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Runner Up 2014 - "Llansgi Roots" by Dianne Selden
Short Story Competition Winners & Runners Up 2009 - 2014
Llansgi, Wales, 2014
Her bones revealed she was 15 to 19 years old when she died of starvation, and they indicated that she had given birth. Her clothes had turned to dust hundreds of years ago; the archaeologist vowed it was a miracle the bones had been preserved at all, let alone so well. The speculation was that the shed had collapsed, buried her, and acted as a tomb, keeping air and sunlight out. There was sand – sand – on the ground under the skeleton; it must have been gathered elsewhere and stored in the shed. The sand’s presence could be the key, the archaeologist thought, to the skeleton surviving despite time and fate conspiring against her. How wondrous. This perfectly preserved skeleton, if contemporary to the metal jewelry and pottery in the shed with her, was at least 600 years old.
Llansgi, Wales, Late 1400s
She is a stranger. Everyone knows, of course, because everyone has known everyone else their whole lives. Not her; her face is new. She appeared in the village about three months back, in the middle of winter.
She stays in a barn on the edge of the village in exchange for milking the cows. She is skinny, and her clothes are little more than abbey rags. She spurns the advances of the men who proposition her, yet she doesn’t seek a husband. No one knows where she came from, who her family is, or what brought her here. She’s never been seen near the church. The only thing she is ever seen doing is walking.
She walks alone. She walks into the woods surrounding the village, avoiding the road. She collects herbs and flora, offering them to her farmer landlord for part of her rent, who sells them at market for a profit.
Word is that she is only ever seen walking to and from the abbey a few miles away. The village wives swear she is the consort of the fat monk in charge of the food stores. Their husbands reply, “Then she should have more meat on her bones,” which silences the gossip for a few hours.
She’s a stranger, which means that she will always be the focus of speculation.
But I know she doesn’t go to the abbey for rotund Brother Aurelio.
I found her, one day in the snow-swamped forest, before she had gone into the town, before the gossip had started. She was kneeling on the ground, hunched over some twisted root, digging it up. I cleared my throat from a few feet away, and she sort of rolled over, looking up at me.
“Hello,” she said.
“Are you alone?” I asked.
“Do your eyes generally work?”
I looked down at her sitting form, puzzled. “Yes.”
“Then it would appear that I am, no?”
“Do you always talk like this?”
“Only when I’m alone.”
“You’re not from here,” I said.
“You are,” she replied.
“Where do you live?” I asked.
She held up a twisted looking twig. “This root, when ground into a pulp, can help heal even the worst cuts and wounds.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I read it in a book.”
I laughed. There’s no way on God’s green earth that she could read. Only monks can read. Monks and nobles. It’s practically forbidden for anyone else.
She stood up, turned away from me, and started down the deer path toward the abbey. I picked up a root she had dropped. It smelled like damp earth and decay. I flicked it off into the woods.
Later that week, my poaching cousin got skewered by his antlered prey in the woods and the wound turned red and purple and started spewing pus. I went to the abbey and the monks directed me to a lay brother, Bernard, who tends the herb gardens and orchard near the woods. He has only been at this abbey for a few years, but his medicinal knowledge is already respected even by the book-learned monks. When I sought his expertise for my cousin, he spoke little, which was to be expected as the abbey folk are known for their reticence. He ground something into a paste he then handed to me. It smelled of earth and decay, the same rotten root the girl was gathering in the woods.
About a week after that, when I was poaching small game for my cousin’s family during his recovery, in the distance I saw Bernard and the mystery woman. He looked around hurriedly before handing her a thin object. She unrolled it, a scroll, and appeared to scan it. Her lips moved as she appeared to tell him what it contained. When she saw me, she didn’t even try to put it away. Bernard spoke more words then than I’d ever heard him speak.
“Please, she’s all I have. I need her.”
He explained that the monks thought Bernard could read and were slipping him scrolls and requests for tinctures and potions. Only, he couldn’t read. He was just a lay brother good with plants. However, his lord brother’s daughter could read, and his brother’s whole estate had been toppled in a skirmish last year. His niece alone had escaped alive and come here. He knew she couldn’t stay in the abbey forever, but he needed more time to figure things out.
I didn’t say a word, and shortly after that, she moved into the barn at the edge of the village near my own family’s land.
Months have passed since my mysterious neighbor moved in. Spring pokes out late this year, weak, cold, and dry. The farmers fret that conditions are horrible for crops. Food is scarce. Even poachers, like my cousin, can’t find game. The girl’s forest gatherings make up more and more of locals’ diets. No stew can be found without her herbs. I leave my own garden for a few hours every day to help her. She shows me what to look for in the wild, cues like minute color variations in berries that render one edible and one poisonous.
She rarely speaks, but when she does, she says too much, revealing knowledge she should not have. When she gives her finds to the farmer, she tells him too much about what the plants can be paired with and what their healing effects might be.
The other locals are growing suspicious. Could she be the cause of the cold weather, the lack of rain? Didn’t she benefit when their crops failed? God’s punishing them for suffering a nonbeliever. She has the nerve to offer them food when she’s denied them their hard-earned crops.
I tell her of these rumors, beg her to join me at church, to marry me. My wife died several years ago, in childbirth, along with our daughter, and though my garden is small, it yields enough to trade for the things I need. She could be comfortable with me. The gossip would die down.
She pauses at what has become our meeting spot in the woods, in front of two saplings reaching out toward each other. We have started training them, guiding their branches, helping them to lean on each other. I reach for her. She leans into me, her back to my stomach, her small shoulders fitting between my arms.
“Do you see these two trees?” she asks. “We are like them. If we become entangled with each other, our fates will be wrapped up in one another. We shall love, but we shall also lack. I will not be able to continue helping my Uncle learn medicine. I could die in childbirth. And you? You would be a pariah.”
“I don’t care,” I say, and I mean it. She kisses me then, loves me, and it is the death of her.
The cold spring turns into a cold summer which gives way to a bitterly cold fall. Snow freezes the few resilient crops before they can be harvested. The entire village relies on the abbey’s stores to survive; well, the abbey stores and the learned girl’s scavenging. She is remarkably adept at gathering herbs and plants regardless of the seasons; her knowledge grows with the scrolls and books Bernard sneaks to her. Along with her knowledge, her belly grows, too. She is swollen with our child.
“Be my wife,” I implore again. She kisses me and shakes her head no. She will belong to no man. She will accept no help with her lot in life. She will always choose her own path.
I find a twisted piece of scrap metal that the blacksmith, an old friend of mine, lets me keep, and I wrap it with twine to give to my lady, a necklace. It looks like a root.
“Because I understand, and I am yours, just the same,” I say. When she turns away and her fingertips brush her eyes, I pretend not to notice, but I am pleased she is so moved.
When her belly gets so big she can’t bend over to gather plants, she accepts my help. She agrees to let me do the gathering, then to meet me at our tree for me to give her the stuff for the farmer and her uncle. We meet in the early afternoon, when wandering eyes are distracted by grumbling bellies. A large almost-black cat has taken to following her around; since it’s killed the mice and rats, she doesn’t complain. I call him “Brother Aurelio,” on account of the cat’s massive size and lazy manner.
The village whispers about the cat, calling it her familiar, claiming its presence is the proof they need: the girl is evil. An enchanter, a lurer of fine Christian men. The townswomen shake their heads at Aurelio, at their husbands, at me, at anyone who gives the herb-gathering stranger the time of day. She seems not to care, continues treading head-on through this harshest of years. Meets me, every day, through fog and ice and thundercloud, at the two little trees bent like one heart into each other.
One afternoon, she doesn’t come. I run to her barn. There is blood on her bed. No sign of her.
I knock on her landlord’s farmhouse door, but there is no answer. I run into the village, where smoke rises from the center square. Screams and shouts pierce the air. Evening descends and more villagers gather, their desperation threading into chaos.
“Seized by the devil, she was!”
“Bride of Satan! The babe’ll have the mark, of course.”
“She’s already sacrificed it! There was no baby when the miller found her convulsing and covered in blood.”
Dear Lord, I think. What have they done with her?
“She’s the reason God froze us out! How could He provide us with bountiful harvests with that snake slithering in the grass?”
“Mrreee!” an unearthly scream pierces through the commotion. Brother Aurelio, the cat. Someone has grabbed him. He wriggles, bites, claws; someone has tied a rope around his neck. I cannot bear to watch. I turn back into the crowd, searching for any sign of her.
“She disappeared, too! Got right out of the room, with the missus watching the door and no windows and all! Witchcraft it must be, her vanishing.”
There’s hope yet! I think and wade through the crowd, running through the town, into the woods toward the abbey. She’ll have gone to her uncle, of course.
The mob will follow, soon, I think, for they believe the lady will seek out Brother Aurelio, not the cat they’ve just murdered, but its namesake, the man they think bewitched. They’ll storm the abbey’s food stores looking for him, for her. I must get there first. My legs are possessed by the desire to protect the woman I love from this swarm of torch-wielding hornets.
I see Bernard in his white robes by the edge of the orchard. There is a storage shed there, a little stone structure. As the caretaker of this orchard and a respected herbalist, of course he’d have the key to a storage shed he could use to dry and mix herbs. I am close enough to see him remove his hand from the door, and I see his hand move to his pocket. He seems to lean into the door, say something to it, something comforting, and I know he has locked my love in there.
The townsfolk do not know of her connection to Bernard, thank God. He must hope to return to the abbey for the mob’s arrival, to distract them, maybe even calm them down. Even if they think to search the abbey grounds beyond Brother Aurelio’s food stores, no eyebrows would raise over a locked storage hut.
Bernard will return to her as soon as the mob quiets.
Sure enough, I hear yells now. The smoke of their torches meets my nose. I turn and run to the abbey, not wanting my attention on the hut to draw any of their attention. Bernard stands at the edge of the stone fence, a few other lay brothers coming out near him to investigate.
“You are harboring the devil’s spawn!” screams one villager. Another yells, “Let us at Brother Aurelio!”
“What are you talking about?” Bernard calls back.
Pphhhh: a sound like the ringing silence after getting one’s ears boxed, as loud and all encompassing, too. Thunder. The evening is suddenly filled with mean clouds, dry clouds, flicking lightning and thunder without rain haphazardly. Ice pelts down.
One of the villagers yells that it’s a sign. The crowd panics, surges forward, pushing into and through Bernard. Bernard disappears, swallowed in the crowd clambering over him, flooding into the abbey walls. Someone else falls, torch thrown into the grass. The flames take immediately, barely sizzling as the ice pellets meet it. The fire coils from the grass to the inner gardens to the wooden benches. Dots of fire move; people, engulfed in flame. The screams are gouges of deathblows on dying beasts.
I run away from them, to the hut, to my love.
I try the door. It is locked.
“Are you there?” I yell.
A slight sob in return, “Son… We made it… to your parents.”
“We have a son?” I want to kiss her.
She sputters. I shake the doorknob again.
The key. I need the key to get her out of there. Bernard. The lone figure felled in the sea of panic, smoke, and sweat.
“I will be back, my love, I will be back with the key!”
I turn. The fire has already spread to a whole side of the abbey, and to withered fields and trees nearby. Blazing figures streak like lightning into the darkness. Orange and gold sheets blaze, spreading also toward us, to the outer abbey walls, to the very spot where Bernard made his last stand. To this battlefield of flames, I go.
Llansgi, Wales, 2014
These charred bones are all that remain after the fire of 1488. The abbey stones sit remarkably like ribs, leaving the landscape hopelessly marred by history and tourists and romantics. The fire had burnt the abbey out of existence before the dissolution of the monasteries, but after the first Welsh king sat on the English throne. The crop season had ended early with a string of frigid weather, leaving the village short of food and desperate, especially when the abbey’s winter store –and the abbey itself – went up in flames. That was the longest, snowiest winter in one hundred years, local records showed. (Speaking of local records, somehow, a monk had been travelling with the abbey’s records at the time of the fire, leaving some pre-fire history intact. He cited something about no longer being exempt from episcopal evaluation and needing to report to an archbishop.) It was all pretty wondrous, really, the young woman with blue hair thought. She’d spent a few summers as a tour guide around the ruins. Everybody loved stories like these.
She meandered beyond the ruins and into the familiar woods, where she’d imbued every sight with meaning. Those two trees bent in an eternal embrace, for instance, promised recognition, obstruction, fame, fortune, fading. They were strangling each other with their love, but also leading each other up to the light. Bowed, intertwined trees had been encouraged by human hands for centuries. Another of the local traditions tourists loved to hear about.
Hands tingling from the cold, the young woman debated turning back when her foot slipped on the damp leaves. She fell with a theatrical thud, accompanied by a never-ending crash that deafened the entire forest. She had fallen through a pile of decaying branches, revealing a crude wall of gray stone in front of her, a hut. Something she had never seen before.
The young woman stood up, walked around it, and brushed away more debris and branches, revealing four walls – a small shed, practically silver with moss. There was no door, just the vague outline of hinges against a wall of dirt. But the blue haired girl didn’t see this wall of dirt; she saw a door, wooden, heavily rotted but still upright. She put some weight into pushing it. For a few long moments, her heartbeat suspended; then, the door gave way.
When she saw what lay before her, the young woman screamed.
There was a girl stretched on the floor facing her, a young, painfully skinny girl in a brown robe far too large for her. Blood spread out from her tiny, crumpled form. Her hands were clasped in prayer, shaking, tugging at a silver squiggle that looked like a twig on the end of the cord around her neck, a talisman against fear and pain. Eyes closed, her delicate brow was slick with sweat and her lips were cracked and swollen.
There, before the blue haired woman’s eyes, the root-clutching girl began to wrinkle, to rot, to slough off, to ripple, to crumble into ash, until a skeleton was all that was left, bleached off-white, something silver flashing between its skinny curled phalanges. Its black eye holes and gaping jawbones screamed with the madness of isolation. Then, dirt exploded out of those eye holes, gushed from between the jawbones, burst like a fountain out of the ribcage and the pelvis and the femurs. The violent eruption propelled the blue haired woman backward, out of the shed. A crack like thunder accompanied a flash of yellow light, breaking outward like a bomb, and the blue haired woman ducked into a ball. There was complete silence. A moment later, the silence was chipped away by birds and squirrels resuming their activities.
Breathing heavily, the woman stared at the mound of dirt in front of her, the mound encased by four crumbled walls of stone. With each vibrating beat of her heart, the live woman understood with more certainty: she had to get the dead girl out of there.
updated by @ceri-shaw: 02/19/16 06:05:14PM
The Living Will by Julie Samways
West Coast Eisteddfod Short Story Competition 2014
The Living Will
Belinda tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for her siblings. The cafe was beginning to fill up and she felt out of place among the teenage mothers in their bling who were all extremely busy on their mobile phones and ignoring their bored offspring. She ordered another vastly overpriced cup of poor quality coffee , this time she asked for less milk with it. She wanted to be alert in the solicitors office. She had to keep her wits about her, especially with her so- called family there.
‘Where’s mine?’ heralded the arrival of her sister Fiona.
‘You can buy your bloody own, you got more money than I have.’ Replied Belinda.
‘Not my fault you had so many kids is it? How many you got now…..? Six?’
‘You know damn well I only got four!’
‘Whatever! Whose idea was it to meet in this dump?’ asked Fiona, looking around at the scruffy décor and scruffier clientele, with a look of disgust and contempt.
‘Will you keep your voice down,’ hissed Belinda, who was aware of the curious looks that they were getting and began to feel uneasy. ‘It was requested by Uncle Hugh that we meet here before the reading of his will.’
Their exchange was interrupted by Simon, their brother. The youngest and most favoured of the family. The only son, grandson and nephew of the Wilkinson brood. The girls never went without, but Simon always seemed to have that little bit more, it still rankled them almost forty years later.
‘Ah, there’s the golden boy, come to see what good old Uncle Hugh has left you, have you? Everything I expect. Don’t know why us two bothered coming!’ spat Fiona, as way of a greeting. She was the middle child, the one most put out by Simon’s arrival as she had been the baby for almost six years.
Simon snorted, ‘ Good old uncle Hugh! Don’t make me laugh. Before this summons none of us had ever heard of him, and be honest , if there wasn’t a will involved none of us would even be here today.’ He looked at his sisters. They stared back at him.
‘And your point is what exactly?’ asked Belinda. ‘You’re not expecting remorse or guilt or anything like that are you, because in that respect we are all alike. We are here solely to benefit ourselves. It’s not our fault we never knew him, but if he wants to leave us all his money, I’m not going to say no and neither will you. So don’t go all John-Boy Walton on us because it doesn’t suit you dear! Now, come on, it’s almost half past. Good job the solicitors is only across the street.’
They left hurriedly almost knocking over the old lady who had been sitting opposite them , and had got up to leave the same time, in their haste to be first through the door and across the road to the solicitor’s office. The old lady tutted as she steadied herself. She left a tip for the waitress, then picked up her bag and made her way carefully across the road to the solicitor’s office.
The shabby exterior drew sighs and haughty sniffs from the three expectant heirs.
Fiona was rummaging in her bag for a hankerchief to put on the door handle, when Simon
stepped forward and crossly opened the door.
‘Not over the OCD yet then !’ he said viciously.
‘Fuck off!’
‘Charming.’ He replied, as he went in and let the door shut behind him.
Belinda exhaled loudly, God, how she hated them!
She glared at Fiona, ‘ Come on, let’s get this over and done with, and with a bit of luck we won’t have to see each other again.’
Fiona nodded in agreement, God, how she hated them !
They entered the office and totally oblivious to the old lady behind them, they let the door shut in her face.
‘Charming.’ said the old lady, as she went in and quietly closed the door.
They barely looked at her as she entered the waiting room. She sat immediately behind them, she didn’t want to miss a word. She noisily unwrapped a toffee causing Belinda to turn around and give her a withering look. She smiled her sweetest little old lady smile. Belinda scowled and faced front.
The receptionist stood and with a smile announced that Mr. Cooper
would see them now.
‘About bloody time too,’ whispered Fiona , but everybody heard, including the receptionist. She glared at Fiona and opened Mr. Cooper’s door. They tumbled through the door and rushed for the three comfiest looking seats. They were surprised to say the least when the old lady followed them in and sat down.
‘Who’s that?’ hissed Simon.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Belinda, ‘ probably his cleaner by the look of her.’
The old lady winced.
Mr. Cooper cleared his throat and began to speak. They only half listened, their attention was being drawn to a huge screen that had appeared behind him.
‘And here he is, the man himself to explain it all. Mr. Hugh Jardon and his living will.’
The screen was filled by Hugh, a man in his seventies, sat in a wicker chair, surrounded by shelves full of books. His books!
Simon nearly wet himself with excitement, he nudged his sisters. ‘That’s Hugh Jardon, THE Hugh Jardon, author of all those com-porn novels.’
‘What ARE you talking about? Com-porn? What’s that?’ asked a bewildered Fiona.
‘Comedy- porn, stupid!’
They were none the wiser and completely unimpressed until Simon uttered the magic words,
‘They made a series of Hollywood blockbusters.’
KERCHINGGG!
They sat in complete silence to listen to their Uncle Hugh, who had been reading a list of his assets. Country houses in four countries, a beach house on his own beach, racing cars, racehorses and of course the money……….. Millions.
Belinda wordlessly wiped the dribble from her open mouth and looked at her siblings who were equally amazed.
‘ I hereby bequeath it all to………..’
They collectively took an sharp intake of breath.
‘Norah Wilkinson.’
They spluttered and choked . Simon exclaimed ‘Norah Wilkinson? Who the hell is she?’
‘I’m Norah Wilkinson.’ said the old lady.
They watched as the old lady took off her headscarf and grey wig to reveal a shock of red hair, she then removed the spectacles that had added about ten years to her now youthful looking sixty year old face.
‘Ginge!’ mouthed Belinda,’ is that you?... It’s never you?!’
‘Ginge? That makes a pleasant change to what you used to call me, on my rare visits to my father.’ answered Norah, ‘ what were the other names ? Let me think….., ‘
’No need for all that now.’ retorted Belinda, guilt and shame had made her face flush.
Fiona reddened as well. Of course it was Norah, their father’s daughter from a previous marriage. He had left them both for their mother when Norah was about ten. They had been horrible to her and had hardly noticed when she disappeared from their lives. When she attended their father’s funeral, they had ignored her and told anyone that asked that she was the cleaner, unaware that Norah had over heard.
‘Yes , he was more your father than mine, but it’s thanks to you lot that I have all this. You might have had the pampered upbringing, the ponies, the trips abroad, while I had seaside holidays and donkey rides, jam sandwiches for picnics and holes in my shoes. If you lot had accepted me I wouldn’t have lived above the old café over there and then I wouldn’t have met Hugh.’
‘Anyone call?’ boomed Hugh, as he filled the doorway. Simon fainted.
‘Hello darling,’ said Norah, ‘I think we should explain.
The receptionist brought in a tray of tea and biscuits, and a brandy for Simon. They were all
sat around the desk, Mr Cooper was enjoying himself immensely. When Hugh and Norah had
asked for the loan of his office he didn’t hesitate and offered his services as well. He hadn’t even charged as they were firm friends as well as clients. He had been Norah ’s mother’s solicitor and had always felt guilty about her paltry divorce settlement, but he had been up against the best that money could buy and had just starting practising.
‘After my mother died , Hugh proposed, but I turned him down.’ began Norah. ‘ We had been childhood friends then sweethearts, his parents owned the café, and became my family, but I didn’t want to marry anybody, I didn’t want to have to divorce maybe someday. We are still not married. We are happily unmarried you might say. We set up home together and I began to write and sell the odd short story.’
‘Some very odd!’ laughed Hugh.
‘Anyway, it evolved into a living and with Hugh illustrating , we teamed up and I wrote our first erotic comic novel or com-porn as they call it now, isn’t it Simon.?’ He blushed.
‘However , no publisher would touch it in those days, as it was written by a woman, hence Hugh Jardon. That was my little joke, some still haven’t caught on. His real name is Jenkins. The rest , as they say is history. With the film money now we have far more than we’ll ever need. Not bad for a cleaner hey?’ She looked at Fiona. ‘ As we haven’t any children we thought we’d seek out our relatives , and give some away now. Saving any arguments and nonsense later, and this way it goes to whoever we want it to go to. Hence the ‘living’ will. Hugh has only the odd cousin…….‘
‘Very odd.’ Interrupted Hugh.
They all laughed. Simon did the calculations in his head, if his sisters were out because of their bitchiness, that meant that it was between this cousin and him. He smiled.
‘and his eight children, twenty two grandchildren and three great grandchildren, so that takes up an enormous chunk of it, but leaves us plenty to get by on.’
Simon’s, Fiona’s and Belinda’s faces were like thunder. ‘ Did you only bring us here to humiliate us and have your revenge?’ bellowed Fiona.
Norah looked them squarely in the eyes. ‘Yes. If I’d have left this until I died, I wouldn’t have been able to see your faces, after all, the dead won’t hurt you…… but I have left you some er… property, ‘
Their hopes soared. The country houses.
‘ Simon, you get sod all…………. Belinda, you get bugger all……………. and Fiona, well do I need to spell it out? It’s just as you said at father’s funeral, Norah gets naff all. Remember?’
They remembered!
Then they stomped out as one, slamming every door behind them.
‘Charming!’ said Norah and Mr Cooper in perfect unison. They collapsed in peals of laughter.
‘How odd.’ chuckled Hugh.
The Angry Wife by Tracy Davidson
West Coast Eisteddfod Short Story Competition 2014
I was rudely, and very unwillingly, dragged from a delightful dream by raised voices outside my bedroom door. The dream involved a naked Hugh Jackman and a tub of whipped cream, and had just reached a very interesting point – literally – so, needless to say, I was somewhat reluctant to return to the real world. Especially such a noisy one.
A woman’s voice was the loudest. Even though the thickness of the hotel bedroom walls and door muffled her words, it was perfectly clear from both volume and tone that she was pissed. In more ways than one.
There was a man’s voice too. Lower, soothing, presumably trying to calm her. I was too comfy in my king-size bed to get up and investigate. Let hotel security deal with her. I rolled over and shut my eyes, trying to tune the noise out.
But then there was a loud banging on my door. And it didn’t stop. I sighed and rose, pulling my dressing gown on. Like Marilyn, I prefer to sleep in the nude. Though I personally prefer Nina Ricci over Chanel No 5.
“Come on you bitch, open the door!” Those words were easy enough to make out. I obliged her, though keeping the security chain in place.
“Do you know what time it is?” I asked, in my most sarcastic, icy tone. Not that I knew what the time was, though I guessed from the bleary-eyed faces of the guests across the hall who were standing at their door watching, that it was probably the middle of the night.
I didn’t recognise the woman, who tried to push her way in, even though she must have seen the chain was on. She was tall, broad-shouldered and well-built upstairs, if you know what I mean. Her face was flushed with anger and alcohol, eyes glaring at me with hatred.
There were two men, in hotel uniform, behind her. One was glaring at her with the same level of malevolence she was directing at me. He looked like he was itching to grab her and drag her away, kicking and screaming. His colleague was shooting rather desperate, and apologetic, looks at me. He opened his mouth to say something, but the woman beat him to it.
“Where is he?” she shouted. “I know he’s in there with you, you trollop! George, get your good-for-nothing arse out here now!”
I sighed and rolled my eyes. So that was it. There was an errant husband on the loose in the hotel somewhere. And, for some reason, his wife thought he was with me.
“I don’t know anyone called George,” I said, quietly and calmly. “And I’m all alone in here.”
“Liar!” the woman cried. “You’re just his type. Blonde, blue-eyed, skinny as a rake, and you smell like a harlot!”
A harlot, huh? I guess she’s not a fan of Nina Ricci. I looked her up and down slowly. “Is that his type?” I said. “Really? So why did he marry you then?”
I regretted it as soon as I said it, even though one of the security men snorted with laughter. Not that I cared about hurting her feelings, but because I could see it instantly made her even angrier. I guessed there was only one way to appease her.
“Come in and see for yourself,” I said. I tried to close the door so I could unchain it, but found her large foot in the way. “Do you want to come in or not?”
She eyed me suspiciously, but removed her foot. I took the chain off and opened the door again, swinging it wide open. I switched the lights on as she stormed into the room, the security men following in her wake.
Her attention had, naturally, gone straight to the bed. Only the side I had been sleeping on was disturbed. I exchanged grins with the men when she dropped to her knees to check under the bed. George would have had to be thinner than Olive Oyl to have fitted under there.
“Don’t forget to check the wardrobes,” I said. She gave me a dirty look, but proceeded to do exactly as I suggested. Then she checked behind the curtains, behind the sofa and, finally, disappeared into the bathroom. She was in there longer than the size of the room warranted. I exchanged puzzled glances with the security men. Then we heard the sound of retching. I hoped she was considerate enough to at least have done it in the toilet.
“Sorry about this madam,” one of the men said. “We’ll get her out of your way as soon as she’s…er…finished.” The toilet flushed as he spoke, then came the sound of running water.
When the woman emerged from the bathroom a minute later she looked completely different. All the anger and attitude had gone out of her. Her face was still flushed, but from embarrassment this time. She wouldn’t meet my eyes, keeping hers lowered as she shuffled forwards. I started to feel sorry for her.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “I had someone following George on Thursday night. This is the room number he gave me yesterday.”
“Thursday night?” I queried. “I only checked in a few hours ago. You can check with reception. If this was his room, he’s found another one since.”
She nodded, muttered another apology, and headed for the door.
“Wait,” I said. “What’s your name?”
Startled out of her shame, she looked up at me. “Mandy,” she said. “Mandy Richardson. Are…are you going to lodge a complaint against me?”
I shook my head. “No. But I’d like you to write an open apology to everyone on this floor who you’ve disturbed tonight. And apologise to the staff here too. Enough of their time has been wasted, don’t you think?”
Mandy nodded, promptly apologising to the security men.
“And Mandy, one more thing. This George of yours. Is he worth it? Worth doing this to yourself over?”
She looked at me, miserably. “I love him,” she said. “Wish I didn’t sometimes. But I do. I miss him when he’s with her. So do the kids.”
Children too, huh? George sounded like a right charmer. Poor cow had it bad.
“When you find him,” I said. “Give him an ultimatum. Tell him he has to choose. The ‘trollop’ or you and the kids. If he chooses her…well, then you’ll know he’s definitely not worth it. Right?”
She nodded. “Right…Thank you. You’ve been very kind. Especially after how I’ve treated you. I’m not usually like this.”
“I believe you,” I said. I walked her to the door. To my surprise, and I think her own, she hugged me before disappearing out the door and heading purposefully to the elevator.
The security men both shook my hand, thanking me for calming her down and apologising again for the inconvenience.
The bleary-eyed couple opposite were still hovering in the doorway. They looked rather disappointed that the fireworks were over. I smiled sweetly at them before firmly shutting the door and slipping the security chain back on.
I picked up my phone and dialled a number. A sleepy voice answered.
“You were right,” I said. “She was on to us. It’s just as well you left early. She’s just gone.”
He started to say something. I cut him off. “Shut up George,” I said. “You really are a piece of work. Were you ever going to tell me you had children? No, don’t bother trying to explain or make excuses. We’re done. I suggest you make things up with Mandy. She won’t put up with this shit much longer. Goodbye George.”
I hung up. And I found that, instead of being upset that I had lost a lover, I felt relieved. I had never set out to be a homewrecker and it stung that I had been part of causing another woman so much pain. George had clearly been feeding us both a load of crap for months. I was well shot of him.
I turned out the lights and climbed back into bed. “Now then Hugh,” I mumbled into my pillow. “Where were we?”
The Hold-up by Tracy Davidson
West Coast Eisteddfod Short Story Competition 2014
Why is it the shortest queue always seems to take the longest time? There’s always someone, usually the one right in front of you when you think you’re nearly there, who will either have a dozen or more different transactions to do, or will insist on conducting a long conversation with the teller about anything and everything going on in their lives, whether connected to banking or not.
The one in front of me today seems to be a mixture of both those annoying types of people. The teller – whose name is Julie, I can just make out her name badge – has that look of strained patience on her face as the customer rabbits on about her stingy ex-husband while she roots around in her voluminous handbag for her debit card. I couldn’t stand this kind of job, where you have to be cheery and polite to everyone, no matter how hard you might privately want to smash them in the face, or tell them how stupid and/or boring they are.
My attention is diverted from the two of them by the sound of raised voices coming from behind me. I look around. What was a short queue is now quite a lengthy one. And a few impatiently shuffling customers away from me are two young men squaring up to each other and looking like they’re about to start trading punches.
From what I can make out, their argument seems to be over a girl. Or, more specifically, over which of them this girl likes best. Lucky girl to have two such tall and handsome men fight over her.
Their row grows more heated and the volume increases. Almost everyone in the bank is looking at them, some seeming shocked and some amused at the commotion. One of the security guards has moved over from his position by the door to try and calm the situation down. He’s not having much luck. If anything, his interference seems to be inflaming their tempers.
I hear a cough in front of me. The annoying woman has moved off and Julie is smiling and beckoning me forward.
“Sorry,” I say. “I was a bit distracted.” I nod my head to the scene behind me. “It’s all happening here, isn’t it?”
Julie nods and sighs with a rueful smile. “Yes,” she says. “I think it’s definitely going to be one of those days.”
I smile back sympathetically, feeling a little guilty that I’m about to make her day even worse.
The argument behind me is now deafening out all other noise in the bank. I briefly look back over my shoulder and see that the second security guard has now abandoned his post and has joined his partner. Both guards have their backs to me. I turn back to Julie and lean a little closer in to the partition. She leans forward on her side too. And that’s when she sees the gun I’m now grasping inside my jacket.
“I’m really sorry about this,” I say in a quiet voice that only she can hear. Her eyes move from the gun to my face, then past my shoulder towards the guards. But they still have all their attention on those handsome boys.
“Don’t even think about calling out,” I say. “And please keep your hands where I can see them.” I push a black cloth bag through the slot. “Would you mind filling that up with bills. $50s and $100s please. Right up to the top.”
With trembling hands Julie does as she’s told. Poor thing. She’ll probably need counselling after this. No doubt they’re trained to watch out for dodgy-looking suspicious characters. Not grey-haired 75-year-old ladies with glasses and a walking stick. I don’t actually need the stick for walking, but it’s a good cover. Not to mention a handy weapon. I would never dream of shooting anyone. The gun isn’t real anyway. Not that dear Julie knows that of course. But I’ve cracked a few bones, and backsides, with the stick over the years.
At last, Julie finishes stuffing the bag and ties it up. Just in time too, as the guards have threatened to handcuff the men and lock them in the security office to calm down. That threat shuts them up.
I take back the bag and thank Julie warmly. “Please keep your hands on the counter until after I’m gone,” I say. “I have friends watching who are armed too.” Her eyes, rather comically, flit from side-to-side, as she tries to work out who those friends might be. They don’t exist of course, those friends. But now, Julie won’t trust anyone. Ever again probably.
I shuffle out of the bank, behind one of the handsome young men. The other one follows me out. We all head in the same direction, but not walking together, until we’re around the corner. Then we jump into our car (OK, so it’s only been ours for a few hours, but finders keepers right?) and we put as much distance between us and the bank as possible. Police cars screech past us on the way, heading in the opposite direction.
“Well done boys,” I say. “You nearly had even me convinced you hated each other’s guts.”
“We do Grandma,” laughed the younger one, nudging his older brother playfully in the ribs. He got a mock slap on the arm in return.
My grandsons have been a breath of fresh air for me. I was a lonely old woman, just about surviving on my pension, until they came to stay with me a few years back. Now I feel about 20 years younger. I’m certainly a lot better off financially! And I’m no longer lonely.
Seventy-two years of being a goody-two-shoes didn’t get me anywhere. No-one gets hurt doing what we do. Banks can afford to lose a few thousand dollars every now and then. OK, today was more like fifty thousand. But they’ll survive. And so will we, quite happily.
The boys start arguing over where we should head to next. Simon wants to try Chicago, Daniel favours the warmer climes of Florida. And me? Well, I’ve always fancied trying my luck in Nevada. A harmless-looking old granny like me could really clean up there.
Viva Las Vegas!
The Paper Boy by Dorothy Lanasa
West Coast Eisteddfod Short Story Competition 2014
At fourteen, I walked about eight city blocks from St. Martin's High School on Fulton Avenue to my Father's carry out store on Pratt and Monroe Streets. Even as a sophomore in high school, I can remember the unfortunate uncomfortableness of this walk through a struggling neighborhood: debris scattered on the streets and sidewalks, once well-kept, three story houses, homing a now poorer economy, abandoned National Boh bottles idled on bar-window ledges, having stale beer scents, lingering about the street corners. Especially, I remember the faces, those bored and daunted blank expressions of parents on pads of concrete, taking in the evening last beams of light with children close by playing simple games, chalked on the sidewalks, near streams of traffic.
We were blessed. Dad always felt obliged to give his children an employment. Of course, working gave me the gladness of spending power. Just the week before, I had just bought a suede and Italian-knit, classy dress, costing me a week's pay-- forty-five dollars which came with the lesson of working too hard for one dress. A storm was starting, the biggest raindrops falling first on this chilly, fall day. Dashing across the last intersection, I unlocked the corner store's door as quickly as I could so my new hairdo would not get wet.. Then again quickly, I relocked the door, flicked on the overhead lights and started working alone. Although not totally alone, several other of my father's employees worked in the adjacent building, Monroe Seafood, where the steamed crabs were sold. This past summer was my first real job working at the crab store, cleaning crab pots first and then graduating to counter help. The fairly recent opening of the carry-out had shone good promise, and Dad wanted this to stay open, past the summer season as long as we could. He asked, and I agreed to help.
Although I did not really feel like doing this, once there, duty compelled me, and I got into the tasks at hand. First, I re cleaned from the night before: dishes, counters, sweeping the floor. Then, I prepared the salads: potato, macaroni, and coleslaw. For the early 60's, dad had an luxurious, automatic slicer. Just clean and core the cabbages and toss them in the stainless steel sleeve of the slicer, set the dial, and in a few minutes, cabbage was sliced, lovely and fine. The same salad dressing was prepared for the base of all three, and then the showcase had to be prepared. Quickly, I put on a pot of coffee and turned the pizza oven on low to take the chill off. Breaded, stuffed shrimp, and fish squares were all pre made, and were placed on clean steel trays with delicatessen paper underneath. Dad would do the double padded oysters when he came in, and my brother would bring me up a large tray of hard crabs with the backs off, and I would remove the gills and scrub them. Then, the cavity was filled with crab cake, and I would giggle when the claws would jump a little even after cleaning, showing still some life. Soft crabs I could not do since you had to snip off parts, while they were still alive; their weak feelers would cling to the seafood surgeon's hand. I could not take that, and kindly, my older brother would do that task for me. Then, the batter for the hard fries was made, starting with five pounds of Washington's Self Rising Flour, eggs, water and seasonings. All the fixings for subs and pizzas were made, and then I would unlock the door, pour myself a cup of coffee and waited for the first customer and/or the evening help.
The rain was pounding, needily, scrubbing the streets. Paper flowed down the now “rivery” gutters. Then, the ten or eleven year old boy, who supplied the corner with the morning and evening Sun Paper, came in, drenched.
I looked at him ahgast and said, “You look like something the cat dragged in.”
“Yeah, ' really coming down out there...Do you want the evening paper?”
“Sure. How about a cup of coffee—on the house.”
“Yeah,” he replied.
“You sure are wet! Why don't you take off your shirt, and I'll dry the shirt in the oven?”
He hesitated, gave me his shirt, and exposed an unknown to me deformity in his chest. I glanced at the convex chest, and then looked down, and then looked searchingly in his eyes. Did he want me to enter his place of embarrassment and pain? Doing what his eyes told me, I did not mention it and took his shirt, placed the water laden shirt on the ledge of the pizza door and turned up the mighty oven.
“I was born that way. It's a chicken breast.” He said frankly, openly, with no chance now of discretion as is the busy traffic, honking horns, and neon lights, colorfully,blatantly, adding to the city night.
“How about a crab cake?” He agreed, and I fixed him a big plate of food, which seemed to be the family remedy in those days, too often, before psychiatry visits were trendy. While he ate, I fiddled with the shirt, turning it over and over in the high heat of the oven. Eventually, it was pretty dry.
“I know what we can do—so you won't get wet all over.”
“What?”
“We'll put newspapers on you. Look,...” I took newspapers and draped them over his shoulders, and he tucked them in. Then, he put his shirt on.
“See?” I said thinking this haphazard prevention had some benefit.
Matter of factually, we smiled and said our “see you laters," both of us going back to work. Returning to the steady rain, he turned and sent a big final wave. But, I never did see him another time-- the paper boy who brought us the Evening Sun news. I guess he was swallowed by his world to a new location or moved away or something, and, of course, the immediacy of daily duties won out over any further seeking for the shy youngster.
Dad got there about 5:30 pm, looked around, studied the showcase briefly, and said,
“Good”, getting his second wind from his regular full time job.
“Go around to the grocery store and get this,” handing me a list.
"Okay,” I dashed outside in the waning storm to the very near grocery store, not ever being bothered again about the rain in my hair, not ever, even unto this very day.
The Hardening Of Pharaoh's Heart by Cathy Bryant
West Coast Eisteddfod Short Story Competition 2014
We had been looking forward to it for weeks. The comedian's tour had been getting great reviews, and we had tickets for the final night.
We dressed casually. Money was too tight to run to new, smart outfits and we'd had to save up for the tickets, but we really needed a night out.
"Listen to these quotes, Shelley," said my husband, Will, holding the local paper. "He's described as 'edgy', 'laugh-out-loud funny', 'dangerously, daringly hilarious', 'fresh and exciting' and 'the most powerful comic of his generation'."
"There are some odd adjectives in there," I murmured, clipping on my earrings. "Does 'funny' really go with 'dangerous'?"
Will shrugged, and carried on reading about Jed Hooke until it was time for us to get ready. Will is the kind of person who can look effortlessly smart in the most unassuming clothes - tonight, a collarless blue linen shirt and fawn trousers, whereas I can look messy in high-end haute couture.
I mention the clothes because otherwise what happened later might be attributed to some accident of dress or demeanour.
At the Victoria Arena we sat in our red plush seats, clutching our programmes and trying not to get too excited about the evening ahead. With work commitments and financial constraints we weren't going out much, and it was hard not to go overboard into a feeling of jubilee.
The warm-up act consisted of a rather nervous young woman telling some quite astute political jokes. Clever and funny, she just lacked a little aplomb. Next there was a P.A. announcement of the 'Laydeez and-ah Gentlemen' variety, and Jed Hooke came on.
The audience went crazy, hooting and shouting affirmations, whistling and clapping like a thunderstorm.
Jed walked up to the mike and looked round uncertainly.
"This is Alcoholics Anonymous, right?" he asked earnestly, and the audience roared appreciatively. The evening was off and running.
I hadn't liked the opener much, but we settled comfortably back in our seats - third row from the front with an excellent view of the stage - and prepared to enjoy ourselves.
There were several long narrative arcs, peppered with jokes, and referring back to previous themes. It was neatly and professionally tied together.
The serious problems started during the second segment. Jed was telling a story about touring abroad, and was talking about Africa. First he made a joke about starving children, and then he made a joke about starving children with AIDS. Will and I looked at each other in consternation, and whether or not Jed Hooke caught the movement, he was alerted and looked at us directly.
"Too close to home, eh?" he grinned, raising an eyebrow at Will. "Though you needn't worry about starving, eh?"
Will is a heavily built man.
He is also black.
The laughter hit me in a wave, and threatened to drown me in panic. Why were they laughing? Jed was now doing a mock Jamaican accent and enquiring about Will's sexual prowess.
"Come on," whispered Will, taking my shaking hand, and we squeezed past the others on our row. It seemed to take forever to leave the arena, and despite the fact that I hadn't done anything wrong I felt hot with humiliation.
As we made our way to the doors, I could hear Jed say, "If they think that's offensive, then it's a good job they pissed off before hearing the next joke - it's about a crippled Welsh Jew and a gay Paki."
The audience was in fits.
Outside in the foyer were five other people who, like us, had left.
"That was totally out of order," one woman was saying, while her companion kept repeating, "It's just a joke. Postmodern irony. Just a joke," and looking as if he wanted to go back and listen to the rest.
"Postmodern irony, eh? Funny how it sounds exactly like the same old shit," said Will bitterly, fixing the man with a steely glance.
"God, I thought we'd got rid of all that in the eighties," sighed one of the other people who had left.
"We did. And now it's back. That's fashion for you," I put in, my voice as bitter as Will's.
On the way home we were silent. Will kept looking at me, though, and was obviously concerned.
"It's ok, Shelley," he said gently. "I'm ok."
"Why are you ok?" I asked, taking a corner too quickly and angrily.
"Because I'm used to it," he said, even more gently. I began to cry again.
As soon as we were home I hugged him for a long time, had another damn good cry, and then started ranting.
"Seven of us, including you and me. That's all, out of two thousand, who left. A pretty tiny exodus, isn't it? Pathetic. Why not more? Why don't they care? Just imagine if his entire audience had walked away, in silence, with dignity. God, can't they hear the hatred?"
Will shrugged. "It's the old story. Hate people who are different, feel better about yourself." He paused. "And presumably many of the people there knew about him, so knew what they were getting and are happy with it. What worries me is the number of our friends who said he was great."
"I'm going to ring them all, right now," I snarled, and stomped furiously to the phone, which made Will chuckle.
"That's my Amazon warrior," he said.
"Oh hello Jo," I said into the phone. "You recommended Jed Hooke to us. So tell us, what exactly do you find so funny about racism, sexism, anti-semitism and weight jokes?"
An hour and several phone calls later, Will brought me in a small brandy.
"We shouldn't," I mumbled. "We're saving to sponsor another child."
Will pressed the brandy on me anyway, and looked at my subdued face.
"Let me guess," he said softly. "They didn't know, they were shocked to hear it, were you sure, probably he was mocking racism itself, he was being ironic?"
I nodded.
"They were only following orders," I said sarcastically.
And we fell silent in our home, listening sadly to the distant wail of sirens, the shrieks of drunken laughter, and the sound of hearts hardening.
“What do we do?” I asked.
“We keep on,” said Will. “We pick our battles and stand up to injustice, keeping our dignity and principles. We ride the bad wave and wait for the next good one. And for now, we hold each other and sleep. Love survives.”
There is great joy in a soft, loving heart. I fell asleep in his warm arms.
Sunday February 7th – Wales v Ireland 3.00pm – Scoreline Prediction
Wales Grand Slam Scoreline Prediction Forum
Well nobody predicted a draw!!! Sound like it was a helluva match....tempted to go watch at Kells this afternoon https://americymru.net/americymru/event/1280/wales-v-ireland-2016-portland
Sunday February 7th – Wales v Ireland 3.00pm – Scoreline Prediction
Wales Grand Slam Scoreline Prediction Forum
Tim Bowen2: Left it a bit close with the reminder? 13-19 Wales win
Yes I did. I should look at the calendar a bit more often perhaps? Diolch for posting
Sunday February 7th – Wales v Ireland 3.00pm – Scoreline Prediction
Wales Grand Slam Scoreline Prediction Forum
I think it will be close 21-23 to Wales!!
