Fifteen minutes to drink a latte, relax and read a short story, try one of these…
I’ve always liked short stories, from the days when I would listen to them on the radio at 10.45 in the morning. Someone would create a world in two or three thousand words, and since it was the BBC, brought to life by a top actor.
I hope you will enjoy some of these, and let me know.
April In Paris
Margaret sat in the first-class section of the mid-morning Eurostar to Paris. Her bags were in the store, and she was looking forward to a light lunch. She knew that the price included a full lunch, Julian would have made certain of that, but she was not certain she could manage. Ahead should be a delightful weekend, like the weekends that she had enjoyed monthly for the past year. But now was the ‘big leap’.
Until last week, their affair had been a closely guarded secret. At least between Julian and his family, Margaret’s friends demanded and got a, blow by blow account of their relationship. Everything from her first seeing him in the reception of their office, to their first lunch, the concerts and the plays they had both enjoyed whenever Julian was in London. And they also demanded details of how she had managed in France.
The risk. Surely, they would run into one of Julian’s friends. In a restaurant or bar, walking along one of the boulevards, arm in arm. And when she had mentioned this to Julian, he had merely shrugged and said that people had to know at some time. So she had stopped worrying about it and enjoyed a wonderful Spring in Paris.
Another Rose
He sat and watched as she walked through to the member’s entrance, then followed. The normal Thursday crowd; a select group of middle-aged couples, mothers with toddlers and a variety of single people. And that was his target. Just as it had been for the past ten years. A mature woman, preferably wearing well-cut clothes. Something from Jaeger but that was not the only indicator. There was The Look. He could spot it a mile off, and it always told the same story. Money
For the first five minutes, he tracked her. But he knew the type well enough. If she were a member, she would come regularly. That meant she would go for a coffee and a pee before looking at her favourite displays. And for a minute he wondered what her preference was.
He liked the roses and could stand gaping at other perennials. But he hated the hothouse. The heat in there made him sweat. What he was doing made him tense without trying to work at 95 degrees.
Just as he thought. She turned right after the main entrance, past the small lake then left, and there was one of the most expensive cafes in Surrey. His happy hunting ground; the restaurant at RHS Wisley. And, just as he expected. Full of the same array of customers. Only now, and since the start of term, an excess of Yummy Mummies. Each with the latest addition to their furniture. And another guaranteed place at a top university, elbowing out more able kids.
The New Girl
Sarah Wall sat at her new desk, in her new office, on her first day. Not the first day at work, but as her father told her, it is the first day of the rest of your life. That was when he gave her The Pen. A gold Waterman pen, a beautiful object in its own right and in the right hand capable of producing beautiful work. In Sarah’s hand, it would have to produce her best work if she was ever going to get the chance of succeeding. She had thanked her father sincerely; it was a wonderful gift and knew it was kindly meant, even though she knew it she would hardly ever get to use it. Now the main feature was not the pad of paper nor the typewriter that offices had in his day, but a computer screen and keyboard. A small laser printer discretely humming to itself awaiting her commands.
After the first interview, she knew she was riding high. High enough that she had to tell someone, and the only people that mattered to her, were her father and her brother. Dad was out and, reluctantly she dialed her brother and told him the good news. For a while he was delighted, then he took each of the good points and destroyed them. By the end of the call, she knew that he was right. Every good phrase that she had remembered, rehearsed, rolled around her tongue, and practiced saying to herself, he had questioned. Pointed out the falseness of their smile, taken each, word perfect comment, and turned it around. Reversed the meaning, in the way that can only be done in English. Eventually, she could hear the condescending tone in his voice as he destroyed her hopes. She had always known his final comment was true, it was easy to be kind to job applicant when you have no intention of hiring them.
A Winter’s Tale
Wisconsin
Five years earlier, when John was thirteen, the depression had held the nation to ransom. Some of the USA had become a dust bowl; people were leaving the land, fruitlessly walking the dusty city streets, knocking on doors looking for work.
John was aware of the problems and knew how lucky they were to be living on the farm. He knew that because his father told him so.
They could live regardless; his father had told him how his grandparents had arrived from the East in a covered wagon. That first winter was so cold that the mercury froze in the thermometer, and you could snap a piece of rope like a carrot.
John doubted it was cold enough to freeze the mercury, but he had broken a piece of rope when it was frozen solid. And it was cold today. Not that cold. Not cold enough to stop the work in the fields, it was almost never cold enough for that, but cold enough that you could stick to a piece of metal.