Extracts and Short Stories
All short stories below have not been published elsewhere.
Digging: Bending over, Gordon felt the strain pull along his lower back. He hoisted his arm up ready for another strike at the soil with his spade. Pushing forward, he shovelled a clod into the trusty red barrow his father had given him when he’d first started tending to his own outdoor space. He’d revelled in sitting in that barrow as a young lad. Despite the years of hardship, the red still glowed brilliantly. Feeling a sense of peace that he hadn’t been able to in a long while, he smiled as he moved another clump. He’d waited a long time to do this. He wasn’t sure why he’d waited. The garden around him breathed as the wind tickled the rose petals. Pausing briefly, Gordon enjoyed a lungful of air as the gentle breeze went past. It cooled the sweat that was forming on his creased forehead. It had been months since he’d been able to indulge in the hush of the garden, and he felt almost giddy at the prospect of being able to do so again at his leisure. As he continued to dig, he looked at the bold, red roses in the bush nearby. Beautiful, but they were unable to provide much-needed shade for the garden, and thankfully he’d finally gotten down to solving that problem. All he’d needed was a little help from John next door. It was the least he could do, after all, since causing so much noise with his god-damn giggling friends bubbling in the hot tub the past few months. The thing had been the bane of his life. To his immediate left was a lovely apple tree, already adorned with hundreds of little blossoms, sat ready to be planted. At first, he’d wondered if the ground would be fertile enough to sustain such a giant, but John would provide enough fertiliser to establish the tree and give it plenty of vigour to sprout juicy apples come October. Once the hole was deep enough, Gordon nodded in satisfaction and rolled John’s battered corpse from under the roses, into its depths. Fresh blood was still leaking out from where the secateurs were buried in his neck. With a wipe of his forehead, he began to hum as he grasped the hunk of the tree, ready to place it in with his new, crimson fertiliser. After all, it was the least John could do.
The Cost: Supple, the leather had just enough give to make the shoe comfortable. She ran her fingers along it again, this time just to feel the quality of the soft material. It whispered across her skin in a way that her own footwear never had. She pressed the inner sole of the flat shoe, enjoying the feel of the cushioned insides as they sprang up upon release. She knew she was lingering, drawing attention to herself. For the fourth time since picking them up, she glanced at the sales assistant. She was a lean woman in a delightfully purple dress, with a smile painted at the ready. The smile said she was happy to have you there and was ready to assist. As she glanced at Mary, the smile didn’t match her eyes. Her eyes locked on, a sparkle stirring. As she did, the shoes felt heavy in Mary’s grasp. The weight of each pound sterling pressed against her palm. Swiping her gaze downward, she felt heat tickle her ears. The smug arch of the saleswoman’s brow was unseen by Mary, but she knew it would be there. The thought made her grasp the small, flat pumps tighter. Rubber from the soles pushed softly at her flesh. The sole had been imprinted with playful little flowers and vines that now seemed mocking. Mary, deflated, began placing the shoes back with their peers. As she did, those twirling, flowery soles tugged at her guilt. Laura loved flowers. She could not help the wrinkle on her forehead as the memory of yesterday flashed across her mind. Laura at the school gates wearing her little gym plimsoles. Her teacher throwing a hasty wave in Mary’s direction, telling her to wait there while she delt with another parent. The tiny girl trying her best to not let her bottom lip quiver, but losing the fight. Clasped in hand, a pair of beaten school shoes, cracked sole flapping up and down like a lolling tongue. Her daughter’s eyes avoiding her classmates as they passed her. Licks of red touching her cheeks. Lead sat in Mary’s stomach; she eyed the petite shoes. They were a far cry from the ones on her own feet, which had seen the coming and going of many life events. She took a breath. In a hurricane, she snatched back the little girl’s shoes, ignoring the glare of the price tag as she strode to the payment counter. She did not wait for the cashier to declare the cost. She swept her credit card out of her purse and completed the sale before her brain could protest. Marching past the saleswoman as she left, she ignored the squeak of her own battered shoe as the fabric complained against the worn stitching. Her chin rose, fire in her eyes. She made a silent promise: her daughter would never again bear her mother’s shame.
Keeping Out of Reach: Reaching forward eagerly, one small hand tried to grasp the green apple while the other held onto the branch. The digits twitched as fingertips grazed the shiny skin. From my vantage point just below, I could see the space between the seven-year-old and his prize. Clearly, the boy still felt a sense of hope; he continued to struggle with all his might, feeling he was close. I, however, saw the space as a yawning gap, too far for his small arms. My own hands itched to reach out and help him, but instead I put them in my pockets to avoid temptation. Lily’s words echoed in my brain, scolding me. Coby was a growing boy and I coddled him too much. He’ll grow up to be useless if you keep doing that. He’ll never do anything for himself. Easy words to accept when sat in the safety of the living room, cup of tea in hand. Coby’s tongue crept out of the corner of his mouth as he strained, clearly frustrated. His full attention was on the apple, his grazing fingers making it bob side to side in mockery. The branch he was perched on began to bend slightly under the shift in his weight as he leaned forward further. My lip had a small fissure where I had been clamping my teeth down on it in a desperate attempt not to intervene. This was his venture, not mine. A minute dab of blood tainted my taste buds. Huffs of air whistled between Coby’s teeth. His patience was gone, and with a grunt of exasperation, he made a final choice. Far too late, my eyes snapped to the hand which was his anchor, noticing the grip loosen. A thousand heartbeats passed; I could do nothing but watch as his eyes widened, and his hand let go. As his thin frame fell through the branches, several apples were knocked loose and tumbled with him. Bursts of his red shirt could be seen flashing between the branches and leaves, like some kind of crazed warning light. Thundering to the floor, one of the apples struck a rock and splattered some of its juices. Pulp could be seen across the grass in a gory display. All happening at once, Coby’s head struck the ground alongside the apple. I was finally able to make my limbs unlock. Diving to the floor, I tried to force my heart from my throat. Little splatters of the ruined apple dappled his shirt and sat on his cheeks. Both of my hands frantically raced across his prone body, each of my fingers expecting a protrusion that shouldn’t be there. Just as they darted to his skull, Coby’s eyes opened. Expecting the inevitable tears, I careened forward to enfold him to me. Pushing himself up and out of the reach of my arms, an uneasy grin split across his face. Shaken, but smiling, he pulled an apple out from under him. “Got it!”