Lunch is too Short for Long Stories Vol One: lunch is too short for long stories, #1

By Jenni Clarke

Love to read but only have five minutes?

 

There are sixty short stories packed into this volume. Travel from gangster lands to alien planets, from a child's innocence to the jaded voice of the aged, from tasty food to technological glitches.

Beware - each tightly written tale comes with a twist, and sometimes a dragon

 

"Jenni Clarke's five-minute stories didn't feel short while I was reading them. I was completely immersed in fascinating lives, heartbreaking events, and belly-laugh moments. Every skillfully-written tale in this collection is five-star worthy. I'm hoping for a second volume." DebbAnn 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jenni Clarke
• Release date: Aug 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393906223

Jenni Clarke

Jenni Clarke lives in a quiet corner of France where she indulges in her love of reading, writing and her forest garden. When not binging on words or plants you may see a flash of blue or pink lycra as she explores mountainous roads on her bicycle and stops to admire stunning views (not because she is out of breath.)

Book preview

BREAKING NEWS

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Katy knocked on the door. ‘You wanted to see me?’

Piers looked up. ‘Sit down, Katy.’

She chewed her lip and sat.

Piers tapped his pen on the desk. ‘What to do with you?’ He shook his head, dropped the pen, and scooted his chair around the desk until their knees were almost touching.

Katy blinked. ‘Um?’

‘You know I love your photos and writing style, but...’

‘I’m always too late. I know, but I would’ve been there on time today. I...’ She winced at the shrill, desperate edge to her voice.

‘There’s always a reason, Katy. You’re just not ready for the fast-lane reporting. Sniffing out a story and being there in time is a difficult skill.’ Piers tapped his leg. ‘It’s harder than it used to be. Anyone can reach thousands of people in minutes with phones and social media.’

‘I can do it.’ Katy chewed her thumbnail. ‘Please?’

Piers shook his head. ‘I can’t Katy. Rufus is taking your slot.’

Katy gulped. It was so unfair. When she’d started six weeks ago, she’d wasted time on wild goose chases and had no stories to write. Now she took the time to confirm sources she had the stories, but always too late.

‘Katy? Katy, did you hear me?’

She stared at him.

‘I’m moving you to exhibitions and openings.’

‘What? No.’ Her heart stopped.

‘Tomorrow a dinosaur exhibition is opening in Braithwaite Ruins.’ He handed her a glossy leaflet. ‘Be there at ten o’clock, take your photos, write a simple, well-worded report of no more than fifty words, and send it to me before four.’ He scooted his chair back around his desk and picked up his pen. ‘Impress me, Katy, and whatever you do...’

‘Don’t be late,’ Katy muttered as she blinked away tears of frustration. ‘Thanks, Piers.’ The world spun as she stood and left the room.

She walked to her cramped cubicle through an unusually quiet room. Her tidy space was full of plastic dinosaurs. The exhibition leaflets littered the floor, the opening time highlighted on each one. She gritted her teeth and forced a laugh. Chatter resumed.

.........

At 3.17 the next day, Piers looked up as a dishevelled Katy fell through his door, dumped a growling bag on the floor, dropped a memory stick on his desk, and slumped into a chair.

Piers stood up, frowning. ‘Katy. You’re bleeding.’

Katy looked at the red spreading through the makeshift bandage. ‘It’s a scratch. That’s a story.’ She pointed to the memory stick and then at the wriggling bag.

Piers narrowed his eyes, but he slotted the stick into his computer. Katy watched his face pale, his eyes flash with awe, and maybe fear, before he flushed with excitement and a huge grin spread across his face.

‘Katy. This is more than a story, this is incredible, impossible. Unbelievable.’

‘You told me to be early, and I was. Very.’ She opened the bag. ‘It seems all the palaeontologists were wrong. Dinosaurs were pink and fluffy!’

THE LAST TO PLAY

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‘It was just a game, Valhare. Who’d have thought we’d end up being the last?’

Valhare lowers the rat in his hand. Blood drips from the corner of his mouth. ‘Does my friend finally see sense? Or did he see that pretty redhead in the village?’ He throws the desiccated rat out of the cracked window.

Brone swipes greasy strands of hair from his pale face. ‘It would be nice to look upon a girl more than once a year, without them screaming.’ His sunken eyes glitter with hope. ‘This Halloween was one of the best in a long while.’

‘But our make-up doesn’t smudge, and I get hungry. I don’t think our style of cuisine would be accepted.’ He cocks his head, creeps along the wood-panelled wall and smashes his hand through the decaying wood, snatching another juicy rat. ‘Imagine tasting all those different animals, cooked in their own juices.’ He grimaces. ‘And enjoying them. D’you suppose they taste as nice as rats?’

‘At least we never go hungry.’ Brone points at the rat which squeals and twists in Valhare’s long fingers.

‘Until they use rat poison.’ Valhare shudders. ‘It took me two hundred years to get rid of the ache.’ He eyes his find, but throws it to Brone. ‘There’s more in this old castle, perhaps we could stay here a while.’ Valhare drags an old wooden crate through the dust and sits down. ‘A comfy life we lead.’

Brone groans and shakes his head. ‘Maybe you’re right. Everyone gone, all because of that stupid game. What was I thinking?’

‘You weren’t, we were young and immortal. Nothing could harm us.’

‘You really want to play?’ Brone sinks his long teeth into the rat’s neck and sucks.

‘Got to be better than the life we lead. Haven’t you had enough of this dull existence? Hiding in the dark, sneaking around in the moonlight. We’ve had some fun, though. Remember that year you decided to howl every time you bumped into something? It’s no wonder they think we change into wolves.’

Brone chuckles. ‘You can talk. Poor Dracs, you convinced him he was allergic to rat blood, and suggested he tried sucking other animals’ blood.’ He shakes his head. ‘He was so ill.’ Brone wipes the blood from his chin, his long tooth catching in the black fabric of his sleeve and tearing yet another hole.

‘We did have fun, starting rumours and playing pranks.’ Valhare sucks on the grey body in his hand. ‘Until the game backfired. No one could’ve predicted the outcome, or the girls choosing the dare.’ He reaches into his ragged pockets. ‘I’ve got some, if you want to play?’

Brone drops his rat.

‘Truth or dare, Brone?’

Brone sighs. ‘I dare, do you?’

Valhare nods and holds out his hands. In each is a head of garlic. ‘To a mortal life, and beyond.’ He tosses one to Brone, and the two vampires crunch together, screaming with pain as immortality is ripped from their hearts.

BIRTHDAY TREAT

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Franklin’s habitual scowl was usurped by a smile. He knelt by his bed and bowed his head, as if saying his prayers. Pushing the cover aside, he dragged a small suitcase into the dawn light. The smooth texture beneath his trembling hands set his heart racing. He licked his lips and chuckled. No need to open it, everything was ready. A year of research and planning culminated today.

He carried the case to his front door, turned to the hall mirror and straightened his hat, before glancing back at a notebook on the polished coffee table. He put the case down, took his new phone from his dark-blue coat pocket, and switched it on. The schedule for his birthday was clearly displayed, but old habits were hard to shake. He slipped the notebook into the case, clicked the padlock, and left his apartment. His smile faded as he crossed the misty street and walked to the cafe on the corner.

‘Good morning, Franklin.’ The waitress smiled at him. ‘Do you want your usual?’

‘No. A full English breakfast today, with extra toast, and a mug of tea.’

She wrote on her pad, straightened the tablecloth, and saw the case tucked next to his shiny shoes. ‘Are you going somewhere nice?’

Franklin nodded. ‘A birthday treat.’

‘A surprise? I love surprises for my birthday.’

‘Not a surprise, for me.’ His scowl deepened to its usual darkness.

The waitress stepped away. ‘I’ll get your tea.’ She hurried to the counter, calling his order through to the kitchen. Franklin watched her movements, glad of the extra minutes he’d allowed. You could not rely on people to be consistent.

A hint of a smile returned as he wiped the last smear of egg and beans from his plate. A perfect English breakfast, or were his senses enhanced by his excitement? He stood, paid, and walked to the train station.

The train was eight minutes and fifteen seconds late, but he’d allowed for a delay. Trains were never on time in England, but they were clean. He claimed an empty window seat. As towns and countryside blurred past he remembered previous birthday treats, and a chuckle surprised him. Childlike excitement, heightened by the imposed twelve-month wait. He had matured from a twenty-year-old glutton to a connoisseur of forty-seven.

The train pulled into the station within the parameters of his schedule, and a taxi took him to the hotel in the centre of the city. His room was small, looking out onto a backstreet.

He hung up his coat and hat, took off his clothes, and folded them neatly. After a shower, he opened the case and prepared for his treat, waiting for dark.

Blood pounding in his ears, he forced the window beyond the safety catch and squeezed out onto the fire escape. He stood, smiling, for three minutes, before descending the metal steps to the street below, bumping into a pretty redhead as she hurried past.

‘Happy birthday,’ Franklin whispered in her trembling ear.

SWEET TEA

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‘Dad.’ Mandy stroked the dry skin on her father’s thin hand before laying it back on the white hospice bedding. ‘I love you.’ She blew her nose into a