Betwixt The Cup and The Lip #3

Tweet

Here is my third installment of excerpts from Betwixt The Cup and The Lip; my lipogrammatic* novel in 26 parts.  The first installment can be found here, and the second can be found here.  Please feel free to make comments or suggestions; I'm open to any ideas you might have.  And if you're a publisher and you would like to publish this collection, please don't hesitate to get in touch with me.  You can find my contact details here.

* A lipogram is a piece of text that contains 25 letters of the alphabet by omitting one.

Warning: This book is not suitable for anyone under 18 years old.  The excerpts that I publish on here are family friendly (ok, they're probably PG if I'm being honest), but some of the completed stories contain graphic scenes unsuitable for children.


Shane
I’m not racist or nothing, but I just think that people shouldn’t leave their mother land.  People go on and on and on about pride for their skin colour and heritage and all that.  I’m proud to be Indian.  I’m proud to be Chinese.  I’m proud to be African.  If these people were so proud, we wouldn’t be infested with them.  These ‘proud’ people would be in their own countries being proud there.  But no.  These foreigners insist on being proud in England and expect us to change our lives to accommodate them.  I’m Muslim.  I want a mosque.  I’m Buddhist.  I want a temple.  I’m Sikh.  I want a gurdwara.  What would Jesus think?  Huh?  He was a good old English Christian.  I’m sure he wouldn’t have been pleased with all of these weird looking worship buildings popping up all over the place.

I can’t even go shopping without falling over Polish shops and Chinese shops and West Indian shops.  Isn’t our food good enough or something?  If these people want to eat their own foodstuffs then being in England isn’t the best thing.  But I wonder where these people could go.  Hmmm.  Ah, that’s it.  Back to their own  countries.

In England.  Eat English food.  Never did me no harm.

Queenie

I will die this evening.

It’s a fact.  But I’m pretty much already dead.  I’m just waiting.  The queue is a bit lengthy and I’ve never been great at being early.  I’ll just make myself snug here and wait until it’s my turn.  I’ll wrap myself up in blankets as it’s always a bit chilly in here.  It’s a miracle we aren’t dead already.  With all this cash that keeps getting hurled at these infirmaries and care residences, I deliberate why they keep the temperature at freezing during the winter.  But I’ve heard death is an icy place at the start; maybe they’re just preparing us. 

I am 100% sure that it’s happening, that I will die this evening.  I’m relaxed.  I’m calm.  I’m ready.  It’s like déjà-vu.  I have that feeling all the time.  I am sure that I’ve been in a certain place but can’t remember when, but everything is familiar and the reminiscences feel real.  I feel like that at this very minute.  Maybe it's preja-vu.  I’m sure that I will be visiting a certain place that I haven’t visited yet, and it feels as real as if I had already been there.

It’s made me realise that we can’t just trudge and meander in life.  I’m sure they’ll all say that I’ve had a great innings, which I have, it’s true.  I’ve reached a ripe age, 89, and it’s finally time.  But we can never be certain that we will live until the weekend, and we definitely can’t ever be certain that we will live until we’re 89.  Life isn’t certain.

Charlie

There’s more to me than what you can see but it takes someone special to look further than the surface.  It didn’t take me too long to learn that, considering what I used to look like.  But then most of us went through a bit of an ugly stage during our teenage years.  Unfortunately for me, mine was more of an ugly couple of decades.  And no I’m not wallowing in self-pity.  I’m happy now and that’s all that matters.  I am actually quite glad that I had those ugly decades.  It makes me appreciate the good things that are a part of my life now.

I look the way I look because I chose to.  We don’t get many choices in life.  We can’t choose who our parents are or where we grow up or what our first words are or how tall we are.  And to an extent we can’t choose what our face or body look like; that is, until we reach 18 years old.  I grew up with an awkward body and an unfortunate face.  No one noticed me except to make my life hell.  I was always the last picked for teams in P.E. lessons and no one wanted to be my partner for drama class.  I was pushed out of the way and I was tripped up and I was ignored and I was sworn at and I had things thrown at me and I was laughed at and I was made to feel worthless.  And no matter how many times your parents tell you how wonderful you are and that the other kids are jealous, it doesn’t make life any easier.  My mother would tell me that I was good-looking as she wiped away my tears, but at school I was ugly and no matter how much you try to ignore those comments, they do stick with you for your entire life.   If 100 people tell you you’re ugly, you truly think you are ugly.  And that’s when I made my decision to look like this.  I feel gorgeous on the inside and I definitely look gorgeous on the outside.  People look at me for all the right reasons, and that makes me feel good; better than good.

My birth parents didn’t want me.  They got rid of me when I was a baby.  I really don’t want to meet them.  I am unable to bear children so I don’t know what it’s like to be pregnant, but from what I can imagine it’s an incredible feeling.  A human being is right there inside you.  You are its protector.  It relies on you for food and company and affection.  There is a special bond, an incredible connection between you and the baby that you know nothing about and yet at the same time, know all there is to know about it.  Nature is amazing, isn't it? 

She called me Dothan when I was born.  What kind of name is Dothan?!  Apparently she stuck a pin in an atlas and that was the name she found.  Clearly not too smart, my birth mother.  What was she thinking, if she was actually thinking at all?  Hmm, I’d like my son to be called something unusual, something different, something that will make him stand out from the crowd.  He will be unique and his name will reflect that.  I know.  Dothan is a perfect name.  He will not get beaten up at school because of his name.  He will not be treated as an outcast because of his name.  He will not be teased or tormented or tortured because of his name.  He will be well liked and well respected and people will want to be his friend because he has such an unusual name.  It will make him interesting; therefore people will be interested in him.  Dothan will be popular and intelligent and sporty and deep and will 100% not get his face kicked in year after year after year because of his name.  Girls will think he’s mysterious and charming and will always want to be around him because of his name.  They won’t laugh at him or ignore him because of his name.  They’ll be begging him to go out with them on dates because he’ll possess something the other boys won’t; that je ne sais quoi, that X factor, and all of this will be because of his name.

Yeah, thanks so much birth mother.  You really knew what you were doing when you chose my name.  As soon as I had the chance, I changed it and now go by the name of Charlie.  Apparently it means ‘free man’ which is kind of ironic but it’s how I feel now.  Once I shed my skin and got rid of Dothan, I felt freer and more confident. 

Alissa

My dog; is that a pin sticking in a map of your past actions?  My dog, my charming young pup, my baby boy, Bruno, wasn’t in his puppy mansion six days ago at 4pm, that hour at which I got back from work.  Bruno is normally sunbathing on his patio at 4pm.  I did sit and wait for him.  I thought it silly to call Scotland Yard straight away.  Bruno had possibly had a brainstorm to go for a short walk on his own although Bruno knows to wait for his Mummy.  A tasty aroma could always attract him away from his mansion, and possibly Bruno got a whiff of a yummy bit of food coming from a building abutting ours, and thought it was a good plan to sniff around for a snack.  I didn’t worry too much as I know Bruno is a smart dog and would walk back to his Mummy as soon as starvation struck.

I sat by my patio window, waiting for Bruno, and at 5pm Bruno strolls back into our backyard, slightly limping, almost zigzagging across our yard.  I ran out to him but Bruno was a tad anxious and timid.  Bruno was not my normal Bruno.  Normally Bruno is so happy if his Mummy is around.  Normally his tail wags and his mouth forms a grin, but that night Bruno was sad and forlorn.  I brought him his food but Bruno had got into his napping sack on his twin dog divan, and was off in his napping fantasy land so quickly.

Bruno didn’t suitably nap that night.  I got up at about midnight to a sound of Bruno crying.  It was a kind of high pitch howl with a bit of sobbing.  I saw him moving around in his napping sack, his tiny paws running away from I don’t know what.  I sat with him and sang to him and soon Bruno was back in his happy fantasy land.  But this conduct was awfully unusual for him.  Bruno would normally nap straight through, from sun-down to sun-up.  Not a sound would sally forth from his lips.

By morning I was hoping that Bruno would show total signs of normality but this was not so.  Bruno was lying on his back with his limbs akimbo.  I took his bowl indoors, hoping that Bruno would follow.  Bruno would walk thousands of yards for food but on this occasion Bruno did not shift.  I hit his bowl with a spoon, hoping that would stir him, but Bruno still did not shift from his twin dog divan.  I put my hand on his body and Bruno was cold.  Bruno had no pounding in his ribs or drool around his mouth.

Mima

No, I don’t believe that I have committed a crime.  Please, oh wise policeman, tell me what exactly it is that I’ve done wrong.

Breaking and entering?  Ok, I may have entered these people’s homes, per se, but never did I break anything while I was in the houses.  I didn’t even break in.  The doors were always unlocked.

I checked.  I waited until they’d gone out and tried the doors.  It was normally the back doors that weren’t locked.  But I’m not a vandal.  I’m not going to smash up someone’s windows and doors just to get in.  There are so many houses with unlocked doors that I don’t need to waste my time breaking prior to entering.

It was simple really.  I’m a people watcher, see?  I watch them closely and intently. 

No I am not a pervert.  I watch their actions and their movements and listen to what they say.  People are so busy these days that they don’t pay attention to anything that doesn’t directly play a role in their lives.  Even then they sometimes don’t pay attention to that.  I’ve seen parents ignoring their children so that they can talk to work colleagues on their mobile phones, leaving those poor little things to dunk their chips in their ketchup and stare out the window, dreaming about stimulating conversation.  And it is these children who are being ignored that turn into the attention seeking criminals that you should be out hunting.  Go and arrest these parents, adopt these children into loving homes and watch the crime rate diminish over the next ten or so years.

I watch people barge other people out the way because they need to get somewhere 20 minutes ago and they’re not going to let anyone get in their way.  I’ve seen them knock over old ladies carrying heavy shopping bags and people on crutches and little children that have done nothing wrong.

Yes, I know that knocking into people isn’t a crime, but when someone shoves someone else out the way because they are too arrogant and wrapped up in their own world to even care, then it should be a crime.  These people are all Me! Me! Me! that they don’t notice when they hurt someone else.  I have never hurt anyone during the last two years.  I have been quiet and inconspicuous and have even helped out on occasions.  When I wasn’t in the houses, I’d carry old lady’s shopping and give up my seats on the bus so they could sit down.

I’m not trying to balance out my bad deeds with good ones.  I don’t believe in Karma.  And I also don’t believe I’ve done anything wrong.

Trespass?  Well, yes I did go into other people’s property without permission but I never did anything to show that I’d been there so it was as though I hadn’t been there so I wasn’t actually there.

Yes, I know I was discovered in one house and so I was most certainly there and that’s why I’m here, but the others had no inkling that I was there so was I really there?

Yes, I know I’ve admitted to it but without my admission I could say that I wasn’t there and your case would mean nothing.

Stealing?  I did not steal a thing while I was in these people’s houses. 

Yes, I took things but I did not take them out the house.  Everything I took was used inside the house.  I’m sure that stealing means that you have to take something away, and I didn’t take away.  I took in.

Oh, it means taking without permission?

I could hardly ask permission, could I?  Then they would have known that I was there and that would have been silly, on my part.

*****

Stay tuned for more stories.

Betwixt The Cup and The Lip #2

Tweet

Here is my second installment of excerpts from Betwixt The Cup and The Lip; my lipogrammatic* novel in 26 parts.  The first installment can be found here.  Please feel free to make comments or suggestions; I'm open to any ideas you might have.  And if you're a publisher and you would like to publish this collection, please don't hesitate to get in touch with me.  You can find my contact details here.

* A lipogram is a piece of text that contains 25 letters of the alphabet by omitting one.

Warning: This book is not suitable for anyone under 18 years old.  The excerpts that I publish on here are family friendly (ok, they're probably PG if I'm being honest), but some of the completed stories contain graphic scenes unsuitable for children.

Jason

To be honest, I don't know why I'm writing you this note.  I have too much to say to you but I don't think I can do it face to face.  In truth, I have no idea what I'd do if I saw you right now.  You know I'm not an aggressive person, but this time you have managed to push every one of my buttons, so a note is the best way of communication for me at the moment.  You make me sick.

My hand is shaking.  Maybe from the vodka or maybe from seeing you, seeing you.  I can't even bear to write it.  That image of you and him, you and him, YOU AND HIM, is repeating over and over in my head.  What possessed you?  In our marriage bed?  Did those vows mean nothing to you?

It sickens me to think that you'd treat me this way.  Goes to show that I didn't know you as much as I thought I did.  And to think that I'd emptied my heart to you.  You knew about the others who cheated on me, and you promised.  You stared deep into my eyes and promised that you'd never treat me that way.  Do you even know what the truth is?

Oliver

Was that the last time I saw Sarah?  Well, no it wasn’t.  At that time I was so confused.  I needed to know what was going on so I went to her flat the next day.  There was no answer so I waited outside the newsagents on the corner because I know she goes there a lot.  She came and she bought another pint of semi-skimmed milk.  I caught her eye and her face changed.  I went to speak to her but she interrupted me.  “If I see you around here again I will personally break both your kneecaps,” she hissed.  “But Sarah, I love you,” I said.  “My name isn’t Sarah,” she snapped and shoved me out of the way.

How did I feel?  Well, I felt sick to my stomach.  She’d never spoken to me like that before, ever.  We hardly ever had arguments, and if we did they were so minor that we wouldn’t even raise our voices.  We have a special relationship, Mr. Telfrey.  Not many people are as lucky as us.  I’ve seen so many relationships fail because people are with the wrong people.  They think they’re in love but it’s only an infatuation with their idea of what marriage should be; two people tolerating each other’s negative points and pretending they’re happy to save face.  But it’s nothing like that, Mr. Telfrey.  Those two people shouldn’t even notice the negative points.  They should be so wrapped up in love that the negativity doesn’t have room to rear its ugly head.  And that’s how we are; Sarah and I.

Did I leave her alone after that?  Well, yes and no.  Mainly no really.  I didn’t speak to her but I went to see her.  I watched her from afar.  I knew she went to that newsagents quite often so I would walk past there a few times a day.

Didn’t I have to go to work?  Well, my boss had been extremely kind and allowed me to take some time off to try and sort things out with Sarah.  He could tell that my mind wasn’t on my work and thought it would be a good idea if I took some paid leave to sort myself out.  To be honest, I was very tired and took the leave without a second thought.  Since all this started with Sarah, I haven’t been able to sleep properly.  I keep waking up in the middle of the night.  I have such weird dreams where they seem so real at the time but when I wake up I can’t remember anything.  Sarah’s always in them; I know that for sure but the rest fades away as soon as my eyes open.  I wish I could remember something. 

Cedar

It wasn’t like all those others you hear of.  No.  This one was different and I think it is due to how different I am.  They knew.  I know they knew.  They must have known.  They wouldn’t have forgotten.  No.  We only wanted to stay for a short while.  It was a fact finding mission, searching new ground for new resources.  It was all in the name of knowledge and learning and experimentation.  Never harm though.  We never intended to hurt anyone or anything.  We tried to remain unnoticed.  Others like the attention.  They like to jump around in full view, having the photos taken.  We kept ourselves to ourselves, only removing items that had many duplicates.  The things we could not take, we watched and noted from afar.  The others would remove anything they wanted and experimented with them and then would return them when they were done.  Yet those who were taken would have traumatised minds from the whole situation, and we consider this harmful so we do not do it.  No.  We live lives of respect and expect it in return. 

So on one journey, we came to track the growth of one of the millions of plants that exist, and although learning is fascinating, it can get slightly tedious when looking at the same plant or a similar plant night after night after night.  I only wandered a small distance, just to see something different.  I guess it was curiosity that drove me.  I wanted to look at something that wasn’t on the list; perhaps find something new that no-one else had found prior to my discovery.  I’m sure I wasn’t gone for long.  No.  Not long at all, yet when I returned to the experimentation area they were gone.  They had left me.  Something must have interrupted them and in the rush to get away they must not have noticed that I wasn’t there.  It wasn’t their fault.  No.  I shouldn’t have wandered off.  I waited for a while just in case they returned that same night.  Unfortunately for me, the sky was clear.

I have looked in the sky, night after night for many years, ever since I was left here, waiting for my family to take me home.

Yes, my real family.  Not those elderly people who live in my house.  They called themselves my parents, yet I called them my carers.  They were kind enough to look after me while I wait for me real family to return to take me home.  However, for some reason, they were convinced that I was their real son rather that someone they found in their garden one night.  Perhaps they couldn’t have children of their own and I came along at the right time.  I do find it strange, though, that they didn’t take me to the police.  I mean, if you found a tiny child in your garden, you’d think it was slightly strange, wouldn’t you?

Beth

Oh my goodness.  That woman’ll get a fork stabbed through her face soon.

The same as usual.  Mrs. Look-at-Me.  Mrs. Know-The-Lot.  Mrs. Never-shuts-up-even-though-other-people-want-to-talk-and-are-fed-up-of-her-bothersome-tone.

She’d sat herself down on the floor, as per usual, and spread all of her papers all over the carpet.  You know how small that room becomes when there are more than two people there and there were four of us by then.  The photocopy queue had already begun to form and there she was, sprawled out so that everyone had to step over her to get anywhere. 

Angela came through on her hunt for a cup of tea.  She can’t start her day unless she’s had her tea.  She’s very fussy about that.  Val doesn’t even move.  Angela’s rush caused her to stumble over Val’s bags and all of Val’s papers are knocked all over the place.  Val then got angry at Angela and then huffed and puffed more than she already was.  So not only do we have to look at her fat arse on the floor, we have to hear her too.  Angela poked her tongue out at Val but Val doesn’t see.  Everyone else laughed so Val started to make more of a racket.  No one else can be louder than her.  Were Jesus, John Lennon and Bob Marley to walk through the door, Val would make sure that people overlooked them and turned all eyes to her.  Val does all she can to keep the focus on her. 

Angela was over by the kettle and before she had a chance to ask the other members of staff what they wanted, Val yelled, “Black, one sugar, thanks Ange.”  Well, Angela hates the name Ange and she hates that name even more when someone she can’t stand calls her Ange.  Some hand gestures followed from Angela but Val hadn’t seen those as she was too busy on the floor.  Angela made her own tea then stepped carefully over Val, even though everyone knew she wanted to pour her extremely hot tea all over Val’s head then put her boot through Val’s face.

Oh she can be that bad.  She can be that bad and worse.  Val then got up and left all of her crap all over the floor.  She barged to the front of the photocopy queue.

“These pages need to be enlarged,” demanded Val, as she held a book above her head.

No-one moved to help her.  She’s so rude.  She never says thanks when you do help her, so people pretend they don’t know how the photocopy apparatus works.  And the fact that she pushed to the front of the queue annoyed everyone and made them not want to help her at all.  She turned and looked at me, as though she expected me to pander to her every beck and call.  She drummed her thumbs on a bookcase shelf and glared at me.  That was the gesture to tell me that the enlargement was to be done by me.  The photocopy apparatus’s not hard to use.  You follow the commands on the screen.  All the commands are easy to follow.  ‘Press that button’ then ‘press that button’.  A baby could copy were they to read and follow the commands.  So Val stood next to me; her arms were folded and she watched my every move to make sure the enlargements were done to her standards.  Her eagerness just made me go slower.  She rolled her eyes and drummed her thumbs louder, and that made me stretch and yawn and turn the pages of her book at a hedgehog’s pace.

Eventually, all the pages had been enlarged and she snatched the papers out of my hand; no remark of thanks or gratefulness.  Then saw that Angela held a mug of tea.

“Where’s my tea, Ange?” she demanded.

Angela kept her eyes focussed on her newspaper and slurped her tea.

“Ange?  Where’s my tea?”

Angela turned the page and coughed.

“Angela?”

“Yes Val?”

“Where’s my tea?”

“Oh, were you after a cup of tea?  Couldn’t have heard you.  All the hustle and bustle here makes all the sounds merge so can never work out what people say.”

Christine

Sorry, anyway, once I’d finished tidying the cupboards I emptied the washing machine and realised that everything in there was his.  I just sat down in the middle of the utility room floor and burst into tears.  I was surrounded by his damp shirts and trousers and I just wanted to bury myself in them but his smell had been replaced by lavender and jasmine fabric conditioner.  I stuffed them in the dryer, poured myself a glass of sherry and set to scrubbing the floor.  I needed to occupy myself with something, anything, and put some alcohol in my system at the same time.  I could hear his voice, "Christine, what on Earth are you doing?  It's 11:30 in the morning and you're already pissed as a newt."  I'd heard him say those exact words on more than one occasion, but we were a lot younger then.

When they dryer had finished, I pulled out all of his clothes and threw them into a bin bag.  I then went upstairs to the bedroom and started to empty his cupboards and drawers.  I couldn’t bear to have his things around me anymore.  He was gone and it was silly to hold on to everything.  I didn’t truly believe that, but I was angry and scared and confused, and if I hadn’t gone through his wardrobe I wouldn’t have found his diary.  Something was telling me to go up and there and sort his clothes out. 

I wasn’t on the hunt for anything to start with.  I was just pulling out jumpers and ties and anything of his I could find.  Then at the top, on one of his shelves I felt a tin box.  I was actually a bit scared to open it at first.  I didn’t have a clue what to expect in there.  I sat down on the bed and held the box in my lap fingering the edges.  I closed my eyes and winced as I opened it, as if I was expecting it to explode in my face, or at least have some giant comedy worms jump out. 

It was just papers, all handwritten.  Some with scribbles on, drawings, maps, diagrams, lists, diary entries.  I then felt really naughty, as if I’d found my Christmas presents that my parents were trying to hide.  I glanced over my shoulder and even shut the curtains before I started to read the papers.

Listen to this one. 

Wednesday 14^th May – Doug told me that the card game would be at The Mad Dog and Parrot at the top of the high street.  I’d never been to a card game before so I was really quite excited to get the chance.  Since marrying Christine I’ve not really had friends of my own so it was about time that I did.  He said that I should go to the bar and request a pint of ale.  He said not to say anything more.  He said that the barman would then say, “Toad’s Testicles or Gutbelcher?” to which I’d have to reply “I’m allergic to nettles.”  I thought this was a bit of a strange procedure, but he told me that it was a private party and only a select few had been invited.  The password, as he called it, was to ensure only those invited would get in.  Doug said that once I’d given the password the barman would then open up the bar and guide me through to the bottom of the stairs leading to the residence above the pub, which he did.  I’d also have to give him one of these strange medallions, which I did.

He left me at the bottom of the stairs and told me that I would have to find my own way up.  It was actually a bit creepy, but I heard Doug’s voice which made me feel a lot better.  When I got to the top of the stairs, a man was standing there.  He was wearing white robes and no shoes.  He held me by the arm and led me along the corridor into a large room, modestly decorated with paintings of very stern-faced men.  I saw five men sitting in a line behind a long table covered in a white and red tablecloth.  Around the edge of the room were more men wearing white robes and no shoes.  Now, I haven’t ever been to a card game but I was sure that they weren’t supposed to be the same as this.  It then started to feel a bit odd.  Doug was one of the men sitting behind the long table and he was wearing white robes similar to the men around the edge of the room, but his robes were covered with gold embroidered patterns.  He was also wearing a turban type hat, as were the other four men sitting alongside him. 

Lynda

(I'm afraid I can't post any of this story; it's a bit too rude.)

*****

Stay tuned for more stories. 

Betwixt The Cup and The Lip #1

Tweet

Betwixt The Cup and The Lip is my first novel.  Well, it's not really a novel.  It's a collection of 26 short stories, but combined they make a complete story.  Each story is voiced by a different character, but at least one of the other 26 characters appears in each story.  This is loosely based on the idea of six degrees of separation where everyone can possibly be connected to everyone else by a maximum of six steps.

The stories are set in various years, and allow the reader to take a brief glimpse into the lives of 26 fascinating individuals.

But why 26 people?  That seems like a strange number of stories.  Why not 20, 25 or 30?

I will tell you.  Each story is a lipogram.  A lipogram is a piece of text that contains 25 letters of the alphabet, by omitting one.  This is a technique that I first learnt about when I was at university, and I immediately fell in love with it.  Although may people have written lipograms, I was inspired by The Book of Bachelors by Philip Terry; one of my lecturers and an active Oulipian.*

*NB - Oulipo is a form of experimental writing that imposes certain constraints in order to create unusual pieces through the concept of chance.  More information can be found in Oulipo Compendium by Harry Mathews and Alastair Brotchie (an absolutely amazing book and a must-have for any creative writer who wants to push the boundaries of writing style).

So back to the 26 people ... I wrote 26 lipograms, where each story omits a different letter of the alphabet.  All of my characters are connected to each other through various situations and events, in the same way that all letters are connected to each other when put in a certain order to create words.

In some cases, this constraint makes stories quite uncomfortable to read (let alone to write) and in other cases, you wouldn't know that this constraint had been applied.  When reading the stories, the constraint should not be the first thing that the reader notices.  They should still be able to enjoy the story as a stand alone piece of text.

Ideally I would love to get this collection published, but there seems to be little interest in it as it's not 'commercial' enough and doesn't appeal to a wide audience.  I understand that, but it didn't stop me writing it, and it's not going to stop me sharing excerpts with you here.  Self-publishing/e-publishing is looking more and more appealing, and I have made a couple of mock up covers for this book.

They're far from ideal, but I thought I'd get started to see what I could do with the resources I have.  If anyone has any ideas for improvements, let me know.

So here are some snippits from the first six stories.  Each chapter title is the name of the character speaking in that story.

Warning: This book is not suitable for anyone under 18 years old.  The excerpts that I publish on here are family friendly (ok, they're probably PG if I'm being honest), but some of the completed stories contain graphic scenes unsuitable for children.

Melanie

So Trish was going psycho out the back, and there were like a million people in the store, panic buying because of the impending Bank Holiday.  I started walking towards the wall of CDs when I got accosted by an old woman in a granny-mobile.  She rammed her trolley into my thigh and glared at me.

“I saw a CD advertised on the telly last night.  I can’t see it on the shelf.  Do you have it?”

“I’m sorry?” I said, slightly thrown by her lack of detail.

“I saw a CD advertised on the telly last night.  I can’t see it on the shelf.  Do you have it?”

Still rubbing my thigh I asked her what CD it was that she was looking for.

“I can’t remember the name.  Now do you have it or not?  I am in a hurry.”

I looked around to see if there were any hidden camera men or something from that show Hidden Camera Surprise.

You know, that show where people act like complete idiots to other people, and then they get in a big fight and then Jonty Caulfield jumps out of a wheely bin and shoves a microphone and a cheque for £500 in your face for being such a good sport.

But no, no Jonty, just an idiot.  I kept my polite smile on, remembering what it says on my name badge.

Cheap & Cheery, I'm

     MELANIE

Your wish is my command

“If you can’t remember the name of the CD, maybe you can remember who it’s by?” I said.

“Oh it’s lots of different people.  One of those constipation thingies.”

A confused look spread across my face.  "One of those constipation thingies?” I repeated.

“Yes, yes, are you stupid or something?  You know.  A constipation album, with loads of different songs by loads of different people,” she replied.

“Aah, you’re after a compilation album,” I said.

“Yes, yes, that’s what I said.  Stop being difficult.  Now are you going to get it for me or am I going to have to find someone else with half a brain cell to do it for me?” she said, and then to the side, “not that it would be difficult to find someone else with half a brain cell in here.”

“Would you like a mirror, madam?" I asked, under my breath.

“What did you say to me?” she glared.

“Would you like to follow me, madam?” I said.

I let the thought of me snapping the brakes on her granny-mobile and driving her towards the motorway pass through my head.  I took a deep breath and walked over to the compilation display.

“There’s no point in looking on there.  I’ve had a look already and I can’t find it.”

“BING BONG!  Can Melanie Barker go to the confectionery aisle?  Melanie Barker to the confectionery aisle.”

Warren

When did he die?  He didn’t actually die. 

Yes, I know he’s dead, but you’re not hearing me.  He didn’t die.  He was killed.  That’s not the same thing. 

Well, when someone dies, it’s just them.  They do something to themselves, like they lose their footing on the stairs and fall to their demise or they drink so much that their liver bursts.  Or it’s them and a disease.  They lose a battle against cancer or AIDS or something.  Or their body just decides that it’s had enough and all functions cease.  That’s dying.  When another human being is added into the equation then the dead human being is killed.  They are killed.  Dying isn’t taking a walk with your sons when a drunken idiot drives their car into you, ramming you into the railings, crushing your ribs into your heart and taking your life.  That’s not dying.  That’s being killed. 

Jason.  Jason Ross.  One of those missionaries.  Travelling all over the world, giving food, medicine and school resources to those that have nothing.  Working to make life easier for others.  Well thank you very much Jason Ross, you have made my life so much easier.  One less Christmas gift to buy.  One less birthday to remember.

Dad was a good man, you know.  He did everything he could for us.  We didn’t have much but we had enough. 

We’d gone for a walk that day because he needed to talk to us about something.  He and Mum had been married for 15 years and he wanted them to renew their wedding vows.  Their original wedding had been a hurried affair.  Money was tight and they could only ever afford the basics.  Even then it was a struggle but they managed to survive.  And they were in love, back in a time where love could get you through anything.  And love was all that mattered.  Marriage wasn’t about a costly wedding, huge dress or a 3 foot tall cake.  It was about being with someone that you cared for and wanted to share your life with.  But now it’s all show and little substance.  One little argument nowadays, or a short time of stress in the marriage home, and it’s divorce all the way.  Everyone is so lazy; thinking that the easy way out is the best way out.

Mum and Dad couldn’t afford much but it did us right.  I remember this one year Dad built me and my brother a go-kart.  Liam got in it first.  He was all ready to drive away but then Dad said something was missing.  He went into the kitchen and all we could hear was the clattering of tins and cutlery then he came back out holding Mum’s metal vegetable colander.  He set it down on Liam’s head and tied an old belt around it all to make sure it was secure.  Mum stood at the kitchen window waving. 

Freya

I am so excited, like the most excited ever.  Even more than that.  I can’t even explain it.  You know when you were like six years old and you knew that your parents had taken your Christmas list seriously and downstairs there was a Superstar Sasha bike and a Superstar Sasha butterfly princess doll and a Superstar Sasha jewellery box and a Superstar Sasha superstar make-up head with realistic hair extensions and a Superstar Sasha karaoke machine with all new superstar tunes, never heard before except in her feature film, Superstar Sasha Conquers Europe, which was also under the tree, all wrapped in Superstar Sasha Christmas paper.  And you just couldn’t sleep because the butterflies in your tummy flapped around like crazy because you knew in a few hours they would be yours to keep forever and ever but you weren’t allowed to open them until your parents had had their coffee and smoke.  And you would wish so hard that they would hurry up just so that you could rip off that paper and play.  Do you remember how that felt?

Well that’s how I feel now, but even more excited.  In a little while I will be able to open up my Superstar Sasha bundle, but this time it’s not Superstar Sasha.  This time it’s not a doll that I have to play pretend with.  This time it’s a boy.

I know.  A real life boy.  My boyfriend.  Well at least I think he’s my boyfriend.

He’s a few years older than me but that doesn’t bother me at all.  He’s so mature.  My friends are so jealous.  He’s in his 20s, I don’t know exactly how old he is, but that doesn’t matter, and he drives and he has a car; well it’s his mum’s, but he can use it whenever he wants.  And he works at Tasty Tacos, you know; the tastiest tacos in town, which is so cool.  He’s allowed to eat as many nacho cheese covered corn chips and as much salsa dip as he wants, for free!  He only has to pass one more test to become a shift supervisor.  His official title will be Saturday Assistant Shift Supervisor; it’s so cool to have a boyfriend in a position of power.  Maybe he’ll be able to sneak me some extra fries at lunch.  Perhaps he’ll take me out to celebrate once he’s promoted, in his car, out for dinner.  Or he could buy us some cider and a couple of burritos and we could park up somewhere nice for some romantic time, just the two of us.  That would be so cool.

Of course I’m not with him just because of that.  He’s really nice, so funny.  He can burp the alphabet in about 10 seconds.  He doesn’t even need to have drunk fizzy drinks. 

Maxwell

Busses are strange.  I much prefer walking.  Other things that are strange are cars taxis lorries trucks bikes prams scooters motorbikes trains.  All vehicles with wheels are strange.  I like them about as much as I like vomit cereal for breakfast.  I ate this cereal this one time ages ago.  Mum bought it because it was cheap at the supermarket.  I knew why it was cheap because Mum pours it out into my bowl then pours milk on top.  It looks like cat sick.  It also tastes like cat sick.

I ate it this one time ages ago for a bet. 

We give our cat a bunch of sweets from the shop at the bottom of our street.  FizzyPoppers SherbetCrackles StrawberryBombs.  We put them in his cat meal.  We stir it all up so he won’t know it’s there.  He eats it right up.  Licking his lips he is.  A bit of time later his mouth is proper open.  Coughs splutters chokes.  Pluh-huh-huh he goes.  All these strange noises come out of his mouth then this rainbow of colourful sick comes out.  It is blue yellow green orange purple a bit brown in places but still really bright.  Franky says I bet you to eat some.  I say what can I have if I eat some.  Franky says you can have some bubble gum a couple of plastic army men some marbles or a picture of a girl wearing no clothes that he took from his uncle’s newspaper last week. 

I choose the bubble gum because it’s yumalicious.  So Franky gives me a spoon says you have to eat a whole spoonful.  I eat it.  I eat the whole spoon of cat sick.  It tastes strange but I eat it all.  Franky is nearly sick himself.  He says I can’t believe you ate that.  I say I can eat anything.  I can’t eat anything but he wasn’t to know that.  I’m allergic to nuts.  If I eat a nut then I can stop breathing then I have to go to the hospital then ... well ... then I can’t even talk about it but it’s not nice.  I say to Franky where’s my bubble gum.  He says I’ll give it to you later.  So we go to the park because the cat is boring now.  Franky sees a big blob of bubble gum on the floor.  He says there’s your bubble gum.  He picks it up then points it at me.  He says you have to eat it because you can eat anything.  I eat it.  He laughs.  Later I’m sick but he wasn’t to know that.

  

Martin

(I'm afraid I can't post any of this story.  It's too graphic, and it's full of expletives.) 

Sam

A couple of days later I noticed you by chance.  I hadn’t been looking out for you this time so it made me realise that someone or something had commanded this meeting.  A higher force had been conspiring.  I never considered myself to be religious, but it became clear from that moment that a deity did exist and he, or indeed she, had put us both in the same place at the same time for a reason, to fulfil a higher purpose.  You had been in a second hand book shop, perusing the plays and poetry section.  You then sauntered over to general literature.  You glided so gracefully, as if floating like an angel on a cloud being carried to your destination by a soft breeze.  I had imagined you as an intelligent lady but this proved it.  You appreciated the finer things in life, and at that, I became slightly nervous.  I’m not one of the finer things in life and I felt unsure that you’d appreciate me.  It’s silly of me to have those thoughts.  You can’t fight fate, and fate had decided that you and I should be together.

I came over and stood next to you.  You turned your head and smiled the same smile as in the café, and you reached your hand out and picked up a book.  I glanced at the title; Enduring Love.  I smiled inside.  That had been your sign for me, to illustrate your feelings for me.  I didn’t say anything.  I didn’t think it appropriate.  You’d said all you needed to say by picking up that book.  

I picked up a book so that you didn’t think me strange for standing in a book shop not looking at books.  I didn’t have a clue about any of the authors that surrounded us.  I’m not really a book person, more of a cinema goer.  I reached up and pulled a book from its shelf.  My fingers had closed themselves around the spine of Misery.  I’d seen this film a couple of years ago.  I opened up the front cover and read the dust jacket, even though the story had embedded itself in my mind.  You glanced at me then the book I held.  You didn’t smile.  You just moved over to the counter to pay for your book.  It hit me a couple of seconds later that I’d ruined it.  You held a book presenting the message of ‘love’ for me and ‘misery’ had been my reply.

I ran after you to apologise.  It had been a stupid mistake.  I needed to explain.  You had moved so quickly through the throngs of people, it had been difficult to keep up.  You seemed to be quite fit.  I imagined you at the gym on a tread machine, running up hill, perspiration dropping from your hairline, your skin glistening under the fluorescent lights.  I panted for breath.  I had a painful stitch in my side.  I felt nauseous.  It might have been love pushing me.  The urge to catch you had been too strong to ignore.  I had to keep going.  

*****

If this has piqued your interest, I will post some more story excerpts in a few days.  Please feel free to comment or make suggestions; I'm open to any ideas you may have.  And if you're a publisher and would like to publish this collection, please don't hesitate to get in touch with me.  You can find my contact details here.