Joe

He sits in the yard behind his workshop. He often comes out here for a smoke and a cup of tea. It gives him space to think. And today he has a lot to think about. Recently, suddenly, his simple, straightforward life was shaken to its core. Everything’s changed. He was so sure he could trust her. Now he just doesn’t know. When she told him, she was pale and quiet, choosing her words carefully and obviously aware of the implications of what she was saying. How it all happened, he didn’t know. She didn’t seem too clear on it either. She mumbled something about an angel. Could he really believe a story like that? For some reason he did.

He knows how people will react when he tells them. This is a small town with old fashioned values. They way they treat girls in her position is utterly merciless. He can’t tell them. They’ll figure it out themselves soon enough. Hopefully, by then they’ll have got used to the idea.

There’s so much he has to take on trust. He has to trust his fiancée to be telling him the truth, however unlikely it seems. He has to trust God to somehow take care of what happens next. And he has to trust his own instincts. Can he trust the evidence of his own eyes and ears? Is he just the butt of some massive practical joke? He notices his hand is shaking slightly as he takes another drag on his cigarette. He’s not ready to be a dad. He never really saw himself as father material. And he certainly never expected to be bringing up someone else’s kid. How is he supposed to handle all this? All he can do is trust.

The Donkey's Tale

Feeling a little festive? Then here's a piece to get your Christmassy juices going. It's written by Roz, my wife's cousin. She's 11 (Roz, not my wife...) and as you'll see, she's a talented young lady.

I thought it was just another boring day trudging around the village; after all they never used me for any important jobs.

“You’re too small and weak,” the other donkeys would say and they would laugh and call me Silly Little Donkey. Huh!

But that morning one of the humans (a male I think) came into the yard and surprisingly he didn’t choose any of the big bullies, instead he walked straight over to me and put my bridle on.

“Wow! I’ve never been chosen for anything before.”

The human loaded up my panniers then helped a female to climb up – she looked very young, not much more than a foal I would say.

We set off Southwards, I heard the male say it was about 100 miles journey (and I thought we were just going to market!).

We trudged slowly along for several days and I learnt that my humans were called Mary and Joseph. Mary rode on my back all the time and we had to have lots of rests. Joseph looked after her very well and he was kind to me too. He would pat me and give me oats.

“There you are, Little Donkey,” he would say. Nobody had ever been kind to me before, and because I didn’t have to fight the bigger donkeys for food I felt strong and fit. I could have carried her a thousand miles!

After many days and nights of travel we arrived at a big town. It was complete chaos! I was so scared, people were rushing around everywhere! Joseph led me to every inn in town trying to find somewhere to stay but no one could help. During that time I realised that Mary was going to have a baby, poor thing. I thought that we would have to stay outside all night but finally a kind old innkeeper said we could use his stable for shelter.

”Nothing wrong with that,” I thought, “stables are nice places, warm, cosy and friendly."

We settled down for the night. Joseph made Mary a soft bed of straw and the animals gathered protectively around her. In the middle of the night Mary’s boy child was born. It was quite extraordinary for this baby seemed special in a way. He didn’t cry, he didn’t sleep but lay there silently as we gazed at him. The stable was filled with a beautiful light and a feeling of deep peace.

After a few hours there was a bit of a kerfuffle outside and a load of shaggy shepherds trooped in. They were all really excited and I heard them talking about angels and heavenly music but when they saw the child they fell to their knees and were silent.

The light in the stable grew brighter and brighter until it was so bright that we all had to shield our eyes and then the glorious music began. We saw blazing figures of silver and gold with flames of colour surrounding them. I felt scared and fell to my knees and touched my muzzle to the floor in worship. Mary smiled at me and somehow I couldn’t be scared because there was a beautiful warm sensation running through me. I knew this was the start of something amazing.

During the next few days many people came to look at the new born child who had been named Jesus. Then one night some very important men came to the stable, they had camels, servants and carried gifts of great treasure.

All three men knelt down and placed their gifts before Mary and her baby.

“Hail” said one “We have been led here by a star to see the new born king.”

Wow! A king! I knew he was someone special.

That night an angel from heaven came and spoke to Joseph, he said

“Joseph, I have a message from God, you must leave Bethlehem immediately because King Herod, an evil man, is scared that Jesus will take his throne. He has ordered that all baby boys must be killed. Flee at once; you will be safe in Egypt.”

I was terrified, but Joseph spoke calmly to me.

“Little donkey, are you strong enough to carry Mary and her baby 200 miles – all the way to Egypt?”

That very night we set off South West towards Egypt. We travelled by night and during the day we stayed with friendly people or hid in caves. Everyone was terrified by Herod’s law and they helped us when they could.

One night we were hiding in a windswept cave and couldn’t get warm, though I tried to shelter them with my body the baby started crying. A spider in the cave woke and asked me what was wrong.

“It’s so cold” I said “and we are hiding from soldiers who want to kill the baby.”

“Don’t worry,” said the spider. “I’ll help.”

I didn’t think he could do much but he started spinning his web. All night he worked and worked and by the morning a web covered the mouth of the cave. Suddenly we saw soldiers coming and we cowered down in the back of the cave. But when the chief soldier saw the web across the cave opening, he said, “No-one’s been in here for a long time. Look there’s a spider’s web right across the entrance,” and the soldiers moved on.

What a relief! I reckon that hard working little spider saved our baby’s life!

When we finally got to Egypt I was tired but proud and I was even more proud when Joseph patted me and said, “Well done little donkey. Will you stay with us and help us in this new land?”

I bowed my head; I knew I had played a big part in this wonderful adventure.

I maybe a little donkey but I can do big things!

Who knows one day someone might even write a song about me. They could call it 'Little Donkey'.

Runner-Up Again!

Just heard 'What If I Just Kept On Driving?' is a runner up in Cazart's November flash fiction competition. That's encouraging, and it means I get two pieces published in Cazart's next anthology, but I'm beginning to wonder what I need to do to win one of these things. I'm working on some new stuff now, though, so hopefully I'll write something suitably impressive soon. There should be a new piece here in a day or two...

New Material

I've disappeared off the blogging radar for a while now. I've been focussing on writing a short story for Spike the Cat's latest competition, so haven't had any new flash fiction to post. The short story's nearly finished though, and I'll aim to get some new material added here soon.

I'm quite pleased with the story itself - I just need to knock the corners off one or two of the characters and make sure the ending is at least vaguely believable. I won't find out the competition results until January, but at that point I'll post the story here. I'll either post the story in full here if it isn't going to be published in the anthology, or just an extract if it is going to be published. (Hopefully the extract will whet your appetite and make you want to buy the book...)

I'm still entering the Cazart flash fiction comps too, but the latest result didn't go my way. I s'pose the piece I entered ('You Don't Know What You've Got') was a bit risky. Never mind. I'll be trying again with another piece this month. I'm thinking of entering 'What If I Just Kept On Driving?' this time.

Competitions and novels and things

Cazart's October flash fiction comp is upon us. (Has it been a month already?) I'll be having another go at this, if I can jsut decide which of my recent efforts I should enter. Any thoughts on this?

Also, I just discovered Spike the Cat. It's an opportunity for fiction writers to get some of their stuff published as part of a compilation, so that established publishers will be more likely to take us seriously. I'm particularly intrigued by Somebody has to Die (Volume IV). If I can provide a decent short story by 30th Nov, I'm in with a chance of getting it published. I could even win £100 if the judge decides it's the best piece. Now I just need a decent idea...

Finally, I'm also taking the plunge and making a start on a novel. I always promised myself I'd write a novel one day, and I reckon it's about time I got on with it. Don't want to say too much more about it now, but drop me an email or a private message if you're interested.

Visiting Hours

You know the time we went rowing on that lake? It was just after we started going out. (Our third date, maybe?) I don’t remember what made you drop the oars, but I do remember how embarrassed you were. I laughed about it and told you not to worry. What I didn’t tell you at the time was how disappointed I was when someone finally came out to rescue us. I know it was cold. I know you felt stupid. I know we only had a bottle of Ribena and a packet of Mini Cheddars to share between us. But it’s one of my favourite memories. Just you and me, with all the time in the world and nothing and nobody to spoil it. So peaceful. So simple.

It might sound strange, but in the months since the accident, it’s all felt a bit similar to that. We’ve been cast adrift, you and me. And yes, it’s been hard. It’s been a lonely experience, especially since no-one can tell me for sure whether even you can really understand what’s going on. Like being in that boat, we just don’t know how long we’re going to be stuck here. But somehow, I still know it’s all going to be OK. And whatever happens, we’re together.

People wonder why I still come and see you every day. In fact, Natalie took me to one side last week and told me plainly to find someone else. ‘Let him go,’ she told me, ‘Why waste yourself on a man who’s never going to wake up? You’re still young. You’ve still got time to find someone else.’ But how can I do that? When I promised, ‘In sickness and in health’, I didn’t add, ‘unless you’re in a coma’. Besides, I don’t want anyone else. Of course, I’m angry to be in this situation, but more than that, I’m grateful. I’m grateful for what we had; for what we still have. Think of all the people who go through life without ever truly loving someone. Think of all the people who are lonely, abused or bitter. Whatever happens to us now, how many people can say they had what we’ve got? So that’s why I keep coming here. That’s why I’ll always keep coming, regardless of whether you wake up or if you keep lying there, not moving, not saying a word. We might be stranded in the lake, but at least we got in the boat to begin with. See you tomorrow.

New Story

I'll be uploading a new story later today - the 'Love' instalment in the Faith, Hope and Love sequence. I tried to do something a little different with this one. Also wanted to see if I could write a believable female narrator. Not entirely convinced this one works. Have a read and see what you think. As always, I'd appreciate your comments.

You Don't Know What You've Got...

I wonder if they stopped to think of the consequences before they set about trying to depose God. Come to think of it, I wonder if it really was as calculated as that makes it sound. More likely, it was just a matter of one small step logically following on from the last. The move from urging respect and tolerance for other beliefs to endorsing all beliefs (including no belief) as equally valid was so subtle that hardly anyone noticed. Carrying on to insist on prosecution for anyone who taught that their own belief was somehow objectively true seemed a reasonable and responsible step. From that point, discussing religion at all seemed dangerous, and anyone guilty of doing so had to be imprisoned, simply in the interests of tolerance and civil liberties. And then came the final, inevitable step: the 2027 Abolition Act, outlawing religion altogether. It was greeted as a great day for humanity; a triumph for tolerance, reason and enlightenment; the end of centuries of bigotry and oppression.

A world without God. A brave, new world, indeed. After all, what purpose did God serve? We didn’t need a divine provider any more, since the endlessly benevolent Internet gave us everything we needed. We certainly didn’t need any kind of cosmic judge. The justice we meted out to each other was more immediate, more proportional and somehow fairer than anything we could expect from him. We had no need of miracles, either, now that science could solve practically any problem we could imagine – even creating life. All that was left of God was an archaic, superstitious concept.

But the fundamental error that the atheists made was in not realising that trying to eliminate something is certain to make people realise they miss it. The increasingly shrill anti-God polemic only succeeded in reminding people that God was, actually, good. The championing of the human spirit as the pinnacle of existence merely made people reflect on how flat life seems without someone or something, greater, better, other than oneself. The draconian fines and prison sentences might have driven religion underground, but they also drove people through the doors of clandestine places of worship in unprecedented numbers, dwarfing any previous religious revival Britain had ever seen. It would appear that God has a great deal to thank atheists for.

Change of Plan!

So I got a little bit stuck on the 'Love' piece, and at the same time got inspired to write something on 'Faith'. So I'll post the 'Faith' piece in a second, and I'm afraid you'll have to wait a day or two for 'Love'.

This next piece is different - kind of a mixture of fantasy, satire, dystopia and optimism! Hope you like it!

Competition Results

I entered 'In Loving Memory' in the September flash fiction competition at cazart.com. I just found out I was one of the runners up. That's great, but my first reaction was to be annoyed that I didn't win. (Much to Jo's despair.) I just think the results were a bit odd. I didn't think the winning piece was much good at all, although that might just be me being a bad loser. At least one of the other runners up seemed stronger. Hmmm. See what you think.

Anyway, I'm writing another piece now. If 'What If I Just Kept On Driving?' was about hope, this one's about love. And yes, there is a 'faith' piece in the pipeline too.

What If I Just Kept On Driving?

I can’t do this anymore. Not at my age. Speeding around the country to endless meetings, trying to charm people whose names I can only just remember, so that I’ll meet my sales targets. And motorway service stations. I’m so unutterably sick of motorway service stations; of the crap, overpriced food and the staff who look as bored and apathetic as I feel. I’ve had enough of it. Leave this nonsense to the young turks who still think they can achieve something and be someone by flogging tat to strangers.

I woke up this morning with the prospect of a drive to Gillingham ahead of me. I mean, Gillingham. If ever a town was guaranteed to instil existential ennui in a man, Gillingham is it. And as I curse my way out of bed, I’m struck by a vague sense of low-grade pointlessness. I look around me. I survey my one-bedroom kingdom. Simple, functional, devoid of all the feminine trinkets that made the old place feel like home. I’m about to leave this expensive but soulless apartment to drive a featureless road to a depressing town, to do a job I no longer have any passion for. I’ll earn my money and give half of it away to a woman who treats me with cool, morally-superior politeness, so that a teenage girl who despises me can continue to feed her £200 a month retail habit. Is this what it’s all come to?

My mind begins to drift. I picture the journey to Gillingham in my mind, and I start to wonder, what if I just kept on driving? What if I carried on past Gillingham to Dover and got on a ferry? How difficult would it be to find a quiet little town somewhere in Brittany and start again? How long would it take before anyone noticed I was missing?

I’m still daydreaming when I slump into the driver’s seat and start the engine. Thin, wintry sunshine starts to struggle through the clouds, so I pull down the sun visor. As I do that, something drops onto the floor at my feet. I fumble around and find a folded piece of paper. When I open it up, I’m greeted by Camilla’s florid but precise handwriting:

Dear Dad,

Whatever Mum says, I still think you’re alright. Have a nice day.

Love

Camilla

She signed off with one of those colon-and-bracket things that’s supposed to look like a smiley face. And actually, I am smiling now. God knows why. It’s an off-hand one-line note, written on the back of an envelope. Hardly a warm and effusive hymn of praise from an adoring daughter. But for some reason, I find myself smiling. Even with Gillingham, motorway service stations and meaningless clients to contend with, for some reason that note makes it worth my trouble not to disappear.

In Loving Memory

There’s not much there to look at now. Just a small pile of rocks on a windswept cliff top. Josie and I put the rocks there to mark the spot – to do something to commemorate what happened – because it seemed clear that no-one else was going to. After all, who commemorates a suicide? We felt like we had to do something. Josie said it felt as though if we didn’t do something to remind us of Gareth, that there’d be nothing to anchor him to us, that our memory of him would just float away on the breeze. Hence the rocks. It had the sensation of weighing him down, stopping him from flying away and leaving us. Leaving us for a second time.

Standing there now, nearly eight months later, neither of us really know what to do or say. We’re left just kind of standing there, looking at the rocks, looking past the rocks, out over the edge of the cliff into the air beyond. I glance across at Josie, with the wind playing a wisp of her dark brown hair across her cheek. She brushes it away impatiently. I always thought she could do better than Gareth. That's a hard thing to say about my brother, particularly now he’s gone, but it’s true. When I used to see the two of them together, something used to jar inside me. It just wasn’t right. I tried persuading Gareth that she wasn’t for him, but he wouldn’t listen. He said I was jealous. He had a point.

The one good thing that’s come out of Gareth’s death is that it brought me and Josie together. You know how it works – two people leaning on each other, talking things over, grieving – I suppose it was bound to happen.

‘Let’s go,’ Josie says. She smiles bravely, turns to head back to the car, and takes my hand. In a funny way, this has all turned out for the best. Far better than I expected when I did what I did. I was right. Josie could do better than Gareth. That’s why I pushed him.

[Inspired by the image 'Memorial' at www.elephantwords.co.uk.]

Ed

Ed couldn’t sleep. Hadn’t slept properly for weeks now. It began with one or two nights of tossing and turning for an hour or so, until his mind eventually stopped whirring and let him drift off. But soon, alarmingly soon, it developed into a persistent, nagging insomnia which drained him of all energy and enthusiasm, leaving him vacant, listless and dispassionate. An awkward position for a vicar to be in. He knew everyone expected him to be patient, caring, wise and simultaneously bold, visionary and indefatigable. But he felt none of these things. Could his parishioners see through the thin veneer of patience and vibrancy which he put on for their benefit? Surely they could tell by now that their vicar just wasn’t up to the job.

The irony was that the job had reduced him to this state in the first place. The ever-lengthening list of sick and elderly to visit, the exhausting counselling of young men in the throes of the Dark Night of the Soul, the endless, cripplingly mundane meetings, populated by people who seemed psychotically driven to make sure the church lounge was painted exactly the shade of beige they wanted. It all combined to leave Ed’s head spinning, even late into the night.

An unfortunate side-effect of the insomnia was that it left Ed more disposed than usual towards navel-gazing. A better man, a wiser, more godly man would surely be able to handle these pressures, he thought. Did it reflect on his own spirituality that stress drove him to insomnia, not prayer? If he was plagued by this inconsequential yet strangely debilitating affliction, how could he still tell his flock he believed in a God who healed? Wasn’t he living a lie, just pretending that he was OK? And the more Ed drifted towards self-recrimination, the more time his insomnia granted him to think it all over. More and more time, confronted with his own darker side; the vices and character flaws he couldn’t seem to shake off, his fondness for cigarettes, alcohol and internet pornography. More and more time, lying in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, quietly hating himself. Which of course took him deeper and deeper into the grip of self-recrimination. It was all so neatly self-perpetuating.

Ed couldn’t see the situation improving any time soon. He decided this was just a cross he’d have to bear. Particularly since his sexuality was so glaringly at odds with everything everyone believed about him and expected of him. Material for months of lying awake, in that one fact alone. No doubt about it, a vicar’s lot is not a happy one. Especially when the vicar is gay.

We're back...

And... you're back in the room. It's been a while, but here we are again. I've been inspired to resurrect this blog by my desire to get some of my fiction out there. By 'out there', I'm not sure exactly where I mean, but just knowing it's online and people can read it if they're really determined to find it makes me feel I've accomplished something. Anyhew... my first piece of flash fiction will follow in a few minutes.

By the way, if you like this next piece (or even if you find it mildly disappointing but still enjoy really short pieces of well-written fiction), check out elephantwords.co.uk. I aspire to write for this site one day, but in the meantime, check out what's there already. Some of it is very good indeed.