The personal website of writer and blogger Patrick Kidd

2014 – A Year In Stories: Week 16 – Kelli and the Chubby Pandas


Posted on April 27, 2014 by

Despite being a rather grumpy man for football related reasons today I had a very fun time writing this story. I had actually been looking forward to this one for a while as there were plenty of things I could have done with it.

I don’t know that I’ve got the best out of it, but that’s what editing is for, I suppose. I’ll have plenty of time to think about how to make it, and all the other stories reach their full potential before I come to rewrite them next year.

Anyway, I am going on again, so here, as per the request of my good friend Kelli Savill on Facebook, is ‘the story of Kelli and the Chubby Pandas’.

2014 – A Year In Stories
Week 16
Kelli and the Chubby Pandas

“Iiiiiiiit’s Entertainment Tonight, with your host, Robbie Falstaff!”

The cameras panned down from the ceiling to focus on a desk with a high-backed leather chair behind it as the show’s house band played the theme. The desk was on a raised dais, next to which were three smaller, less expensive chairs for guests to sit on.

The host of the show, Robbie Falstaff, made his way out to a cheering studio audience, waving at all of the cameras as he walked by, a huge grin on his face.

As he moved to sit down behind his desk the applause and the music died down, prompted by show runners outside of the view of the cameras.

“Good evening, and welcome to Entertainment Tonight! I’m your host, Robbie Falstaff, and folks, do we have a show for you tonight? Coming up later we have a celebrity couple that is the talk of Tinseltown, and music from international megastars Kelli and the Chubby Pandas. But, up first we have a special interview with the Chubby Pandas front woman herself, Kelli ‘Panda’ Savill!”

The house band struck up once more and played a short jingle as Kelli Savill walked out on to the set, waving and smiling at the crowd as she went. She was wearing a sparkling silver jumpsuit and a panda hat.

As the music died down again she took her seat next to the dais.

“Kelli, it’s great to have you on the show,” Robbie said, leaning forward.
“It’s a pleasure to be here, Robbie,” Kelli replied.
“Kelli, the Chubby Pandas are just great. I understand that your new single, ‘Panda Pops’, has broken the record for fastest selling digital single of all time…” A big cheer went up from the crowd, interrupting Robbie. “Add that to the list of other records you’ve smashed this year with your quintuple platinum album ‘Black and White’ and surely it’s fair to say that the Chubby Pandas are the biggest band in the world right now?”
“Well Robbie, I don’t know about that, but it has been a really amazing journey to get here.”
“I understand that there is quite an interesting story related to the band’s formation. Would you tell us a little bit more about how it came about?”
“Of course, Robbie, I’d be glad to. It all started one day in Colchester, England back in 1994…”


“Now there’s no need to be afraid, dear. The foster home isn’t a scary place. There’s lots of other children your age there to play with and if sure you’ll make lots of friends.”
The little girl continued to bawl her eyes out. “But I want my mummy and daddy!” she cried.
“Oh sweetheart,” the matron of the foster home said, trying to console her. “I’m afraid that’s not possible at the moment.”
“Don’t they love me?” the girl cried. It seemed that the matron’s words were only making things worse.
“Of course they love you, dear,” she said, putting her arm around the child, “But it’s very complicated. How old are you, dear?” The matron knew, of course, but she wanted to draw the little girl out of her current state of mind.
“I’m ten years old,” the girl replied, still sobbing.
“Well now, you’re very brave for a ten year old girl. I sure your mummy and daddy are very proud of you for how brave you have been coming here.”
The girl’s face lit up. “Do you really think so?”
“I do. In fact they told me just how brave you would be and you are right. They asked me to look after you here for a little while until they have sorted some things out, and then they will come and collect you again. OK?”
“OK,” the girl sniffed, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
“Now, a little bird tells me that you are a very talented singer, is that true?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well then, there’s a few people I’d like you to meet. They are all very talented musicians. Perhaps you can be friends?”
“I’d like that.”

The matron and the girl stood up and walked out of the office in to the common area, where a group of three girls were sat around playing idly with some musical instruments.

“Girls, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” the matron said. “This is Kelli. Kelli, the girl there with the guitar is Ingrid, the girl at the drum kit is Sherri, and the girl behind the keyboard is Louise.”
“Hi, Kelli,” the girls said in unison, as the young Kelli stood wide-eyed.
“Are you guys in a band?” she asked, dreamily.
“Yeah,” Ingrid replied. “We’re called the Chubby Pandas, but none of us can sing, so we suck!”
“I can sing!” Kelli replied. “And I LOVE pandas!”


“…and that is how we all met.”
“But you were only ten years old at the time, and the Chubby Pandas didn’t record their first single until you were fifteen, correct?”
“That’s right, Robbie,” Kelli continued. “Sadly, not long after we met we would be split up…”


“That was a great practice, girls,” Ingrid said after the band had stopped playing. “I think we are starting to get really good!”
“I can’t believe we have only been together for six months,” Kelli added. “It feels like I have known you girls all my life!”
There was a short rap on the door of the room they used to practice in, and then the door slowly opened. It was the matron.
“Girls, I have some good news. Louise, Sherri, come with me.”


“…and so Louise and Sherri were adopted,” Kelli went on. “By different families, actually, it was just a coincidence that it happened on the same day. But they stayed in touch as they lived near each other. Ingrid and I kept playing together in the foster home, but it didn’t feel the same without the other two backing us up.”
“That must have been a really tough time for you all,” Robbie interjected.
“It was. Eventually Ingrid and I were both adopted by the same family, so at least we got to stick together. It was three years later that fate would bring the Chubby Pandas back together…”


The bell above the coffee shop door jingled as it opened. The two girls, one slightly older than the other, walked in and sat down at a table in the window. They continued to talk amongst themselves until one of the servers came over to take their order.

The pair turned to face the server, and there was a clatter as the her pen hit the floor.

“Louise, is that you?” the elder of the two girls asked.
“Ingrid! Kelli! What are you doing here?” Louise replied, hugging them both. “I’ve missed you both so much!”
“Our adopted family moved back to Colchester recently,” Ingrid, who was the older girl, said.
“We haven’t seen you in years!” Kelli added.
“I know! Do you girls still play together?”
“Sure, we got adopted together and have been practicing every night like we always did,” Kelli said.
“This is so exciting!” Louise replied. “Hang on a second. There’s someone else here who will want to say hello!”

Louise ran off to go and find who she was talking about whilst Kelli and Ingrid sat at the table, experiencing a mixture of surprise and happiness. Eventually Louise returned with none other than Sherri, the fourth Chubby Panda, who was also working at the café.

Louise and Sherri spoke to their boss who let them finish early, and the four girls spent hours reminiscing about the good times they had together in the foster home. Eventually the conversation turned to the band.

“Do you think we should get back together?” Ingrid asked.
“I don’t know,” Sherri replied. “I haven’t played he drums in forever. What if I don’t remember how?”
“I don’t even know where my keyboard is anymore. I think my mum put it in the attic…” Louise said.
“But we were so good!” Kelli replied. “I bet with just a little practice we could get back to our old level.”
“I don’t know…” Sherri said, hesitantly.
“Come on!” Ingrid said. “Those times when we played together were the happiest times of my life. It made me feel really special to be part of a band like that, like it really meant something. Even if we suck now, even if we have completely lost what we had back then, is it not worth reuniting the band so we can get those good feelings back again?” She put her hand palm down over the table. “Come on, who is with me?”
“Yeah!” said Kelli, and she put her hand on top of Ingrid’s.
“You’re right,” Sherri added and did the same.
Louise looked at the faces of her three friends, and slowly moved her hand on top of the other three. “It looks like the Chubby Pandas are back…”

Ingrid smiled at her bandmates. And with a “One, two, three, Pandas!” the girls all threw their hands in the air.


“Wow, what a story!” Robbie said, wiping a tear from his eye.
“It turned out that we were still as good as back at the foster home. I guess playing music is like riding a bike! A few months later a promoter heard us play at the Colchester Arts Centre and offered us a record deal right away. Soon enough we had recorded our first single and, well, the rest is history.”
“Well now, that really is the most fascinating and heartwarming tale. Here was me thinking I couldn’t love this band any more than I already did, and you go and come out with a story like that!”
“Thanks, Robbie.”
“Well we have to go to a commercial break now, but when we come back Kelli here, and her band the Chubby Pandas, are going to perform their new smash hit single ‘Panda Pops’, and it’s a real cracker. We will be right back after these messages!”


2014 – A Year In Stories: Week 15 – To Boldly Go


Posted on April 20, 2014 by

I’ve broken my own (unwritten) rules slightly this week. When I started this project the idea was to write the stories in the order they were requested, but a couple of weeks I put out an ask for more ideas, and Mat ‘@pillowfort’ Jones suggested that I enter a competition that is ending in the next couple of weeks.

So I made the decision to push my schedule back a week and grind out an entry to War of the Words, a bad science fiction writing jam. The full rules can be found here but essentially the idea was to write the worst sci-fi story possible and submit it for consideration. If I win I will get a custom book cover designed for me, so let’s hope that my writing is as bad as I think it is.

I mean, I think this is pretty bad. But deliberately so. Also, who knew that deliberately writing badly was so hard? It usually comes so naturally.

There was no brief this week as such, so the plot, or lack thereof, is entirely my own. Back to your regular scheduled programming next week, but for now, I give you ‘To Boldly Go’.

2014 – A Year In Stories
Week 15
To Boldly Go

The sound of the metal boots crashing against the floor echoed down the length of the corridor. The robed figure trudged on until it reached a door, at which point it stopped and entered a number in to a keypad. A red light flickered on and the door slid upwards.

The room was dimly lit and sparsely furnished. A bench lay against one wall and a small toilet, not cleaned for some time, was the only other item of decoration present.

In one corner of the room three people were huddled together for warmth, or perhaps out of fear. One of them, a woman, looked up at the robed figure as it entered, a look of abject terror spread across her gaunt features.

“Get up, all of you,” the robed figure barked in an artificial, electronic tone. “You are to be blasted from the airlock in one hour.”

The figure hefted a laser rifle and aimed it at the three huddled bodies,a waiting compliance.


The room began to fill with people, and slowly but surely everyone took their seats around the large conference table.

“I wonder why the Admiral has called us all here,” Captain Janus said to Captain Worrall, who was sat next to him.
“There’s only one reason that the Admiral would call together all of the Galactic Union’s crack starship captains,” Worrall replied. “The Union must be about to go to war.”

The hubbub of individual conversations died down as the Admiral, an imposing man in his 60s, with white hair swept in to the room in full dress uniform.

“Now listen up you pukes, and listen good,” he rasped. “I know you’re the best goddamn starship captains in the Galactic Union fleet, but you’re all mavericks and I’m sick of you not playing by the rules. The Galactic Union is going to war and we need our best captains out there on the front line.”
“Who are we fighting?” Captain Praxis, of the SS Grisedale, asked.
“The Wolgane of Vixia V. They are a hyper intelligent equine race similar to a mythical creature known as a ‘horse’ that was rumoured to exist before the Great Devastation back on Terra.”

At the mention of the Great Devastation everyone in the room performed an elaborate hand gesture, which ended with a collective utterance of the sentence “May we be forgiven.”

“One of their unmanned, or rather unhorsed, robotic probes breached Union space yesterday and refused to turn back when hailed,” the Admiral continued after the proper tradition had been observed. “This was seen by the Galactic Council as a universal act of aggression and a declaration of intent for all out war against the Galactic Union. We must eradicate this filth at the source before it can do the same to us. It’s kill or be killed out there. You know what you have to do so go out there and kill some space filth.”
With that the Admiral turned and stormed out of the room as quick as he had arrived moments earlier. The room was left in stunned silence until another man stood up. It was Captain Cork of the SS Freelance Opportunity and he looked pumped.

“You heard the Admiral! You know what we have to do! We gotta go and kick these Wolgane right in their elongated faces! Do it for McFiggins!” he said to the room, practically screaming the words. The mention of the deceased hero ace pilot McFiggins raised a suitable cheer, and everyone went back to their starships ready to introduce some alien horse scum to the business end of their boots.


Two weeks later the fleet of ships were in orbit around the home planet of the Wolgane, Vixia V.

Captain Cork stood on the bridge of his ship looking triumphantly down on the planet. The planet itself was mostly an icy wasteland, and the equine population lived primarily in a temperate belt around the planet’s equator. This made carpet bombing the habitable areas all the easier, and Cork was pleased that the war was going swimmingly.

As he cast his gaze over the planet his crew was preparing an away mission, to be led by himself, to demand peace terms from the belligerent horse people below.

His second in command, Commander Speck approached him from behind.

“Captain, the team is prepared.”
“Plenty of red shirted officers, like I ordered?”
“Yes sir. I’m sure your logical postulation that profligacy of the colour red will startle them in to ultimate submission to the Galactic Union is a wise one indeed.”
“Good. Set a table for us all, we will have a party when we return to the ship victorious.”

The two men began walking to the transporter room.

“Tell me,” the Captain asked. “What can we expect from these horse people?”
“Well, Captain, they are notorious warriors, but reluctant to leave their planet. That is why one of their robotic probes was encountered in Union space, rather than a manned ship, and this is also why we have encountered little resistance during our prolonged orbital bombardment. I suspect we will encounter much more in the way of a battle on the surface.”
“But we are…prepared?”
“I believe we have superior firepower at our disposal.”
“But most importantly, what of their women?”
“The Wolgane are notorious lovers, sir. Renowned the galaxy over for their passionate lovemaking and sensual tantric abilities.”
“Wonderful, I look forward to making a diplomatic connection with another new species.”


An hour later the away team rematerialised after beaming down on to the planet’s surface. The party was two short, as two of the red shirts were lost in a transporter malfunction, but the surviving members quickly moved out and met fierce resistance from the Wolgane forces.

It wasn’t long before the sway team had been reduced to Captain Cork and Commander Speck, and the two men were completely surrounded, unable to transport back to the ship as the operator was on lunch.

“We surrender!” the Captain shouted as the ring of horse people closed on then, and they were taken to the capital city.

Once they had entered the capital with their horse escort, they were taken to the royal palace, where they were brought immediately before the King and Queen of the Wolgane.

“What are the Galactic Union’s demands?” the Queen asked.
“An immediate cessation of hostilities by the Wolgane people and a withdrawal of all unmanned probes from Union space,” Captain Cork replied. “And personally I would like to make love to one of your women.”
“Our unmanned probes are also unarmed. At no point have the Wolgane engaged in any hostility against the Galactic Union. In fact is is the Union’s troops that are currently bombarding our planet from high orbit and massacring our people.”
“Personally I find it disgusting that you are unwilling to acknowledge the Wolgane’s role in this conflict. If your probe had not breached our space the. We would not be here bombing your people. The blood of all your weird alien comrades is on your hands, your majesty, not ours.”
“Our planet is devastated, our population utterly decimated and our army defeated. If I thought you were a target of any value whatsoever I would use you as a bargaining chip to barter peace with your misguided leaders, but you are a bumbling buffoon of a starship captain who led a team of 15 people, mostly rookies up against an army of 15,000 well armed troops garrisoned outside our capital city, so I suspect I would be laughed out of the negotiation room, if I were not blasted out with a laser.”
“What are you saying?” Commander Speck asked.
“I’m saying that if I killed you two right here I would be doing your Galactic Union a favour. There is nothing left for us to negotiate. Our population has been reduced from 6 billion to under 1 million in a matter of days.
“So there will be no lovemaking?” Cork asked despondently.
“Not for you, no”
And with that the Queen of the Wolgane lifted a laser pistol with her hoof and obliterated Cork and Speck in two shots.


Vixia V was destroyed a few hours later, but not before two suspicially equine looking creatures wearing the Galactic Union navy uniforms of a Captain and a Commander. They posed as Cork and Speck for the whole trip back to Galactic Union HQ before opening fire on the Galactic Council building and blowing them all up so the Galactic Union collapsed so really it was a bit of a disaster by all accounts and they probably should have just left the peaceful horse people to their own devices.

The galaxy returned to peace forever more, and there was never again an organisation as mighty as the Galactic Union, because most species realised that space travel was stupid anyway and that all the cool stuff they needed was right there on their own planets.

The End


2014 – A Year In Stories: Week 14 – Happily Ever After


Posted on April 13, 2014 by

I can say with some certainty that this week’s story is by far one of the most personalised ones I’ve written so far.

With the exception of a couple of my very early stories I haven’t written any with characters based on people I know, so it was interesting to try and personalise this one as much as I did.

It’s possible, or more likely probable, that the result is a bit impenetrable to anyone who doesn’t know anything about Merseyside, Liverpool or football, but then each story is meant to be for the person who suggested it, so I make no apologies for that.

So, if you are the sort of person who would not be able to break through that, then perhaps this isn’t the story for you. However, if you can ignore all the metaphor and simile, I think there’s actually a pretty good tale under there, so go nuts.

And so, without further ado, I present to you this week’s suggestion from Elizabeth Scott: ‘A story about a redheaded princess named Elizabeth who finds true love after dating wankers for years.’

2014 – A Year In Stories
Week 14
Happily Ever After

Once upon a time, a long time ago, there existed a kingdom, known as Wavertreevia.

There were three factions within the kingdom. The Red Men of Anne’s Field were the strongest and mightiest warriors in the land, and did regular and bloody battle with the neighbouring kingdom, the vile and despicable Kingdom of Mancunia, ruled by the despotic King Moyes, whose Red Devils and Citizens were clueless, and no match for the might of the Red Men and their Kopite infantry.

The second faction were from the town of Evertonia, and wore almost exclusively blue, but sometimes neon pink when they were away from home. They were a weaker tribe than the Red Men, and were constantly in their shadow, lacking the strength or character to compete with the mighty warriors.

This led to their constant grumbling about their inferiority, insisting that it hadn’t always been the case. As a result they gained the nickname ‘the Bitters’, and to led to much good natured teasing in the ale houses of Wavertreevia when the Red Men claimed victory yet again.

Finally there were those who lived over the water, or the Wools as they were known. They were tolerated in the cities of Wavertreevia but mocked mercilessly when they tried to pass as true residents of the kingdom, for their warriors even lacked the quality possessed by the people of Evertonia.

The three tribes held an easy peace within the kingdom, united in their hatred of the evil people of Mancunia, particularly the Red Devils, the lack of internal competition preventing the local rivalries from boiling over beyond the odd pub brawl.

The kingdom had been ruled by the Scott family for many generations. The current King, John Joseph had been on the throne for decades, and the people were happy and contented with his rule. All except one.


“This is shite,” the princess said.
“What is, Princess Elizabeth?” her handmaiden replied, whilst brushing Elizabeth’s long, fiery red hair.
“I’m 29 years old and I’m still single. It’s pure shite,” Elizabeth explained. She slumped down on to the window sill of her room at the top of the tallest tower in the castle, despondent.
“But Princess Elizabeth, you are the most beautiful woman in all the lands of Wavertreevia, and you are a noted wit, surely you must have your pick of the men of this kingdom,” the handmaiden replied, surprised to hear of this state of affairs.
“Oh aye, yer, but the problem isn’t with me is it?” Elizabeth said with a dismissive flick of her hand.
“What do you mean, my lady?”
“It’s the men! Every single fella in this kingdom is a wanker. A gobshite. Or worse, a Wool. At least, the ones that aren’t taken anyway.”
“Oh, I see, I’d never thought about it like that before,” said the handmaiden, calmly, continuing to brush Princess Elizabeth’s hair, all the while recalling her own experiences with the menfolk of the kingdom. “But now you come to mention it they are a shower of bastards, aren’t they?”


King John Joseph I and his Queen, Irene, sat in the throne room.

“This simply won’t do,” the King muttered.
“What’s the matter, dear?” the Queen asked, looking up from a book.
“Elizabeth will be 30 years old next year and she is yet to marry. As my only child she will be Queen one day after I have passed on, and she must continue the Scott line. It has gone unbroken for hundreds of years and I shall not let it be discontinued on my watch.”
“But she has courted many suitors from the kingdom over the years and each time it has turned out the same. When things begin to get serious they turn out to be despicable, foolish, or worse, Wools.”
“Indeed,” the King sighed. “That is why I have made a decision. It is a difficult one for me to make, for the traditions of Wavertreevia state that the royal family should not marry outside of the peoples of the kingdom, but times are dire and needs must. Princess Elizabeth must marry…an outsider.”


Princess Elizabeth walked through the large double doors that led to throne room as they were opened by two servants, one clad in red and one in blue.

It was a long walk down the length of the room to her parents’ thrones, and she felt very self conscious as she heard her high heels click along the stone floor with every step.

“Hello, my dear,” the King said as she reached the end of the room.
“Iyer dad, mum,” Elizabeth replied.
“Do you know why I have summoned you here, Elizabeth?”
“No idea.”
“Your mother and I think it is high time you settled down and married someone,”
“Dad I’ve told ya, all the men around here are nobheads. It’s not like I haven’t been trying. I even had a crack at a few of the girls but none of there were anything special neither,” Elizabeth lamented. “I can’t get married if everyone is proper shite.”
“I agree,” her father said. “Though I’m not sure I would have out it quite like that. In light of the fact that there are no appropriate suitors in the Kingdom of Wavertreevia, we have sent out word that a tournament is due to be held to decide who will win your hand. The games will begin in one week, and we are expecting competitors from all around the world to attend.”
“Oh ey, dad, but what if they’re all nobheads as well?” Elizabeth protested.
“Then so be it, a nobhead you shall marry.”
“Are you ‘avin a laugh? I’m not marrying a gobshite no matter where he’s from.”
“Then you had better hope that the winner is worthy of marriage, because my word is final and this tournament is going ahead.”


Elizabeth spent the week leading up to the tournament sulking in her room. She only allowed entry to her handmaidens, who brought her regular supplies of chip butties and lippy.

Eventually, and somewhat reluctantly she emerged on the day of the tourney to sit in the royal box in the grandstand alongside her father and mother.

The competitors lined up in front of the grandstand, to present themselves to the royal family.

There were several men there that Elizabeth recognised. Champions from the Red Men of Anne’s Field, and the blue clad warriors of Evertonia lined up with a gaggle of outsiders.
Elizabeth sighed as she immediately checked these men off the list. Three of them she had dated already, and the other was apparently crap in bed, so she was definitely not interested.

She scanned her way idly down the rest of the line. There were roughly 30 competitors in all, and none of them leapt out at her immediately as someone she would care to spend the rest of her days with. That is, none of them until she reached the end of the line.

Her eyes widened as she spotted the final two competitors, talking idly with each other as they waited to be inspected. They stood tall and proud in their gleaming armour, and Elizabeth was immediately in love with both of them.

“Dad, who are they?” she asked, pointing the two men out.
“That is Lord Jamie of the Red Knapp, and next to him is Sir Steven Gerrard of High Town, a small independent territory near the borders of Wavertreevia.”
“Can I just have both of them?” Elizabeth wondered, dreamily. “They’re well fit.”
Her father frowned. “We shall see,” he replied. “The tournament will decide if they are worthy.”


And so the tourney went on throughout the day, and gradually more and more of the suitors were eliminated. By sunset, only two men remained. To Elizabeth’s delight, the two were Lord Jamie and Sir Steven.

The King rose from his chair.

“We have seen some brave feats of combat today, and many great men have gone home defeated. And thus we bring the day’s events to a close with one final battle. A round of single combat to decide who will ultimately take my daughter’s hand…”
“They can take more than me hand,” Elizabeth said, loud enough for the two men to hear.
Her father went on, choosing to ignore his daughter. “…you will fight until one of you yields. Take your positions and begin.”

The two men clasped each other’s wrists in a show of solidarity, and backed away, swords drawn.

“Ooh, I can’t watch,” Elizabeth squealed.

The two men fought bravely against each other for some time, neither managing to gain the upper hand over the other, no matter how hard they tried, and the battle raged on long in to the night.

By the time both men slumped simultaneously to their knees, too exhausted to continue, most of the crowd had gone home, bored with the contest. But Elizabeth and her mother and father were all still sat there, watching, Elizabeth much more keenly than her parents.

“Well?” she asked. “Neither of them lost, dad. Can I keep them both?”

Her father furrowed his brow. “A situation like this has never presented itself before, I must consult with my Prime Minister.”

Prime Minister Rodgers stepped forward and opened the book of laws of the kingdom. He thumbed his way through the pages, eventually finding the one he required.

“My lord, there is nothing in the laws of the land that states that Princess Elizabeth cannot marry both men. In fact, it rather demands it, as our land has no method of deciding a tie in cases of a draw.”
“Very well,” the King sighed. “But remind me to discuss that shoot out concept that one of the courtiers proposed last month. It seems perfect for such a conundrum.”
“Boss!” Elizabeth declared, and ran over and gave both Sir Steven and Lord Jamie a big snog. “Eeeee,” she squealed. “They’re both dead fit!”

Princess Elizabeth married both Sir Steven AND Lord Jamie in a single ceremony. She split her time evenly between the two, although her favourite days were when they both took her out down Wavertreevia One to go shopping.

And so Princess Elizabeth, her mother and father, and all the people of the world lived Happily Ever After.

Except for the people of Mancunia, who were thoroughly miserable for the rest of eternity.

The End


2014 – A Year In Stories: Week 13 – The Lady of the Forest


Posted on April 6, 2014 by

It’s a bit of a double feature this last fortnight as this week’s story is another request from my good friend Llinos.

And yes, if you have already requested a story please feel free to ask for another one. I still have plenty of slots available before the end of the year, so don’t be shy, come and request a second tale.

Or, you know, if so far you have just been reading and have been thinking “Well cor blimey, lawks a mercy, I wouldn’t mind ‘avin meself one of them there new-fangled stories!” (because you all think like 18th century chimney sweeps AND DON’T DENY IT) then now is the time to come forward.

What was it those adverts used to say? Book now to avoid disappointment?

Anyway, on with the yarn, which is about ‘a lady with a psychic connection to trees.’

2014 – A Year In Stories
Week 13
The Lady of the Forest

The three boys did their best to sneak quietly down the path through the trees, although their silent tiptoeing was largely cancelled out by their loudly whispered conversation.

“Why do we have to do this?” one of them moaned. He had slightly grimy cheeks and had a general air of scruffiness about him. Unironed jumper, shirt not tucked in and tousled dirty blonde hair that looked as though it hadn’t seem a comb in recent history.

The tallest of the three boys, who appeared to be the leader, stopped and turned to face his companions. “Because Billy Naismith dared us. You can’t go back on a dare, Callum. EVERYONE knows that.”

“Yeah, I know…” the boy identified as Callum responded, defensively.

The three boys were year 7 pupils at the nearby Gosworth Comprehensive School. The darer in question, Billy Naismith was one of the coolest kids in year 10. To refuse a dare would lead to accusations of being chicken, but to refuse a dare from Billy was tantamount to social suicide at the school.

Not that any of the three of them; Callum, the scruffy one, George, the tall leader and Danny, who was the shy and quiet one of the group, were anything like cool or old enough to really worry about whether or not their social stock could deteriorate any further.

Even so, that was the kind of thing that 11 year olds worried about, and so to them, refusing the dare was unthinkable.

They trudged on for a little while in silence.

“What if she IS a witch?” Danny asked quietly, almost to himself.
“Well then she will turn us in to a newt or cook us or something,” George replied.
Danny screwed his face up. “My mum won’t like that,” he said. “She told me to be home for dinner, not to BE dinner.”
“Witches aren’t real you idiots,” Callum chimed in. “They’re a…what’s it called…a myth innit.”
“My brother told me they were real,” George interjected. “And that they live in gingerbread cottages and turn people in to stuff and have cauldrons.”
“Well then your brother’s an idiot too,” Callum said.

They turned a bend in the forest path and there it was. Callum noted smugly that the cottage was made out of stones and not gingerbread.

It was only small. A single-floored building which looked like it could only have had two or three rooms at most. The thatched roof was drooping over the stone walls, and the whole thing looked as though it could have used some loving care about 30 years ago.

“Do you think she’s home?” Danny asked.
“I can’t see any lights on in the windows,” George said stepping forward. He felt the twig snap underfoot as he walked slowly up to the gate. The forest was so quiet it could probably have been heard for miles around.

The boys heard a rustling come from behind the cottage, and a woman’s voice called out “Hello, is there someone there?”
“Leg it!” George hissed, and the three boys scattered from the path and in to the trees.

No sooner was the last boy out of sight than the owner of the voice appeared from round the side of the cottage.

She was middle aged, with light brown hair that was greying in places. Her long, flowing dress was made of cotton that, like her cottage, looked as though it had seen better days.

The woman was carrying a broom made from a branch and a bundle of dried twigs, which she propped up against the wall of her house. Folding her arms across her chest she began to look around the small clearing.

“Funny,” she said to no one in particular. “I could have sworn I heard someone. Oh well.”

She glanced up at the sky and, noting the position of the sun, said to herself “Oh my, that time already?”

The boys peaked out from their hiding places as the woman opened the creaky oak door to the cottage and went inside. They ducked back down as she reemerged a few seconds later, holding some sticks and a box of matches.

She walked up to one of the trees and pushed on of the sticks in to a knot, before setting it alight with a match. The clearing began to fill with the scent of incense as the lady sat cross legged in front of the tree. The boys watched intently as she shut her eyes, placed one hand on her forehead and another on the tree.

“What’s she doing?” Danny whispered to Callum.
“I don’t know,” Callum replied. “And shush, or she’ll hear us.”

They continued to watch as she remained sat in the same position for another few minutes. Eventually she removed her hands down to her lap and nodded.

“I understand,” she said, seemingly to the tree itself. “Until tomorrow.” She rose and, with a last look around the glade, went inside the cottage.

“Let’s get out of here!” George said, and the three boys scrambled their way down the path as quick as their legs could carry them.


That night Callum barely touched his dinner.

“Come on love, you’ve not had any of your egg and chips,” his mum said, in that loving chastising way that only mums who have slaved over a hot stove to make the dinner can muster.
“Mum I saw a witch today!” the boy blurted out.
“Don’t be daft, love, there’s no such thing as witches, at least not as what could do magic on you anyway…” his mother replied, smiling.
“No mum, I swear down! She lived in the forest in a rickety old cottage and had a broomstick and talked to the trees and everything!”
“What were you doing in the forest, young man?!” his mum demanded. “It’s dangerous in there.”
His dad looked up from the evening paper. “She’s not a witch, son, she’s just an old hippy who lives out in the forest by herself. She’s been out there for 25 years.”
“I SAW IT WITH MY OWN EYES!” Callum shouted, pushing his chair away from the table. “I’M NOT MAKING IT UP!”

With that he ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He didn’t emerge from his room until the next day, when it was time for school.


At break time the three boys congregated behind the science building.

“We have to go back in to the forest this evening,” Callum announced.
“Why?” George asked. “We did the dare, Billy believed us.”
“We have to prove that she is a witch somehow. My parents didn’t believe me last night!” he said excitedly, and then, sounding hurt, added “They laughed at me.”

George and Danny looked at each other.
“Alright, fine,” George said eventually.


That afternoon they met outside the school gates and walked off in the direction of the forest.

“I wonder what spells she can do and stuff,” Danny wondered aloud as they walked.
“Probably loads,” George mused. “I bet she has all the forest animals working for her.”
“If you had to be turned in to an animal by her what animal would you choose?” Danny went on, his sense of curiosity about the unknown overwhelming his usual coyness.
“Probably a dog,” George answered. “They have the most fun.”
“She wouldn’t give you a choice, dummy,” Callum said. “She’d turn you in to something horrible like a newt or a toad or a slug. No one ever gets turned in to anything nice like a dog or a cat.”

That rather killed off the conversation, and the three were silent for the rest of the walk. Eventually they reached the clearing and the cottage again, and just as the day before there didn’t seem to be anyone around.

“What time is it?” Callum hissed.
“4 o’clock,” George replied, looking at his watch.
“She will be out any minute then. Let’s hide.”

The three took up positions between two giant oaks a little way away from the house, and waited for the woman to emerge.

Sure enough, at around the same time as she had the day before, she appeared from round the back of the house with her broom and took her position in front of the same tree, after lighting another stick of incense.

“Do you think she flew here on it?” Callum whispered, but neither of the boys felt able to give a definitive answer about the behaviours of a real life witch, so didn’t answer.

They watched as she sat, seemingly in commune with the tree, until suddenly she jerked upright.

“They’re in danger?!” she shouted. “Where?” The woman began to cast about, looking for any sort of danger, before seemingly receiving a response from the tree. “I see,” she said, before turning and running in the direction of the boys hiding spot.
“Boys I know you’re there,” she called out. “You are in grave danger, you need to get out from between those trees right now. Make your way out in to the clearing.”

Callum, Danny and George looked at each other before wordlessly complying. Sure enough, just as they emerged from the tree line and in to the glade, they heard a loud crashing coming from where they had just been.

When they went back to investigate, they saw that the ground they had been stood on had collapsed in to a hollow cave like area beneath, and the two oaks had collapsed inwards, and were now resting on each other.
They would surely have been killed, or at least very badly hurt.

“W-what just happened?!” Danny asked.
“The witch saved us!” George cried.

The woman stood in the clearing near to where the boys were gathered, her arms folded across her chest, staring at them.

“So you think I’m a witch, eh?” she asked.
“You was talking to that tree!” Callum observed.
“You’ve got me on that one,” the woman said, shrugging. “But I’m not a witch. At least, not a proper witch like in the stories. There’s no such thing as magic, you know.”
“Then how did you know we was about to die?” Callum protested.
“Well, like you said, I was talking to the tree. It sensed that its brother oaks were in danger, and that three other of my kind were in danger too.”
“Well, isn’t talking to trees like, magic, and stuff?” George interjected.
The woman smiled. “No, I am just gifted with the ability to talk to plants. There are many like me. Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea and I’ll tell you a bit more?”
“And you won’t cook us?” Danny asked warily.
“Not even slightly,” the woman beamed.


That night Callum burst in to his house with a huge grin on his face.
“What are you so cheerful about?” his dad asked.

Callum was so excited that all the words came out almost at once.

“You’ll never believe what happened! I met the witch, but she’s not a witch, she’s just a bit psychic, but only when it comes to talking to trees and plants. And her name is Imelda and she brews herbal tea using her own herbs from her garden ands be made her own broom with bits of tree, but she doesn’t fly on it because like I said she’s not a witch.”

Callum only stopped at this point because he ran out of breath. His father stared at him for a moment over the lip of his paper. “You’re right,” he said eventually. “I don’t believe you,” and went back to reading the sports pullout.


2014 – A Year In Stories: Week 12 – Goal? Attack!


Posted on March 30, 2014 by

I have a friend, about whom I have written on this blog before. In many ways Llinos (whose wedding I was joint best man at last year) thrives on making my life as difficult as possible, so of course the stories (she has another coming next week) she submitted for my challenge were going to be as dastardly in conception as most of her schemes.

I’m doing her a disservice here, she is really very nice, but her suggestion to write a story ‘about a school netball team who have to fight a mythological creature’ is pretty fiendish. Particularly as I don’t know the rules of netball.

Anyway, here is the result. I hope they kicked as much ass as she intended.

2014 – A Year In Stories
Week 12
Goal? Attack!

“Pass it!” Jemima screamed to Cathy. But, as usual, Cathy didn’t listen.
Jem watched as her teammate spurned another golden opportunity to pass to a player in a better position and took the shot on goal herself.

As expected it bounced back off the rim of the net and fell neatly in to the hands of the opposition Goalkeeper.

The game was tied at 45-45 in the fourth quarter. There were only minutes to go and that was the third time that her Goal Attack had squandered an opportunity to take the lead.

As play reset she ran over to remonstrate.

“What are you doing?!” she asked angrily.
Cathy shrugged. “Trying to score,” she replied, nonplussed.
“Look, Cathy, I’m the captain of this team and you need to listen to what I say. I was in a much better position to try a shot and you just ignored me and did your own thing.
“You’re a really good Goal Attack and we all want you at the club but you’ve got to be a team player sometimes and not just go for glory yourself every time you get a sniff of a shot on.”
Cathy shrugged. “Whatever.”

Jemima threw her arms up in the air in frustration and retook her position in the opposition third. The game went on and eventually the team, the Brixton High School Belles, lost 50-47.


Netball was in Jemima’s blood. Her mother had been in the England national team as a Goal Shooter for a number of years and she had taken the sport up when she started primary school.

She was gifted, and took after her mother by playing in the Goal Shooter position she had made her name in back in the 80s, before she had Jemima.
She was 16 now, and she enjoyed playing, but really had only stuck it out for this long because her mother was watching over her shoulder. Whilst her mother had been a decent player at international level, she had never quite reached the glittering heights of superstardom, and her career had been cut short by the unexpected arrival of a daughter.

And so she put all of her hopes in to Jemima, dreaming that one day she would be captain of the England netball team, and the greatest international player the country had ever seen.

Jem hadn’t yet had the heart to tell her that she wanted to be a nurse.

She had called a team meeting after the defeat the day before. She was the youngest captain the English Schools Netball League had ever seen, and she was still trying to get to grips with the pressure of being a leader.

The loss had hurt the Belles badly. They were third in the league, and the team that had beaten them, the Haverstock Harpies were above them in the table, and had only widened the gap between them.

She arrived at the school to find it deserted. It was late, of course, and all of the students had gone home hours earlier, and only the most diligent teachers were still in their classrooms marking papers.

But of course Mr Longstone, the elderly janitor was still pottering around the gymnasium when she arrived. She said hello to the friendly old man and went inside.

She was the first to arrive so she got some chairs out and set them up in a circle. Over the next few minutes the rest of the team slowly filtered in. Lucy arrived first, then Olivia and Mary came in together, and the rest of the girls all arrived together.

That left just one, and surprising no one that one was Cathy.

Cathy had only recently transferred over to the school when her family had moved down from Yorkshire, but she was finding settling in to the school and the team a little difficult, and had been a disruptive element since the start.

The only problem was that she was the best Goal Attack they had by miles, and none of them could quite bring themselves to agree that kicking her out of the team would ultimately be for the best.

Eventually she turned up and everyone settled in.

“I think we all know why we are here,” Jemima said, beginning the meeting. “If we are going to stand even the slightest chance of winning the league this year we have to work better as a team,” she went on, looking pointedly at Cathy as she did so.
Olivia sat up smartly. “I agree,” she said. “We will never win the league if we all play as individuals.”

At that point Mr Longstone walked in through the big double doors of the gymnasium.

“Are you girls ok?” he asked. “I thought I heard raised voices.”
“Everything’s fine, Mr L, thanks,” Jemima replied.
“OK then, you let me know if you need anything.”

As the old man turned to leave a terrifying, unearthly shriek came from outside. Everyone in the room reclined in horror at the noise, which did not sound as though it had been made by a creature not of this world.
“What on earth was that?!” the janitor cried. “I should go take a l…”

Before he could finish his sentence the wall of the building was torn asunder and a seven headed serpentine creature burst through the gap, picking up the janitor with one of its heads and swallowing him whole.
A collective scream echoed around the room as people scattered left and right.

“What are we going to do?!” Olivia wailed.
“Is that a HYDRA?!” several of the girls cried in unison.

The beast bore down on Jemima with malice aforethought, intent on an after dinner snack. The team captain stood there, unable to move from the sheer terror. Her life flashed before her eyes as she awaited her fate.

She flinched and shut her eyes as the beast strode up to her, but instead of taking a bite from her it moved right on past and lumbered after one of her teammates who was running away.

Risking a glance she saw that it had indeed passed her right by and was giving Mary the run around behind the five-a-side football goals.

“What just happened?” she said to no one in particular, seeing as how everyone else in the room was rather preoccupied with not being eaten by a hydra at this point.

As it happened Olivia was stood a few feet behind her, standing as stock still as she was.

“It couldn’t see you,” she said.
“What do you mean it couldn’t see me?” Jem replied. “I was right in front of it!”
“It’s a serpent, isn’t it?”
“It’s a bloody mythological creature is what it is!” Jemima responded, a little too snappily.

Jemima turned round and Olivia rolled her eyes.

“Don’t you pay attention in biology?” her teammate asked. “Serpents don’t see like mammals. They detect heat. You just looked like an oddly tall and warm rock to it because you were stood still. The hydra might be mythical but it’s still a snake. Those idiots,” she went on, inclining her head towards the rest of the team who were running around flailing their hands, “are attracting its attention by moving.”
“Right,” Jemima said, formulating a plan. This would be a true test of her leadership. And what were netball players good at if not standing still in high pressure situations?
“Listen up girls,” she shouted. “I want all of you to do catching drill immediately.”
“What are you doing?” Olivia asked.
“Getting them to stop. If they stop running it will stop chasing them for now and buy us some time.”

Sure enough all the girls had stopped in their tracks. The hydra was looking rather confused by the whole situation, and a couple of the heads were sniffing around the girls, but none were going in for the kill.

“What now?” Olivia asked.
“Well, how do you kill a hydra?” Jemima replied.
“I read a book once that said you have to chop off the heads…”

Without further ado Jemima cast about for objects that could be used for that purpose and found that she was in reach of some metal rims from disused nets. She picked one up, hefted it and threw it with full force at the creature.

It seemd to be going way off course, but as luck would have it the hydra moved one of its serpentine necks up and met the rim side on. The head slumped to the ground and turned to dust in front of their eyes.

The beast reared for a second, bellowing out a terrible scream, before settling again. Moments later, the flailing dismembered neck settled down and, like magic, two new heads grew in place of the old one.

“I thought you said I should cut it off!” Jemima yelled in disbelief.
“You didn’t let me finish!” Olivia remonstrated. “You have to chop off the heads, but if you don’t stop it two will grow back in its place!”
“Well how do you stop it?”
Olivia could only shrug. “I don’t know,move never fought a bloody hydra before. I got bored before that bit of the Wikipedia article…”
“You cauterise it.”

Olivia and Jemima turned around to see where the new voice had come from. It was Cathy.

“What do you know about hydras?!” they both asked in unison.
“My mum lived in Greece for a while,” Cathy said sheepishly, clutching her arms close to her chest. “She used to read me bedtime stories from a book of myths she bought in Athens. The way to stop a hydra growing its heads back is by cauterising the wound.”
A spark of inspiration hit Jemima. “Do you have a lighter?” Cathy nodded. “Alright, I’m going to need you to do exactly as I say.” The erstwhile rebel nodded again.

And so between the three of them they formulated a plan.


“OK girls, here’s how it’s going to go down,” Jemima called out. “Find anything you can that will sever one of the heads. Lucy and Alice, there’s a bunch of discuses near you. The rest of you will have to use the net rims dotted around.” The girls nodded. “Olivia and Mary, you run interference. Distract it long enough to buy the rest of us some time.” Olivia opened her mouth to protest at being used as cannon fodder but thought better of it. “Cathy and I will light these netballs on fire and throw them at the open wounds to stop the heads coming back. Are we understood?”

Jemima took the silence as agreement. “3, 2, 1. Go Belles!”

Her rallying call was met with a chorus of returns, and the team got to work.
Mary and Olivia ran around the beast and through its legs, trying to confuse it and tie its necks up in knots. Meanwhile the rest of girls unleashed hell, hurling everything within arms reach. Many shots missed, but enough were doing damage and eventually heads began to tumble. Cathy and Jem were ready to capitalised and sent the flaming balls on to the end of the necks with remarkable precision.

Before long the monster was defeated, and the girls lay around the gymnasium, exhausted, battered and bruised. No one had been seriously hurt in the ordeal, except for poor Mr Longstone, and the team had survived to fight another day.

Jemima, who was slumped up against a vaulting horse, turned to Cathy who was lying face down on a crash mat nearby.

“Now do you see the benefits of teamwork?” she asked, wryly.
Cathy looked up and smiled. “Sure, but I’m still not passing to you if I think I can score.”

The pair’s laughter echoed around the room as they lay sround the body of their defeated enemy.


2014 – A Year In Stories: Week 11 – In Off the Rim


Posted on March 23, 2014 by

Hello all, just a quick word from me this week. I’m sad to say that this week’s story isn’t very good. I rushed it a tad at the last minute and honestly I think it would have been better if I hadn’t included any named characters at all.

Oh well, no one will ever be completely happy with everything they write. And after all, that is what editing is for!

My cousin Simon (father of Rosie and Sam from one of my early stories) asked for: ‘A huge asteroid heads towards earth. The world awaits with baited breath. Good news: it missed! Bad news: it took out the moon. Cue massive changes to tides the world over, mass flooding and the rapid collapse of civilisation.’

And here it is!

2014 – A Year In Stories
Week 11
In Off the Rim

2000 Years Ago

The quiet in the void was deafening. The icy, craggy mass hurtled its way through the vastness of space like a master assassin. Silent. Deadly.

It careened on with a purpose beyond comprehension. One day this ball of rock would affect the destinies of billions of people.

Without warning it collided heavily with another asteroid, and in that one action the very fate of human history was defined.

The rock span out of its orbit around this far off star; a star as yet unknown to humanity, whose fledgling civilizations were only now looking up in wonder at the heavens, and wondering if perhaps they held the answer to life’s questions, utterly oblivious to how right they were.

The Near Future

Jeff Rogers sat dozing in his chair at Jodrell Bank. It was 3am and he had drawn the night shifts this week. It wasn’t so bad. Someone had to man the equipment that looked out in to the infinity of space in case new objects were perceived entering the solar system that required an early warning.

This was the last of his night shifts for the week, and there had been nothing to report. There was never anything to report. He had been working at Jodrell Bank for 5 years and he had never had to report a single incoming object during the night shift.

It seemed to him that it was almost as though the universe went to sleep at night with everyone else. Of course, when he thought about it the idea was preposterous. It was always night time somewhere on earth, and new objects were sighted several times daily. Perhaps the universe just ran on GMT.
His colleague wandered past the open office door.

“How’re things, Jeff?” the man asked, poking his head in.

Jeff came to and glanced at his watch. “3 o’clock and all’s well, Barry…” He replied, with a wry smile, and went back to sleep.


On the other side of the northern hemisphere, in a room deep below Cheyenne Mountain, Sergeant Benny Goulding of the United States Army 405th Rifles, a stellar avionics expert on special secondment to NORAD, sat and watched what everyone in the base affectionately called the ‘Fortune Teller’.

It was actually a series of sophisticated computers linked to a number of orbiting satellites and other probes sent in to the depths of the solar system.

It’s sole purpose was to detect incoming interstellar objects, and determine the chances of any one of those objects colliding with and obliterating the Earth. It existed to give humanity a few hours warning if the whole planet was fucked.

Sergeant Goulding sipped at a cup of coffee and listened to the familiar bleeps indicating that the system was fully functional. It looked like it would be another easy shift.


Scientists had been predicting for years that eventually the earth would be on a collision course with an interstellar object the same size as the one that wiped out the dinosaurs all those millions of years ago.

Most of them would say with a wave of the hand that any such event was millions of years away, that mankind would long since have left the confines of its home planet and conquered far off stars by the time some kind of cosmic disaster wiped the tiny blue and green rock from the annals of history.

But there were those who were a lot more pessimistic. It’s only a matter of time, they would warn, wagging a cautionary finger, as their more reserved colleagues made a joke of their crackpot theories behind their backs.

They were constantly dismissed as nutjobs. The kind of people convinced that everything was out to destroy the world. From Vesuvius and the super volcanoes in Yellowstone to solar flares and the San Andreas fault, the planet and everything outside was trying to wipe away the stain of humanity in one way or another.

Quite some of these scientists were about to, for a very brief moment indeed, feel extremely smug.
Both machines were set off within seconds of each other as the asteroid reached their sensor range.

The British dishes, which were older and suffered from a lack of military funding enjoyed by their American counterparts picked up the signals just as the red phone on Jeff Rogers’ desk buzzed.
He jerked awake, nearly falling off his chair in surprise at the sudden noise.

The phone was designed to be used when one station reported an unusual object and needed to check with its sister station to verify the sighting. He picked up the phone gingerly, and licked his dry lips.



Sergeant Goulding replaced the receiver slowly. He let out a long breath and slicked his hair back. This was it. This was not a drill. He went through his procedures in his head. In this situation it was necessary to immediately inform the Commander in Chief. He had to call the President.


It wasn’t long before the news filtered its way down to the general public. An asteroid had entered the solar system and was on a collision course with planet earth.

Different time scales and projected landing areas were plastered across the media. Some said it would be days before the object landed, whereas some gave weeks, and others a matter of hours.

Everywhere from California to Scotland to the Sahara and the Himalayas were posited as possible impact sites by different experts. Wherever it landed, it was going to be a big one. Big enough to eradicate civilisation from the world. No one had any doubt that this was the end.

Sergeant Goulding and Jeff Rogers both knew exactly how long they had. It had been computed that at the speed it was travelling the asteroid would collide with the earth in 5 days time. And there was nothing they could do. The Fortune Teller had done her job and predicted the doom of humanity.

Vigils were held worldwide, nations put aside their differences and people spent their last moments together before the coming apocalypse. Eventually, society began to crumble as people abandoned their workplaces. Power ran out and utilities broke down as those called on to repair them stayed with their families. Petrol stations ran dry and supermarkets were looted for their remaining food as people fled underground with supplies to wait out the coming disaster.

It was on the 4th day that the news came. The rock had collided with another object in the asteroid belt. Experts predicted that it would now bypass the earth altogether, but the millions who had gone underground were unable to receive the message. They were prepared to wait it out whatever happened, and had simply locked themselves away until they were certain the event was over.

Those that had remained above ground were elated and tried to return to their normal routines on the next day; the day when the asteroid should have struck.

What the experts failed to mention, however, is that the collision with the object in the asteroid belt had thrown the rock so off course that no one could predict where it would go.

At 12pm GMT, the previously expect impact time, millions gathered together around television screens expecting an update on the progress of the asteroid. Littered on the floor in cities worldwide were newspapers with headlines reading ‘Near Miss!’ and ‘Humanity Saved!’.

Cheerful newscasters around the world announced that the asteroid had indeed missed the earth, and would have gone on to say that humanity had indeed had a narrow escape, had their broadcasts not been interrupted by a catastrophically loud explosion as the stray asteroid whizzed past the earth and slammed full speed in to the moon.

The impact sent chunks of the earth’s satellite hurtling through the atmosphere, and the shockwave shattered glass and collapsed buildings worldwide.

The tides were immediately affected and within hours several gigantic tidal waves were bearing down on densely populated costal regions of the planet.

Millions were killed in the initial shockwave, and further still in the subsequent natural disasters and debris impacts. Interstellar radiation put paid to most of those who were left after the first couple of days.

Within a week less than a million people remained alive, scattered across earth’s surface. No semblance of government or order remained, and the people were left to fend for themselves.
But if civilization did not endure, humanity did, and those that survived were eventually joined by those millions who had, sensibly it turned out, fled underground. Between them they took stock and began to rebuild the world. They vowed to right wrongs and make a new world, a better, fairer world than before.

It was certainly no easy ask. The circumstances were difficult and for some time food would be scarce. In addition there would always be people willing to take advantage of lawlessness to carve out some influence for themselves in a post disaster environment.

But humanity, like the cockroach, endured, and eventually again began to thrive. Life went on for those who remained, and the earth went on turning.


2014 – A Year In Stories: Week 10 – The Spice Is Right


Posted on March 16, 2014 by

This week’s story is another human interest piece. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself, anyway. This one came from Richard Griffiths on Facebook. He asked for ‘Observations on the price of nutmeg.’

2014 – A Year In Stories
Week 10
The Spice is Right

“It’s HOW much?!” Fred asked, taken aback by the response the grocer had given him when he had asked for 50 grams of nutmeg.
“Like I said, mate,” the shopkeeper replied, clearly not interested in entering in to a debate, “that’ll be a tenner.”
“Let me get this straight,” Fred said, clearly interested in entering in to a debate. “£10?”
“For 50 grams of nutmeg?”
“For 50 grams of nutmeg.”
“50 grams of bloody nutmeg?”
“50 grams of, as you so eloquently put it,” the shopkeeper replied, folding his arms, “bloody nutmeg.”
“That,” said Fred, “is a bloody ripoff.” And then he bought it anyway.

Fred would be the first to admit that 50 grams was probably, to the average person on the street, quite a lot of nutmeg. Normally he would have just refused to pay for it, but he had been asked to make a large batch of his famous pumpkin pie for the bake sale at his son’s school, and the thought of shopping at a chain supermarket made Fred feel physically ill.

“Ten bloody pounds…” he muttered to himself as he walked out of the door. “For some bloody nutmeg.”
“There’s a global shortage,” a voice chimed in from behind him.
Fred turned to face the owner of the voice, who turned out to be a short middle aged lady with wiry grey hair.
“Excuse me?” Fred replied.
“I said that there’s a global shortage,” the woman repeated. “Of nutmeg.”
“There’s a global shortage of bloody nutmeg?”
“Yes, and it’s driving the price through the roof. If you had bought that nutmeg a month ago it would have cost you half the price, if even that.”
“How can there be a global shortage of nutmeg? It’s a spice that literally grows on trees, not crude oil,” Fred said, a little flabbergasted.
“Well, you know how supply and demand works, right?” the woman replied, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the rhetorical nature of his question.
“Well in Indonesia, where the vast majority of the world’s nutmeg is produced, there was some sort of crop disease that buggered a load of the nutmeg trees and dropped production significantly. But the demand didn’t drop with the lack of supply, so the price went up when there was an excess of demand that the supply couldn’t meet. Simple economics.”

Fred merely stared at the woman, dumbfounded.

“They reckon it will go back down in price when the supply returns to normal next year,” she carried on unabated. “Shame really, I do like to sprinkle some on my hot chocolate of a winter’s evening.”
“How do you know so much about nutmeg?” Fred finally managed.
The woman sniffed at him. “I pay attention, don’t I?”
“To what, the Nutmeg Digest? The Arrakis Argus? The Joy of Mace?”
“Well now, if you’re going to be snippy…” the woman said, trailing off. By this point Fred had lost interest in the conversation, and in its place had gained an unpleasant headache, so he elected to leave the shop and go home to make the pies. Baking always relaxed him and helped to clear his head.


“Daddy!” Fred heard as he tried his best to get through his front door whilst juggling his shopping bags and house keys. His daughter, Sofia, who was his youngest, ran up and hugged his legs, which nearly caused him to lose his balance.
“Hi Sof,” he said. “How was nursery today?”
“It was good we played fire engines and made play dough cookies and Jack eated one!” she rattled off with typical enthusiasm.
“He ate it, honey, not eated.”

Sofia pondered this for a moment, a look of pure concentration on her face.

“No daddy, it’s eated,” she said decisively, before losing interest and wandering off in the way that only young children can.
“Right,” said Fred, to no one in particular. “That’s me told, then.”

He made his way in to the kitchen and deposited his shopping bags on the kitchen table.
If Sofia was home then it meant his wife, Andrea, was around somewhere as well. After dumping his bags he set off around the house searching for her.

He found her, as always, painting in the ‘study’. It actually wasn’t so much a study as a small guest bedroom that had been converted in to an artist’s studio so Andrea could paint in the time she wasn’t working.

“Hi honey,” she said, turning her head and smiling as Fred entered the room. “How are you?”
“Not bad. How is the latest masterpiece?” Fred replied,magi ing her a peck on the cheek.
Andrea laughed. “I’m still some way off Caravaggio, but it’s going well, thanks.”
“Rembrandt and Picasso better watch their backs, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Did you get the stuff for Jack’s bake sale?”
“I did. You’ll never believe the conversation I had with some lady in the shop, though. About the price of nutmeg, of all things.”
Andrea nodded sagely. “Oh yeah, there’s a global shortage, isn’t there?”
An incredulous look forced its way across Fred’s face. “Is everyone appraised on the worldwide nutmeg supply situation except for me?” he asked.
“Oh, I thought it was common knowledge…” Andrea replied, returning her attention to the painting she was working on.

Fred was utterly lost for words. Fortunately for him his daughter wasn’t, and a loud “Oops!” came from the direction of the kitchen. Fred and Andrea looked at each other.
“Do you mind going and looking, honey?” Andrea asked. “Only I’m covered in paint…”


The scene in the kitchen wasn’t pretty. Fred walked in to find his shopping bags all over the floor, their contents spread liberally across the tiles surrounding the kitchen table.

“What happened?” he asked sphis daughter after he had surveyed the carnage.
“Wilbur knocked the bags off the table!” she replied. “I told him not to, but he is a naughty cat!”

Fred folded his arms. The family didn’t have a cat. Wilbur was Sofia’s equivalent of an imaginary friend. Since she had played with a tabby at her friend’s birthday party last year she had been obsessed with the idea of getting one, but Fred and Jack were both extremely allergic, so it wasn’t possible. She made up for it with Wilbur.

“Where is Wilbur now?” Fred asked.
“He went out of the window,” Sofia replied, nodding sagely.
“He is a very naughty cat…” Fred agreed, before bending over and starting the cleanup job.

Five minutes later and he was nearly done. He cleaned up some spilled orange juice with a cloth and then went on to the last bag.

He lifted the brown paper bag up off the floor, and was greeted with a distressing sight. The bag of nutmeg contained therein had come open and spread its contents across the floor.

Fred tried desperately to salvage what was left of the pricey spice, but it was too widespread across the floor. He scrabbled at the brown pile of dust,but the problem with dust was that it was, well, dusty, and his frantic efforts seemed to exacerbate the problem rather than offer a solution.

Fred knelt, defeated on his kitchen floor. The terrible repercussions of the events of the last few minutes ringing true in his mind. He had to face facts. There was simply nothing for it. He would have to go back to the shop and buy some more nutmeg.


Fred fretted all the way to the shop. What would the shopkeeper think? A man who had been in the boutique not one hour earlier buying a supply of nutmeg that would surely be sufficient for one family to live on for some time coming back in and buying yet more of the seemingly priceless commodity. People would think he was hoarding nutmeg. For a rainy day. Most people would go for the essentials when the apocalypse came, they would say. But not old Fred. Oh no, Fred went straight for the bloody nutmeg.

The bell jingled as Fred entered the shop, ready to prostrate himself at the feet of the benevolent shopkeeper, that he might see his way to granting him access to the glorious world of nutmeg.

“Hello,” said the shopkeeper. “Weren’t you in here earlier?”
“Err, yes…” Fred said as obsequiously as possible. “I would like to buy some nutmeg.”
“Is this,” the shopkeeper asked, raising an eyebrow, “some kind of joke?”
“Would that it were, my good man, would that it were,” Fred replied, resisting the urge to bow as low as possible.
“Alright,” the shopkeeper said sceptically. “How much?”
“50 grams please.”
“That’ll be £15 please,” the shopkeeper said, pointedly.
“£15?! It was £10 when I came in earlier on!”
“There’s a global nutme…”
“…g shortage, I know. It’s all I’ve been bloody hearing about all day.”
“It is worse than they first thought,” the shopkeeper mentioned offhandedly.
“Hence the price increase, I imagine…” Fred observed wryly.
“Oh yes. That kind lady over there appraised me of the situation.”

Fred turned and looked at the woman he had engaged with earlier in the afternoon. She waved at him cheerfully.

Fred fiddled around in his wallet and came up with the £15. He handed it over to the shopkeeper, and as an afterthought added “And give me a subscription to Spice Monthly…”


2014 – A Year In Stories: Week 9 – Mind the Gap


Posted on March 9, 2014 by

Someone famous once said “Write about what you know” and this week I have been given the opportunity to do just that. This week’s brief came from Huw Lloyd Jones on Facebook, and was aboutsomething I have had plenty of experience with myself, the Northern Line of the London Underground system. So here you go, Huw. ‘Observations on the Northern Line.’

2014 – A Year In Stories
Week 9
Mind the Gap

“Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.” Amina could hear the announcement taunting her over Highgate station’s public address system as she clattered down the escalator at full speed.

Her way was fraught with danger and she narrowly avoided tripping over a stray suitcase whilst trying to avoid a fellow passenger whom had clearly not received the unwritten memo about not standing on the left hand side of the escalator.

As she reached the platform level she hurtled round the corner to see the train doors shut a mere couple of seconds before she could hurl herself through them. She looked up at the information board to see how long it would be until the next Bank service. Eight minutes. Balls.

This was the third time this week that this had happened, and it was only Wednesday. Every time she had got to the station she had emerged, thoroughly out of breath, on to the platform to catch the tail end of the driver’s ‘ready to depart’ announcement.

Amina had been living in London for three weeks now, and her tube-fu certainly didn’t seem to be improving at all. Once she was on the darn thing she was fine, but she had yet to master the art of timing her arrival with that of the relevant train.

She had taken to leaving for work 10 minutes earlier than she really needed to just so she wasn’t late, continual tardiness in your first fortnight on the job not being considered a desirable trait in an employee, after all.

That morning Amina made it in to work with seconds to spare. She vowed that tomorrow, TOMORROW would be the day that she conquered the Northern Line.


The next morning saw Amina up bright and early and ready to go. To make sure her timing was perfect she had downloaded an app for her phone that told her when the next trains were due to depart.

She sat on the small sofa of her studio flat in Muswell Hill and stared intently at the screen of her phone. She knew that it was a 20 minute walk door-to-door from her flat to the station, so she waited until the app told her that there was a Bank train in 22 minutes time and set off along Muswell Hill Road with some considerable purpose.

The world seemed brighter somehow. Amina put this down to her renewed vigour for getting to work more than 5 seconds before she was due to start for the day, but nonetheless the sun was shining, the air felt fresh in her lungs and when she smiled at people, they jolly well smiled back.
This feeling lasted right up until she got to the top of the hill that lead up to Highgate station. As she rounded the corner she spotted dozens of grumpy looking commuters milling around by the bus stop at the top of the hill.

“What’s going on?” she asked one of the people at the back of the queue.
“Northern Line is down both ways between Camden Town and High Barnet. Signal failure or something,” they replied, and went back to their John le Carré novel.

Amina would gladly admit that it was only the distraction of the arriving bus and the clamour of nearly 100 people trying to cram on to it that stopped her from exploding in an apoplectic rage and turning the Archway Road in to a nuclear crater to rival that of Chernobyl.

To make matters worse people were arriving from down the hill and jostling psst her to try and get on the bus. Of course not everyone could get on and the doors closing were met with a tirade of comments about the bus driver’s upbringing and propensity for intercourse with farmyard animals.

It was another ten minutes before Amina managed to squeeze on to a bus, and she was nearly 15 minutes late in to the office that morning.


The next day was the same. When she left home her app happily told her that the trains were all running hunky dory, but by the time she reached the station all hell had broken loose.

When she bemoaned her situation to one of her friends she was rebuffed. “You shouldn’t have moved somewhere on the Northern Line!” her friend Ashley berated. “It’s called the Misery Line for a reason!”

Every morning something else would go wrong. She would just miss the train, or she would show up on time and the station staff would shrug their shoulders sympathetically as she showed them the TfL app that said the Northern Line was running a good service, despite no train having shown up in twenty minutes.

She began to become paranoid that people at work didn’t believe why she was late. None of THEM ever seemed to be late, or even perilously close. It made no sense. Old Street, where she worked, was only on the Northern Line, so everyone who worked there that got the tube must suffer the same fate, surely? Seemingly not. She wondered how much longer management would accept her cheerful-if-strained chiming that “the Northern Line was buggered again!” before she got called in for a disciplinary hearing.

The annoying thing was that it seemed to work fine in the evenings. When she came home from work there was never a problem, bar the odd ‘customer incident’. If she was going north the Nothern Line seemed content to play ball. Perhaps it had some kind of aversion to taking people in the opposite direction to its name, as if going southbound offended its very nature.

It became such a bugbear of Amina’s that for a while barely a conversation went by without her friends enquiring about her plight. And she would answer, oh yes she would answer. Eventually some learned to stop asking, at least if they didn’t fancy being subjected to a 15 minute tirade about how TfL was out to get her, but those she hadn’t seen in a while would inevitably fall in to the trap and have their ears bent about how it was all a big conspiracy.

It had become an obsession. None of her friends or family really understood her drive or determination to get one over on a transport line. Words like ‘irrational’ and ‘silly’ were bandied around, particularly by her parents.

But Amina didn’t need them. She was unwavering in her devotion to the cause of beating the Northern Line at its own game. She spent her evenings posting on forums where others in similar predicaments wrote long rambling tales about how they were being victimised by the District Line, or how the DLR was entirely designed to make their every living moment a waking nightmare.
She felt better knowing that there were others out there who were in the same predicament, that shared the same single-minded desire to stick it to TfL right where it hurt.

She regaled the forum with her tale and her thread got dozens of replies offering advice ranging from getting up half an hour earlier than normal to full on camping under her desk at work. With a sleeping bag and everything.

As she read more and more of the posts she began to realise that perhaps she wasn’t akin to these people after all. Some of the stories spoke about years of battling against one of the tube lines in an attempt to best it. She had only been trying for a fortnight.

Amina stayed up late in to the night and read these tales of woe and hardship and she made a vow to herself that she wasn’t going to become one of these people, whose entire lives are dedicated to achieving something that really they have no control over anyway. Some people were just naturally gifted in the ancient art of tube-fu, and could guarantee that they would be on time wherever they went, whereas others, such as she, were not so blessed, and were destined for a life of tardiness.

And so the next day, feeling sanguine about her late night epiphany, Amina deleted the TfL app and walked to the station footloose, fancy free and with a smile on her face. And sure enough, when she walked through the station doors she was greeted with a mob of angry commuters, who were not being let down to the platforms because there was a broken down train in the tunnel between Archway and Tufnell Park.

She was 15 minutes late for work, but this time she didn’t care. She had not let the tube get the better of her, and that was enough to keep her in a buoyant mood for the rest of the morning.


Amina sat in the break room at work and munched on a sandwich. Gerald, one of her colleagues, walked in and started fumbling with the buttons on the coffee machine.

“Hi Gerald!” Amina said chirpily.
“Afternoon, Amina,” he replied as the coffee began to pour. “You seem very happy today.”
“I am! Last night I had an epiphany and now I have found inner peace with regards to my commute. No longer will I worry about whether or not the Northern Line is going to be down, or if I’m going to be late to work. Que sera, sera and all that.”
“Well that’s good to hear,” Gerald said with a smile on his face. “I used to live in Muswell hill myself, you know. The Northern Line really is a bugger, isn’t it? You know, after a while I realised that it was almost as easy to get here by going to Finsbury Park, getting the Victoria Line to Kings Cross and then getting the bus. You have to change more but it only takes a couple of minutes longer and the Victoria Line is almost never down.”

Amina stared at him, mouth agape. She couldn’t believe it. In three weeks it had never once occurred to her that she could simply go a different way. For the last 20 days she had been infatuated to the point of mania with the idea of besting her nemesis the Northern Line, but not once had she just thought about changing her route.

“Thanks Gerald,” she finally managed after what was probably far too long a silence, “I’ll give that a try.”

And sure enough Amina was almost never late for work again. And she could hardly blame those hangovers on TfL now, could she?


2014 – A Year In Stories: Week 8 – Thijs Is The Life


Posted on March 2, 2014 by

Most of the briefs I’ve had for this challenge so far have shared a common theme. That is that they have asked me to describe unusual settings or situations.

Personally, as a writer, I find it easiest to write about strange situations. When things are happening that can be considered out of the ordinary it opens the door to a world of possibilities.

I have felt with a number of the stories I have written so far this year that I could have gone lots of different ways with them. So, this week’s brief was an interesting one because it asked me to do the complete opposite. It asked me to describe an every day situation for an Everyman.

The brief, submitted by Louise Harper on Facebook is as follows: ‘A day in the life of the man who ‘thumbs’ the pizza dough in the ‘handmade’ pizza factory.’

This man is no Bilbo Baggins or Arthur Dent, he’s not an average Joe thrust in to the path of adventure. At least, if he is, today is not the day that his adventure begins. Maybe one day Thijs and Sascha the Dachshund become a crime fighting duo to equal Tintin and Snowy, but right now Thijs has to go to work so he can cash his paycheck.

Of course, as always I’ve had a bit of fun with it, so what he thought was a typical day didn’t turn out to be so. I don’t think anyone would want to read a description of a man thumbing pizza dough for 8 hours, though, so I reckon I got away with it…

Oh, and if you’ve got a problem with the (rather excellent) pun in the title, take it up with Eileen because she came up with it.

2014 – A Year In Stories
Week 8
Thijs Is The Life

Thijs van der Oetker considered himself to be a well read man, or rather others considered him to be well read, and he considered himself well listened. His job at the Toscana Bene Authentic Italian Pizza and Pasta factory (based in Groningen in the Netherlands) allowed for a lot of introspection.

His job was minimum wage, and truly he only did it for subsistence. He was not a man that craved possessions or wealth; he merely craved knowledge. As long as, at the end of the month, he had enough money to pay his rent, his bills, buy food for him and his dog and have a little kept aside for some more books, either paper copies or on tape, then he was a happy man indeed.

That was why, for 10 years now, he had been the man whose job it was to thumb the pizza dough out in to the shape of a pizza base. He could now do this with his eyes shut (literally), and his hands tied behind his back (metaphorically), and worked far more efficiently when he had a new audiobook of some sort playing through his headphones.

His friends and family did not understand why Thijs loved his job so much. Surely, they berated him, he must aspire to more? Had he no ambition, no dream they wondered aloud? Thijs always told them that his dream was to learn, and that he was doing just that.

The reaction was always the same. They merely shook their head and wandered off to talk to someone else at the party. A 30 year old with no desire for career progression was obviously a concept too difficult for them to deal with. Thijs on the other hand was of the opinion that if you enjoyed what you did then why aspire to move in to a position that you would inevitably find dull?

Of course, he didn’t ENJOY thumbing pizza bases in to circles, nobody did. After a couple of years he couldn’t even make a game out of it any more. They didn’t call it a menial job to fill space at the top of the job advert. What he enjoyed was getting to listen to someone talk about an interesting subject for 8 hours a day without anyone bothering him whilst he did it.

When the first ball of dough came along the conveyor in the morning he just tuned out and listened to whatever was coming in to his ears. To Thijs, this was bliss.

Over the last ten years he had consumed more books on more subjects than the average university professor would in their entire academic life. He had read, or rather listened to, books about music, physics, chemistry, biology, history, psychology, philosophy and almost all of the classic novels.

He could probably speak about 6 languages fluently, if only he had someone to speak them to, and when no new tome inspired him he would switch for a while to classical music. He was intimately familiar with the works of the Viennese masters, could hum the whole of Tchaikovsky’s back catalogue, and you would struggle to find a more knowledgeable expert on the likes of Mendelssohn and Debussy.

To put it succinctly, he was a useful person to have on your side if you wanted to win a pub quiz. Not that he was generally allowed to enter them any more. Every pub within a 20 mile radius of Groningen had essentially banned him from participating in their quiz nights. He knew too much, they protested. It wasn’t fun for every other team to consistently come second, they reasoned. He was welcome to drink there as long as he kept his mouth shut, they compromised.

Thijs was happy with this arrangement, and to be honest had even encouraged it on a couple of occasions. He did not learn in order to benefit himself financially, at least not in that way, and he definitely did not do it in order for his friends to scam a few Euros from an unsuspecting bar owner. He learned for himself. He learned because it made him happy.


Thijs was not a man prone to suspicion. In the last ten years he had encountered many books that debunked the idea of suspicion as merely a hangover from the days when it was entirely possible that our neighbour, flora or fauna, might have a go at killing us for little apparent reason.

However, this morning Thijs awoke with an ominous feeling in the pit of his stomach. He felt as though today was going to be an auspicious day for some reason, although for the life of him he could not work out why.

As usual he rose at 7.30 and fed his Dachshund, Sascha. His shift didn’t start until 9am, and the factory was a leisurely 20 minute walk away on the other side of town.

Thijs always took his time over breakfast, watching an episode of some TV show or other as he munched and his cornflakes and sipped at his orange juice – currently he was watching a series of short documentaries about whales. Finally he had a quick shower and give Sascha a tummy rub before walking out of the door.

Just a typical start to a typical morning for Thijs, who rather atypically immediately upon leaving the house was soaked to the skin by a passing bus driving through a puddle.

Thijs was in a good mood up until this point and he was determined not to let something like that bother him. After all, it was a beautiful summer’s day, and the puddle was only left over from a summer shower the night before. He would dry off by the time he made it to work.

The rest of the journey in was typically uneventful, which suited Thijs fine. And, sure enough, by the time he walked through the employees’ door in the factory he was bone dry again.

He hung his jacket up in his locker and got out his protective clothing. He set up his MP3 player and layered the uniform on top. Smock, overalls and then apron. He made sure to press play before putting his gloves on.

Today’s opus was The End of History by Frances Fukuyama. Thijs wasn’t sure he agreed with Fukuyama on many of his points, but he generally proved to be quite interesting to listen to, which was what mattered most to him generally.

As the voice in his ears began discussing the downfall of the Soviet Union and the implications for the proliferation of western democracy he walked to his station.

He greeted his colleagues Tomasz, Hilda and Lena as he went by them in the corridors. They all smiled and waved back at him as he went past,but he noticed something different about them today. They all had a glint in their eye, as if they all secretly knew something that Thijs didn’t.

Hilda was the last one he passed, and he got the same reaction from her as. He had from the other two, so he stopped her to ask what was going on. When questioned she, utilising her best poker face, replied that she had no idea what he was talking about. It was just a normal day. It was all she could do not to wink at him as he walked off.

By the time he reached his spot on the production floor he had largely forgotten about it, dismissing it as one of the silly jokes that the three were renowned for.

The first ball of dough of the day made its way down the conveyor belt just as the voice in his ear was expanding on Fukuyama’s theory of western democracy being the only remaining possibility for democratising nations.

He cracked his knuckles and spread the dough out in its container, tutting his disapproval of the American’s theories in light of recent developments in Islamic democracy in the wake of the Arab Spring.

He went on doing his job, as he did every day, for an hour. At about 10am, had he been able to hear anything other than Fukuyama’s words spoken in his ear, he would have noticed that silence had spread suddenly through what was usually a very loud factory floor.

As it was, he just carried on thumbing pizza base after pizza base, paying no attention to what was going on around him. As such he failed to notice that, when thumbing a certain, seemingly insignificant pizza base in to shape, 250 of his fellow employees stood behind him held their breath.

As he completed the routine that he did nearly five hundred times a day he prepared himself for the next ball of dough. But the dough did not come. This had never happened before. In ten years Thijs had never had to wait for the dough to come. He was lost for words. He decided he had best alert his manager, so he pressed pause on his MP3 player and turned around.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when his 250 colleagues all began whooping and cheering and letting off streamers. They were all wearing party hats. Thijs could only stare in bewilderment as a banner was unfurled; it read ‘Congratulations on Thumbing 1,000,000 Pizzas!’ and had a crudely drawn pizza on it.

The factory owner, Mr. Wyk walked up to Thijs and clasped his hand on his shoulder. “One million pizzas, boy!” he said. “That’s a hell of a lot of dough. Congratulations.”
“Thank you sir,” Thijs replied, still gobsmacked. “I don’t know what to say…”
“We’ve got a special guest for you, too,” the owner went on, and Sascha the Dachshund was brought through the crowd on a little pillow. He was wearing a tiny party hat, and wagging his tail very enthusiastically.
“Sascha!” Thijs shouted in excitement. “But Mr. Wyk, animals aren’t allowed on the production floor!”
Mr. Wyk smiled. “I think that, on this occasion, we can make an exception.”

The factory was closed for the rest of the day as all of the employees were given the time off to attend a party thrown by Mr. Wyk in Thijs’ honour. He never did get to finish the End of History that day, but for Thijs went to sleep that night with Sascha curled up at the foot of the bed knowing that for him it wasn’t the end of anything, but rather the beginning of another ten years and one million pizzas of what he hoped would be a happy and contented life.


2014 – A Year In Stories: Week 7 – A Gentleman Caller


Posted on February 23, 2014 by

This week’s brief posed a particularly difficult challenge. This was because it asked me to incorporate material from a book that I haven’t read, and nor did I have any intention spending the week reading. Further, it was by an author that, while extremely popular, was completely alien to me.

It is safe to say I have never even considered writing anything in this genre before. So, like all good people with their backs up against the wall, I did the only thing I could do and thoroughly weaselled my way out of the challenge by changing the goal posts. The brief, from Sadhya Rippon on Facebook was ‘Death comes to Northanger Abbey.’

I suspect it will become obvious fairly quickly how I sidestepped that one.

I sincerely hope I have done the source material at least some justice, as I was basing it entirely off the summaries on Wikipedia and Spark Notes. If I haven’t then that was my intention all along and this is my ‘Pride and Prejudice and Zombies’.

Enjoy. If you dare.

2014 – A Year in Stories
Week 7
A Gentleman Caller

 “I say, Eleanor,” General Tilney bellowed up the stairs. “Do hurry up getting ready. Your gentleman caller will be here soon and I shall be very annoyed if you are not presentable when he arrives. He’s a very important and wealthy man, you know!”

The words had little effect. Eleanor was little interested in having a man selected for her to marry. It was so old-fashioned, and anyway, he would undoubtedly be a crashing bore.

Eleanor wished awfully that Mama was still around. She would have had a thing or two to say about her daughter being married off against her will, and no mistake.

She harrumphed and decided it was better to acquiesce to her father’s wishes, at least for the time being. Perhaps this wealthy and important gentleman wouldn’t take interest in a lowly General’s daughter like herself, and her father would leave her be again for a little while. That is until he latched on to the son of another of Bath’s social elite and insisted upon arranging courtship.

It was not that she did not wish to meet a young man, in fact she very much hoped to one day be married. She merely wished to do so on her own terms. To find someone that was right for her and not for her father, just like her brother Henry had with young Catherine.

Father did not approve of that relationship either, but Eleanor believed it would stand the test of time and that the young girl would eventually win him over.

Running a pearl-backed brush through her hair she wondered what her latest suitor would be like. If she had to guess it would be the son of one of father’s military friends. A wealthy field marshal’s boy with aspirations in one of the King’s regiments no doubt. She sighed. Her father’s choices were so predictable. He had no idea what she actually looked for in a man.

“Eleanor Tilney!” the voice bellowed again from below. “I insist you come downstairs immediately!”
“Coming, father!” she replied, and finished brushing her hair. Oh well, she thought. Once more in to the breech, eh?


The carriage wheels crunched along the gravel driveway that led through the impressive wrought iron gates and up to the main entrance of Northanger Abbey. The coach and the horses were as dark as night, and the driver wore top and tails of funereal black.

The lacquer on the vehicle was so dark that it was almost as if it sucked in light from around it, Fothershaw the gardener observed as he watered the flower beds in the Abbey’s sizeable front garden. He wondered who might be inside.

Ethel, one of the cook’s assistants, had informed him that she had overheard Simpkins the butler say that Miss Eleanor was to receive a gentleman caller today.

If this was the gentleman in question then he was a gloomy bugger and no mistake, Fothershaw observed, and went back to tending the petunias.


The carriage rolled to a halt, and an immaculately dressed footman stepped forward, opened the door and bowed low.

“Welcome to Northanger Abbey, Mr. Death,” he said, obsequiously.
“It is just Death.”
“Excuse me, sir?” the footman replied, unfolding from his bow.
“It is just Death. Not Mr.”
“Very well, sir. Mr. Death was your father, eh?” the footman said, trying desperately and failing to inject some humour in to the conversation.
“Oh. Er. Very well, sir,” the footman said, learning a valuable lesson in choosing his battles. He looked the man known only as Death up and down. The striking thing about him was that he was entirely covered from head to toe in a huge black robe.

This was striking to the footman firstly because it was a balmy day in the middle of July, and secondly because it was all you could see. He strained his eyes to try and see inside the man’s cowl, but it was as if there was an invisible barrier that seemed to reject his attempts, and those of any light that happened to stray in to the vicinity.

He was glad when the strange man simply wandered off in the direction of those house without another word. The gentleman was the butler’s problem now. He felt a palpable sense of relief, as if the weight of an immense dread had been lifted from his shoulders.


 “Welcome, Sir, to Northanger Abbey,” Simpkins the butler said, bowing even deeper than the footman, as the robed gentleman entered the residence. Where the footman had not been, Simpkins was forearmed with the knowledge of the visitors little quirk regarding his name. “Sir, please do follow me through to the drawing room; General Tilney is waiting, and I understand that Lady Eleanor will be emerging from her chambers forthwith.”

Remaining mysteriously silent, the visitor held out a bony hand towards the butler. The hand contained a rather crooked looking scythe with an incredibly keen blade. Simpkins realised that he had not noticed the implement before, and his brain was running several simultaneous marathons in order to catch up with his eyes. Eventually it decided it wasn’t worth the effort and simply elected not to bother.

Without recalling himself ordering it too, the butler’s hand reached out and took the scythe. “Would Sir like me to take his robe also. Sir must be AWFULLY warm.”

“No,” the man said, firmly. A few seconds later, after the butler had merely stood there in a rather stunned silence, he added “Thank you.”
“Very well,” Simpkins managed eventually. “If Sir would care to follow me…”

The butler walked off rather more quickly than usual in the direction of the drawing room, not awfully concerned at this point as to whether or not the visitor was following him. Upon reaching the doors, he pushed them wide open. The General and Eleanor were waiting inside.

“Ah!” the General roared as he left his seat. “Death, my good friend, it has been too long.”
“Indeed, General. I had not expected to see you again for…some time after our last meeting.”
“Well quite. It was such a shame that we had to meet under such sad circumstances, but every cloud has a silver lining, and whilst I lost my dear and beloved wife that day, I am glad to say that I gained a friend.” The General turned to his daughter, who remained seated. “Death was present when your mother passed away, dear,” he offered by way of explanation.
“Oh, I say!” Eleanor exclaimed as she rose from her seat. “Are you a doctor?”
“A mortician, then?”
“Of sorts. You might call me an…interested party.”
“You knew my mother well then?”
“You could say that I knew her better than most…”
“Oh you simply must tell me about her some time, I knew very little of her myself.” Eleanor cast a mourning glance out of the window. “I do miss Mama.”
General Tilney walked over to his daughter and put a consoling arm around her. “We all do, Ellie, we all do. But come, Death here has not come to speak of the deceased. Please do take a seat my friend.”
“Thank you, I would prefer to stand,” Death replied. “Tell me, General, why did you summon me here? I am not in the habit of making house calls. At least, not under the present…circumstances.”
“Well, forgive me for being so bold, but Eleanor here has been looking for a suitor for some time, and I have yet to come up trumps with an appropriate match,” the General began. “I was taking an afternoon stroll a week ago and saw a number of mean harvesting wheat in a field using scythes, and for some inexplicable reason it made me think of you, and by Jove you seem as good a match as any.”
“These men,” Death replied. “What would you say the expression on their face was as they were reaping in the harvest?”
The General scratched his head, a touch perplexed by the question. “Well, I didn’t pay particular attention to their faces,” he said eventually, “but if I had to choose I’d say they were looking quite grim at the time.”
“Ah,” Death replied, sipping a brandy that no-one could recall giving him. “That would explain that then.”
“So, what do you say, Death, old friend? Would you be interested in courting my daughter?”
“My work does not traditionally allow time for courtship,” the Grim Reaper replied, taking another sip from the glass he held in his skeletal hand. It seemed to the Tilneys that in the robe he was wearing, taking a drink without spilling it all down himself must have been a logistical nightmare. “But it is solitary work, and I have wondered what it would be like to engage in the huma…I mean, normal courtship rituals. Very well, as long as Lady Eleanor is amenable.”
“I shall have to give it some thought,” Eleanor replied, assertively. “I mean, father might call you an old friend but I barely know you. Perhaps we can meet for dinner and talk further?”
“Excellent,” Death replied, bowing rather stiffly. “I shall collect you at 8pm on Saturday.”


 After Death had left in his coach, and the sense of general unease had lifted from Northanger Abbey, General Tilney sat down with his daughter in the drawing room.

“Well, Ellie, that was certainly a step in the right direction. Why him and not the others?”
“I haven’t agreed to court him fully yet, father,” his daughter reminded him. “But he seemed…different. Not the usual calibre of well-dressed ape that you present to me. I am willing to give him a chance. Do tell me what he was doing in the Abbey when mother died.”
“You know, my dear, I don’t really know now that you come to mention it,” the General replied, stroking his chin. “I only noticed him there at the bedside in her final moments, but it felt as though he had been there forever. He disappeared rather quickly afterwards. It was a sad moment for all and I suspected he had gone to grieve in private.”
“How odd,” Eleanor mused. “And you haven’t seen him since?”
“Not to this day…” the General said, tailing off until another thought grabbed him. “Do you know what else is strange? It’s the darnedest thing, but it has been nearly a decade since your mother’s death and the chap hasn’t aged a day.”


Next week we have a character piece. I’m sure it will be a pizza cake.