Tag Archives: short story

New short story – The Fox and the Illuminator

22 Tuesday May 2018

Posted by in fairy tale, fantasy, Short story, story, writing

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I’ve found another old short story which I submitted to a few contest then forgot about. Please enjoy!

The Fox and the Illuminator

The Royal Illuminator was working alone, as always, in the castle scriptorium, squinting against the dim light and coughing occasionally from the layers of dust which gathered on the towering stacks of books. He had been spending the past few months illustrating a book of the kingdom’s history, carefully painting each ornate letter with precision. It was an incredibly important book that the King himself had commissioned from him and was to be the grandest book in the royal library.

As such, the Illuminator put even more care into the manuscript than usual to make it exceptionally magnificent. The illuminations lit up the page, brighter and more beautiful than any book he had ever worked on before. Each picture reflected the glory and lustre of the event it depicted. He loved his work and was gratified by it, but the long hours spent in the silent, empty scriptorium often grew wearisome and lonely.

In the middle of one such day when the sun was high in the sky and the warm sunlight peeked in through the windows, the Illuminator found his hand steadying, his mind drifting, and his eyes drawn towards the garden outside the window. The trees gently swaying in the breeze and the sunlight sparkling on the lake looked particularly inviting that day. If only he could take just one day off from his work, he thought, to enjoy that sunshine, but the manuscript was close to being finished and the King was incredibly strict with deadlines. He noticed a fox wandering around the garden, thinking it strange that a fox should be out at that time of day.

His eyes followed the Fox as it prowled towards the lake where the swans were resting on the bank. With a single quick motion, the fox snapped up one of the swans in its jaws, sending the others flapping and squawking away in a panic. The Illuminator forgot all about his work, jumped to his feet, and ran outside.

“Stop that.” He shouted as he sprinted towards the Fox, who was dragging the dead swan away in her jaws. She looked at him curiously as he approached. “Those swans are the property of the King. It’s illegal to hunt them.”

“But surely that law applies only to people, not to foxes?” The Fox said, dropping the swan to the ground to speak.

“Well…yes.” Admitted the Illuminator, a little stumped to be talking to a fox who spoke his language. “But I still have to stop you. Those swans are protected by the law.”

“Why? Aside from their size, they’re not that different from the other birds in the trees, and there’s no law protecting them.” The Fox said.

“It’s the law. I have to uphold it.” The Illuminator replied.

“Do those trees belong to the King?” The Fox said, pointing her snout towards the forest of tall oak trees.

“Yes. That’s the King’s hunting ground.”

“And yet you would not stop a squirrel from gathering an acorn for its winter store.”

“I suppose I wouldn’t.”

“Most of those trees are there thanks to squirrels gathering acorns and forgetting where they buried them. If not for them, you wouldn’t have the berries that make the inks you use for your books.” The Fox said, noticing the coloured ink stains on the Illuminator’s hands which gave away his profession. “Killing this swan may be against the King’s laws, but if I don’t bring it back to my den then my cubs will starve.”

“I didn’t think of it that way.” The Illuminator said. He’d never realised how important those trees were to the work he treasured. The trees provided the wood for his pencils and the other equipment in his workshop. Without the inks, his pages would be dull and colourless. They provided him with shade in the summer to sit underneath them and read, on the rare occasions when he was free to read. “Go quickly then, before the guards see you.” He said.

“This will not be forgotten.” The Fox said before picking up the swan and carrying it away.

The Illuminator smiled and returned to his work, his mood lifted and his earlier boredom forgotten.

 

Not long after, the Illuminator’s work was suddenly interrupted when two armed guards burst into the scriptorium.

“What’s going on?” He said.

“You’re under arrest.” One of the guards said, grabbing the Illuminator’s arm and jerking him to his feet, leaving a large green smear across the page he had been working on.

“What, why?” The Illuminator asked.

“You were seen. Talking to that fox and letting it off with a swan without trying to stop it.” The second guard said as they dragged him out of the scriptorium.

The Illuminator desperately tried to explain why he hadn’t stopped the Fox, but they wouldn’t listen. They led him through the palace and straight to the King, throwing him down to the ground in front of the entire court, who all gazed down on him scornfully.

“Do you care to explain,” the King bellowed in his loud, imposing voice that made the Illuminator shudder, “why you allowed a fox to steal one of my swans?”

“Please your Majesty, the swan was already dead by the time I got there.” The Illuminator pleaded.

“The swan’s body is still my property, and you let the fox go unpunished.”

The Illuminator tried to explain and repeated what the Fox had said to him, but the King still wasn’t convinced.

“You disregarded my laws and for that you are banished from my castle and my service.” The King said.

“Your Majesty, can you not take comfort that one swan will save an entire litter of fox cubs?” The Illuminator tried one last plea.

“Foxes, horrible mangy things. Now I’ll have even more poaching my swans and raiding the chicken coop. Away with you. Go and live with the foxes if that’s what you want.” The King commanded. Before the Illuminator could say anything more, he was pulled away and forced out the gate into the street.

“Wait, at least let me gather my tools. I need them for my trade.” The Illuminator said, but the guards had already slammed the gates closed.

 

No matter how much be pleaded with the gatekeeper, the Illuminator wasn’t permitted to retrieve his tools, or even the possessions in his chamber. Some of the materials he used for his trade were incredibly rare. He had travelled far and searched wide to find them – gold leaf, dye from Mediterranean Sea molluscs, crushed opals, rich green cobra venom. He was the best illuminator in the kingdom, but without his tools and materials, he couldn’t find any work. Illumination had been all he’d ever known and loved since he was a boy and he didn’t have any other skills. Nobody wanted to hire a vagrant who claimed to be an illuminator.

With no money, no tools, and no job, he had to sleep in abandoned buildings and beg on the streets for pennies. He had to steal food from the King’s orchard, as dangerous as it was to do so, and went to sleep every night alone and miserable.

“If only I still had that manuscript I was working on before all of this happened.” The Illuminator said as he huddled in an old shed with a leaking roof, his stomach aching from hunger pains. “I spent six months working on that book, night and day, and I was so close to finishing it. It was the best work I ever did.”

But it wasn’t really his. It never had been. He’d merely been commissioned to make it. Eventually it would’ve been placed on a library shelf and he would’ve been handed another job.

“If I only had that book to work on and complete then I could at least keep my sanity. I would feel like I had a purpose in life again.”

He saw a dark shape slip underneath the half-rotted door and worried that it was another rat come to bite at his toes. As it came out of the darkness, he saw that it wasn’t a rat. He recognised the speckled red and brown coat. It was the Fox he’d met in the garden all those months ago.

“It’s you. I didn’t think I would see you again.” The Illuminator said. The Fox approached him and he saw that she was awkwardly carrying something large and cumbersome in her mouth, which she placed in his lap. He picked it up and tears filled his eyes as he recognised the illustrations, letters, and gold leafing he had spent hours getting just right. “This is my manuscript. The one I worked so hard on.” He looked up to the Fox, who had sat down next to him. “Why would you do this for me? If the King had caught you sneaking around his palace and stealing from him then you would have been made into a pair of gloves by now.”

“If it wasn’t for your kind act then my cubs would have starved. But now you are the one who is starving.” The Fox said, hanging her head. The Illuminator had never thought he would see a fox feeling guilt, and especially on his behalf.

“I do not blame you for that.” The Illuminator said, reaching a hand towards her head, which she leant into his hand, allowing him to stroke her soft fur. “The King would not listen to reason. He wouldn’t even forgive the death of one swan.”

“Indeed. But I fear this offering cannot fill you belly.” The Fox said.

“No, it can’t do that. But it is more than enough. It may still help me out of my poverty.”

 

“What do you call this?” The King said as the pages of the book in his hand fell apart as he flipped through them. “Not a single thing in this book is right. The colours are all wrong. The pages are out of order. And you didn’t even spell the name of the kingdom correctly!” He bellowed at the nervous apprentice illuminator at his feet, throwing the manuscript at his head. “Get out. Bring me another illuminator. One who can actually do his job.” He said as the apprentice gathered up his pages and fled from the throne room in tears.

“I’m sorry, your Majesty.” The King’s Advisor said at his shoulder. “That was the last illuminator in the kingdom.”

The King rubbed his temples. “Then hire back the illuminator we let go.” He said.

“We…We uh…” The Advisor said, hiding behind his ledger.

“What’s the problem now?”

“We tried to find the Royal Illuminator, your Majesty, but he’s gone too. He’s not anywhere in the kingdom.”

 

“This is the best work I’ve ever seen!” The Queen of the neighbouring kingdom said as she enthusiastically turned the pages of the history manuscript.

“Thank you, your Majesty. I admit it’s not quite finished yet.” The Illuminator said. He felt awkward standing in the opulently decorated throne room in filthy bare feet and clothes which hadn’t been washed in weeks.

“I can see that,” the Queen said as she turned to the page with the ugly green stain, which made the Illuminator blush with embarrassment.

He had long since heard that the Queen of the neighbouring kingdom loved books and had a vast library. Even her throne had a tall stack of books next to it, he noticed. As poor as the Illuminator was, he had taken the risk to travel to her kingdom for just that reason. With his treasured manuscript tucked carefully under his arm and the last of his pennies in his pocket, he had trekked over open fields, drunk rain water from puddles, and survived off berries (although he had kept a few that would make a fine ink). Finally, he had arrived at the Queen’s castle with bare feet and worn clothes but to his luck, it had taken only one glance at the manuscript for her guards to escort him straight to her throne room.

“But for unfinished work, it is still wonderful. The colours are the brightest I’ve ever seen. You must tell me how you do it.”

“I would be happy to, your Majesty.”

“Any king or queen would be honoured to have a book this marvellous in their library. Could you make me a history of my kingdom?” The Queen asked.

“Of course, your Majesty, whatever you ask. But it would take some time and I fear I don’t have the tools or the materials.”

“We’ll provide you with tools and anything else you need. And some new clothes and shoes, of course. I don’t want you to get cold. I’ve long heard of the great skills of my neighbour’s Royal Illuminator. I’m surprised the King fired someone of your talents.”

“There was a…small disagreement involving a swan.” The Illuminator said.

“How silly. Still, no need to worry about that now. I expect you’ll be wanting to see your workshop. And then you must join me for tea and tell me about these illustrations.” The Queen said, rising from her throne and handing the manuscript back to the Illuminator.

“Your Majesty, didn’t you say you wanted this book for your library?” The Illuminator asked.

“Yes, I would love to have this book for my library, but I feel that it belongs to you.” She said, placing it back in his hands. “Besides, you probably want to finish it.”

 

And so, the Illuminator completed his most precious manuscript of all, and many more besides. The Queen of his new kingdom had the most beautiful and well-crafted books in her library that were admired by all who saw them. She and the Illuminator spent many happy hours together discussing books and illustrations. On days when the weather was bright, the Queen demanded that it was too nice a day to spend with work and they spent the day strolling through the gardens and relaxing under trees, talking and laughing together and feeling complete with one another.

As for the Fox, she and her cubs were never again bothered by the King’s guards, and neither they nor the Illuminator ever had to go hungry again.

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New Short Story – Alone in the Picture Gallery

22 Wednesday Feb 2017

Posted by in art, culture, Short story, story, writing

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I have returned from the slumbering depths with a new short story! Ok, I’ve actually been super busy with work over the past month and have had a few sick days too, but I have scraped together enough time to post this new short story, which is actually closer to flash fiction.

This is another short that I’ve been re-working and sending off to several contests and anthologies without luck. I feel that I’ve done enough with it that I possibly could so I’ve decided to post it here for my blog visitors to enjoy.

I began this short with a prompt to write something inspired by a museum visit, so I wrote about a real experience I had back when I volunteered at a museum in the UK. The details are slightly different, but this basically did happen to me. Hope you enjoy:

This work is my possession and must not be repeated or re-printed anywhere else without my prior consent.

Alone in the Picture Gallery

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I always looked forward to rainy days. They were bad for most people but not for me. Fewer visitors to the museum made my work go much quicker and gave me some alone time with the artworks. The museum became my personal playground for a short while. I knew that it needed visitors and their precious donation money to stay open but I still much preferred peaceful days like that overcast Monday morning.

I had been checking the light levels of the paintings just as I did every day. There was nothing unusual about them on that day. The dull sky was good for the paintings so I was even happier.

The old man’s blaring voice came out of nowhere, startling me.

“What’s that you’re doing?” He said, appearing behind me suddenly like something out of a cartoon. I must have been so absorbed in my work that I hadn’t noticed him approach me.

“Light meter readings, sir.” I said, with my best ‘tourist smile’ on my face.

I was asked questions like these every day, even on a quiet Monday morning. It was all part of my job, but not one I particularly enjoyed. I’m much more comfortable taking care of paintings than I am talking to people. I rattled off my usual answer so that I could get back to my work.

“Long term exposure to direct sunlight damages the oil paintings, so I’m recording how much light-”

“Do you know how long I had to wait for the bus this morning?”

I was a little thrown back by his abrupt question. It was a little too much for my limited social skills.

“Uh…I don’t…I don’t know, sir.”

I thought that maybe he was making a complaint to me, being the only staff member in sight. But the museum didn’t even have a bus service, so what was he complaining about?

“Forty five minutes.” He said. “Forty five minutes standing in the rain! Can you believe it?”

“Yes, that is a long time to wait.” I mumbled awkwardly. Not knowing what else to say, I turned back to the painting. Socialising with customers wasn’t exactly my job, so I shouldn’t have to feel bad about it.

“There used to be one every half hour. Now they come every hour.” The old man continued.

“Oh…I see.” I said, hoping that writing on my clipboard would give him the message that I had a job to do.

“They’re all the same, aren’t they?” He said, following me as I walked to the next painting.

“I suppose so.” I said, not entirely sure who ‘they’ were.

“And the worst part is they see nothing wrong with it.”

I tried to shuffle to the left but he moved closer. His breath smelled like barley sweets. I was almost afraid that the stench would damage the paintings. I looked around the room, desperate to see a colleague I could rush to with an imaginary problem. But we were the only two people there.

“That’s our society for you, people becoming self-entitled. They want everything to be about them. I mean, we have two thousand television channels but are we any better off?”

By then I knew that I would be there for a while, trapped alone in the corner of the picture gallery by barley breath. I wanted to just say ‘Please excuse me, I need to get back to my work’ but my natural shyness wouldn’t let me. If I was bolder, I could have asked him why he waited for 45 minutes in the rain when he could’ve just stayed at home and come another day. But I didn’t.

My nodding had become rhythmic by that point. I discretely watched the door, hoping for a lost day tripper to wander in and ask me for help. But the whole museum seemed to have emptied of people. Nobody else would be silly enough to come out in this weather.

 

After fifteen minutes of his ranting, I was thinking of faking a horrible stomach condition just for an excuse to run from the room. I silently prayed for the radio on my belt to alert me of something urgent, but it stayed silent.

I cast a desperate glance at the long line of paintings I still had to check before noon. I thought that maybe I should just go and check them anyway, but I would feel rude, even in front of this miserable old fusspot. He’d just follow me around the entire museum until my shift was over anyway.

If I was more confident I would have screamed ‘Shut up! Shut up you stupid old windbag, no one cares about your stupid tiny problems except for you. Why else would you stand in the rain for forty five minutes and come to museums just to find someone to moan at?’ But I didn’t. I just stood there smiling and nodding, crying internally.

“…Sent the letter four weeks ago and they still haven’t done anything about it. You’d think they’d do more considering what they’re paid, don’t you agree?”

What? What had he been talking about? Was it the supermarket aisles being moved around or the neighbour’s dog barking at 3am? Whatever it was, I was sure it couldn’t be more annoying than cornering a random museum employee to use as a personal comments box. Isn’t this what the newspaper letters section was invented for?

“Oh yes, of course.” I said, smiling and nodding like a dashboard ornament, the only social rules I knew. I hadn’t been paying attention to what he’d been saying for a while now, but I hoped that was the right response. I’m sure he wouldn’t have noticed anyway. He just wanted someone to agree with his insane ramblings. Maybe if I wasn’t so annoyed, I would have actually felt sorry for him.

“It’s outrageous, isn’t it?” He said, chuckling to himself, inciting me to give an obviously fake laugh in response.

The strangest thing happened then. He turned around, still laughing to himself, and left the room. My forced smile finally drooped. The stench of his breath would haunt me for weeks. Worse than that, he had stolen fifteen minutes of my work time then wandered off as if it had been nothing.

He hadn’t even left a donation in the box.

 

Writing Lesson of the Week – I Gave up on Short Stories…Almost

18 Friday Nov 2016

Posted by in musings, self publishing, Short story, story, writing, writing advice, writing lesson of the week

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I used to write a tonne of short stories and probably have a whole box full of incomplete ones in my parent’s attic. That’s because when I was studying Creative Writing, we were often assigned short stories as it was a much easier way to complete a writing exercise and for the tutor to assess our writing ability. I kept this practice up in the few years immediately following graduation and did fairly well. The first story I submitted to a contest was placed and included in an anthology. But that was 5 years ago and I haven’t had any success with short stories since then.

I have written a few short stories since then and submitted a few to contests, but otherwise I have all but abandoned short stories. I used to set targets for how many stories I was going to submit in each year and fell behind every time. This year I have submitted a grand total of one story, and that was only last month. This is because once I became serious about completing my novel (which is very close to the end of the second draft!) and getting published, I realised that I only have a certain amount of free time each week for ‘personal writing’. Working on a short story takes time away from my novel, meaning it will take me longer to complete it and it is more likely that I will miss my self-imposed deadline.

There are some exceptions, like when I get a really good idea that just won’t leave me alone. If I read about a contest or publication I am particularly interested in and think I have a shot at then I will submit something to them. That’s why I have still submitted a few stories to Magic Oxygen, since they plant a tree for every story they receive.

I’ve also taken a quick break from my novel right now because I read about a publisher that accepts the type of writing I do and I had an old story lingering on my hard drive that I’m adapting for that publisher. Even if they don’t accept it I can always submit it to another publication or even publish it as an Amazon short. That would actually give me a good test run for when I eventually publish my novel.

The only problem is that the short story is now running away with me and becoming longer than anticipated. And I’m becoming overly attached to the characters in the same way I do with my novel characters. And it may turn into a novella. This might have been a mistake…

End of Year Post

29 Tuesday Dec 2015

Posted by in blogging, christmas, Editing, freelancing, indie, musings, Short story, writing

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2015 is coming to a close and I don’t think I’m the only person who found this year emotionally draining. It was my first full year of living in Finland and my expat dream didn’t go as smoothly as I had hoped. The first few months of the year were downright depressing for me with no work at all and a dwindling bank account. But in a weird way, reaching that low point motivated me to set things right and do things properly. As such, my work load exploded from that point on and I now have several regular clients I am doing work for on an almost daily basis. Considering that in the last few years since I graduated, there were months at a time where nothing at all happened to me, it’s been quite an incredible transformation.

That wasn’t the only thing I achieved this year. I had my first print book editing credit. (Unfortunately I don’t have a photo to prove it. Thanks, Royal Mail!) I’ve had reviews and articles published on several websites, making up quite a nice portfolio for myself. I’ve been doing a lot of photography, which I really enjoy, and have even had some pictures published. I’ve kept this blog more or less constantly updated. Most exciting of all, I finished the first draft of my novel! I’ve been working on-and-off on it since university so I’m very happy about that.

Despite all these successes, I’m still not earning a whole lot more than what I was making when I worked part time jobs. Working from home does mean I’m saving money on transport and eating on the go and it is definitely preferable to working retail, but I do still have to work very hard to make just above minimum wage.

As such, my main goal for 2016 is to pitch to higher paying clients so I can gradually wean myself off of the low paying clients and write more stuff that I’m passionate about. Ideally I’d like to do the same amount of work I do now for more money. I know it’s possible. Other goals for this year are:

  • Learn Finnish. I know it’s awful that I’ve been living here for over a year and I know barely any Finnish. I’m maintaining a stereotype about British expats that I all too often complain about. I have had many other issues this year to deal with and I didn’t have any money for classes, but I’ll try to find a way to at least learn a little by myself.
  • Finish the second draft of my novel. I already have a plan in place and a very long list of books to read for research. I’ve already spotted a lot of plot holes and things I want to change so it’s going to be a fun challenge!
  • Practice more photography. Perhaps even get some more photos published.
  • Market more through social media. It’s such an important thing for freelancers but I’ve been neglecting it far too much. Apparently browsing on Tumblr doesn’t count.
  • Keep my blog updated.
  • Submit more short stories. I’ve already found a few interesting anthologies I want to submit to this year. I also have some old stories stewing around on my laptop that I want to get out there.

If like me you’ve had a difficult and challenging year, at least it’s over now and we all have the chance for a fresh start. Don’t let yourself get anxious or depressed because trust me, it’s not worth it and there is always a way to dig yourself out of whatever hole you find yourself in.

Here’s to 2016 not sucking quite as much as 2015!

Can you write a story in six words?

18 Monday May 2015

Posted by in Editing, musings, proofreading, Short story, story, writing, writing advice

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Last year I wrote this article about how writing flash fiction, that is stories of 1,000 words or less, can help make you a better novel writer. I got some great feedback about that post from people saying how useful it was. One of the examples I noted was Ernest Hemingway’s famous six word story which he supposedly wrote on a bet:

‘For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.’

That’s the one everyone quotes as it’s the original and probably the best, but there are many other great examples.

This year I decided to take my micro fiction writing a step further when I saw a six word short story competition and decided to enter. At first I didn’t know where to start so I tried a technique I use when I’m trying to come up with new ideas. I made a list of about a dozen six word stories then left it for a night. The next day I went back to look over the list and found which ones worked. I re-worked and tweaked those stories until I thought they were right.

Regrettably, I became distracted by something else and almost missed the closing date of the contest. I ended up entering my stories at the last minute without doing a final check through them. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t win the contest but it was still a wonderfully creative exercise. I think it would make a great warm up exercise for a Creative Writing class or a way to get out of writer’s block. You can practise your writing skills and challenge yourself creatively without having to spend ages writing out a short story.

As a novelist and a Tolkein enthusiast, I always use excessive waffle in my stories so I think there are certain professions that are much better at this exercise than I am. Advertising copywriters are essentially doing this to sell products. News headlines need to grab the reader instantly. When you think about it, there are examples all around us of people telling micro stories every day. Some of them reminisce with us more than full length novels do. How many famous advertising slogans have been stuck in your head since you were a child?

It may seem hard to sum up an entire event or emotion in a few words but we do it all the time in our everyday speech. When we swear, we are basically venting all of our feelings and frustrations in a single word. We use the simplest words to express our deepest emotions, ‘Thank you’ or ‘I love you’.

As you can see, six word stories can teach us a lot about the usage and beauty of our language. I’m still learning how to write them myself so I’m not going to go into how it’s done just yet, but I do recommend you give it a go. It’s hard to get right but if you do, you’ll find how to write a great story with the bare minimum of waffle, which will help you with your long form writing. Maybe try writing a six word story every day or when you’re trying to get over a writing slump. You might even get good enough to enter or even win a contest.

Have you ever tried writing a six word story? Do you have any advice for how to write one? Leave a comment and tell me.

Tell a fairy tale day

26 Thursday Feb 2015

Posted by in Editing, fairy tale, fantasy, Short story, story, writing

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Yesterday I wrote about my plans for today, Tell a Fairy Tale Day, and how I set myself a challenge to write a new fairy tale story in a day.

It turns out I didn’t really need to plan out the story yesterday, as I had plenty of time to both plan and write it. I suppose because I’m used to reading and writing fairy tales that they come to me much more easily than other forms of writing do. My work as a ghostwriter in the past few months has really sped up my writing so I’m now used to writing good stories in a very short space of time.

But then again, if I had developed the idea today then it would have been very different from the one I came up with yesterday and might not have been as good. I’m very pleased with the story I did write, and that I was able to write 1600 words in a day. Plus the assignment I had to finish this morning. Plus this blog post. Wow, in the years after I graduated I only wrote a few chapters of my novel every year, and now I can write close to 2000 words in a day with time to spare. My life has really turned around.

As it’s still a first draft, I won’t be posting my story just yet. In the next few days I’ll edit it and then decide whether it’s fit for publishing or entering into a contest.

For now, as it’s both Tell a Fairy Tale Day and Throwback Thursday, I’ll re-post a link to a fairy tale I wrote a few years ago, which was the first story I had shortlisted for a contest. Enjoy!

The Stone Angel.

Tell a fairy tale day (is tomorrow)

25 Wednesday Feb 2015

Posted by in fairy tale, fantasy, musings, Short story, story, writing

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Tomorrow, February 26th, is annual Tell a Fairy Tale Day so I have set myself a challenge to write a fairy tale story on that day. After I’ve completed all my chores like the big pile of ironing and do a final check over for a writing assignment, I’ll spend the rest of the day writing the first draft of my story.

I’ve been preparing today by coming up with ideas and writing the synopsis that I will use tomorrow to write the actual story.

Coming up with an idea for a short story is usually difficult for me as I always seem to come up with a long list of cliches. But I do often find that using pictures, and particularly a series of unrelated pictures can inspire a story. This was how I came up with the idea for a short story I recently finished called Fish and Chips. I had a picture of fish and chips with a bite taken out of the fish, which was how I came up with the idea of someone stealing a bit of someone’s fish and chips. The next picture was of a city that I assumed was in a foreign country which is how I got the idea for the person who stole the fish to escape somewhere new. This became a story about someone escaping from an abusive relationship.

For this story, I used whatever random pictures that popped up on my Tumblr dashboard to give me ideas. It was hard at first, but eventually I started looking at this picture which inspired me:

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I used this room as the setting and combined it with some of the other random ideas I’d written down and I had the idea for a whole story in about half an hour. After I sleep on it I might decide it’s terrible, as I’m still a little unsure about the ending. But I still think it’s a good basis for a story.

In the next few days I’ll post about how I got on with the writing of the actual story and after I’ve tidied up the first draft, I’ll decide what I want to do with it – post it online, enter it to a contest or extend it into a longer story. I’ll be back again in a few days.

New short story – Fish and Chips.

23 Friday Jan 2015

Posted by in Editing, Short story, story, writing

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I’ve completed a new short story! I started writing this one a few years ago, using the writing prompt of taking a few random pictures and using them as the basis for a story, a very useful prompt that I use a lot. I rewrote and re-edited it many times and sent it out to several short story contests but I feel I’ve done as much for this story as I can do. Plus I’d like to focus on writing new stories instead of constantly rewriting my old ones. So here it is, hope you enjoy.

The copyright of this story belongs to me. It must not be republished or printed anywhere else without my prior consent.

Fish and Chips.

“I’m hungry.” Toby said, without taking his eyes away from the TV or his tobacco stained fingers off the remote.

“So?” I replied.

It was a typical evening; I was trying my hardest to focus on reading while he switched aimlessly between channels, swore loudly at the screen and turned the volume up higher each time I asked him to turn it down.

“So go get me something from the chippy.” He demanded. I pulled back the curtains in time to see the next door neighbour’s recycling bins being blown over by the wind, their spilled contents completely soaked by the rain within seconds.

“There’s some spaghetti hoops in the cupboard.” I said, closing the curtains on the turbulent night and returning to my book.

“I don’t want spaghetti hoops, I want a deep fried cod, chips, and sausage with ketchup and barbeque sauce. And hurry up, last time you took so long it was cold.”

“What’s the point of me buying those tins if you won’t touch them?” I asked, looking up from my book once more, quickly losing hope of reading any further. “The reason I get them is so we have some food in the cupboard whenever we want without having to go out all the time and wasting our money.”

“My money you mean.”

“I got a fresh baguette this morning that we can have with them.”

“I never told you to waste my money on spaghetti hoops.” He said, raising his voice. “And if I wanted a baguette I’d go to bloody France. Now get going before the chippy gets crowded.”

I rose from my comfortable chair in front of the fire, knowing full well that it would be taken by the time I got back. “I’ll need some money.”

Toby glared at me with disgust then rolled his eyes. He seemed to have been born with a permanent frown. His stained teeth, misshapen face and dirty nails certainly didn’t help with his appeal. It was easy to discern that he could never derive joy from anything. Except humiliating me, of course.

“You know I’m skint.” He said, taking a swig of his beer and burping loudly and purposefully in my direction with a rare hint of delight on his face.

“And yet you always have plenty when we’re at the betting shop.” I responded.

He picked up my book from the side table and flung it at me. I was used to him throwing things at me so I dodged it and it smacked into the wall instead of my head. At least that time the spine didn’t break; one more damaged book and the library would have banned me.

“Don’t be clever. Just because you read books doesn’t mean you know everything.”

“Maybe I should watch television and get drunk all day instead. Then I’ll know plenty.”

He threw the ashtray at me that time. It barely missed my shoulder, leaving a dark ash stain on the wall and the carpet covered in broken glass.

“Get to the damn chippy or I’m coming back to haunt you when I starve to death.” He snarled before turning his attention back to the TV.

Arguing was useless and I didn’t want anything else thrown at me. Even if I ended up in hospital he would still insist that I feed him. There was nothing more I could do other than gather up my last few remaining coins and prepare myself for the storm. His accusing eyes watched me the entire time, just looking for any excuse to blame me for something.

The moment I took a step out into the freezing night, an icy blast of wind and rain hit me in the face. I hadn’t even left the front porch and already I had to wipe the raindrops from my glasses.

“Close that door. You’re letting the cold in. My chips had better not be wet when you get back.” Toby bellowed from his chair.

“Don’t worry, your precious chips will be completely dry.” I called back, slamming the door and heading out. By the time I reached the end of the garden path my shoes were already soaked through. I wished I could afford to buy new ones but all of the little money I had went to indulging Toby. He didn’t need to be so paranoid about the chippy being crowded. Nobody would be stupid enough to go out for fish and chips in this weather.

 

Mr Papadopoulos, the man who ran the local takeaway, greeted me cheerfully as he always did, even as I dripped dirty rain water over his polished white tiles. He was eager for company as I appeared to be his only customer on that miserable evening.

“Nothing for you today?” He asked after he took my order. I didn’t even need to say anything; he already knew that I was running a forced errand for my house mate.

“Oh you know how it is, money’s a bit tight right now. But it’s ok, I’ve got some spaghetti hoops at home. And a baguette.” I replied, inching over to the radiator and feeling guilty about spreading the puddle I was making even further.

“Well I’m sure it’ll get better. A smart lad like you should have no trouble finding a job.”

“It’s not that easy. That’s why I had to move back in with Toby.” I mumbled awkwardly, eyeing the holiday pamphlets on the counter top.

“It’s good of you to do all of this for him.” Papadopoulos said with a kind but pitying smile.

“He lets me stay in his house. I owe him something.” I said as I handed over the last of my change to pay for Toby’s dinner.

“Yes, but running around after him is hardly worth room and board. Where would Toby be without you? I doubt he could even buy a train ticket without someone to do it for him.” He said.

I noticed that he put in a few extra chips when he boxed up the food. As much as I appreciated the gesture, I knew that I wouldn’t be getting any of them. I would be lucky to have a bite of the gristle. “Have a good evening.” He said as he handed me the box.

I sheltered it under my coat as I set back out into the cold. The last time I brought the food back just a little damp, Toby said it was ruined and sent me out again.

The box felt so warm and the fish smelt delicious, particularly inviting on such a night. And it wasn’t even for me. Just for once, I wished it was for me.

 

Finally back in the living room, and dripping all over the recently cleaned carpet, I found Toby, as I expected, in my chair by the fire. The remains of the ash tray were still there but Toby had at least picked up my library book from the floor. His beer can was resting on top of it.

I held out the box as if I was making an offering to appease an angry god and he grabbed it expectantly.

“At last. I was wearing away to my bones. You really took your time. I don’t know how much longer I would’ve-” He stopped, staring perplexed into the box for a moment. “You took a bite out of this, didn’t you?” He shot me an angry look.

“What? No.” I replied, completely truthfully. I had picked off the skin, not bitten it. “I don’t need fish and chips, I’ve got some spaghetti hoops in the cupboard.”

“What’s this then?” He said, holding the box out towards me. Almost the whole top half of the skin was missing.

“It came like that.” I said, retrieving my book and wiping the beer drops and cigarette ash off the cover, trying my hardest not to grin.

“It came with half the skin missing?”

“Or maybe it fell off.” I said, sitting in the vacant chair and picking up the heavily worn TV guide. He rifled through the chips, under the fish and sausages and even in the pot of sauce.

“It’s not there.”

“Mr Papadopoulos must not have had time to wrap it very tightly. Just like you said, the chippy was packed.” I said without taking my eyes off the page.

“It was in a box, not wrapped. How could it fall out?”

I didn’t need to look at him to know how red his face was turning.

“Oh, now I remember. I tripped on the broken step when I came in. Almost twisted my ankle again. It must have dropped off out there. Moulin Rouge is starting in a minute.”

I risked a peek over the edge of the magazine. His face was lobster red. It reminded me of last summer when I told him not to go out without sun lotion.

He marched to the door, flung it open, nearly ripping it off its hinges (it wouldn’t be the first time) and went out into what was by then close to an Arctic storm. With only the light from the living room to see with, he squatted down and started scanning the paving slabs. “So where do you think you dropped it?”

“Hold on, let me think…Uh, yes, I believe it went in the grass.” I turned on the TV to Moulin Rouge, a film I knew he hated.

“Turn that down. Where in the grass?” He called over the noise of the TV.

“I don’t know, just somewhere in the grass.” I said, picking up the takeaway box and dunking a couple of chips into the sauce. I watched as he squinted at the leaves and twigs, dislodging them while trying to avoid the dirt. “Your food is getting cold.” I called to him

“You lied to me again. There’s no skin out here.” Toby said, not looking at me as I started on the first sausage.

“Well I never actually said it definitely fell off out there, if you’ll remember.”

I heard his words catch in his throat, followed by a series of short gasping noises.

“Well?” He said, his rage close to unleashing. “Where is it then?”

“If it’s not out there then it must still be at the chippy.”

“Right, I’ll get that Papadopoulos for this. Thinks he can cheat me out of my skin.” He said, marching down the path, not even noticing the rain or that he wasn’t wearing a coat.

“Have a good time.” I stood waving from the front door.

“You shut up. I’ll deal with you when I get back.” He hollered back.

I waited until he had left the garden path before finally closing the door on the cold then heading to the kitchen to get a Pepsi from the fridge. I felt a little sorry for sending an angry Toby to Mr Papadopoulos. But I also remembered what had happened to the last person who had shouted abuse at him.

 

It was almost an hour later when I got his call. I hadn’t expected him to take so long.

“Yeah?” I said as I answered his call.

“It wasn’t there!” He screamed down the phone.

“I never said it was.”

“And Papadopoulos punched me in the face.”

“You shouldn’t have been so horrible to him. He works very hard and takes great pride in what he does, and why shouldn’t he? That fish was delicious and his chips are the best.”

“I knew it! I knew you ate it. Couldn’t help yourself could you? I ask you to do one thing and you have to go and be all greedy. You think you’re so smart but I had you all along. You rat…” He stopped. I already knew why.

“Something wrong?” I said, wishing he could see my smirk.

“It’s gone! All of it!”

“Not all of it. I saved half for later. I have a long trip ahead of me.” I said, glancing at the airtight box stashed in my bag.

“You had my last Pepsi too. Where are you?”

“I’m not sure.” I said, again completely truthfully. It was so dark outside that I couldn’t even tell where the train was passing through. “By now I could be anywhere between home and Athens. Mr Papadopoulos says it’s lovely there.”

“You…You never appreciated anything I did for you. All you do is moan. And now you’ve gone and left me with nothing to eat, you selfish little-”

“Actually, I did think of that. I left something for you on a plate in the fridge. Oh, and could you do me a favor and return my book to the library? Otherwise there will be a fine, and you know who’ll have to pay that, you being the responsible one and everything.” I ended the call before I had time to hear any more from him and settled back in my seat, nibbling on one of the remaining chips.

Listening to the rain pelting the train window, I closed my eyes and imagined him rushing to the fridge like a starving beggar and yanking the door open. I grinned as I pictured the look on his face when he saw the Chinese takeaway menu sitting on the plate.