This on-going collection of stories has been and are being written in my current home on the Côte d’Azur.
Many of the tales are based in and around the town I call Medville, others are situated in Scotland, and the remainder take place in less exceptional parts of this and other worlds.
Mysterious and enigmatic, served with a splash of humour, nothing here is ever quite what it seems.
Expect the unexpected.
There is always a twist in the tail.
Nearly.
The Unicorn Challenge.
A magical new weekly writing opportunity from her – Jenne Gray – and me.
Visit her blog every Friday to see the photo prompt, and post your amazing story in her comments section.
Or on your own blog, and stick the link down in her comments.
The rules are:
Maximum of 250 words.
Based on photo prompt.
That’s it.
To hear me read my story, just click here:
Key Moments
Old.
Weather-beaten.
Decrepit.
Useless.
There was a time, of course, when it had a purpose.
One might even say, if one still had any humour, that it had a key function back in the day.
But it takes a lot to raise a smile now.
It’s hard to remember that it was once the source and the recipient of fun, of happiness, even of love.
It was the proud destination of different ladies, one of whom tarried for many years, improving it beyond measure, providing the interior with a new strength and hitherto unimagined sophistication, and burnishing the outward face to a splendour that belied its humble origins.
She lingered long enough to introduce the thunder of tiny feet, and the laughter which to this day still echoes in dark and dust-filled corners.
Alas, in the words of the world’s saddest song, while dragons may live forever, the same is not true of little boys, or girls, and thus, as time moved inexorably onwards, so too did they and, finally, she.
Much later, briefly and intermittently, a second orchestra of frenetic footsteps disturbed the residue of the past, leaving behind its own unexpected and inimitable symphony to reverberate through the emptiness.
Now there remain only memories, and the inevitability of a return to the dust from which it was created.
The Unicorn Challenge.
A magical new weekly writing opportunity from her – Jenne Gray – and me.
Visit her blog every Friday to see the photo prompt, and post your amazing story in her comments section.
Or on your own blog, and stick the link down in her comments.
The rules are:
Maximum of 250 words.
Based on photo prompt.
That’s it.
To hear me read my story, just click here:
The Narrowboat
Striding along the canal towpath, I spot Portuguese Tony lackadaisically sloshing water across the small deck of his decrepit narrowboat.
‘Hard at work, T,’ I grin at him.
‘Always the same,’ he laughs. ‘No rest for the wicked!’
‘I’m off for a game of tennis,’ I tell him. ‘Maybe catch you in the Badger’s later?’
‘That’s a possibility!’
More than a possibility, I reckon, because Tony’s a heavy drinker.
But he’s good company, with a surprising reputation as a ladies’ man, who entertains the guys with tales of his conquests.
I say surprising because he is shortish, roundish, baldish and, quite frankly, not much better-kept than his boat.
Added to which, hailing from somewhere south of Lisbon, he has little tolerance for Scottish weather, so that even in May he wears more clothes than Sherpa Tenzing in a Himalayan blizzard.
‘See you five-ish,’ I call over my shoulder, hurrying to arrive early to find a partner for the weekly Saturday Doubles tournament.
Val’s feeling under the weather today, so I left her wrapped up in bed with a hot drink and a yard of paperbacks.
I get paired with Big Mo, whose main assets, while spectacular, are little help on court, so, eliminated by four o’clock, I wander back to check on my poor wife.
Pausing on the bridge to admire the swans, I see her hop off Tony’s boat and skip homewards.
I immediately remember the paraffin in my shed, and plan a spectacular and well-deserved Portuguese Viking funeral.
The Unicorn Challenge.
A magical new weekly writing opportunity from her – Jenne Gray – and me.
Visit her blog every Friday to see the photo prompt, and post your amazing story in her comments section.
Or on your own blog, and stick the link down in her comments.
The rules are:
Maximum of 250 words.
Based on photo prompt.
That’s it.
To hear me read my story, just click here:
Deep Water
I’m sitting outside the little cafe on the port, enjoying the evening sunshine and reading Sebastian Faulks’ A Possible Life, when a shadow falls across my eyeline.
I’m surprised to see my ex-wife facing me across the table because, to the best of my knowledge, she has never been in Medville before.
I’m even more surprised to see how stunning she looks.
Please don’t misunderstand, she was always gorgeous, a slim, graceful lady as beautiful inside as out.
But I haven’t seen her in almost two decades, when she was almost forty years old, and she now looks to be in her early thirties.
So I’m confused and, as everyone knows, I’m not easily confused.
‘Hello,’ she says. ‘Pleased to see me?’
‘Of course, I’m delighted. You’re looking well.’
She says nothing, her smile radiant, and I wince, remembering that she stopped smiling long before our marriage finally ended.
‘But…’ I begin, unable to formulate the question.
She laughs, and I’d forgotten how delightful it sounds.
‘You’re wondering how I look so young, aren’t you?’
I nod, thinking back to those early, happy years before I destroyed everything.
‘I died yesterday,’ she says, the smile unchanging.
I gawp, speechless.
‘The afterlife is quite interesting,’ she tells me. ‘People deemed to be good can choose a punishment for those who hurt them.’
‘I get to decide how and when you die.’
Her smile brightens further.
‘I remember your terrible fear of drowning. Enjoy your daily swim, sweetheart. See you soon.’
The Unicorn Challenge.
A magical new weekly writing opportunity from her – Jenne Gray – and me.
Visit her blog every Friday to see the photo prompt, and post your amazing story in her comments section.
Or on your own blog, and stick the link down in her comments.
The rules are:
Maximum of 250 words.
Based on photo prompt.
That’s it.
To hear me read my story, just click here:
The Dip
He doesn’t look very happy.
Nor do his three associates, each coming towards me from a different angle.
I might have blundered badly here.
You see, this is Monaco, not Medville, so the pickings are that much richer here, more so even than St Tropez.
This, of course, means that there is also a greater element of danger.
The season is nearly over, so I felt I needed a nest egg to get me through the winter.
It was either that or go to Milan or Paris, where I am rather too well known.
You see, I’m a pick-pocket, although I prefer to think of myself as a dip, which is a bit classier, and you’d have to agree that the way I lifted this wallet from that lady was pretty classy.
But, as I say, here the risks are higher, and it appears that I might have been overly casual, not spotting until too late that it contains an electronic tracker.
And the lady has these friends or, more probably, employees, who are now smiling coldly at me.
This gentleman has a certain air about him, which makes me suspect that the punishment is going to be quite immediate, and very severe.
I wonder if I can interest him in a deal of some sort.
Nah.
He doesn’t look very happy.
The Unicorn Challenge.
A magical new weekly writing opportunity from her – Jenne Gray – and me.
Visit her blog every Friday to see the photo prompt, and post your amazing story in her comments section.
Or on your own blog, and stick the link down in her comments.
The rules are:
Maximum of 250 words.
Based on photo prompt.
That’s it.
To hear me read my story, just click here:
30th May 1944
Northern France.
The last train to Paris shudders to a halt two kilometres outside Amiens, the next scheduled stop.
The passengers’ collective fear is confirmed by the single spat word, ‘Gestapo’.
As Wehrmacht soldiers wordlessly position themselves at either end of the carriage, the tension rises.
A tall slender man, hatless, fair hair neatly combed, his hands in the pockets of a long black coat open over a smart grey suit, strolls in.
‘Bonsoir Madame,’ he addresses the woman nearest the door in impeccable French. ‘Your papers, please.’
His sharp blue-grey eyes scrutinise the documents and he instantly suspects that Corinne Gouy is not in fact Corinne Gouy.
With him, suspicion normally equates to a death sentence.
His gloved hand returns her papers and accepts those of the man beside her.
He immediately doubts that Pierre Marceau is who he claims to be.
Moving on, and unconvinced by Monique Primault, he studies the remaining passengers, who stare at their hands or longingly through the windows.
No one meets his eyes.
He sighs, suddenly tired.
He no longer believes the bluster from Berlin, the news from the Russian Front is increasingly bleak, and he senses that the Allied landings are days rather than weeks away.
He leaves, quietly instructing the soldiers, ‘Bring them all. Every one.’
As the empty train hisses and clanks away, the driver and engineer exchange a grim glance.
Armand Fournier is an explosives expert, André Champenoy a master forger.
For them, the fight goes on.
The Unicorn Challenge.
A magical new weekly writing opportunity from her – Jenne Gray – and me.
Visit her blog every Friday to see the photo prompt, and post your amazing story in her comments section.
Or on your own blog, and stick the link down in her comments.
The rules are:
Maximum of 250 words.
Based on photo prompt.
That’s it.
To hear me read my story, just click here:
At the Door
Very gradually, as I pretend to be interested in the bubble-headed, opinionated woman on my left, I become aware of a large, shaggy and clearly disgruntled head glowering through the glass door.
Smothering a grin, I look to the far end of the table where Em is in full flow, clearly enjoying her role as hostess of this small dinner party.
I know two things: Em will not be easily distracted, and Eros, her magnificent German Shepherd, will not be easily dissuaded.
The porte coulissante, or sliding door, usually sits a fraction open, so that Eros can push it with his nose to gain entry.
He has never, despite Em’s entreaties, deigned to close it behind him; that is clearly a task for some lesser being.
B-HOW follows my sidelong glance and, seeing him, leaps to her feet, announcing loudly that she’ll let the dog in.
‘If I’d wanted…’
Em’s words are wasted as Eros saunters in.
He regards the gathering with some disdain then, amid general amusement, with a dog’s indifference to personal space, muscles through the legs under the table.
He ignores Em’s admonishment that it is not a tunnel.
This is his preferred route, always.
He pauses, scowling enviously at the plates and jealously at Em, then leaves via the kitchen door, which is always ajar.
The meal continues.
Then the laughter starts.
Em covers her mouth.
Eros glowers through the glass door, waiting.
Some of life’s doors, apparently, are exits, while others are entrances.
The Unicorn Challenge.
A magical new weekly writing opportunity from her – Jenne Gray – and me.
Visit her blog every Friday to see the photo prompt, and post your amazing story in her comments section.
Or on your own blog, and stick the link down in her comments.
The rules are:
Maximum of 250 words.
Based on photo prompt.
That’s it.
To hear me read my story, just click here:
The Mirror on Reflection
I wonder if there’s a mirror in here?
That’s the first question I ask myself every time I go into a new place.
Ah, you think, an egoist.
Maybe you label me Narcissistic, after that handsome dude in Greek mythology who fell in love with his own reflection.
But no, you’ve got me all wrong.
Although, I confess, I’d love to see my face in a mirror.
Because I see only hers.
In every mirror I’ve looked into since…
Well, since the night of her sister’s birthday.
I was standing at the mirror, fumbling with the tie she’d just bought me.
Ugly thing it was, red and purple stripes.
She said it was tasteful, cerise and heliotrope, and I would look smart for once.
My fingers weren’t functioning too well, because she’d upset me again, belittling me, nagging me, asking why I can’t be more like Torquil.
Her sister’s hubby, a total tube.
Anyway, she sneered at my ineptitude, pushed me aside to do her eyes, or lips, or whatever.
Wasted effort, it was her heart that lacked beauty.
I looped the tie around her neck, pulled tighter, tighter, tighter.
Then I went to the bar, got seriously blootered, and saw her face in the mirror.
I lost control, started bellowing, said I was glad I’d killed her, I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Now I’m approaching the high walls that’ll be my home for what’s left of my life.
I wonder if there’s a mirror in here?
The Unicorn Challenge.
A magical new weekly writing opportunity from her – Jenne Gray – and me.
Visit her blog every Friday to see the photo prompt, and post your amazing story in her comments section.
Or on your own blog, and stick the link down in her comments.
The rules are:
Maximum of 250 words.
Based on photo prompt.
That’s it.
To hear me read my story, just click here:
Harbour Lights
What fascinates me most about the port is that, although it is small, it has so many different faces.
In summer sunshine, it’s all a-bustle, boats shuffling in and out, horns (or are they klaxons?) blowing, sailors, trippers and meandering holiday-makers thronging the quaysides.
Then, after dark, the restaurants and bars are the attraction, packed inside and out, with different, competing music blaring cheerfully out across the water.
In winter things are different.
Daytime activity is minimal, restricted to a few fishing and diving charters, and a handful of hardy souls performing maintenance chores on their expensive hobbies.
Many boats are already in hibernation, encased in plastic pyjamas in the boatyard until springtime.
At night the port is dark and almost silent until, inevitably, the arrival of the Christmas tourists.
Now, masts and lines, as they call ropes on boats, and perhaps even lanyards, whatever they might be, are bedizened with festive lights.
You might gather from my tone that, as the song says, that don’t impress me none.
No, I find this festooning somewhat garish, and it doesn’t help my mood tonight.
Usually when I walk around the harbour, I’m relaxed, at peace.
But right now I’m tense, prepared for conflict.
Regardless, I stride forward, scowling at each boat I pass, looking to see who, if anyone, is aboard.
Because I know she’s here, somewhere.
And, if I don’t find her, by tomorrow she’ll be gone.
The port has, as I mentioned, many different faces.
The Unicorn Challenge.
A magical new weekly writing opportunity from her – Jenne Gray – and me.
Visit her blog every Friday to see the photo prompt, and post your amazing story in her comments section.
Or on your own blog, and stick the link down in her comments.
The rules are:
Maximum of 250 words.
Based on photo prompt.
That’s it.
To hear me read my story, just click here:
Starry Starry Night
Those of you who have read my previous ramblings may be aware of my nomadic tendencies, which mean I never reside in any one place for very long.
But there’s one thing I probably haven’t explained.
How I determine what is, for me, home.
It’s not where I lay my hat.
That sits in a cobwebbed corner awaiting summer sunshine.
It’s not where the heart is.
Because my heart is in many places.
There are people I love scattered across the globe, and my heart is already painfully fragmented.
No, it’s where I hang an old battered print in a cheap wooden frame.
I was barely in my teens when I purchased this in a flea market in, I think, Port Elizabeth, South Africa, for the princely sum, in those days, of one shilling and nine pence.
Don’t fret, there’s no way to translate that into real money.
For some reason it caught my imagination.
I had no particular interest in art, being devoid of any talent in that field.
I’d like to say I was inspired by the poignant tale of the artist, but I’ve no recollection if that is so.
Regardless, throughout my life, single or married, whenever I move into a new place, my first act is to hang it prominently on the wall.
It is, as shown below, a self-portrait by Vincent van Gogh.
I like to think he looks after me, as he tragically failed to do for himself.
The Unicorn Challenge.
A magical new weekly writing opportunity from her – Jenne Gray – and me.
Visit her blog every Friday to see the photo prompt, and post your amazing story in her comments section.
Or on your own blog, and stick the link down in her comments.
The rules are:
Maximum of 250 words.
Based on photo prompt.
That’s it.
To hear me read my story, just click here:
The Mansion
She promises to marry me if I build her a mansion with 100 rooms on the hilltop overlooking the town.
She is 6 years old.
For the next 10 years I spend every spare moment at the builder’s yard, the carpenter’s, and the glazier’s.
That’s when I’m not with her.
We’re inseparable until I go off to the city to study architecture.
She is now 16 and very beautiful, with many suitors.
The most persistent of these is Lionel Languid, the rich man’s son.
But for 5 years she resists all advances and, on my return, our engagement is announced.
I start to build.
She asks me to forget our childhood agreement.
I delay the wedding, keep on building.
She pleads with me.
We get married, but I postpone the honeymoon as construction continues.
She moves out of our cramped hut into the lavish living quarters I have designed for her in the West Wing.
I continue with the main section, the entrance hall, the drawing rooms, morning rooms, dining rooms, library, ballroom.
She begs me to move in with her, says we are like strangers.
I start work on the master bedroom, the nursery, the family rooms.
Time passes, or flies by, for I work constantly.
When I finally have a manor worthy of her, something I can offer her with pride, I call on her private rooms and find Languid is already there.
I burn down the entire structure in one night, while they still sleep.
Sound Bite Fiction 