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Post by Old Dragon (Al) on May 2, 2009 11:23:38 GMT 1
This competition will be in association with the Triune Writers' Group and open until 30th May, after which a poll will be held to decide the winners. Theme: 'Rebirth' - but please give your stories their own, individual title, to make it easier to identify them once the judging commences.Brief: Stories should be emotive, have a human element, and be entertaining. They should not exceed 1,000 words, and the elements/weather and/or season should have some bearing on the plot or outcome of your story/stories, and each competitor may submit up to three short stories, each having a beginning, a middle and an end. Entries will close on 30th April, when the judges will select those they consider the best, and members will then be able to vote for their favourite. Please post your entries in the thread below, and you may, if you wish, include up to two photographs (which MUST have been taken by you, as the original author of the story) to illustrate your story. Only original stories written by the competitor submitting them are elegible for entry, and they may not have been previously published or appeared on the internet. However, those who are not members of the Pet Craft Project forum may submit entries by email to me, and I will post those on their behalf, if required. Prizes will be vouchers for TRPD goods and to the value of: 1st: £20; 2nd: £15, 3rd: £10. Good luck all, and we will look forward to reading your stories.
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Post by Old Dragon (Al) on May 2, 2009 16:00:03 GMT 1
Posting on behalf of the writer...Flood - by S. J. Lee. Like most teenagers, Adam felt at odds with the world and his parents – who, in turn, were odds with each other. He’d lain in bed listening to them arguing until his father had slammed out of the house, announcing he was going for a drive. Nothing new there. For as long as Adam remembered, that was his father’s answer to everything - to walk out. Sometimes he’d stay away for an hour or two, others days or weeks. Adam wished he’d the courage to yell at his father the words that were often hurled at him by one or other of his parents… ‘When are you going to grow up?’ The hypocrisy wasn’t lost on Adam. It angered him, and throughout his A levels it drove him onwards, determined to show them that he was not the waste of space they seemed to think him, but an achiever. Someone who could break the family mould and do something positive with his life. Beside him, Bob, the family collie, adjusted his position and nuzzled Adam’s hand, seeking attention and whining softly. Bob always sought refuge with Adam when his parents rowed. The boy welcomed the dog’s company, but hours had past since the screaming ceased and he’d heard his mother’s bedroom door slam, closing her into a world of escapist, romantic fiction that his father so detested. Outside, wind and rain lashed the little coastal town of Shrimpton-on-Sea. Adam looked at the luminous hands of the clock beside his bed – 2.20am – and at that moment the little river that ran through the town and past his home broke its banks. Leaping out of bed to look out of the window, Adam was stunned at the sight of the deafening torrent hurtling down the road outside, carrying vehicles that its force lifted and tossed as if they weighed little more than toys. Without waiting to put on clothes, he rushed onto the landing and burst into his mother’s room, Bob close behind him. ‘Wake up!’ he yelled, shaking her shoulder, but she was too deep in sleep. It was pitch black in the room and the power was out, but Adam guessed his mother had taken one of her usual sleeping tablets. Grabbing a torch, he hurried downstairs. The house already had a foot of water, thick and greyish-brown, filling the rooms. Taking whatever food and drink he could find first, he began to carry things back up the stairs, returning time after time, but the water was rising fast and there was only so much he could save. By daylight, and although the rain had ceased, the view from his bedroom window revealed the extend of the carnage - and still the torrent of angry water flowed outside; speeding onwards to the little harbour and the sea, barely a hundred yards away. He tried again to wake his mother, panicking when he got no response at all, and at the coldness of her flesh. It was then he noticed the empty tablet container beside her, the bottle and the stench of the gin-sodden duvet. The shock buckled his legs and he sank to his knees beside the bed, scared and shaking; his breath coming in choking sobs. How often she had threatened to kill herself, but no one ever took her seriously, believing it yet another emotional ploy to get her own way. Adam reached again for the lifeless wrist, searching desperately for a pulse, however faint, but there was nothing. Where the hell was his father, he thought? Angry, afraid and alone, Bob, sensed Adam’s need, nuzzling him. Licking away a salty tear. He held the dog against him, drawing comfort and strength from the warmth of its body for a few minutes before finally pulling himself together and getting to his feet. He knew he had stay calm, think, and get help. Locking Bob in his bedroom, he donned his clothes and a warm jacket, and made his way downstairs, aware of the sewage stench filled the house, carried in by the floodwater. The back of the house was set into a steep hillside. Adam picked his way out through the rear and climbed the steps into the muddy garden. From there, it was easy to reach the track behind the houses and make his way to the road where he could see emergency service vehicles and hear the sound of people at work near the harbour. There was something surreal about the scene. Police, fire brigade and a fleet of ambulances seemed to fill every available space as he made his way towards the throng of people milling around a burger van, where someone was busy handing out hot drinks and bacon sandwiches. Adam wanted to laugh. Instead, he just stood staring at the scene, trying to decide whom he should approach and notify about his mother’s death? It was then he spotted his father’s car in the harbour and realised it was from that they were fighting to release the occupants trapped inside. The next few minutes passed in a haze for Adam. He couldn’t remember the paramedic leading him away towards one of the ambulances, only trying to fight his way through to the car and screaming ‘Dad!’ at the top of his voice. The tea was hot, sweet, and yet his mouth felt dry despite it. ‘I’m so sorry, son,’ the officer said, after the doctor pronounced both occupants of the car dead at the scene. * * * * * Adam, Bob beside him, sat on the harbour wall looking out to sea. Behind him, the town heaved with tourists. His father’s, once ramshackle, fishing tackle shop, now thrived with a constant flow of customers. Since taking over, Adam had diversified, adding departments for surfing and diving supplies. Apart from a plaque set into the rejuvenated harbour wall, little evidence remained of the disaster that claimed his father’s life, and that of his mistress, amongst several other residents three years before.
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Post by lumpyblue on May 2, 2009 17:18:32 GMT 1
Life! After Norman.
It was a bitter cold end to March and no sign of spring.
Jess sat at the kitchen table, hunched over her coffee mug, which she held in both hands. The mug seemed to be the only source of heat, the only sensation she felt. "I'm thirty-seven today. Happy birthday to me!" She spoke aloud. No response. No-one to hear her; no-one to answer her. Jess laughed. But it wasn't an amused sound. It was verging on hysteria and it echoed round the small, empty flat that was now her home. "Thirty-seven," Jess repeated, as though to confirm she would get no answer. "But answer came there none," she quoted. Jess mentally compared herself to one of the oysters of the 'Walrus and the Carpenter'. "I'm an empty shell now. Taken in by kind words and gestures, sucked in and devoured, shell discarded!" Jess shook herself mentally. "You're going mad, you know, keep talking to yourself!" she scoffed. Jess sipped her coffee, (cheap instant, she used to have filter) and thought about birthdays. Her birthdays. On her thirty-fifth birthday there had been cards and presents to open. She had opened them at the breakfast table in the beautiful conservatory, (heated, of course) which had been built onto her five bedroom, detached house. Norman, her husband, had served her coffee and buttered her toast. Jess thought about Norman. Balding, boring, middle-aged, over-weight Norman. Kind, caring, considerate, protective Norman. "Which man did I know?" she asked herself aloud.
The Norman she had known and married, (not loved, no) but trusted to take care of her, to give her the security she needed, had seemed so stable, staid and predictable. It still shocked Jess to think that she had been so naive, so taken in, so self-satisfied. The Norman she had married was the Norman who had spent all his working life with one company, the Norman who had worked his way up, to a secure position with a salary that enabled him to keep her, in a nice house, in a good neighbourhood, to run two cars, to take holidays abroad, (two or three a year) and to buy her extravagant, expensive birthday gifts.
That was her image of Norman, the image that was shattered the day the police came to her nice house in the suburbs. They, the police, talked about another Norman. A Norman who had been having an affair with a nineteen year old girl, a clerk-typist they called her. (Jess called her other things!) A Norman who had helped himself to his clients' money to finance his unexpected, unimaginable, indiscretion, his dereliction of duty to his company, and to Jess!
They, the police, 'Fraud Squad', had taken the other Normans' files, books, diaries, disc's to the police station where they already had that other Norman and the 'typist'. Jess remembered the following weeks and months only vaguely, being shunned by friends and neighbours; bank accounts being frozen; no money for mortgage payments. No money for anything much. They called it 'seizing assets' when they took the cars, then the house, eventually everything, everything that Jess thought was securely hers. They left Jess with the money in her bank account, (money which had accumulated from the generous allowance which HER Norman had made her), her jewellery ( mainly birthday gifts from HER Norman) her clothing and nothing much else. No friends, no dignity, no stable, caring husband. Jess had sold everything that could be sold. She had bought the tiny, cold, flat, in the run down building, in the not good neighbourhood.
After a lengthy court case, Norman had been sentenced to seven years in prison, for his "serious betrayal of the public trust in his profession" as the judge put it. Norman would probably be released within four years. But things could never be the same for them again. (The 'typist' had married one of the policemen dealing with the case, within six months of the trial.)
Jess visited Norman once a month. He was contrite, swore he would never transgress again. He would make it all up to Jess. (Jess couldn't imagine how.) He wrote her long, loving letters, full of promises and dreams for the future. (What future? Jess wondered). Today was her birthday. Her thirty-seventh birthday. She had not received a birthday card or a letter from Norman. (Either of them!) He hadn't remembered!
"He never remembered my birthday!" Jess shouted angrily. "I always had to remind him. Every year!"
Jess banged her mug down on the table. The cheap , cold coffee spattered over her hands and rolled onto the formica-covered table top. Jess laughed again. This time it was a true, joyous laughter. Jess had made a decision! The weight of years dropped from her. All the years of being chained to boring Norman, (who she never loved), all the years of being imprisoned by her need for security ( and someone to provide it). Jess no longer had security. She no longer had Norman.
Jess did have her life, her health and for the first time in her life, she realised, she had her freedom. "And I am going to make the most of it!" Jess said with a grin at talking to herself again. " Today is the first day of the rest of MY life and My freedom!" Suddenly she was sure she could feel spring in the air.
Jess rose from her chair and searched the kitchen drawers for a pen and paper. She found half a pencil ( the half with a point) and an envelope with an unpaid gas bill still in it. She sat back down at the table and began to write. She wrote in capital letters: PLAN FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE, AFTER NORMAN!
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Post by Old Dragon (Al) on May 2, 2009 22:44:33 GMT 1
Posting on behalf of the writer...The Coma
by Victorsmate. Very gradually the sound of church bells filtered through his subconscious. The room was in darkness and through that darkness he heard his Anna calling to him. His mind in a turmoil he struggled to remember where he was. What language was Anna speaking? Although it wasn’t English he understood every word. And Anna what was she doing here? It was more than five tearful years since her passing but here she was calling to him to get up to go to church. They never went to church, he used to joke it was against his religion. And the church bells what was that about? They lived nowhere near a church. At that moment Anna came into the room a young dark haired Anna with a high collared white blouse, a wide black belt, a floral skirt over a hooped petticoat and black ballerina shoes. She opened the shutters. The shutters? They didn’t have shutters they had curtains the same as all the rest of the houses in their road. Come to that how come Anna was so young. Was he dreaming now or was he dreaming before and had he now woken up to reality. The view from the window was of mountains with their snow covered ice topping. He rose from the bed and crossed the room making toward the window but he stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of himself in a mirror. A much younger him; a slimmer him, a blonde haired him; he was mystified but continued toward the window. The scene was at once familiar and completely unexpected. The square had the church in one corner, a café and shops filled the sides of the square and the mountainous backdrop completed the revealed picture. Slowly he became aware of other voices penetrating his thoughts. “Will he recover?” a voice said. A voice he recognized as their son Robert. “I’m afraid there is little chance of that,” an authoritative voice replied, “it’s only the support machine keeping him alive. There is virtually no brain activity at all; it is a very deep coma, even the support machine is struggling.” “We must keep him alive while there is any chance of recovery” he heard his son say. “No. no, no,” Graham screamed although no sound was heard,” you can’t do this to me, let me go let me join my Anna I don’t want to be here”. Quickly he showered and dressed in his tan slacks and a wine red shirt more and more he identified with his surroundings here with his French speaking Anna and as he did so his former life faded and disappeared. “I’m afraid it’s no good Robert,” the consultant said, “I’m afraid we have lost him”.
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Post by Old Dragon (Al) on May 3, 2009 22:58:17 GMT 1
Posting on behalf of the writer...The Bed
by Victorsmate. The sound of a sharp slap followed by a raucous cry heralds the arrival of another infant into this world. The mother looks up from the bed and is told it is a boy or it is a girl and once more a bed is the stage for the beginning of another life starting on its journey. For a while the infant is imprisoned in the undignified confines of a cot but soon the bed, once again, becomes the stage. At one time it is a refuge from the wardrobe monster, later a tent, or a shipwreck on a remote island, or a cockpit of an aeroplane or in this day and age perhaps the flight deck of a starship. Turning a humble sleep platform into an infinite number of venues limited only by the child’s imagination. At the onset of puberty giggling girls are invited, more in hope than expectation, to discover the delights of a shared bed but, alas, mostly these invitations are gently rebuffed. Later a life partner is chosen and the bed assumes a new identity as a centre for love and lust between two enraptured adults keen to explore and delight in each other’s pleasure. The bed then again becomes host to the arrival of other infants bawling their way into the world. Slowly the fires of youth dampen and the warm embers of true affection remain to the contented couple and the bed becomes a haven of sighing comfort and contentment. But life always has a nasty twist and one of our contented couple departs this life leaving a bereft and lost partner lonely in a bed that has assumed a monstrous size. The final act as the remaining partner lies dying on the bed welcoming the release from his loneliness no longer fearing death but fearing life. The bed has told its story the circle has become joined. The story has finished only to be repeated ad infinitum.
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Post by Old Dragon (Al) on May 4, 2009 18:02:56 GMT 1
Posting on behalf of the writer...Whiteout
by TDJ It came at dusk. At first a speckling of soft rain on the windscreen; the sort wipers only smeared but failed to clear; then tiny ice flecks that grew to the size of marbles within minutes. A few yards ahead, the road disappeared behind a wall of white racing towards her as Claire flicked the headlamps between dipped and main beam, and tried to concentrate on following the fast disappearing verge to her left. Just a few hours before it had seemed such a sensible idea to leave for her interview that afternoon and instead of waiting and setting off at the crack of dawn the next morning. A night in a hotel or bed and breakfast would leave her with plenty of time to locate the venue and arrive fresh and relaxed. Well, as relaxed as anyone can for such an occasion. It wasn’t until the dark bulk of the building reared up suddenly in her path that Claire realised she must have left the road and turned onto someone’s drive. Hitting the brakes hard and twisting the steering wheel to avoid a collision, it was a miracle the little car didn’t skid or spin before juddering to a halt and stalling. Shaking, Claire sat in the driver’s seat trying to decide what was best to do? There were no lights shining through the windows and, in the shelter of its ivy-clad wall, Claire wondered if it were even inhabited? There was only one way to find out. Echoes of an old horror movie penetrated Claire’s mind as she stood outside the huge, iron-studded door and listed as a bell clanged deep within the building. She shuddered, wondering who on earth lived in such a place? Had Lurch himself answered the bell’s summons, she’d have been less surprised than when the door was flung open by and old woman whose head barely reached Claire’s shoulder. ‘Come in, come in, we’ve been expecting you,’ she said, gripping Claire’s arm and almost dragging her over the threshold before slamming the door behind her and leading her down a long, candle-lit corridor. ‘There must be some mistake…’ began Claire, guessing that there was a power cut. ‘No, no mistake, Claire,’ said the old woman, opening a door into a huge, warm kitchen where several people were gathered and about to take their places at the table for a meal. ‘You timed your arrival perfectly.’ Two Labradors rose from their place on the mat in front of the Aga and greeted Claire with friendly wagging tails. ‘How do you know my name?’ ‘It is you name, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes, but…’ ‘Then that is all that matters… Now come and sit down. Everything is organically reared and grown here, and the food is delicious.’ Claire allowed herself to be seated and realised just how hungry she was, as she tucked into a heaped plate of pork chops and vegetables, followed by a mouth-melting apple crumble and custard. It sounded ridiculous to ask, but she had a burning desire to discover where exactly she was? ‘You really don’t know, do you?’ smiled the old woman, then turned to the others assembled at the table. ‘Shall we tell her, or let her work it out?’ ‘Why don’t we allow Claire to recount her activities of the last few days?’ suggested a tall, slim man in an open necked shirt and jeans. ‘Or remind her of those,’ smiled a girl with a garland of ivy decorating her long, dark hair, as someone reached over Claire’s shoulder and poured her a glass of elderflower wine. ‘Why not?’ said the slim man. ‘You argued with your partner and, on impulse, replied to an advertisement, seeking to join the Marston Hall Spiritual Community. Your interview was scheduled for tomorrow, but when we realised the weather forecast would make it impossible for you to travel then, you received a message from us, suggesting you came this evening instead, so you came.’ Claire shook her head, ‘No, I received no message… I just decided…’ she looked around the table, aware of the smiles, quizzical looks and raised eyebrows. The penny dropped. ‘Still sceptical, my dear?’ said the old woman. ‘You won’t be for long – not now you are living and will be working amongst us.’ A log fire burned brightly in bedroom to which Claire was presently shown, and she was surprised to discover her belongings had already been placed there from the car. Had she really packed so many things? She could not recall doing so. Surely she’d only packed an overnight bag? It was, after all, just an interview and an opportunity to look around to see if commune life would suit her? There was a knock on the door and the girl with the ivy hair garland entered, carrying a full log bucket and some spare candles. ‘You did the right thing coming here, Claire. That man you were living with…’ ‘Yes, I know,’ replied Claire, shuddering. ‘I wasn’t sure before but I see it all now… Where he is heading and why… What he was planning…’ The girl nodded, setting down the logs and candles and turning to help Claire unpack. ‘Things always are as they are meant to be, you know, but you will be safe here. He’ll never find you, and you left no clues behind... besides, tomorrow would have been too late to leave.’ ‘He’ll be furious when he finds out…’ ‘Not for long.’ 'No, not for long.' By morning the power was back on, and a small television in the kitchen showed the news as the community members ate breakfast. Had she not already known, Claire might well have felt shocked by the footage of the explosion's aftermath and the ensuring fire. How there had only been the one casualty, as far as the police and firebrigade could discover. What on earth had he been playing at? Trying to make bombs? No, not trying! Clearly he’d made one; his first and last.
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angel
New Member
Posts: 7
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Post by angel on May 8, 2009 16:03:55 GMT 1
MAGPIE
He had always liked jewellery, gold was his favourite, from an early age he had been fascinated by the lustre and the feel of gold, his Mother knew how to keep him quiet, when ever she wanted to entertain one of his many Uncles who came to call. Out came the jewellery box and he would play for hours with the contents, much of it bright and shiny costume jewellery bought for her by one Uncle or another.
As he grew older she would give him money to go out, he would walk for hours on his own, lingering outside jewellers, drinking in the window displays, he especially liked the Asian Jewellers with there displays of deep buttery gold, chains and earrings, he longed to run his fingers through the cold smoothness.
Sometimes he went to school, but mostly he would wander the streets. He was about 14 when he did his first burglary it was too easy, in through an open window, into the bedroom, he found a jewellery box on the dressing table and emptied the contents into his pocket out through the window .. He ran home his Mother was asleep on the sofa after a lunch time drinking session, she snored loudly , with barely a backward glance he was in his room and emptied his pockets of their precious contents, gold chains, rings, and earring lay on the duvet cover. He ran his fingers over them, picking them up and holding them to his face feeling the coldness next to his skin, which gradually warmed, like it was a living thing. He stopped going to school and became a crime wave all on his own, until the day he went up a drain pipe and on the way down it gave way, he fell knocking himself out and cutting his head badly, waking up in Hospital.
He wasn’t charged they had found his precious cache, which was returned to it’s owners because of his age and home life he was put into care. He never saw his Mother again she died of alcohol poisoning a month later.
Now his life was very different, his Foster Parents looked after him, he had regular meals and went to School. His Social Worker talked to him, making him feel he had a future, life was good, he still secretly hungered after gold and allowed himself to window-shop but no more than to look. The accident had left him with a white streak in his hair were the hair had grown back covering the deep scar.
At 16 he joined the Army as a cadet , he made friends, loving the discipline and the structure to his life. At 18 he was sent to Afghanistan, a week before his tour of duty was due to end, the patrol he was on went over a land mine, all but he was wiped out. He returned to Britain a broken man his nerves shot. with a plate in his ankle
Discharged with a small pension, he tried to adjust to civilian life, but his dreams were always full of one thing gold. Sitting one day in a bar, an old class mate bought him a drink, they talked of old times. Pete had plenty of cash a thick gold chain around his neck, as the drink took hold Pete told him he had been in Prison and had no intention of going back, one last job would see him right. So they formed a plan Mr Hassan ran the largest Asian Jewellery store in the area, it would be easy!
The next day lying in his bed in his rented flat, he wondered if it had been real or he had been a dream, the front door banged it was Pete carrying a holdall. Pushing the door open he walked in looking around nervously, he took out of the holdall a sawn off shot gun two bike helmets and ski masks .
“We won’t have to use it just put the frighteners on them and we are away I have borrowed, well stolen a motor bike , far better than a car. You are in aren‘t you ? I will stay outside with the engine running you go in Just think of that lovely gold and I have Fence lined up, we will be rich”
Gold was the magic word he felt happier than he had done for a long time, picking up the Ski Mask which was in the holdall he was ready, putting on motor bike helmets as they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves on the way there they were off. The motorbike roared a cold wind, hit his face but the thought of gold dispelled any doubts.
Hassan Fine Indian Gold Emporium, where he had spent many a happy hour gazing in the window as a boy , the windows still full of Wedding jewellery sets so beautiful they glistened invitingly.
Customers were buzzed in so they had to waited on double yellow lines until a young Asian woman wearing a sari pressed the buzzer she looked like she was carrying lunch, she waved at the elderly man who buzzed her in.
He took this opportunity pulling the Ski mask over his face, shouting he burst in firing a warning shot at the ceiling plaster fell, the young woman screamed. He threw the holdall
“fill it and I want the best not any old rubbish”
The bag was filled the young woman shook with terror still screaming, plunging his hand into the gold he felt it warm to his touch, he smiled to himself.
Pointing the shot gun at the young woman, to stop her screaming which was now tearing through his brain, suddenly a burning pain, then a tunnels he was falling. Falling.
Waking up in a garden, he thought am I dead this can’t be heaven, it’s just an ordinary back garden, he was next to a pond he looked in and opened his mouth to scream, reflected back at him was a bird, a black and white bird, he was a Magpie and the only sound that came out was a chattering squawk.
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Post by Gnasher on May 22, 2009 10:37:23 GMT 1
A ray of Hope
The shrill ringing of the alarm broke the silence. Another virtually sleepness night, she was not sure how many more of them she could take. Since her husband had died last September life just seemed to have got harder and harder and the dark winter nights emphasised her loneliness and how empty her life now felt.
Getting out of bed was getting harder and harder but she was still helping out at the local charity shop two mornings a week so she told herself she really did need to make the effort today or she would be letting others down. She sighed as she thought about this, calm, organised Mary, always to be relied on, never letting others down – but, nobody seemed to notice how sad and lonely she was feeling. When Jack had first died people had rallied round her, visiting, bringing gifts and generally being caring. This had dwindled now though and she noticed if she even mentioned his name people would edge away from her or brightly change the subject.
The house was freezing so she hastily got dressed, had breakfast and set off for the shop. The frost overnight had left the paths icy and she slipped a couple of times resulting in more aches and pains and a couple of tears rolling down her face as she reached the shop. Worse still, people had dumped bags outside the shop overnight despite notices telling them not to and she had to move them to reach the doorway. As she lifted the top bag she noticed it move slightly, she shuddered and hurried into the shop. With the lights blazing and the kettle on for another cup of tea to steady her nerves she started to feel a little braver and decided she really needed to investigate the bags outside.
It was a normal black bin bag, loosely tied at the top and she reached towards the top of the bag with a trembling hand. As she pulled at the corner of the bag she heard a whimper so told herself she needed to stop being such a coward and just see what it was and deal with it. The smell was awful as the bag came open and inside curled up small, inside a box, was a tiny puppy. She had never liked animals much, but this was something in need so bravely she lifted the box out of the bag and checked to see if it was the only one. The rest of the bag was filled with rubbish so she pushed it to one side and took the box and puppy inside the shop to see what she needed to do. In the better light she could see the pup was terrified and filthy. There was a bit of string tied round his neck with a note on “PLEEZ LUK AFTA IM CUZ ME MAM SES I CANT KEP IM”. She frowned at this, not being able to keep him was one thing, but no living creature should be thrown out with the rubbish like that.
She lifted the pup out of the box he was in and took a closer look at him. He looked barely old enough to be away from his mother poor thing. She sighed, another responsibility she could do without, at least until lunchtime when someone else would come to take over at the shop and she could take him to the police station to hand over. In the meantime she decided a clean up would make them both feel a lot happier so she used an old towel to wipe him all over. The box he had come in was filthy so she threw it in the rubbish and then found another box for him which she lined with another old towel. At least there was no shortage of those as people donated all sorts of old stuff to the shop. Once that was all done she made her tea, unlocked the shop door to open officially and settled down at the counter. Within a few minutes the pup started to cry, at first softly, but ever more insistent. She thought for a moment then went into the kitchen and got a few of the biscuits the staff had at tea break and put a couple of them into the box with the pup. He shrank away from her hand as she did so and retreated into the corner of the box. At least he had stopped crying so she returned to her tea, she tried to enjoy it but her eye kept being drawn to the box and the terrified pup. Eventually she moved the box and put it beside her. Maybe he would be happier if he was closer to her? As the town started to come to life and more and more people walked past the shop the sun started to come through the window, one of the first proper spring mornings they had had this year. Mary had always enjoyed the sun when she was younger and felt a bit brighter as she felt its warmth, then as a bright ray of sun fell upon the box she glanced down and saw the pup gazing at her with warm amber eyes and a gentle expression. She could not help smiling at him and reached out a hand slowly towards him. He was still scared but her slower approach allowed him to come forwards and he licked her hand cautiously. She laughed and lifted him out of the box and was soon laughing more as he lost his fear and jumped all over her as only a playful pup can do. She thought of when she had last laughed and really meant it and decided the pup was just meant to be hers. She lifted him high to look him over properly. Then she declared loudly “I think I will call you Hope”.
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Post by Old Dragon (Al) on May 29, 2009 17:45:49 GMT 1
Only two days left to enter this competition, if anyone would like to?
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Post by Old Dragon (Al) on May 31, 2009 22:09:54 GMT 1
Voting is now open for the winners of this short story competition, however, before you vote, please read the stories and post below about the THREE stories you like best and say why you liked and voted for them. Thanks.
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Post by Old Dragon (Al) on Jun 3, 2009 1:00:10 GMT 1
How come nobody has voted yet to help decide the winner here?
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McChell
Wildcat Team Member
Chilli and Mooch
Posts: 114
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Post by McChell on Jun 3, 2009 10:49:57 GMT 1
My three favourites are Flood, Whiteout and Magpie
Flood - I liked flood as you could really invisage everything that was happening.
Whiteout - I liked the mystery of this story.
Magpie - Different, I really liked how it turned out. This is my overall favourite.
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Post by Old Dragon (Al) on Jun 7, 2009 22:42:03 GMT 1
I have extended the time allowed for voting for this competition, as so few seem to have noticed it and voted. Please remember to say why you like your particular choices. Thanks.
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Post by petdesigns on Jun 8, 2009 10:10:17 GMT 1
My favourite one was "a ray of hope" - I like the style and that it involves a dog and simply "hope" . As I'm a bit stupid I voted for that one and clicked something wrong and couldn't vote for more!
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Post by Jus on Jun 8, 2009 12:45:47 GMT 1
1. Flood - Descriptive and a good ending 2. Ray of Hope - Happy ending for a homeless pup 3. Magpie - Good twist
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Post by Old Dragon (Al) on Jun 12, 2009 17:44:12 GMT 1
I will close the poll for this competition on Sunday evening at around 10pm.
Sadly, unless we get some more members voting, this will be the last Story Story Competition until around the end of the year, when perhaps we can do one with a seasonal theme.
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angel
New Member
Posts: 7
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Post by angel on Jun 20, 2009 15:27:59 GMT 1
Such A shame I enjoyed entering and I voted
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Post by Old Dragon (Al) on Jun 20, 2009 16:31:16 GMT 1
Come on, everyone who hasn't had a read of these and voted yet, we can't keep voting open much longer, and need to decide the winner. Angel, we'll perhaps try again when the evenings are darker and more people around.
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angel
New Member
Posts: 7
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Post by angel on Jun 22, 2009 15:33:02 GMT 1
Yes it may be that the weather is too good
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Post by maywalk on Jun 23, 2009 20:49:51 GMT 1
1. Flood - It left a lasting impression 2. Ray of Hope - Nice little story that appealed to me. 3. Magpie - good twist in the tail /tale
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