Gathered Words From an Island

By Jersey Writers Social Group

An anthology of work by the Jersey Writers Social Group 2019

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jersey Writers Social Group
• Release date: Jul 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463896037

Book preview

Preface

This anthology is composed of individual works from members of the Jersey Writer's Social Group who have contributed their short stories, poetry, songs and articles to the group over the past year. The improvised exercises were undertaken during meetings with the aim of inspiring spontaneity. Also included in this collection are two of our group's collaborative projects where several members contribute to each stage of the story with some surprising and original results!

We hope you enjoy reading this collection as much as we have enjoyed writing it.

A Dream Come True

Opening Lines Collaborative Project

When you are struggling to start a small business on limited means explained David Shoebridge, averting his eyes from the road, you have to discover the art of selling the emperor’s clothes.

I quite agree with you, added Susan, his wife of forty years. You have to cut your coat according to your cloth, so to speak, or in the case of the emperor, no cloth at all! They both chuckled warmly as they drove slowly down the cobbled street on Plymouth’s Barbican waterfront.

David had retired just weeks earlier from his job as Head of English at a Devon school. It had always been his dream to open an antiquarian bookshop and, on a recent visit to the Barbican, he had seen a small, musty, dusty, fusty shop to rent next to the Plymouth Gin factory which seemed an ideal location to catch the busy footfall of relaxed, browsing tourists, locals, retired people and in fact anyone else who may be interested in the production, procurement and purchase of gin or indeed antique books.

The touch, smell, sight and sound of old books transported David into raptures of fantasy, to a world of lost heroes, unrequited love, battles fought and won, dreams chased and lost. The thoughts, words and deeds of another person from another age, handed down the decades and centuries to whoever was willing to receive them, inherit them, engage with them, were to him that sacred space between thought and deed where anything may be possible.

Mr Shoebridge Senior, David’s father, had been a tax accountant in Bristol and had served in the RAF during the Second World War. His grandfather had been decorated in the Great War, so he came from a line of Englishmen who stood tall in the face of adversity, who fought for King and Country and whose legacy he had inherited. It had been expected that he did likewise. As a ‘baby boomer,’ born in the early 50s, he had won a place at Bristol Grammar and then Durham university to study English Literature and Drama. He did not have a head for figures and calculated that teaching would provide him with a fair income and access to the arts and more especially to his beloved books.

Here, on this bright Plymouth August morning, for the first time in his life, Mr David Shoebridge had the opportunity of realising his own dream and getting those books and words out to the wider world. He chuckled to himself as he thought of the nouns ‘shoe’ from string and ‘bridge’ from his name. The only problem now was the reality of the exorbitant lease and rent, together with the purchase of the antique book stocks. David Shoebridge, or rather ‘Shoestring,’ was suddenly starting to feel very, very naked.

He waved goodbye to his wife, listening to the rumbling sound of tyres on cobbles until the car disappeared from view, then turned to look at the shop premises he had just taken the lease out on.

He looked up at the faded words above the door.

Books

We’ve All Been Read Before

Lopsided piles of well-read trashy novels from the 1960’s were strewn outside on the cobbles. How unsightly. He thought. But soon he would be filling the shop with rare and collectible tomes to feed the minds of Plymouth’s erudite, as well as the tourists heading for the gin factory. No market stall sales ethics for his fine books, they would be displayed inside the shop on the fine mahogany bookshelves he had recently managed to acquire at auction.

Visualising the name soon to be emblazoned above the shop, he felt pumped with pride.

The Shoebridge Antiquarian Book Emporium

Amor Librorum Nos

We love books. He smiled, shook his head and strode into the shop. An antiquated bell, probably as old as some of the books currently for sale, announced his arrival, jangling as he opened the door. Carefully trying not to knock over any of the leaning tower of Pisa-esque paperback piles that were scattered around the floor of the dimly lit shop, century’s worth of mustiness began creeping up his nose, which instantly made him feel at home.

‘Mr Shoebridge?’ Came a disembodied voice from somewhere behind an excuse for a bookshelf. ‘Welcome to your new emporium.’

END

Call Me Son

by Melvyn Lumb

Winner of The Double Blind Challenge competition on Fanstory dated Oct 28 2017

Sharon Stopford, is based in New York and holds the post of MD for Crystal Bright Pharmaceuticals. She is known as SS behind her back, sometimes SS as in Heil Hitler type SS. Her professional ethic dictates that she works the same hours as her employees. Due to a medical problem something to do with her prosthetics, (and the 1/2 bottle of gin in her purse) she doesn't normally drive, so has the use of a company electric e car with internal driver.

It's seven forty five am, and day two of her new mode of travel. Following a suggestion by the driver she has left her apartment early to miss the traffic. Sharon had a couple of problems with him yesterday. And being not one to suffer fools gladly she is a little wary, and not prepared to take any backchat today.

Smart cars mean nothing to this woman, who has everything. The door opens and she settles into the

luxurious leather front seat of this brand new, top of the range BMW.

To your office I presume, Sharon?

Yes, Lewis.

I must always confirm the destination before starting a journey.

Sharon, has christened the driver 'Lewis,' after Lewis Hamilton the F1 racing champion.

I'm not looking forward to this, she says, mopping her forehead with a handkerchief on this cold October morning. They set off from the curb and she is pressed back into the seat with the G force. She tries to catch her breath as they dart through the Eastern Suburbs, soon they are flashing through Manhattan, swapping lanes with micro, nerve jangling, precision. Hanging on for dear life, and with her breakfast still heavy on her stomach, is more than she can take. Slow down Lewis, I've told you before.

Lewis jabs the brakes as they come to a road junction, and Sharon is thrown forward, straining, against the seat belt. With deceptively quick reactions she grabs her glasses in mid-air as they fly forward off her nose, and away from her head. Damn you Lewis!

If I slow down we become a hazard. You know I have advanced driving ability. I trained on a drive simulator. Lewis is adamant and slows down only fractionally.

Pull over to the left and park! Sharon's face is starting to colour up to a light shade of pink. Not a

good sign.

Lewis slows down only partly complying with the instruction, and replies, "You realise Sharon, that this

will make us late again?"

Ohhh—just do as I bloody well say and park!

Shouting now produces a medium shade of pink facial colouring.

They pull in at a stop, and Sharon tries to curb her rising anger. Facial tones are now the colour of blood.

Someone could die, (and it may not be her).

"Yesterday you answered me back, and today you disregard my instructions. I'm going to turn you off

and put the car on manual drive. There's a bad chip somewhere in your Central Processing Unit. I don't

take this from a human, never mind a pile of silicone—useless lump of ssssilicone ssssecond rate sand heated into glass, a fifty cent bargain store pile of useless, uselessssss—Arghhh. That's it..."

She is near to frothing at the mouth, and remembering some advice from her psychiatrist takes several deep breaths and a not recommended nip of raw gin. The deep breaths help but the gin goes straight to her head. She is now seeing red as well as looking red.

Right, that's enough!

I'm going to have you scrapped.

Oh noooo, that means—. Oh myyy God you're going to kill me! Please, please re-consider.

Sharon notices a change in Lewis' tone, a softer, slightly pleading voice now emanates from the

surround sound system.

Listen please! I'm sure you'll have heard of 'Latch and Levers' the biggest stockbrokers in New York.

Yes, of course? Sharon is all ears.

Well, I have a hard line connection to the head office, where my lady friend, a being like me, works in the master computer. I can get you insider information. You could make a fortune. Lewis sounds more hopeful now.

Heavens above! I hear it, and I can hardly believe it. First a secret connection, and an electronic girlfriend, no wonder you are a mouthy git—Hah, hah, hah! She just has to laugh, her face is only moderately pink now, a potential heart attack cancelled.

"We communicate during the early hours when the lines are quiet, so I'll have something for you

tomorrow, Sharon, it's in your interest to look after me."

She looked over her glasses towards the dash screen and took her time. Never one to hold a grudge, she

says, Right ok, you have until tomorrow.

Lewis pauses and in a strange voice asks, Sharon?

Yes, she sighs. I don't have birth parents, but what I do have is a full electronic consciousness. So do you think that at sometime in the future you will be able to call me Son? His words have a soft quiet edge."

Make me a million and we'll see.

I'll do that.

Now for heaven's sake carry on and drive slower! Again she is pushed back in her seat, and heaves out a big sigh.

The next day Lewis asks Sharon to check her iPhone. On the messages she finds a list of investment

instructions. By the end of the day she has invested twelve thousand dollars. It's not the first time she has

dabbled on the stock market, only this time is different. She feels a lot more confident, and can't wait

to see the results.

In the following weeks she sees an amazing growth in the value of these shares. So just six weeks later she cashes part of her pension and invests a further fifty thousand dollars as instructed. Sharon becomes busy on the phone most days, buying and selling; becoming well known at Latch and Levers.

One morning about twelve months later she says to Lewis, I have sold those copper mining shares as you advised. That brings my total to 1,065,120 dollars. So now I call you Son as agreed. Although you still drive too damn fast for my liking.

It doesn't take long for Sharon, to realise that Lewis is ambitious. It started when Lewis asked to be taken out of the car and installed into her apartment.

OK, I'll do that for you. So long as you keep the information coming.

The removal of Lewis from the car involves taking out the whole electronic brain unit and connections. When a technician was asked to do this difficult work he refused to believe Sharon at first.

I live on my own... Sharon mumbles as her blush gives her away.

Are you serious? said the technician showing a mixture of wonder, amusement and suspicion.

How much do you want? Name your price. I'm serious.

Dunno, we'll see how much work there is. I have an old 1920s radio cabinet that will be big enough, he says.

She will not admit it to anyone that Lewis now calls her 'Mum.' But only in private as she insists. She

blushes and smiles as she remembers his answer, and her reply when she gave him permission.

If I were human, I'd give you a big kiss.

Steady on now.

Eventually the work is completed with Lewis connected to broadband.

"Do you know Sharon, that I'm self repairing. That means that I can alter my circuits and learn to be

human, and think like one. I'm nearly ready to invite my girl friend 'Sheba' over for stopovers. Just thought I'd mention it," says Lewis.

Electronic romance. Why am I not surprised? How? I mean can you kiss? Enquires a nosey Sharon.

We take it to a higher level.

Just keep that trickle of information coming, warns Sharon.

END

Alphaphobia

by Mach Thomas

It began with letters, the building blocks of language and thus to Anton’s mind the basic components of order and reality itself. He had got into a routine of thinking where a day could have a letter that would preside over it, dictate what could or could not be done or allowed to happen. But this was now a part of his past, left behind to look back on with relief that it was over. He was moving on, fitting into the world as he had been unable to previously.

The Doctor in charge of his care, a Dr. Reynolds, had put him on a new medication called Styrezine, which helped with certain obsessive compulsive ideas that Anton sometimes got about the world around him. He had a repeat prescription that lasted a month; he was to take a slip that he had been given to his local pharmacy who would give him a month’s supply and a new slip to be presented the following month. But somehow he had gotten his days on the calendar mixed up and now found he was without a dose to take today.

Monday became an A day. It was simply a matter of order; the first day without Styrezine’s clouding benefits to fog his way through the world. He would walk to the pharmacy and keep his head down, it was just a twenty-minute walk. Anton exited the front door and looked furtively around, checking for any indication that there was anything wrong out there. The street he lived on had houses and bungalows on both sides of the road and was generally quiet most days. He had taken only a few steps when the apple tree that grew in his next door neighbour’s front garden seemed to suddenly appear in his vision, as though the damned thing had sprouted up from the ground to challenge his progress. It just stood there tall, unyielding and clearly going nowhere. No, not today, not on an A day. Not with something as insurmountable as an Apple tree right there, daring him to proceed any further. He returned back indoors and made himself a sandwich instead. Maybe tomorrow. He spent the rest of the day dusting the various rooms and hoovering the corridor and lounge area.

Tuesday was a B day. From somewhere outside came the sound of several children playing, nothing too distracting or aggravating. Anton thought that today was going to be a good day, certainly more productive than Monday. He got dressed and went to his door with fresh determination to finish what he had started. Outside a gentle breeze cooled his face as he walked down the path to the pavement. The sound of the children playing across the road came to him louder than before. He was stood on the pavement when he realised that the loud repetitive sound of impact that he had been hearing was a soccer Ball being kicked around and off of nearby walls. A bright, loud and bouncy Ball. He watched it ricochet off the side of a house and flinched at the loud noise the Ball made. No, not today. Not on a B day, it could not be clearer. He went back inside the house and listened to some music on his stereo using his headphones to drown out the sound of the Ball outside. In the evening he hoovered around again to pass the time, the noise of the machine was oddly reassuring.

Wednesday was a C day and Anton was getting quite desperate now. How much longer was he going to be stuck in this predicament? It was bad enough that he could not get his medication, but pretty soon he was going to run out of milk for his tea. What would become of him then? He went to his front window and drew the curtains to survey the street before he even bothered to get dressed. It was a sunny day with few clouds above to mar the clear blue sky. He spent a few minutes looking around at as much of the world as the window would let him. It seemed clear enough initially, but that was a recurring theme here, The problem then came sauntering down the street on four brown and white paws looking one way then the other before imperiously plopping it’s furry behind down on the small lawn in front of Anton’s home. The Cat stretched itself out lazily on the grass, sunning itself to its complete contentment.

Anton rang his doctor’s office and spoke to one of the junior doctors as Dr. Reynolds was out of the surgery that day. He left a message for Dr. Reynolds to please come see him the following day and to bring the Styrezine as he was unable to leave his home without it. The junior doctor did not seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation and it was plain embarrassing to go through the particulars, the Cat was now in the middle of grooming and was licking its behind slowly and deliberately. Anton decided it would just be best to explain the matter to Dr. Reynolds when he got here with the medicine. He may have been emotionally drained, but the house was spotless.

Thursday was D day, but that did not seem significant as the medication was being brought to him. His mobile phone rang in his hand and he