Small Or Far Away

By Peter Caunt

This booklet contains some of Peter’s recent stories, including the winning story in the Theakstons Old Peculiar Crime Writing Festival 2010.

All of these stories have either been published or won a prize in a competition.

‘Scarecrow’ first published in ‘Writing Magazine’ June 2019

‘Smoke and Mirrors’ first published in ‘Writing Magazine’ November 2018

‘Quarantine’ first published in ‘Writing Magazine’ November 2017

‘Exit Facilitator’ first published in ‘Writers Forum’ May 2010

‘Bob’s Your Uncle’ first published in ‘Writers Forum’ Apr 2008

‘But is it Art?’ Winner of the Theakstons Old Peculiar Crime Festival short story competition July 2010

‘Selkie’ first published in ‘MyWeekly’ Oct 01 2011 as ‘Stay With Me...’

‘Stranger Here on Earth’ first published in ‘MyWeekly’ Apr 24 2010 as ‘Somewhere Out There’

‘Styx and Stones’ first published in ‘Andromeda Spaceways in-flight Magazine’ #60

‘Coolest Kid’ first published in Earlyworks Anthology ‘Recognition’ ISBN 978 –1-906451-22-6

‘White Hunter’ first published in Earlyworks Anthology ‘Loretta’s Parrot’ ISBN 978–1-906451-14-1

‘Mission Statement’ first published in Earlyworks Anthology ‘The Road Unravelled’ ISBN 9780955342998

‘Bird of Sorrow’ first published in ‘Debut Magazine’ May 2010

'Vorgan the Destroyer' first published in Words Magazine Summer 2014

‘The Jigsaw’ first published in ‘Yours Yearbook 2008’ ISBN 978 1905302666

‘Brains Not Brawn’ first published in ‘Scribble Magazine’ Spring 2006

‘A Short Walk by the River’ first prize in ‘The Milton Rooms’ short story competition

‘The End of School’ first published in ‘Ifikara Bakery Project Anthology’ Feb 2013

‘Punch and Judy Man’ first published in ‘Debut Magazine’ Winter 2011

‘Rest in Pieces Kurt Vonnegut’ first published in ‘Scribble Magazine’ November 2009

‘I Surf, Therefore I Am’ first published in ‘Scribble Magazine’ Summer 2008

‘The Colony’ 3rd prize in the ‘Skint’ on-line competition

‘Flight of the Condor’ first published in ‘Ifikara Bakery Project Anthology’ Feb 2013

‘The Birthday Party’ 3rd prize in NAWG short story competition Aug 2007

‘Outside’ first published in ‘Emerald Tales’ June 2010

‘The Only Game in Town’ first published in ‘Scribble Magazine’ Winter 2006

‘All the Fun of the Fair’ first published in ‘Emerald Tales’ Feb 2010

‘Give Me a Coffee Break’ first published in ‘Scribble Magazine’ March 2015

‘Crossing Cassandra’ first published in ‘The Harrogate Advertiser’ 20 July 2007

‘Little Gray Cells’ first published in ‘Harrogate Advertiser’ 4 July 2008

‘Uncle Vanya’s Clock’ first published in ‘A Long Story Short’ Jan 7 2013

‘Rainmaker’ first published in ‘A Long Story Short’ July 7 2013

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Caunt
• Release date: Apr 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463583692

Peter Caunt

Peter Caunt was born in North Derbyshire but has spent the last thirty-five years in North Yorkshire.Peter originally had a science background and worked, in Harrogate, for the C.E.G.B, on pollution control (until it closed down), in Preston for Babtie Environmental (until they closed down the department) and in Harrogate for the Regional Health Authority (until it closed down). Following these, he worked for a software house in Harrogate until it was taken over by a multinational and downsized. Having seen the writing on the wall, he decided to copy it down and try to publish it.He has had an interest in writing short stories for the last thirty years but has only recently had the time and the enthusiasm to start accumulating a pile of rejection letters.In the latter part of 2005, a small pile of acceptances began to grow, much helped by inspiration from his wife, Pamela.Peter is a member of the Harrogate Writers' Circle.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

There are many people that have influenced my writing. But there have also been many events that have served to mould my literary ambitions.

I had an English Teacher in year one of secondary school who encouraged us to read Lord of the Rings and got us to write short pieces of fiction. Then came the second year, a different teacher and the standard curriculum cut in. The set books could not have been chosen better if they had been designed to kill the imagination. Cranford, a tale of old ladies and rules about table etiquette were better than Bromine in killing the artistic ardour of prepubescent boys in the third year. That and an overexposure to Shakespeare with jokes which had to be explained in detail, which rather lost the point, resulted in me coming to regard literature as something that had to be endured.

That English teacher from year one, who's name I can no longer remember, deserves a special memtion for planting a seed that could not be extinguished by the standard curriculum.

In my teens I discovered the short stories of Ray Bradbury and the Don Camillo stories of Giovannino Guareschi. These set me firmly on the path of writing short stories which were slightly off the wall.

I turned back to writing short stories later in my life as a break from the fact ridden logic of my working life. I attended a couple of evening classes but never settled into a consistent routine of writing until I retired. At that point I joined Harrogate Writers' Circle which provided me with a peer group to encourage and criticise my output.

But more than anything else I would like to thank my wife, Pamela, who has never failed to encourage me when the rejection letters kept falling through the letter box and has provided an inspiration for me throughout our time together.

Preface

This booklet contains some of Peter’s recent stories, including the winning story in the Theakstons Old Peculiar Crime Writing Festival 2010.

All of these stories have either been published or won a prize in a competition.

‘Scarecrow’ first published in ‘Writing Magazine’ June 2019

‘Smoke and Mirrors’ first published in ‘Writing Magazine’ November 2018

‘Quarantine’ first published in ‘Writing Magazine’ November 2017

‘Exit Facilitator’ first published in ‘Writers Forum’ May 2010

‘Bob’s Your Uncle’ first published in ‘Writers Forum’ Apr 2008

‘But is it Art?’ Winner of the Theakstons Old Peculiar Crime Festival short story competition July 2010

‘Selkie’ first published in ‘MyWeekly’ Oct 01 2011 as ‘Stay With Me...’

‘Stranger Here on Earth’ first published in ‘MyWeekly’ Apr 24 2010 as ‘Somewhere Out There’

‘Styx and Stones’ first published in ‘Andromeda Spaceways in-flight Magazine’ #60

‘Coolest Kid’ first published in Earlyworks Anthology ‘Recognition’ ISBN 978 –1-906451-22-6

‘White Hunter’ first published in Earlyworks Anthology ‘Loretta’s Parrot’

ISBN 978–1-906451-14-1

‘Mission Statement’ first published in Earlyworks Anthology ‘The Road Unravelled’

ISBN 9780955342998

‘Bird of Sorrow’ first published in ‘Debut Magazine’ May 2010

'Vorgan the Destroyer' first published in Words Magazine Summer 2014

‘The Jigsaw’ first published in ‘Yours Yearbook 2008’ ISBN 978 1905302666

‘Brains Not Brawn’ first published in ‘Scribble Magazine’ Spring 2006

‘A Short Walk by the River’ first prize in ‘The Milton Rooms’ short story competition

‘The End of School’ first published in ‘Ifikara Bakery Project Anthology’ Feb 2013

‘Punch and Judy Man’ first published in ‘Debut Magazine’ Winter 2011

‘Rest in Pieces Kurt Vonnegut’ first published in ‘Scribble Magazine’ November 2009

‘I Surf, Therefore I Am’ first published in ‘Scribble Magazine’ Summer 2008

‘The Colony’ 3rd prize in the ‘Skint’ on-line competition

‘Flight of the Condor’ first published in ‘Ifikara Bakery Project Anthology’ Feb 2013

‘The Birthday Party’ 3rd prize in NAWG short story competition Aug 2007

‘Outside’ first published in ‘Emerald Tales’ June 2010

‘The Only Game in Town’ first published in ‘Scribble Magazine’ Winter 2006

‘All the Fun of the Fair’ first published in ‘Emerald Tales’ Feb 2010

‘Give Me a Coffee Break’ first published in ‘Scribble Magazine’ March 2015

‘Crossing Cassandra’ first published in ‘The Harrogate Advertiser’ 20 July 2007

‘Little Gray Cells’ first published in ‘Harrogate Advertiser’ 4 July 2008

‘Uncle Vanya’s Clock’ first published in ‘A Long Story Short’ Jan 7 2013

‘Rainmaker’ first published in ‘A Long Story Short’ July 7 2013

Scarecrow

He appears as a small dot on a distant ridge. An indistinct silhouette against the only piece of blue, struggling to maintain its position in a sky determined to eliminate any patch of colour and replace it with streaks of grey.

The dot moves back and forth on an unnecessarily circuitous path, as if the village was determined to hide itself. He stops to consult his map and then looks to the sky in vain to locate a compass direction. Folding the map and returning it to his pocket, he climbs over a fence and takes a more direct route. Gradually the dot forms itself into a walker, intent on not letting the difficulties of the journey become an impediment.

The dot grows steadily larger and more defined. And then he appears fully formed breathing hard. He stops next to the path and takes out a poster and fastens it firmly to the nearby telegraph pole, hammering nails into the top and bottom in a well practised fashion. In the centre there is a picture and, in a large font, the word 'MISSING' emblazoned across the top.

He looks at the poster and then his eyes are drawn upwards. Moss and lichen encrust the majority of the surface of the pole. At the top, the remains of wiring once used to connect the village to the outside world move ineffectively in the swirling breeze, tapping out an unheard message with their loose ends against the encrusted surface of the pole.

Then he steps forward to the brow of the hill and his eyes close momentarily as the wind blows small items of detritus into his face. He waits. The unforgiving wind eventually relents and he wipes away the debris from his face before he tentatively opens one eye.

The village is laid out below him in the valley. He scans the fields leading down the far side of the hill and his face droops as he takes in this apotheosis of rural decay. Neglect has turned the approach to the village into scrubland. Where neighbouring valleys boast well tended fields of cereal crops or lush green meadows and herds of grazing sheep or cattle, those in front of him seem to thrive on the decay that characterises most of the nearby area. Even the vermin have taken to skirting the edges of these fields and venturing into the far distance to find less harsh environments. Completing in one fell swoop what generations of feral cats have failed to achieve.

He is reminded of the barren landscapes in the westerns he used to watch as a child. He half expects to see tumbleweed blow across his field of view and vultures circling the skies, waiting for some starving creature to finally give up the will to live and transform itself into mere carrion. He stares into the sky at the birds circling above him and decides they look more like crows than vultures. But he takes a second look just to make sure.

He squints at the pale sunlight vainly trying to elbow its way through the streaks of grey which criss-cross the sky. He takes out his map again and compares the cartographer's icons with what he sees laid before him. Despite the lack of any confirmation from the existence of any signposts he seems satisfied.

Then his eyes settle on the child further down the hill, running round the group of scarecrows. He fixes his stare on the spectacle and his ears detect the faint trace of the child singing to herself. He shakes his head and wonders at the need for scarecrows in such a bleak setting, but the incongruity seems almost in keeping with what he has seen so far of the rest of the area.

He zips the anorak up to his neck, hauls the pack onto his shoulders, shrugs for a couple of moments until it sits more comfortably, then sets off. His dark red hiking boots squish their way through the mud and yellowing grass, splattering stains onto his newly purchased puttees. He looks up and tries to maintain a straight course towards the child. She shows no acknowledgement of his existence until he is almost upon her. Then she stops running and thrusts forward the rag doll she has been clinging to.

This is Maisie. Would you like to say hello?

He stops in his tracks, taken aback by the sudden recognition of his presence in this land that seems so bereft of any sort of civilised contact. He looks from the doll to the small child. Both are dressed in exactly the same outfit. Bright pink in deep contrast to the surrounding field. The child's boots are caked in the mud that permeates the whole area but despite her perennial skipping, none has found its way onto her dress.

He tries to peer around the side of the doll but the child has her eyes turned down to the ground. He looks back at the doll and decides to follow the girl's lead.

Hello Maisie. And what is your name, little girl?

But the child brings the rag doll tight against her chest and skips off in a series of random circuits of the scarecrows.

He glances around the field and wonders why anyone would want to protect the desolate field from flocks of birds. And indeed why so many scarecrows were needed.

A screech from the skies causes him to look up at the circling crows and think that whatever the reason, the crows showed a distinct reluctance to set foot on the little vegetation that the surrounding offered. A murder of crows. He remembered from school. That was what a group of crows was called. But what was a group of scarecrows called? Up until now he had never needed to know. He had never seen more than one isolated scarecrow at a time.

His eyes return from the sky, and he takes a sudden step back as the girl is standing close in front of him once again, the doll thrust forward.

Maisie wants to know who you are.

He breaths in and out slowly to slow his heart. I'm Brian.

His eyes narrow. The doll remains thrust towards him in an intimidatory fashion. He tries to look into the small girl's face and feels the pressure to say more.

I'm looking for my friend, Alan.

The doll remains firmly thrust forward. Beads of sweat start to form on Brian's forehead and he pulls off his rucksack and extracts one of the posters, pushing it towards the doll.

He's gone missing. The last postcard I got from him said he was coming here. I don't really know why. He just said he had some business that was long overdue. But he didn't say any more. Then there was nothing. I'm trying to find him.

His body visibly relaxes as the doll is removed from his direct line of sight and returns to being clasped tightly to the little girl's chest. But the girl does not respond.

He stammers, So have you seen him?

The girl turns then continues her skipping dance in and out of the scarecrows and the unfamiliar song returns to her lips.

Brian watches her, waiting for a reply, but the dance continues. He looks at the collection of scarecrows. Several now have crows sitting on their outstretched arms. Then they fly off as the girl passes close by, only to return to find a suitable perching place when she has moved on.

He turns his attention to the scarecrows. He looks into the faces he does not recognise. Each has a frozen smile painted simply across its crude face mask. He shivers. Seemingly they are guaranteed to keep away everything but the crows, some of which are perched on the outstretched arms pecking at any part that takes their fancy. He looks them up and down noticing the clothes each is wearing. They form a sharp contrast to the view of the village. They are as new as the village is old. As fine as the village is drab. He longs to ask about them, but knows that another encounter with the girl and her doll is unlikely to bring any resolution.

Brian bends down and lifts the rucksack onto his back and starts the walk down towards the village.

Then the girl stops in front of me, Maisie thrust upwards into my face. I try to call after Brian, but the tape across my mouth holds firm behind the crude mask.

She smiles. Maisie says not to worry. Your friend Brian will be joining you soon. Then we can begin.

I watch her run down the side of the hill into the village, overtaking Brian but not acknowledging him. I turn my eyes to my companions. Our numbers grow each day. But all we can do is wait.

I look up to the sky and stare at the black clouds marshalling themselves overhead. A pale dead moon is peering through the streaks of grey. The whole scene blurs as the inevitability of it all overcomes me.

I think its going to rain today.

Smoke and Mirrors

I knock back another bourbon and think about going home. Then I hear the noise in the outer office. Reaching for my Webley, I edge towards the door. Shadowed on the glass I can see an outline. A dame; but I take no chances. I throw open the door. She steps back. Her eyes wide and I hear the intake of breath through those pretty red lips.

Mr Travis? Mr Sam Travis?

A customer. And a hell of a looker as well.

I motion to the armchair. Sit down, Miss … ?

Coverley, Anita Coverly.

Well, Miss Coverley, what can I do for you? Her eyes follow as I slip the Webley back into the drawer.

Just a precaution. You could have been some lowlife.

She's certainly no lowlife. The outfit is Fifth Avenue, and fits in all the right places.

I lean over and offer her a cigarette from the box on the table.

No, no thank you. Her voice is soft with a slight tremor.

I lean back and take the sack of Bull Durham from my desk and begin rolling my own. She's taking her time, but what the hell, I've nothing better to do than sit and appreciate the best looking dame I've seen in a long time.

As I light up she brushes her fingers through her fine dark hair. I've lost my husband. Frank

I'd been too engrossed in the legs to notice the ring. Domestics. Bread and butter in my business. I look into her face. The mascara's beginning to run. I hand her a handkerchief. What sort of sap would walk out on a doll like this?

Can you find him?

Right now I'd jump off Brooklyn Bridge if she asked.

A hundred dollars a day plus expenses. And two hundred up front. Strictly cash.

I've only got a hundred and fifty.

She's a classy dame, but business is business.

I could bring the rest tomorrow.

Fine. So when did you last see him?

Two days ago.

Two days was no time in this city. He could be drunk in some gutter or floating down the river.

I need to know where you last saw him, his usual haunts, and if you have a recent snapshot.

She rummages in her bag again. I haven't seen him since he left our apartment. He didn't turn up at work.

She hands me a card and a snapshot. The card has an address in the Village.

Where does he work?

Farringdon's on Wall Street. The picture was taken last winter.

There's something familiar about his face.

Quite often he and friends would stop off at The Rodeo Bar before coming home.

Rodeo on Third?

Yes. Do you know it?

I know it all right. Yes I've passed it a couple of times.

She turns her big dark eyes to look me in the face. I try to concentrate on the two hundred dollars.

Look, I think I've got enough to work on for the moment. If you think of anything else then let me know when you see me tomorrow. Shall I call you a cab?

No. I'll be fine.

I open the door and watch her walk her chassis down the hall. If I find this guy, I'll probably lay one on him for deserting such a classy dame.

I put the coffee-pot on the stove and sit watching