big thank you to those lovely people at Station Magazine. As my 48 hour hangover from their Christmas party eases off, I am pleased to say that their latest issue includes a short story by yours truly.
You can read the story, Fallen Angels, on page 15 of this pdf of the magazine.
Filed under Station Magazine
ime for another piece of Flash Fiction. It was written a while ago, but is appropriately enough set in the town where all this Henry kerfuffle began. Enjoy!
Somewhere around my twentieth red taster I sprang – or was sprung – from the air-conditioned comfort of the wine emporium into the dazzling Parisian afternoon.
My narrowed pupils focused lazily on my watch, but its hands gave more questions than answers.
Was I on Greenwich or Paris time?
Either way I was late.
“Where were you?” asked Werner as I entered the café and ordered a glass of house red from the white-aproned waiter.
“Yeah, sorry about that old chap. Got held up on the blasted metro – didn’t quite have the shekels for a cab ride over. Oh, and I had the most fabulous glass of Burgundy at that tasting place. You’ve got to sort yourself out with some of that, and get me some while you’re ____”
“No, not that.” Werner cut me off.
“Although you are over an hour late and I was just about to leave and I can’t say I’m surprised at where…”
“What…oh, lovely. Merci garçon.”
White-apron plonked the plonk on the small round table between myself and Werner.
“Would you like one? Might get him to line up another– it’s thirsty weather out there.”
“No thanks, it’s still a bit early for me. Anyway. Where were you, last night?”
I relayed to Werner my pixellated recollection of the past twenty-four hours. I was met off the train by Jeanette, my old chum Humphrey Delancey’s wife. Humphrey didn’t knock off from his terribly important job at the Embassy until late afternoon, so Jeanette and I headed for her favourite haunt in the streets south of the Champs Elysées, amusing ourselves until old Humpty could join us.
He arrived in what must have been hours but with Jeanette seemed like minutes later, suggesting we all head out of the city to taste, in his words “some real wine”. Humpty really has become a wine bore since moving to France.
It was a good two hour drive out of Paris to the family Chateau of Humpty’s French counterpart, but what an opportunity – to drink wines that men with bank balances the size of third world debts would kill for!
“You only live once,” I said and winked at Werner…and live I did – so vehemently that little else of the evening could be recalled.
“Well you weren’t supposed to be there, were you?”
“What?! Now come on. I mean that’s a bit much. I know you grease the wheels from time to time but that’s not a licence to bark orders. No man is the boss of me, Werner, especially not you.”
“Look – firstly, you know I don’t use that ridiculous name anymore – and secondly you were supposed to be at my recital. I don’t know why I bother.”
“Oh come on, you’re a big man now. Doubtless there were plenty of people there happy to applaud you and laud you? I’m surprised you even noticed my absence. I really don’t understand what all this fuss is about?”
“No, Dad. You never do.”
Filed under Flash Fiction
ast night Ireland faced great injustice in the Stade de France. I penned a little ditty:
I admit it was me,
Thierry Henry.
I was that Gaul, that Gaul with the gall
To handle the ball
Once; then again.
Amid a flurry of men
Among Les Bleus, the whites and the green.
My old gunning friend
Turned it into the net
And with a pang of regret
I heard La Marseillaise ring out
Mocking mad Irish shouts
Of J’accuse! J’accuse Thierry Henry!
My actions were wrong, but
Then again
It is a folly of all men
To bend the rules when chasing your dreams.
Filed under Poetry
ast night I finished a Christmas-themed short story for Station magazine, which, surprisingly, will appear in the December issue.
Between now and then I do plan for another, already written, Flash Fiction piece to appear here, but I’m itching to write another story and thought you could help.
I have two openings for two different stories, and would be interested to know which you one you think is worth pursuing next.
Have a look at the two openings below, then let me know which one I should run with. Please do so via twitter, facebook, email, or the comments section here. Whichever opening gets the most votes, that’s the one I’ll bash out as an entry to the Brit Writers’ Awards.
Harry’s arm lay on the table. The rest of Harry paced around the white room.
You are my father. You are my brother. You are my lover. You are my life.
Filed under Uncategorized
ere’s a piece of flash fiction entitled Yes Man. It first appeared on the now-defunct website brevitything.co.uk in September 2008, under the theme of “Back to School”. It’s only 250 words long, and is one of my first stabs at creative writing.
Yes Man
“Nneeeeeeeeathsssss.”
I struggle to indentify the source of the strange noises filling my dimly lit living room. The telly is blank and of the two of us in here, it certainly isn’t the smiling sycophant opposite.
“Eeeeeeeeeathsssss.”
Her badge says speech therapist but she’s basically a potty trainer…if only I had a potty mouth. My problem is oral constipation, not verbal diarrhoea.
“Eeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrsssssssss.”
Hardly Gloucester’s soliloquy. A month ago I was moulding young minds, waxing lyrical on Nabakov’s brilliant postmodern reconstruction of the novel in Pale Fire. Now…
“Eyerrrrssss.”
Potty Trainer is cooing over my efforts as if I’m a toddler naming animals or colours or bodily functions.
I wish I was.
The continuous trickle of dribble falling out of the lower left side of my mouth makes me more closely resemble a vegetative newborn.
“Yrrrrssssssssssss.”
Now Potty is spouting all kinds of techniques to return me to the man I was.
I’ll never be him again. But giving Potty what she wants – outward displays of a sentient being – is not a matter of technique, nor fate or chance for that matter.
It is a matter of will. And I will force electrical signals to whiz back and forth across this barren landscape once more. I will elevate my tongue, lips, jaw and vocal chords from this discordant mess to a harmonious team.
I will talk again…if only to be shot of Potty.
“eeYeesssssssssss.s.s” Yes! Oh God, Potty is about to wet herself with excitement. Tomorrow I’ll try “no”.
Filed under Flash Fiction
ight. That’s the easy bit over with. I’ve set up this blog as a home for my short stories, either through links to those that have been published or as a final resting place for those unable to find a home elsewhere.
Enjoy…and be patient (I am anything but prolific).
Filed under Uncategorized
