Runner up to the AWESOMELY talented flash fiction writer - and my Penny Production partner in crime, Kim Kneen, at Manx Litfest Short Story Slam 2018. Could not have been happier because Kim must surely be the most literary genius I know! Also our ace pal, the exceptionally brilliant Vicky Lloyd Davies scooped third - a buzz in the North of our rock this evening!
My Manx Litfest Short Story 2018 Runner up
'Untie the Ribbons'
'Untie the Ribbons'
Thick as Thieves - just a bit of fun. Written for a farm themed story telling evening.
Infant Eyes
One of my first attempts at flash fiction, this story is based on true stories and is dedicated to my beautiful grandmother. It is not, however, the story that was recently long-listed for the Ink Tears Flash Fiction Comp, but it is my favourite.
They snapped her in handcuffs and slammed her in jail, then wandered off and left her. She sat there, hands held up almost in prayer: silver fetters glinting in the bright sun that blazed through the window; palms not quite touching. I was touched though. Her hair whispered smoke around her head - fingers knotted as roots of some ancient tree. It struck me then that her prison was more than iron or steel or plastic, for though her eyes shone with innocence, they were clouded and could not clearly see the policemen who charged around outside, nor her ears hear the sirens - but at least she once loved, I found myself thinking, and it took me back to the red lipstick she would wear and how tenderly she would kiss him. Not now though. He had left her long ago, ashes thrown to the sea with a dozen red roses, only to be washed up on the shore around the corner. We had watched on, horrified, whilst unsuspecting lovers fished the flowers out and handed them to each other. It made me cry - made us all cry, but truly? It was perfect - maybe sparked a romance or mended a friendship. I remember too when she swore to us that if it rained she would strip off all her clothes and dance down the road naked. Now, she just sits there so still by the window. She is beautiful. I want to hug her. Instead, I march outside - “Set her free!” I cry - mind-deafened by screeching children; the smallest I pick up and cradle - he has her eyes but without the clouds. The other I scold - take away his plastic gun. “Bang, bang!” He aims two fingers at his brother and I grab them both with two of mine. “Inside the pair of you,” I say - “Granny's had enough of playing cops and robbers for one day.” I pause. “Set her free.”
One of my first attempts at flash fiction, this story is based on true stories and is dedicated to my beautiful grandmother. It is not, however, the story that was recently long-listed for the Ink Tears Flash Fiction Comp, but it is my favourite.
They snapped her in handcuffs and slammed her in jail, then wandered off and left her. She sat there, hands held up almost in prayer: silver fetters glinting in the bright sun that blazed through the window; palms not quite touching. I was touched though. Her hair whispered smoke around her head - fingers knotted as roots of some ancient tree. It struck me then that her prison was more than iron or steel or plastic, for though her eyes shone with innocence, they were clouded and could not clearly see the policemen who charged around outside, nor her ears hear the sirens - but at least she once loved, I found myself thinking, and it took me back to the red lipstick she would wear and how tenderly she would kiss him. Not now though. He had left her long ago, ashes thrown to the sea with a dozen red roses, only to be washed up on the shore around the corner. We had watched on, horrified, whilst unsuspecting lovers fished the flowers out and handed them to each other. It made me cry - made us all cry, but truly? It was perfect - maybe sparked a romance or mended a friendship. I remember too when she swore to us that if it rained she would strip off all her clothes and dance down the road naked. Now, she just sits there so still by the window. She is beautiful. I want to hug her. Instead, I march outside - “Set her free!” I cry - mind-deafened by screeching children; the smallest I pick up and cradle - he has her eyes but without the clouds. The other I scold - take away his plastic gun. “Bang, bang!” He aims two fingers at his brother and I grab them both with two of mine. “Inside the pair of you,” I say - “Granny's had enough of playing cops and robbers for one day.” I pause. “Set her free.”
The Wild Man of the Eairy
After a rotten 15 months featuring a collapsed pelvis and some feisty RA action, I've been slowly attempting to get my mobility back via hiking. Quiet, solitary and often probably not all that sensible, I've been amazed to discover whole bits of the Island I'd never come across before. One of the places I've been exploring is Block Eairy - the reservoir north side of Snaefell. Just above the ancient settlement of Tholt-y-Will, it is Eairy by name and eerie by nature. James's hide out would have been around the creepy gullies at the back of the reservoir - where I recently found myself stuck. Eliza and Luna's house would been quite high up, away from the chapel below that's since been converted into a house. The village is probably Sulby, though I took a bit of creative license on this as it's a bit further away than the village I'd pictured my head. The last line requires a bit of audience participation.
Eliza’s story.
There are so many things I never I told you about him. I know I’d curse when he’d turn up unannounced and invite himself in. Then eat all the food. But until now, I never told you everything.
“It’s my home too,” he’d said that last time.
“It’s the middle of the night,” I’d snapped back as he’d crossed out of his world, ’night’, and into ours.
“Built with these.” I remember his eyes in the glow of the lamp, and how he’d raised his hands - two huge, hairy shovels, caked in mud. Briefly, they’d rested on mine as he’d taken the lantern.
“Look at the trees tonight,” I remember whispering then. “It’s like God’s coated their branches in diamonds.” I thought he hadn’t heard, but when he answered back,
“There’s no God here for the likes of us,” I knew he was right. I had already seen in his eyes that this would be the last time.
Trembling, I’d taken one last look at a bright full moon, shut the door and turned the key. Casting a glance up the stairs, to where I knew you were sleeping, I’d then followed his footsteps to the kitchen.
But things weren’t always so dark with us. In the beginning he had built our home.
“A fine place it is too!” Your Uncle Tom had declared, and we’d laughed and cheered as the last flagstone was laid, then all of us, farmers and villagers alike, had drank till the early hours.
You were born not nine months later at the stroke of midnight. We’d named you Luna - born on a full moon. As I’d held you in my arms that first time, seemed the stars themselves shone only for me.
Not him though. From that day on, he changed. By the time you were four he would often be missing from the warmth of my bed, only to turn up tired and drawn the next day.
“Been out poaching,” he would say, chuck a bunny or two on the table. “Times are hard.” And I would look at him nervously, knowing the season to be good and crops plentiful.
“Been strange goings on down the village,” I said to him once when he’d come in, bootless and filthy, as though he’d no time to dress. “Cats being strangled and Bob Quaggin’s dog found drowned in a well.” I’d been stirring the porridge, too scared to meet his eyes as he'd answered,
“Cloan.” Children. And so things might have gone on except late one night, down at the inn, that old drunk, Sam Corrin had pointed at him and said,
“Do you know what, James? I’ve been having a think about all these odd carry ons around the village. Every full moon.”
I’d heard that at his words the whole place went quiet as the grave. Then Sam had stood up, poked a finger at your dad and said,
“Seems you’ve had the devil in your eye these last few years, ever since that babe came along. What you calling her? Luna?”
When I’d been told that Sam had turned up dead the next day, I’d screamed and screamed.
“What have you done! They’ll come after all of us!”
“Don’t be daft you old cow.” He’d said, but his eyes were black with fear. It was the only time he’d ever hit me. And though it was decreed that Sam had died of natural causes, the die had been cast and never again would I trust a full moon.
They turned quickly, our friends and neighbours
“It’s her,” they would whisper as we passed, “his wife and the child.”
“Child,” always hushed in the same tone they would also say, “born on a full moon.”
When they started to call him “The Wild Man of the Eairy,” it drove me half mad and then I drove him away for the curse he’d brought on us. You were twelve by this time. “I hate you!” I remember the scorn in your words when he left. You’d always been close. So I’d told you terrible stories about him to win you back, tied you to the bed when you’d tried to run away. But you were too quick for me.
Then there was that last time he’d come calling.
“Food,” he’d said, slumping at the table. I’d watched as he’d sucked up the last husks of our bread like a beast possessed.
“Sweated blood for you I did. Tears.” His words had been bitter.
“I know,” I’d answered, not caring to. Then I’d poured him a skinny beer from the old keg that still lived in the cellar.
“What now?” He’d put his hand on my wrist and I’d froze.
“Let’s go to bed, Lize, please?”
“No.” I’d snatched my wrist away, then, the latch! We’d both jumped and he’d leapt to his feet, afraid.
You’d appeared suddenly at the bottom of the stairs, perfectly framed by the kitchen doorway, features pale and startled, reflected in the moon’s light.
“Shut the front door!” He had shouted.
Slam! You had scurried back up to bed and he had collapsed, sobbing on the old wooden rocker.
Luna’s Story.
There are so many things you never knew that I knew. Like how you would cry out for him in your sleep and curse the day I was born. How you would pray for him when you thought I wasn’t listening. The last time he came knocking the night had been frosty cold, not long past mid winter. His time was already drawing to a close. Each of us knew that. Too many creatures slaughtered, teeth marks on broken necks, hearts vanished. Always on a bright, full moon. When I’d seen him - that night, by the lantern, I knew. At the time the moon which had burst through the front door was half hidden by cloud.
They came for him not long after. He hadn’t resisted.
“James George Teare,” they had said, “we’re arresting you on suspicion of murder.” A man. You buried your head in your hands.
He was sentenced to death by hanging and I heard the whole town turned out to cheer. Not us though. Instead, as you’d cried your heart out in the chapel, I had hidden in his cold, damp hide out by the gully and counted hearts. Shrivelled ones I’d dried in his honour. I’d been thinking as I did, of the night and its bright full moons. Thinking about how there were so many things I never told you about him. The long nights he spent trying to stop me. How he died to protect me. But now I must go. A full moon is calling. Ow owww. Ow owwww.
After a rotten 15 months featuring a collapsed pelvis and some feisty RA action, I've been slowly attempting to get my mobility back via hiking. Quiet, solitary and often probably not all that sensible, I've been amazed to discover whole bits of the Island I'd never come across before. One of the places I've been exploring is Block Eairy - the reservoir north side of Snaefell. Just above the ancient settlement of Tholt-y-Will, it is Eairy by name and eerie by nature. James's hide out would have been around the creepy gullies at the back of the reservoir - where I recently found myself stuck. Eliza and Luna's house would been quite high up, away from the chapel below that's since been converted into a house. The village is probably Sulby, though I took a bit of creative license on this as it's a bit further away than the village I'd pictured my head. The last line requires a bit of audience participation.
Eliza’s story.
There are so many things I never I told you about him. I know I’d curse when he’d turn up unannounced and invite himself in. Then eat all the food. But until now, I never told you everything.
“It’s my home too,” he’d said that last time.
“It’s the middle of the night,” I’d snapped back as he’d crossed out of his world, ’night’, and into ours.
“Built with these.” I remember his eyes in the glow of the lamp, and how he’d raised his hands - two huge, hairy shovels, caked in mud. Briefly, they’d rested on mine as he’d taken the lantern.
“Look at the trees tonight,” I remember whispering then. “It’s like God’s coated their branches in diamonds.” I thought he hadn’t heard, but when he answered back,
“There’s no God here for the likes of us,” I knew he was right. I had already seen in his eyes that this would be the last time.
Trembling, I’d taken one last look at a bright full moon, shut the door and turned the key. Casting a glance up the stairs, to where I knew you were sleeping, I’d then followed his footsteps to the kitchen.
But things weren’t always so dark with us. In the beginning he had built our home.
“A fine place it is too!” Your Uncle Tom had declared, and we’d laughed and cheered as the last flagstone was laid, then all of us, farmers and villagers alike, had drank till the early hours.
You were born not nine months later at the stroke of midnight. We’d named you Luna - born on a full moon. As I’d held you in my arms that first time, seemed the stars themselves shone only for me.
Not him though. From that day on, he changed. By the time you were four he would often be missing from the warmth of my bed, only to turn up tired and drawn the next day.
“Been out poaching,” he would say, chuck a bunny or two on the table. “Times are hard.” And I would look at him nervously, knowing the season to be good and crops plentiful.
“Been strange goings on down the village,” I said to him once when he’d come in, bootless and filthy, as though he’d no time to dress. “Cats being strangled and Bob Quaggin’s dog found drowned in a well.” I’d been stirring the porridge, too scared to meet his eyes as he'd answered,
“Cloan.” Children. And so things might have gone on except late one night, down at the inn, that old drunk, Sam Corrin had pointed at him and said,
“Do you know what, James? I’ve been having a think about all these odd carry ons around the village. Every full moon.”
I’d heard that at his words the whole place went quiet as the grave. Then Sam had stood up, poked a finger at your dad and said,
“Seems you’ve had the devil in your eye these last few years, ever since that babe came along. What you calling her? Luna?”
When I’d been told that Sam had turned up dead the next day, I’d screamed and screamed.
“What have you done! They’ll come after all of us!”
“Don’t be daft you old cow.” He’d said, but his eyes were black with fear. It was the only time he’d ever hit me. And though it was decreed that Sam had died of natural causes, the die had been cast and never again would I trust a full moon.
They turned quickly, our friends and neighbours
“It’s her,” they would whisper as we passed, “his wife and the child.”
“Child,” always hushed in the same tone they would also say, “born on a full moon.”
When they started to call him “The Wild Man of the Eairy,” it drove me half mad and then I drove him away for the curse he’d brought on us. You were twelve by this time. “I hate you!” I remember the scorn in your words when he left. You’d always been close. So I’d told you terrible stories about him to win you back, tied you to the bed when you’d tried to run away. But you were too quick for me.
Then there was that last time he’d come calling.
“Food,” he’d said, slumping at the table. I’d watched as he’d sucked up the last husks of our bread like a beast possessed.
“Sweated blood for you I did. Tears.” His words had been bitter.
“I know,” I’d answered, not caring to. Then I’d poured him a skinny beer from the old keg that still lived in the cellar.
“What now?” He’d put his hand on my wrist and I’d froze.
“Let’s go to bed, Lize, please?”
“No.” I’d snatched my wrist away, then, the latch! We’d both jumped and he’d leapt to his feet, afraid.
You’d appeared suddenly at the bottom of the stairs, perfectly framed by the kitchen doorway, features pale and startled, reflected in the moon’s light.
“Shut the front door!” He had shouted.
Slam! You had scurried back up to bed and he had collapsed, sobbing on the old wooden rocker.
Luna’s Story.
There are so many things you never knew that I knew. Like how you would cry out for him in your sleep and curse the day I was born. How you would pray for him when you thought I wasn’t listening. The last time he came knocking the night had been frosty cold, not long past mid winter. His time was already drawing to a close. Each of us knew that. Too many creatures slaughtered, teeth marks on broken necks, hearts vanished. Always on a bright, full moon. When I’d seen him - that night, by the lantern, I knew. At the time the moon which had burst through the front door was half hidden by cloud.
They came for him not long after. He hadn’t resisted.
“James George Teare,” they had said, “we’re arresting you on suspicion of murder.” A man. You buried your head in your hands.
He was sentenced to death by hanging and I heard the whole town turned out to cheer. Not us though. Instead, as you’d cried your heart out in the chapel, I had hidden in his cold, damp hide out by the gully and counted hearts. Shrivelled ones I’d dried in his honour. I’d been thinking as I did, of the night and its bright full moons. Thinking about how there were so many things I never told you about him. The long nights he spent trying to stop me. How he died to protect me. But now I must go. A full moon is calling. Ow owww. Ow owwww.