The Barge

This work originated from the need to have a story containing a flashback to a previous event; could you suggest a short story with one in. So with necessity being the mother of invention, this tale emerged.

 

 

The Barge

   I stared at the canal. An empty, barren expanse of bank lay opposite; an oily film interrupted by the movement of a duck sat like a stained bedspread on the water. All was calm now, the only sound being the gentle lap of the water on the bank below my feet.

   In front of me though was the barge. The ‘Sally-Anne’ was like a floating dustcart. The hatch on deck was an old stacking palette, the portholes covered either in scrap plywood or old refuse bags. Green paint, faded, peeled and flaked, coated the lower part of the hull. Bright red paint supposedly lay below the waterline, but the colour of the water left this as anyone’s guess now.

   As I walked away, I ignored the splash of a fish.  Without warning I was grabbed by the ankle. I tried to jump forward but succeeded only in falling face first into the muddy grass. I struggled to stand, but whatever had grabbed me continued to pull. I snatched desperately at a tussock of grass, but I could not hold on. I dug my free foot into the ground, but ended up only spinning to the left.  With an almighty heave I pushed my weight forward, just as a greater force pulled back and I crashed like a thrashing trout into the murky depths.

   Gasping for breath as I briefly surfaced, I thought I saw a face staring from the porthole at the bow of the ‘Sally-Anne’. Where had I seen this before? No chance to answer as I was dragged below once more, something gripping both ankles now and the last breath escaping from my tortured body. Next, as I thought my time was up, I saw the same face in the water beside me. The old man, shouting for help beneath the murk.

   I woke in a cold sweat.

  2:17 am.

  The seventeenth time I had had the same nightmare.

   “Tyler…,” I said to myself, “this is all your doing.”

   Six days before, on the way home from school, Tyler and I had stopped by the shops. “If you are as hard as you say you are, you will come with me to the canal,” he announced. Tyler was not the sort of boy you ever refused an invitation from. He was the first boy at school with an earring, first with a tattoo, first to shoplift, or so he said.

   At the canal, there was a pile of gravel from the building site. I absentmindedly picked up a handful and flung it into the water, splashing like a flock of sparrows taking off. “Not like that soft lad!” Tyler shouted, “This is how we treat the nutter!”

  He scooped the gravel into two handfuls, hurled it into the air, and it crashed down onto the deck of the ‘Sally-Anne’. “Loony! Nutter! Mental-case! Come out and do that dance for us!”

  A shuffle and a grumble emerged from below the deck. I had never even thought that someone could be there, even Stig of the Dump! Slowly a face emerged from the palette hatch. It was like an old walnut, topped by wisps of white hair.

 “Gerrouawit! Gerrouawit!” squealed the walnut.

   “Loony! Nutter! Do your dance! Do your samba!” Tyler yelled, whilst laughing like a hyena on laughing gas. The old man emerged onto the deck, as Tyler threw more gravel. The old man span around yelling “Gerrouawit! Yarrooligans!” at the sky as much as at us.

  Tyler hurled more gravel, and I did the same, until it happened. As he was spinning, the old man stepped on some gravel. Time slowed as he twisted in the air, like a geriatric ballerina. He shouted something incoherent as he sailed over the deck, before splashing with a colossal belly flop into the canal.

  “Tyler! Leggit!” I shouted as I turned and ran for home quicker than I had ever moved before. I burst through my bedroom door, collapsed on the bed and sobbed for an hour or more, my heart thumping like a pneumatic hammer.

  Two days later, the local free paper dropped through the letterbox.

  The headline read, “WORLD WAR II VETERAN FOUND DROWNED IN CANAL”

   I read on. “Police identified the body of George Clegg, aged 93, who fought in Italy in the closing stages of the war, after it was found in the canal near his narrow boat home. They say there are no suspicious circumstances, and no-one is being sought in connection with his death. It is believed that he slipped on gravel in the deck of his boat, as he was a well known hoarder of a range of materials.”

 

   I had got away with it. Or had I?

Fifty Word Stories: Not a Hint of Grey!

And now for something a bit more normal.

With the children in my class we often do this task- write a story in 50 words exactly. It is quite a challenge because every word has to count and pull its weight. And to include a beginning, middle and end too is hard work. We have been successful in the last two years at having several published in a writing competition across London and the South East.

This is my effort. I got a round of applause from the children.

Have a go at writing one yourself

New York. September 11^th 2001. We all know what happened on that day. Somewhere in the smouldering ruins of the World Trade Centre were the remains of a leather bound book which contained the secrets to world peace and everlasting harmony. Whatever happened to it? Nobody will ever know now.

Fifty Shades of One: Because Royals do too!

The last in a trilogy of parodies. For the moment!

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The Princess dialled the well worn number. He answered. His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel… or something like that anyway.

'You rang m'lady!'

She shivered in anticipation then felt the colour in her cheeks rising again. 'One must be the colour of that beastly communist manifesto,' she muttered to herself.

'Yes I did,' she replied. 'I need you to drive the carriage into the palace. come around the back would you.'

His refined but slow witted brain struggled to compute if this was a bizarre request or a cunningly disguised double entendre.

Not for her the rugged good looks and rough hewn bravado of the gardener. He was like a statue, not roughly hewn from rock, but carved tenderly from the finest Italian marble; Michelangelo’s David had nothing on him!

'I will be there presently ma'am'

Within moments, the door echoed to the knock from his silken gloved hands.

'Good evening Mr Bond!'

'Good evening' replied, acting part of another of their adventures.

He stared into her eyes, and she held his anxious, burning gaze for a moment; or maybe  forever, but eventually her attention was drawn to his beautiful mouth.

She kissed him passionately, forcing his lips apart with her tongue, taking no prisoners.

She was all rabbit/headlights, moth/flame, bird/snake… and he knew exactly what he was doing.

When it was over, she turned to him and said 'You are without a doubt the most beautiful man on the planet, too beautiful for the common people below, too beautiful for me.’


‘No man is an island'  he mused, ' although I'm going to rule this one one day!'

Fifty Shades of Green

Fergal O'Flaherty, a rough hewn beast of a man, and a native of Cork City, pealed of his shirt, exposing a vest, and with a flick of his head tossed his mane of strawberry blonde hair down his back. A day of honest toil on the site and rewarded him with a wad of Euros in his back pocket, and a longing desire for several pints of the Black Stuff.

The doors of The King's Arms were wide open on this warm evening, lasciviously welcoming  this Son of Gael like a spiritual home.

'A pint of Guinness for me; and whatever you're having my darling!' he added with impeccably accurate use of the semi-colon, demonstrating the relative strength of Irish Literary tradition to that of their former oppressor.

'I'll have an Archers with a dash of Aftershock, thanks!' Aiymiei the barmaid replied, with all the class that her Sarf-East Landan accent afforded.

Fergal slid lasciviously onto the barstool with all the subtlety of a snake, which of course there were none of in Ireland, as St Patrick had driven then out, so his terms of reference were sketchy at best. This mattered little to Aiymiei, whose GSCE in Beauty Therapy had not contained an element of Celtic History that particular year.

Several rounds later, Fergal stood as firm as the Rock of Cashel, but Aiymiei was a little worse for wear, having vomited profusely into the half empty crisp boxes behind the bar.

Touchingly removing the last specks of puke from the corners of her mouth, Fergal leant over the bar, and whispered suggestively into her ear 'Have you got any Irish in you!'

'Me babe! Naaaaahhhh!!'

'Would you like some?'

'Oh you smooth talking bastard! Bring it on!' she announced, before passing out.

'Result!'

Fifty Seconds of Ray

I wrote this yesterday left a few copies out, passed a few on and showed it on my phone, and created a few sniggers, giggles and raucous laughter. So here goes- another parody, but all my own work!

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Fifty Seconds of Ray

Maria had looked forward to this moment all day. She had treasured her long soak in the hot tub, though the disappointment of the ‘Radox’ having dried up was more than made up for by the bottle of ‘Matey’ she found in the back of her bathroom cupboard, left there by a lodger several years, and several lovers,in the past.

A glass of rosé, a little sweet perhaps, but not bad for the £5 for two bottles bargain bucket, moistened her lips. She quivered in anticipation of the moment of pure rapture that would surely envelop her ‘ce soir’.  She sated her expectant appetite with a portion of ‘pain et frites’, although her burly, rough hewn object of her desire preferred the colloquial ‘chip butty’.

Maria slipped on her Bri-Nylon nightdress, pausing only to smooth it past the static electricity generated between the fabric and the hairs on her thighs. Lasciviously, she draped herself in a variety of poses on the DFS sofa, choosing the position that would best display her ample physique, without exposing her stubborn cellulite.  Finally, she decided on a pose demonstrating her longing for her beau, her right hand caressing her fading roots, her left hand suggestively cupping the half empty wine glass, and her right thigh raised on a cushion so as not to snag her varicose vein on that spring that had so surprised her grandmother the week before.

Meanwhile Ray was finishing his shift at the building site. He pulled ‘The Sun’ from his back pocket, gave one last longing look at the innocent young maiden on page three, and flung it lazily to the recycling heap where it sat, fluttering in the wind. He tugged his pants, rather hopefully labeled ‘Next’ over his cavernous bum crack. Tramping into the Portakabin, he grabbed the first spray to hand in his locker, showering the exposed hairs of his manly armpits with the clear but strangely aromatic scent. He knew just how much the pungent aroma, the heady mix of day old sweat and ‘Febreze’ aroused the flames of passion in his woman.

He drove home at a slightly daring 34 mph, pausing at each traffic light to swig from a bottle of ‘White Lightning’, to scratch his crotch and to sing along to the chorus of ‘I’m Horny! Horny! Horny! Horny!’ on the radio of his vintage XR3 Cabriolet. The wheels span and screamed as he pulled away from the final set of lights, and swung serenely into the cul-de-sac.

Such was his excitement that he forgot the dregs of his drink, which spilled on the fake leopard skin seats, adding to the other unidentifiable stains and smells. He slammed the door with his ‘Nike’ trainers, ran clumsily up the gravel path, and opened the door.

‘Come in my Big Bear! There’s something special for you in the cave today!’ came a voice from the boudoir.

‘Would my little pudding like a quarter pound of prime Barnsley sausage?’

‘No! I’d much prefer stuffing!’ but the double entendre was lost on his dinosaur brain.

Ray lumbered down the hall and into the living room, the backs of his hairy hands trailing along the floor, his brow furrowed not in concentration but due to his Neanderthal heritage. He ripped the t-shirt from his torso, unbuckled his belt and half fell, half lunged onto the chaise longue.

It was over in less than a minute. He rolled off,  expressed his gratitude in an explosive expression of flatulence, and pulled his pants back up from his knees.

‘Is that it?’

‘Sorry love. Footie’s on in half an hour and I’ve got a Chinese coming at quarter past. You know what I’m like without my grub. Do us a favour love, make us a cup of tea. I’m parched after all that effort.’

‘You old romantic fool!’ Maria said. ‘That’s why I love you so much!’ she added, whist thinking, ‘Is there room under the patio for this old bastard, just like the last two losers?’

It started like this. As a teacher I want to find quality texts for my children to use in literacy lessons, but inevitably the best texts are too long- and I don't want to butcher Pullman or Morpurgo.

Often I ended up writing short stories myself, and started getting a very positive reaction from the children in terms of their response to the text and the ways in which they wrote for themselves.

Last year one of my very polite girls suggested 'Why don't you publish that sir?'

After many umms and ahhs and a bit of editing and improving I came up with this.

Based both on a family holiday in Japan and my interest in oral storytelling, this filled a gap in the traditional tales section of the curriculum.

My first effort, so be kind- would appreciate any feedback- and a contract would be even better!!

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AIKO AND THE VENGEFUL SPIRIT.

Visit Japan in the spring and you will witness the annual obsession with cherry blossom, to such an extent that the weather forecast each night includes a ‘blossom front’ as over the course of two months the blossoms appear on Kyushu in the south, through Honshu and onto Hokkaido in the north.

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At the foot of the Philosopher’s Walk in the hills above old Kyoto, near the Kitomizu Temple, there are two weeping cherry trees. What made these unusual though was their near perfect symmetry. The weeping boughs seemed to bow towards each other, but more peculiar still was that each trunk seemed to bend down towards the ground before rising again to support the blooms. Exactly halfway between them, perched on a rock was a statue of a small dog, an Akita I believe.

As I knelt, running my fingers over the gnarled texture of the ‘knee’ of the left hand tree, a gentle tap on the shoulder caused me to turn.

‘Excuse me sir. You seem like a nice English gentleman. I will practice my English on you!’ announced a confident little girl in pig tails and white knee socks that were part of the Japanese school uniform.

‘Certainly, if your grandfather doesn’t mind.’ For holding her hand was a little man, stooped so no taller than his granddaughter. He nodded enthusiastically, then whispered something into her ear.

‘Grandfather says he will tell you how these trees came to be, and I will translate,’ she proudly declared. ‘Can you spare an hour?’

So we settled down to this tale.

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Many years ago, before the city came out this far, and before the temples had been built, this land belonged to a man and his wife. They had been married for many years and were very much in love. However their union had never been blessed with children.

Hanako was a true beauty. Her name meant ‘flower child’ and she was gifted with the clear and fragrant complexion of the white jasmine flower. In the years of their courtship, Minoru would bring Hanaku a single fresh flower every single day, a habit he joyfully continued after their wedding.

Hanaku wished desperately to become a mother, but  as season followed season, there was no sign of any pregnancy.

‘Be patient my love; in time the spirits will provide!’ Minoru would always say. Though he said the same words several times each year, Hanaku would not argue for she knew the meaning of her husband’s name: ‘truth’.

Sure enough, in the spring of the seventeenth year of their marriage, as Hanaku worked the land outside their small dwelling, a gust of warming breeze shook the neighbouring cherry trees. A handful of older blooms scattered over the neighbouring stream, but one single fresh blossom hovered in the air like the most delicate of dragon flies. Hanaku was transfixed by its flight. As she watched it slowly fluttered, like a butterfly now, and landed on her kimono, just above her belly. At that moment she felt a magical glow and a spine-tingling shiver.

She ran immediately to Minoru. ‘Dearest husband! It has happened! We are to be blessed with a child. The spirits have provided, just as you said they would.’ Together they danced for joy in the milky spring sunshine.

Not everyone shared in their elation however, for next to their property lived Onryo, a grumpy and arthritic old man who never had any visitors and who shook his stick at anyone near him when he travelled beyond his gate, which was not often. Onryo was no ordinary human being though. He was the earthly manifestation of the vengeful spirit, and he looked on even the merest speck of human happiness with disdain, hatred and jealousy. He spied Hanaku’s joy, grumbled to himself and shuffled into his shabby dwelling.

The months passed, Hanaku’s belly swelled, as did the fruits on the cherry tree that had borne the good news. Minoru set his mind to preparing the house for the new arrival. So it was with the passing of autumn, that the time had come.

The baby arrived, healthy and chubby. A baby girl, with a complexion to match that of her mother, and eyes as wide and as brown as a halved lychee. Hanaku and Minoru knew that the infant had arrived as a reward for their feelings for and trust in each other. So they called her Aiko; ai meaning ‘love and affection’, and ko meaning ‘child’.

The first cry of the new-born, though not a piercing banshee yowl, but a reminder that little ones need feeding, was enough to awaken the dozing Onryo. This sign of unbridled happiness was at the very limit of his tolerance, and unbeknownst to his neighbours, the most vengeful side of his personality was about to be awakened.

Aiko was quite literally a bundle of joy. Everywhere the family went, her smile and eyes brought light and pleasure to everyone they met. She would chuckle at every tickle of her chin, at each squeeze of her cheeks, and every time her father threw her up in the air her merriment could be heard the length of the hill side. She walked within a year and would chase after birds and rabbits, who wouldn’t fly or hop away, entranced as they were by her hypnotic laughter, and who let the little girl pet them ever so gently.

Hanaku taught her the names of all the flowers, birds and insects. Minoru explained the value of telling the truth, and being trustworthy. Aiko fell in love with the beauty of everything around her and would spend hours sitting below a tree to see the birds arriving to build their nests, watching the fledglings taking their first nervy exits, and waiting for the sepals to open on the flowers to reveal their first blooms.

Hanaku loved to tell her daughter the story of the falling cherry blossom and the faith that Minoru had shown in the spirits. Each spring she would wait for the first blossoms to fall, and then chase after them trying to catch them on the tip of her tongue, on her nose or delicately between her thumb and forefinger.

When she was four years old, a strong gust threw some blossoms high into the air, and a second swirling gust sent them in every direction. Aiko ran to the blooms as she always did her eyes on a particular prize. She ran, skipping over rocks, flowers and a stream. Oh yes! The very stream that ran along the side of their land. The very stream that marked the land belonging to Onryo.

Of course little girls probably don’t understand what it means to trespass on someone else’s land, but Onryo certainly did. He hobbled from his house, waving his stick and yelling at her to get off his land. ‘I don’t ever want to see you on her again!’ he bellowed so loudly that even the birds were quietened.

Aiko, having never seen or heard such a noise, leapt the stream and ran bawling her eyes out into the arms of her parents. ‘He is a tired and grumpy old man’ said her father, for this was the truth that he knew. Little did he know that the events of that day had triggered more thoughts on Onryo’s mind.

One year passed. Aiko’s continued happiness helped her forget the trauma of the old man’s anger. The next spring, another flurry sent the blossoms scattering. Once more Aiko chased the falling flowers, her eyes on the  widest one. She ran, skipping over rocks, flowers and a stream. Oh yes! The very stream that ran along the side of their land. The very stream that marked the land belonging to Onryo.

Onryo however was waiting. ‘Don’t you remember last year! You do that again, I swear you will never leave here again.’

Once more Aiko leapt the stream and ran to the comforting embrace of her parents. ‘He probably can’t see the beauty of the nature around him,’ her mother whispered, for she knew nothing of his real hatred of beauty.

A further year passed. Now six, Aiko still marvelled at the wonders of nature’s cycles and waited for the cherry blossom with heightened anticipation. Sure enough the blooms emerged, opened and were caught by a draft of warm air. Aiko had focussed her attention on one exceptionally fat bud, and its emerging flower, and when it fell, that was her target.

She ran, skipping over rocks, flowers and a stream. Oh yes! The very stream that ran along the side of their land. The very stream that marked the land belonging to Onryo.

Onryo too had watched the buds emerging, had seen the exceptionally fat bud and waited for the moment that it would fall. He emerged from behind a bamboo screen.

‘I have told you twice before about coming onto my land. Last year I told you that you would never leave if you did that again!’

Before she had the chance to run or even to call to her parents, Onryo stared deep into her eyes. A demon red glow, heightened by the deep jet black of his pupils, rendered her helpless. Rooted to the spot on top of the rock where she stood, Aiko felt a sensation from her feet, travelling up towards her knees. As she looked down she saw that she now had fur on her legs, and her feet had become paws. As the demon’s spell continued, she fell onto all fours, fur now growing from her back and her ears lengthening.

Fighting her fear she called to her parents, ‘Mother! Father! Help me!’ but all they heard was a puppy dog howl. This was enough to alert them, and as they saw Aiko’s nose and mouth become the muzzle of an Akita, they jumped the stream together.

‘Ah the brat’s pathetic parents. You were too old to have any happiness anyway,’ Onryo cackled as he engaged their eyes in the same glare.

This time however they were transformed not into dogs, but into stone. They tried to bend down to their daughter, but the stone reached their knees which struck, bent and rigid. They could now lean over, but couldn’t quite reach her. ‘Run Aiko! Get help!’

Aiko wouldn’t leave. It was too late. Within minutes Minoru and Hanaku were transformed to stone, knees bent, arms trailing in a vain attempt to reach their daughter. Onryo had had his vengeance. Even he wouldn’t waste roe on tying the dog to the trees. She would stay, and probably die of hunger.

Aiko began to cry, slowly at first, then great buckets of uncontrolled tears. These were not only tears of sadness, but tears of love, beauty and truth. As they fell on the ground they  seeped into the stone that was the feet of her parents. The stone, dampened by the tears, began to transform into the trunks of two trees. More tears fell, and the statues continued to change, with the arms becoming  branches and the fingers growing into twigs. By the time that the tears stopped Hanaku and Minoru were two cherry trees, the very cherry trees that brought them the news of their daughter.

Aiko had cried out all the love and affection that she could muster. She was exhausted, and had no tears left to transform herself. She was completely dried out, and felt herself changing again, this time into the stone that her parents had so recently been. She sat, a little Akita puppy, at the feet of her parental cherry trees.

As for Onryo; his demon magic was no answer to the power of love and truth. This drained away his energies as he watched turning him into a hollow stalk of bamboo, hollow for the feelings he never had.

To this day, visitors still ask how the trees and the little dog came to be. Look ever so carefully. Can you find the tiniest streak of a tear?