My Words, My World

First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing

Archive for the month “June, 2012”

But Grandma…

It was a beautiful late autumn day; the sun was out and it was quite clement for the time of year.  Little Red Riding Hood made her way through the forest, following the path she had taken many times before, which lead to her grandmother’s house.

“I don’t know why she can’t move into one of the granny-flats in town,” she said to herself, “if not as if she’s short on dough.  And why does she insist on me wearing this stupid outfit?  I know my heels would get stuck in the mud but at least let me wear a pair of Nikes instead of these flat shoes with a buckle half the size of a football pitch, after all, I am 18 now.”

She stopped.  There before her was a baby deer.  They watched each other in anticipation, neither wanting to move.  A bird high up in the branches flew from its nest, startling the deer and making it run for cover.  Thinking how cute the deer was and still looking up in the trees Little Red Riding Hood tripped over a tree root.

“Oooff!” she uttered.

She brushed away at her dirty knees.  “I’d better get these clean,” she said, “Brian’ll think I’ve been up to no good again.”

Finally the trees became scarcer and she saw the little house through the branches.  No smoke here, she thought, at least Gran had the sense to go for central heating last year.

Walking up the garden path her heart stopped.  The front door was ajar; in fact it looked as if it had been wrenched from its hinges with some force.

“Grandma!” she cried and ran through the door.

The door opened into the kitchen, where a gas hob stood with a saucepan of water gently bubbling away.  On the fridge-freezer in the corner she noticed a smear of what looked like blood.  Blood!

“Grandma!” she cried again and went through to the bedroom.  Some light filtered through the drawn curtains and she noticed a shape sat up in bed.

“Grandma?  Are you ok?

“Hello dear, yes I’m ok.  I had a bit of a turn but I’m better now.”

“Let me turn the light on Gran,” replied the girl.

“No…” but Granny’s response went unheeded.  Electric light blazed.  The year before candles had been replaced when one evening Gran had gone overboard with her home-made potato wine and almost set alight not only her house but also half the forest.  Little Red startled as she took in her grandmother’s face.  There was something different about her today.

“What big eyes you’ve got Grandma,” said The Hood.

“It’s the pills for my arthritis,” came the reply, “I can’t sleep a damned wink.  The last time I felt like this was when we used to take those little purple bombers around the time Bob Dylan started getting famous.”

“What big ears you’ve got Grandma.”

“Shut up dear, I’ve always had them and I don’t see as they’re to make fun of.  Besides, your Grandfather never complained, in fact he used to… never mind.”

“What shaky hands you’ve got Grandma.”

“I want to see you dear when you’re 72.”

“And Grandma, what big teeth you have,” insisted the not-so-little red one.

“Phhhhhheeewwwww,” coughed Grandma, as a patch of what looked like fur landed at Red’s feet.

Bending down to look at it in detail, Red noticed a tail sticking out from under the bed.  A huge wolf lay there, motionless, bleeding profusely from the throat.  She looked at her grandmother in horror.  Granny shrugged her shoulders.

“It was him or me,” she said.



Danny edged himself closer to the edge, on his hands and knees.  He’d been thinking about this moment for a while now; thinking that at the end it would be easy but here, now, it was so different.

It seemed he could hear the water far below him, calling to him.  He knew that it was too late to turn back; how could he face the shame?  Inching himself backwards, away from the edge he stood up, his liquid knees barely keeping him upright, his heart beating a military march.  The palms of his hands were wet with sweat and he shivered as nerves took hold of his stomach and knotted it.

He decided he didn’t want to look down again, the only thing to do would just be to run and jump, eyes closed.  He took a few deep breaths, his eyes fixed upon the horizon.  This is it; he thought to himself, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for.  He ran.

Young Danny, 6 years old, entered the water with a splash.  When he surfaced he looked up at the high-board, raised his fist in the air, and swam to the side of the swimming pool.


My hands worked quickly. My left hand sliding and slipping on the form it held,  the knife I held in my right hand sliced down and red seeped from the cut it made.  The knife went deeper, still the red oozed and spread slowly across the table, forming little pools, so red.

Half an hour I had been here, my knife working continuously.  I sometimes had to pause while cramp took hold.  I shook my hand, working the fingers slowly.  The cramp passed, it had to, there was no time to have cramp, my task was too urgent.  My hands were stained red.  The colour soaked into the pores of my fingers, it would be the devil to scrub them clean afterwards but I continued nonetheless.

The knife, ever hungry, crying tears of red.  I tried to clean up as I worked but to no avail.  Sweat started to drip from my hair into my eyes, the stinging sensation forcing me to blink and stop cutting.  I wiped the sweat from my forehead.  Finally my work here was done.

Only a salad chef can appreciate the finer points of dicing a fresh beetroot.

Tea Soup

A cup of tea

Yorkshire tea, aye

Will become a soup

If left to lie


If left to lie

Cool down, stagnate

No more my thirst

Shall it slake


On the balcony

It was left to lie

Whilst between jobs

Did I


Go to an fro

As a bee

And forget about

My cup of tea

A Colonel sketch

The drunken colonel, after a morning aperitif of several G&T’s, finds himself seated for lunch in a restaurant he happened to fall into:


“Waiter, there’s a turd in my soup.”

“No Sir, that is Tofu.”

“Toffee, waiter?  I like to drink my soup, not chew on it.”

“T.O.F.U. Sir.  It is a meat alternative.”

“Waiter, if I ask for chicken soup why would you serve me a meat alternative?”

“House rules Sir.”

“House rules?  What the devil are you talking about man?”

“Yes Sir.  This is a vegetarian restaurant Sir.  We do not offer meat products.”

“Vegetarian restaurant?  What, you mean no meat and two veg?”

“Just the two veg Sir, in fact more if you wish Sir.”

“Vegetarians… I blame vegetarianism on the lesbians you know.”

“What, Sir, may I ask, have the two in common?”

“There you go, you just said it.  Greenham Common.  Thirty years ago thousands of ordinary housewives went there to protest about nuclear deployment.  They all came back lesbians and vegetarians.”

“Oh Sir, I think you are exaggerating the link, even if I am too young to remember.  After all, I grew up a vegetarian.”

You’re not gay are you?”

“No Sir, I am married.”

“And your wife, she doesn’t bat for the other team then does she?”

“Sir, I can assure you we have two healthy boys, who are not gay and we are all vegetarians.  About the soup Sir?”

“Something less resembling a floating turd would be my soup of choice.  Oh, and waiter, a man can only drink so much water; bring me the wine list would you?”

“Sir, this is a non-alcoholic restaurant, we intentionally do not have a licensed premises.”



Exit waiter, rapidly.

The Cliché

The cliché.  The well-worn phrase.  The hackneyed expression.  Tiresome, aren’t they?  It’s well known to anyone, even in the early stages of writing (like me), to avoid the use of the cliché, especially in fiction.  I am in agreement but…

With the football at the moment, it brought me round to thinking of the UK press sports pages, especially football.  In this field (ha bloody ha!!) a manager HAILS a players performance – always!  Why does he not acclaim, praise or applaud it?  Because we don’t want him to.

Manager REVEALS contract talks with…  Striker REVEALS secret of Saturday success.  Why not divulge,admit or disclose?  They do, but as long as they’re revealing, the football fan is happy.

Certain words BELONG to certain spheres, hackneyed or not. Football (and possibly other sports) seems to have its own in-house vocabulary to which only fans and the sports pages are savvy to.

So why am I saying this?  To remind myself the next time I target any section of the non-fiction market (apart from football) that I would do well do understand this point.

Now I’d better get going before some great big hairy arsed defender tries to tackle me.

Come On England!!!

A flash nod of appreciation

Goes to Morgen Bailey, for her wonderful blog.  It was the first site I found regarding Flash, of which I knew nothing previously, (not that I know that much now…).  Ideally I wanted to stick my ‘Revenge’ piece on this page but am at a loss as to how to do it, without obviously republishing and possibly annoying anyone who has already taken the time to read it.

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