Guys Can Read

By Dave Cornford

Guys Can Read.

Put the emphasis on each word in turn. Try it.
>> GUYS can read.
>> Guys CAN read.
>> Guys can READ.
Repeat, this time with a question mark at the end of each three word phrase.

I’ve selected these eight stories for this collection because they each have something about them that appeals to male readers. Or might do. Not that females won’t like them, especially. Anyway, there’s no saccharine romance, no vampires and no soppy happy endings. But there are also no zombies, no dragons and no explosions.

There is humour, there is sport and there are cars. There’s sadness and reality, wives and girlfriends, mates, success and failure. There is one “Game of Thrones” reference. There’s a story about taking the rubbish out, and one set in a hardware store. There’s one set somewhere that I can’t say or it will give the twist away.

Some are short, a few of them will take about an hour to read. You might have to concentrate just a little. It’ll do you good.

Dive in. You know you want to.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dave Cornford
• Release date: Oct 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310529306

Dave Cornford

Dave Cornford has long balanced a career in financial services with creative pursuits in writing, stage directing, videography and gastronomy.As an experienced playwright, his contemporary passion play, The Turramurra Passion, has been performed over 80 times in Sydney, as well as elsewhere in Australia, Europe and the US.His first book, "Cracks in the Ceiling" (2011), is a collection of short stories set in the wake of the Global Financial Crisis, while his second, "Nanna's Travel Tips" (2012), is a humourous look at travel through the eyes of "Nanna".Just released:"Not a Gold Rush - The Taleist Self-Publishing Survey". A look at self-publishing based on the input of over 1,000 self-publishing authors. Co-authored with Steven Lewis."Spillage" and "Impact" are the first two episodes in the "Advanced Smash Repairs" series, which is set in a smash repair business that knows too much. Quirky and off-beat, "Spillage" and "Impact" will be followed by the third in the series, "Scratch.""15 Civic Square", the first in a series of short stories set in a ficticious bank. It contains three stories first released in Cracks in the Ceiling. "Cake Knives Don't Kill" will be the second release in the series.Coming Soon"The Queensbury Rules". A novella about the dark side of revenge, and the illusiveness of redemption.Dave lives in Sydney with his wife and three children.

Book preview

Guys Can Read

8 Short Stories

by Dave Cornford

live-fiction.com

Copyright © 2014 Dave Cornford

Distributed by Smashwords

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into any retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked statues and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Other titles:

Live Fiction: 15 Civic Square, Performance Anxiety, Pick Me! Pick me!, Prank!, Botox Apocalypse

Cracks in the Ceiling, The Queensberry Rule, Warm Honey

Advanced Smash Repairs (Episodes 1-6)

The Diary of the 17th Man (Books 1-5)

Nanna's Travel Tips, Nanna's Driving Tips, Nanna's Cooking Tips

Too Bright to See, Too Loud the Hear - Jonty Cornford

Introduction

Guys can read.

Put the emphasis on each word in turn. Try it.

GUYS can read.

Guys CAN read.

Guys can READ.

Repeat, this time with a question mark at the end of each three word phrase.

I've selected these eight stories for this collection because they each have something about them that appeals to male readers. Or might do. Not that females won't like them, especially.

Anyway, there's no saccharine romance, no vampires and no soppy happy endings. But there are also no zombies, no dragons and no explosions.

There is humour, there is sport and there are cars. There's sadness and reality, wives and girlfriends, mates, success and failure. There is one Game of Thrones reference. There's a story about taking the rubbish out, and one set in a hardware store. There's one set somewhere that I can't say or it will give the twist away.

Some are short, a few of them will take about an hour to read. You might have to concentrate just a little. It'll do you good.

Dive in. You know you want to.

Dave Cornford

Contents

Introduction

Performance Anxiety

Lost

Pick Me! Pick Me!

Spillage

I Can Touch the Walls

No Room in the Bin

Threadbare

Home & Hardware

From The Author

Acknowledgements

Performance Anxiety

Performance anxiety (n)

1. the stage fright that a person feels when they are about to perform (a play, piece of music etc) in front of an audience

2. sexual impotence caused by stress or worry

ONE

Don't worry, babe.

Jarrod didn't know what to say. At this stage of the night his finely sculptured footballer's body usually did all the talking. But not tonight.

Briony wrapped her arms around him. She kissed him again and drifted off to sleep.

He lay there in the silence, looking at the freshly painted ceiling. What colour was it? Briony's designer friend had had them agonising for weeks over which shade of white they should chose. In the dim midnight light it looked as perfect as it did in the daylight - he just didn't really care.

His mind raced in spurts, in time with her gentle breathing.

When will the club be mentioned in the press?

What was that stuff the club doctor had given me when I was injured last season?

When was the next test result coming through?

How much is this wedding going to cost?

Will this be the phone call?

Will everything be OK?

What if I get banned?

Two years or life?

What would dad say if I got banned?

Two years or life?

TWO

The polished concrete was cold on his feet as he padded into the kitchen. He opened the stainless steel fridge wide, and stood staring at it for a while, still sleepy. There was an orange juice container in the door with not much juice left in it. He grabbed it, gave it a shake, unscrewed the lid and took a big swig straight from the bottle. There was more in there than he thought. He gave it a little shake, then finished the rest. There was a burp there, but it didn't quite want to come out.

A tub of protein shake mix sat on the kitchen bench, lid slightly dusty. The unnaturally muscled guy on the label grinned at him through suntanned lips. Jarrod picked up the tub for the first time in weeks.

Guess you can't get it up either? he said, which is no recommendation for this crap. He opened a cupboard door and plonked the tub into the concealed rubbish bin. The door closed softly in spite of his effort to slam it shut - that's what expensive kitchen cabinets give you.

He picked up the kettle and filled it at the sink, then flicked it on. It was silent for a moment before starting the slow growl it took to get to the boil.

At a touch, the pantry cupboard slid out. Starting with some simple cereal, he loaded up a bowl with a fresh fruit and yoghurt.

The bowl clinked on the granite bench-top. He took his first mouthful, spilling a little milk onto the shiny black surface as he went.

Where's that . . ? he said to himself, looking around before spotting his iPad on the coffee table. He scooped it up as he balanced it and his breakfast on his way to the glass-topped chrome dining table. He fired up the device.

Among the few highlighted headlines in the main news section was yet another story about drugs in sport. When it escaped out of the Sports section, you knew it was serious.

He shovelled as he read.

A player from a rival club had not failed any tests, but had effectively been forced to retire after suffering severe side effects from a concoction that his Club doctor had given him two years ago. Unable to play and only 26 years old, he was seeking to sue the Club and their staff for compensation - loss of income, damage to reputation, etc etc.

Jarrod tried to think if he'd ever lined up against the guy - but he couldn't remember him from either of the clubs the article said he had played for.

He might struggle to make a mill' out of that, especially after the lawyers take their cut, he said to himself. He tapped to another story.

A well respected cyclist had decided to come clean about taking prohibited substances in the distant past when announcing his retirement. His line was that it only happened once, and everyone was doing it, and he never failed a test. Courageous as ever. Confirm your sport is rotten after you leave, having earned a pile of money and lied through your teeth for years. Big man, Jarrod said to himself.

He rubbed his hand over his chest. The stubble was long enough to slow the progress of his hand across his pec's. He'd already made the decision to return to the natural hairy look - if he could get through the itchy/spiky phase, and if he could talk Briony into it. In the time they'd been together, she'd never seen him in his natural state.

He left the iPad and the almost finished bowl of cereal on the dining table and went back to the kitchen. He took a large white mug out of a glass-fronted cabinet above the kettle and chose a tea bag from a faux-timber display box.

Briony emerged just as he poured the hot water into his mug.

Cuppa, hun?

Thanks, babe, she said through the mass of random hair that poked out in all directions from a hastily installed elastic. She was sleepy still, but looked fabulous in her clean white towelling dressing gown and ugg boots.

He handed her the steaming mug. She wrapped both hands around it and blew across the surface with her eyes gently closed while he made himself another.

What's on today?

Development day at a school. Usual thing - kicking and passing, signing autographs.

What time will you be home?

Before you, probably - I'll go to the gym for a light workout afterwards, so home about 4.

OK.

I'll pick something for dinner on my way home . . .

And you're cooking! she said playfully.

Of course!

And don't forget, it's wedding planning tonight! she said.

He did the best to show only the amount of discomfort she knew about. That was the typical What's all the fuss for? type of discomfort.

I haven't forgotten, he said, kissing her on the cheek.

But inside, his stomach sank. The cost of this thing was out of control even if he was able to play football for another five years. But if the football all went to custard, which it could do any day, they'd have to cancel it all and have half a dozen guests over for a sausage sizzle.

He looked around the place as he walked slowly to the bathroom. It was all shiny concrete and granite with the rustic wood and metal, the style that makes these warehouse conversions so sought after. At least he'd been able to pay cash for it and get most of the renovations done as a contra deal through the Club, outside the salary cap. At least they'd have somewhere to live and Briony's salary. He'd be able to go back to uni and finish his teaching degree - if any school would have an English teacher on staff who was a former football star turned drug cheat.

If he was one.

THREE

Jarrod knew it was wise to park his flashy car some distance from the oval where the school event was on, but it was easy on this occasion - there were cars everywhere, and most of them were the sort of urban assault vehicles parents buy in the mistaken belief that one day they'd head off into the wilderness with their feral offspring in tow.

He was on time, so had to hang around for a while waiting for the other team members who were rostered on for the event. Fifteen minutes later there were only three of the expected six present, but in their team coloured training gear, they'd started to draw a crowd of admirers.

We can't stand here doing nothing for too much longer. Where are the others?

Whitey's never on time, Fletch is not better. As for Spiro, he seems to come up with a niggle on the day that requires medical attention . . . Jarrod's phone rang.

Mate, we need you here, said Jarrod after Spiro had barely launched into his sob story. He rolled his eyes at the others while he listened to the explanation. He held to phone off his ear, mouthing blah blah blah to the others, who laughed. Ok, Spiro, see you at training, then.

A teacher approached them.

Hi, I'm Kerry Bowkers. The players introduced themselves. I thought there were going to be six . . , she said politely.

We'll get to five shortly, don't worry. What do you want us to do?

Not sure if any of you came to this last year?

Jarrod nodded and raised his hand.

Good. It worked fine so let's do the same. We'll set you up on that side of the oval. Different age groups will come over, and you can run them through some skills and answer questions. Each session will be about twenty minutes. Sound ok?

Great. We've got a bag of balls coming, so as soon as they arrive, we can get going, said Jarrod.

Fine, Bowkers said, giving them a look that was a mixture of Glad you're here, and You're naughty little boys for not having your balls here on time, aren't you? She went off to deal with whatever other challenges awaited in the long line of sports day catastrophes lurching in the arena of possibilities.

White and Fletcher sauntered towards them at a casual pace, White carrying a large mesh bag of footballs.

Jarrod knew there was no point making any comment on their lateness. They just didn't care.

Ready for the kid attack? said Jarrod.

Bring it on, said White.

The second group that was sent over to them were older, and thought they were wiser. The first group had been all smiles and adoration, hanging off the players (in breach of every piece of Child Protection education the players had had) in clouds of giggles and scrambling legs. At one stage the footballers and the children collapsed into a wriggling mound on the grass. It took a while for them to untangle themselves and restore some kind of order, but even then the crowd was fairly restless. The reality of the situation brewing at the club hit Jarrod like a side-on tackle from a monster. What if we all get busted? he thought. What will all these kids think of us then?

The question was answered soon enough once they started to engage with the older group. There was a typical smart arse kid in the group - he was muscly with just a hint of emerging gangliness. He was wearing a jersey from another club, one that had a not undeserved reputation for having a tough, rusted-on working class supporter base.

So, which of yous are on the juice? he asked loudly during a lull in proceedings. None of the other children had any idea about the barb in his accusation.

The players looked at each other. I don't know about the others, mate, but I have orange juice every morning for breakfast. Who else has orange juice? Jarrod said to the whole group, attempting to deflect attention in another direction. Half the children put their hands up, responding with Me, Me!

Their accuser sneered at them through the din. He had lost his wider audience, but he was undeterred.

My Dad says all yous are on steroids. That you're all cheats.

Well that's a shame - I think he's mistaken. What's your name?

Daniel.

Well, Daniel, we all get tested . . ., said White

Whatever. Does it make your nuts small? Daniel had raised his voice, but still not attracted any attention from the other children.

Not as small as yours, said Fletcher under his breath. Jarrod gave him a gentle punch on the arm.

A bell rang in the distance from the marshall's table on the other side of the oval, signalling the end of the session.

Thanks everyone, said Jarrod loudly. Hope you've learned a bit about football today.

Not really. I didn't listen to any of you cheats, said Daniel with squinting eyes.

OK, everyone, let's give the players a big 'Thank you'. Their accompanying teacher, who had been looking on with supreme indifference to proceedings, lead a round of applause. The group clapped and cheered. Apart from one.

Ok, students. Time to head over to the marshalling area for . . . the next activity, said the teacher, leading the way across the well worn field with uncertain high-heeled steps.

Daniel followed them slowly, bringing up the rear. He stared at the players until the teacher called him to catch up. He spat vehemently onto the ground, then turned and ran after the group, quickly overtaking it.

Man, I bet he keeps his teacher busy, said Fletcher as they set up their cones and footballs for the next group.

Bit lippy. How old was he? asked White.

That looked like the oldest group, so about eleven or twelve.

Needs a good kick . . .

Mate, that's what happens when a few losers go down for getting on the 'roids. Who knows how many people like his dad, not him, think we're cheats? Imagine what will happen if a whole club goes down . . . Jarrod stopped. Fletcher and White looked at him, horrified.

They won't let that happen, said White.

Who won't let it happen? The club? They're a bunch of crooks who'd sell their grandmothers for a quid if they had a chance - you think they wouldn't hang a few players and staff out to dry to save their cash cow? As for The League, if they're getting pressure from the government or a major sponsor, they'd give up a club or a bunch of players in a minute if it kept the cash-flow coming. Jarrod