Featured post

MaJaTo Scribes Explained

This may be the first bit of text you read on this blog, so I'd better make it good.  Perhaps I should start with a joke about writing. ...

Thursday, 5 December 2024

42 Stories Anthology

A few years ago I contributed a story to potential anthology, which was collecting 42 word-stories under 42 genres, with 42 stories per genre (do, 1764 stories, or 74,088 words).

Without much thought I dashed off an story,  titled Do Vampires Dream Of Shepherds With Sheep? - Rather cleverly, the title was 42 characters long. Hopefully you noticed the title pays homage to Philip K. Dick. 

Anyway, here's the link to the anthology - 42 Stories Anthology 

Note, there is also an e-book version. 

Do Vampire Dream Of Shepherds With Sheep? is under the Vampires section, alphabetical on author surname, story 39. 

Saturday, 8 June 2024

A Weighted Method of Measuring Problems

 “You’ve got ninety-nine problems, Mr Jay-Zed?” muttered Art Raymond, as he stared at his own jaded face in the shaving mirror. Background music emanated from a Bluetooth speaker stuck to the tiled wall.  

“That’s nothing; I support Darlington FC, pal. That’s your ninety-nine problems and then some. More like eighteen hundred and eighty-three problems.”

Art tried to hold the razor close to his face but his hand shook violently. Art stared at his feet, focused on his breathing and tried to steady himself.

“Course, that’s just that tip of it. Bad choice of football club, that’s one thing. No woman, no job, living above my parent’s garage, a touch of schizophrenia, an ulcer the size of a rugby ball, no right foot, and all my so-called mates have abandoned me.”

This time the blunted razor touched his cheek but Art sensed another wobble and pulled it away. He swished the razor in the sink as though this would help.

“If there was some kind of proportional, erm, let’s say a weighted ranking system for problems, well, mine would be in the thousands.”

Imitating Jonny Rotten, Art stared at the mirror, clutching a microphone razor and snarled. “Nooooo future. Nooooo future. Nooooo future for me. I mean it, man.”

Perhaps the unshaven look wasn’t so bad Art decided, and placed the razor down and unplugged the sink. The draining water gurgled as the last remnants sucked down the plughole.  

Addressing the mirror again, Art continued, “All this thanks to an annoying daily habit of supping from 2-litre bottles of supermarket own-brand cider. Oh, that and heroin. Definitely the heroin. Leader of a political party material, ain’t I? Well, if I had a full head of hair and most of my own teeth, then maybe.

“Listen, I ain’t comparing myself to Jay-Zed. I can’t. I’m not from the hood. Firth Moor don’t even compare. I haven’t faced racial stereotyping all my life, I had an okay upbringing. I just messed up bad and there doesn’t seem any way to climb out of this. I quite like BeyoncĂ©, mind.”

A sudden urge to scratch an itch on his phantom foot disrupted his introspection for a moment. With a shoe on his prosthesis, this physical disability was hidden. If only the emotional disabilities could be so well covered, Art considered.

Art took one more glance at the mirror, adjusted his tie and said to his reflection, “Good luck, you messed up idiot. You’re gonna need it even more than The Quakers do.”

On his way to the door Art stopped to pick up his keys and stuffed his notes in to his back pocket. He had no idea why he’d been chosen to speak to a delegation of politicians about addiction. It was not even as if Art was free of his dependence. 

As the door creaked closed, Art stopped and pulled the notes out again and scanned the first line: ‘They say talking about your problems is one way to reduce them…’ Art was hooked on this being true. 

Maybe ninety-nine was an achievable number; It’s good to have goals.



I found this forgotten short story whilst tidying up my digital writing folders. It was written in 2019 and duly sent away to a short story website, and it would appear that it fell through the cracks as the website in the website's submission process. Oh well. Anyway here it is. 


Thursday, 26 October 2023

Nothing Bequeathed

 

They’re inside me. Squirming. On the move.

Flash backs flood my subconscious thoughts.

The searing pain bursting out of my chest.

The hurt in your eyes.

The touch of the surgeons gloved hands.

The cold mortuary slab.

I felt it all.

My line was flat, yet here I am.

In a state of flux between there and gone.

Trapped inside my mind.

Cocooned in a box unable to wake, slipping away.

Slowly being eaten alive.

Prayers unanswered like eternal voicemail.

Thursday, 11 May 2023

The Label Around Your Neck

Occasionally I like to challenge myself with word-limit fiction. Here's a bit of 50-word fiction for you...


“Another miracle of modern science,” said Dr. Jones, congratulating Dr. Shaal. 

Dr. Shaal stood watch at the window of the neonatal unit, embodying disquietude.

“Have you noticed how all children aren’t born with labels?" asked Dr. Shaal rhetorically. 

Unaware, the Novak’s loomed over their new-born daughter, applying their bygone tags.