice about the cheese, but why was she dressed as Joan of Arc?  Mum’s normally more conservative as a dresser.  Plain knitwear, skirts, shirts and petticoats; that sort of thing.  And she is far too Conservative to support women, or anyone for that matter, rising up as Joan did all those years ago and upsetting the status quo. 

And why was her hearing aid melting?  We were standing by a fridge in a supermarket and I was freezing.  She was telling me in her nasal tones about the right time of the day to eat cheese but the outfit was confusing me so much that I excused myself and turned away to shop. 

Still a little confused, I wandered further up the fridge section and saw my old headmistress, and chief tormentor on the playing fields, being upturned into the yoghurts.  I smiled as she stood up, the various shades of white dripping down the suit that she’d always seemed so proud of.  The smug grin she used to carry with her had been wiped clean off her face. 

Beyond her I saw William by the meat counter and he was crying.  I went over to see what was wrong and noticed he had a big pointy something in his side.  Oddly, the meat counter made me feel guilty, so I led William away before asking him what was wrong. 

“Why can’t my parents accept my sexuality?” he asked me.

“I don’t know,” I told him, “But sometimes we have to talk to people we don’t see eye to eye with.” 

I then suggested that shoplifting might cheer him up.  I took a sponge and he stole a rusty spanner but, alas, we were seen. 

As we legged it from security, an army of shoplifters joined us and we fought back, aiming to take over the supermarket.  William and I were generals and we fought side by side with our stolen goods as weapons until he turned into my first boyfriend and we were kissing under the iron bridge.  But it didn’t feel right; I preferred Glenn, wanted to be seen in the back of his car and make love on its cold leather seats so I could die with a smile on my face.  Glenn never knew, though,  because I never even told him how I felt, never went up to his house to inform him.  And now it was too late.

I decided to drown my sorrows down the pub.  I drank ale with Antony and Cleopatra, discussing the sizes of girls, just what would be enough to make Caligula blush and why he supposed my mother was dressed as Joan of Arc.  He didn‘t know who Joan was, though.  I gave Antony a look of disgust at his ignorance and left.  Instead of drink, I tried to forget Glenn through charity work (more specifically, making cards with the mentally ill) but I couldn’t help bursting into tears every so often. 

One night, though, a tattooed boy from Birkenhead opened my eyes, showed me love was insane and unnatural for people such as us anyway.  He took me to a cemetery and we had a discussion about Keats, Yeats and Oscar Wilde until my old reverend came by wearing a tutu and doing ballet.  I paid him no heed, though: he’d always told me to treat others as you would yourself. 

Then I was at a fairground on its last night; on the whirling waltzer with Sheila.  She told me she’d met a charming man without a stitch to wear.  His name was written on her arm in biro. 

We flew off into the night and landed in daytime in the old grey school playground.  Everyone from work was there.  Andy and Mike had played a joke on Johnny and Stephen.  Somehow I knew what the joke was and told them it was a horrid joke to play- far too close to the bone- just plain nasty- only played by children. 

I chased them away and took Johnny and Stephen to see the Queen.  We ran at her with the sponge and rusty spanner from the supermarket before putting her head in a sling and dropping our trousers to her.  What sensible children we were! 

Then Johnny disappeared and me and Stephen went to the disco.  At the disco, Stephen had a dancing competition with another man and danced him to death.  We felt bad and left once Stephen gave an interview to the Belgian press (“You have to please them,” he explained). 

We were lovers now, dressed in rags, strolling down the street, the sun shining out of our behinds.  It was great- he was somebody who loved me for sure.  But it all went wrong. 

On a Friday night, he tried to become a protest singer.  He thought all you needed was an acoustic guitar, and so it all went horribly wrong and we were chased out of the building.  “We’ll smile about this later,” he said as we got to the road and a ten tonne truck mowed me down.  As they wheeled me into outpatients I fell into a coma. 

A montage showed Stephen waiting by my side for days and weeks and months; crying, getting angry and feeling drained and useless.  In a dream sequence, soil rained down on me, covering me.  It was awful, I could really feel it.  I called out to my mother to help me but it just kept on falling. 

It all got sadder and sadder and I tossed and turned until Morrissey appeared, told Stephen it would be OK and started to shake me, telling me my alarm had gone off so I had better wake up.

When I came round my alarm was going beserk.  I sat up and hit the snooze button just in case I fell back to sleep. 

The Smiths’ back catalogue was still playing on random repeat all and the cheese had started to turn.

Note: when trying to find a link to the competition pages, I instead found other stories starting with the same line, presumably written for the same competition.