12 Short Stories

By Peter Morris

Kate, was the first of these stories to be published and was favourably reviewed by the poet laureate, Carol Anne Duffy. Forge ahead, was a competition winnner in an Irish writing competition. Many of the other stories won or were ranked highly in major writing awards showing that there is a lot of literary value in this work.
Being presented in an electronic format does not allow end notes and influences to be published, however, a visit to the writers website can supply all that information.
12 Irish flavoured short stories that will amuse, delight and keep you turning pages. One story was inspired by Kipling's, Danny Deever, another by the poster that used to be displayed in English boarding houses stating "No blacks, no dogs, no irish". These stories have not been picked randomly from the either but are well written, sometimes humourous, responses to many modern day issues.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Morris
• Release date: Dec 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301311590

Peter Morris

Peter was born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland, during a phase that has become known as ‘the troubles’. He was educated at Saint Coleman’s College, Violet Hill, Newry, which he attended as a boarding pupil. He hated it and is proud that he managed to get expelled and escape the place he knew as Violent Hell. After serving in the RAF, for a good number of years, where being included on the crew list for 92 Squadron, the most famous squadron in the RAF, is counted as the high point of his RAF career and not the multiple promotions or awards received from the New Year’s Honours list. Life after the RAF was difficult as Peter tried to establish himself as a professional writer. He was encouraged by Carol Anne Duffy, the present Poet Laureate, and eventually settled as a ghost writer for major celebrities working through a leading London literary agent. Changing direction again Peter has decided to write for himself and embraces new technology and how it can benefit writers and their careers. Under his own name Peter has been published in newspapers and magazines, written for the radio, won numerous writing awards and competitions and is now hoping to attain a certain level of success through new technology. Peter has a BSc (hons) in accountancy and management and when not writing is a very creative candle maker, focusing on a Celtic style. His candle company is known as Celtic Illumination and he declares that he is the only person in the world to make ‘real’ tartan candles.

Book preview

12 SHORT STORIES

BY

PETER MORRIS

Published by Peter Morris at Smashwords.

Copyright 2012 Peter Morris

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Kate

Better Late Than Never

Seconds Out

Par For The Course

Tommy

One Lump Or Two

Action

Monkey

Passionale

Forge Ahead

Forest For The Trees

Silent Collection

Kate

I looked at my hands. They were rough, they were dry, but that’s what happens after years of moving stones, mixing cement and digging in all weathers. When she touched my hands I could not feel her softness. It wasn’t often that I got to touch her. Once a year in the foul

season. I would always return home, but not forever. The taxi drivers normally refused to take me to the door, instead they would drop me where the path and the road met. The path was overgrown but not hidden. Two parallel ruts snaked away, dipping and turning.

Somehow my memories slipped. The cottage always changed. It remained static as in foundation but the roof sagged. Some years the weeds and brambles attacked and like a fierce squall I arrived to rip and slash and kill. The water butt was gone, although some pieces remained; yet in my mind it was complete.

The stone walls, guy ropes for the cottage, crumbled and a sea of weeds washed around me. Inside it would take time, time to adjust. With the fire set and its powerful glow pushing against the walls I could hear her in the scullery. The clink of wet china, the soft humming of happiness and the music of aroma.

Like a pack of wild dogs the elements would gather together and attack. A bluster of wind would gush down the chimney. A salvo of raindrops would pepper the windows and door. We were safe, nothing could hurt us.

My mind would wander away to Kilburn and Guinness and building sites. It seemed to be warm there. Perhaps I was warning myself that I had to go back, back to routine, loneliness and constant pain. Often I would cry. I would sob myself into a headache that would be so heavy only prayer could lift it, or an angel. An angel like Kate, who had been taken from me all those years ago.

I cried because I hadn’t the strength to join her. I suppose my pain gave me hope. Hope that she would appear. I would go to the scullery, hope suffocating my heart and the dust bitter on my tongue. I could sense her, but I couldn’t join her. Dear Kate, my life, my death, my all.

Better Late Than Never

Jeff Armstrong was an ordinary guy, perhaps more than just an ordinary guy. He was a quiet respectable family man who publicly and unashamedly put his wife and his daughter first. At least that’s what Jeff felt people said about him. But only he knew the real Jeff Armstrong.

His fortieth birthday was two months away and his greatest pleasure and comfort was to sit in a room where no one else could get near him. Jeff enjoyed his job. He relished in the fact that the act of juggling the company’s problems, manpower, finances and future allowed him the privilege of remaining in his office, ferociously guarded by his faithful secretary who didn’t understand the real reason for his hermit-like habits but warned all callers, regardless of position or purpose, that Mr Armstrong was far too busy and important to be bothered by trivia.

Thanks to his good fortune at work, he could afford a secluded house, with an inner sanctum, his study, to which he frequently retreated. He missed his daughter and his wife sometimes, but due to his craving for solitude he knew they had drifted silently apart a long time ago. The separate beds had been a good idea, each of them now got a good nights sleep but more and more he missed his wife’s warmth. He missed cuddling in to her and just drifting off to sleep. He missed the softness of her skin and her perfume, he missed her hair falling across his chest, he missed everything about her.

Jeff had been thankful that he had a daughter, not a son. With a son he would have been forced to travel out into the world on adventures, play endless games of football, go fishing, make and fly kites. But with a daughter the learning, growing, curve bent towards the mother. Now he would find himself smiling when he remembered his daughters laugh, a tickle without fingers. He missed the way this little creature used to cling on to him and fall asleep knowing she was safe and loved.

Jeff was not afraid of people, nor did he dislike them. He simply felt uncomfortable with them. He had even felt it an intrusion when his wife would briefly enter his study with a fresh cup of tea for him. He would struggle not to become cold and bitter towards her until the door had firmly closed and he could hear her footsteps retreating down the corridor. Sometimes he would hate himself, he knew he was wrong, he knew he would have to change, but he didn’t know if he had the strength.

Then one day Jeff saw a glimmer of hope. He knew that he had a problem but he also knew that he would have to conquer it and begin to live his life. There had been no traumas in his life that could have started the process of mental unbalance. He had had a happy childhood, had been a popular boy at school, rarely bullied, and throughout life had presented himself as a well-balanced, hardworking, amicable chap.

He felt that routine was the root of his problem, a routine that had taken over like ivy, climbing and spreading and digging into the structure of his life. He had reluctantly tried hypnotherapy, which didn’t work, and wouldn’t go any further along that route as he felt the hypnotherapist was suggesting problems and causes to him rather than digging them out, he also knew that he was sane and that even the slightest whisper at work that he might be slightly unstable, or that he was visiting a therapist, could result in only two things. Either he could lie about the visits or he would get the sack.

It was a Saturday morning. He wasn’t sure of the weather outside, as his study, thanks to the under floor heating, always remained at the same temperature, comfortably warm. But he enjoyed his Saturday mornings. Most of the other company executives would be out on the golf course, smashing balls and clenching deals, being nicer than nice to each other, stabbing whoever was not there it the back, whereas he could sit alone and browse gently through his newspaper, his career climbing days were over.

As his position in the company became more influential he found that he was being asked to more important meetings, more critical social gatherings, and he knew that he would soon run out of excuses. His wife and daughter went shopping every Saturday, for most of the day, and although the house was empty he still closed the study door, only then feeling secure. Jeff enjoyed reading every little snippet in his newspaper, skipping merrily across the filler articles before ploughing responsibly through the more serious articles. It was one of the small fillers that caught his eye and before he knew what he was doing he had filled out the advert, clipped it from the newspaper, folded, licked, stuck it and stamped it, before depositing it in the first class post box down at the village post office.

It was one of those ‘increase your confidence’ adverts. But this one carried no wild claims, no money back guarantees. The article briefly described an ancient Oriental art of mental healing which happened to fit in with Jeff’s current thinking. The price was not extravagant, nor was it cheap, everything about it felt right, he couldn’t see ‘gullible’ written between the lines. All he would have to do now was wait. There would be no embarrassing scenes with the family or firm. The amulate would arrive under plain wrapper and only he would know.

On his return to the house from the post office, Jeff went to his