Thirteen Short Stories By Larne Writers Group

By Larne Writers Group

Contemporary, imaginary, fabled and dystopic, the themes in this batch of fictional tales are as varied as their writers and the characters they bring to life. Charming, conniving, farcically inept – a range of personalities appear in these new and original stories by members of the Larne Writers Group.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326459994

Book preview

Thirteen Short Stories By Larne Writers Group

THIRTEEN

short stories

by

Larne Writers Group

Copyright

First published in the UK in 2015

by Larne Writers Group

County Antrim, BT40 1SQ

ISBN 978-1-326-45999-4

This collection © 2015 by Larne Writers Group

The copyright of the individual contributions remains with the respective authors.

First Timer copyright © 2015 by Thomas Jobling

Holylands copyright © 2015 by Ian Pearce

The 11th Storey copyright © 2015 by Kerry Campbell

Freddie Waits copyright © 2015 by Mary Ringland

Perpetual copyright © 2015 by Stephen Gordon

Mum & Me copyright © 2015 by Margaret Ferguson

The Thought Struck Me copyright © 2015 by M.G. Magill

Screever copyright © 2015 by Gary Fergusson

Trap4 copyright © 2015 by Fiona O'Rourke

A Dumpling For Freedom copyright © 2015 Leif Bee

The Visitor copyright © 2015 by David Lyttle

The Caritas copyright © 2015 by Rita O'Rourke

The Golden Bunny copyright © 2015 by Ian Pearce

The moral right of the authors has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner and publisher.

All the characters in this e-book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Content may contain adult themes and strong language.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library, and NIPR at Linen Hall Library, Belfast.

Printed in the UK by Lulu Publishing

INTRODUCTION

We are the Larne Writers Group, and we'd like to thank you for picking up this book, our first collection of short stories.

We started in 2011 with only a few people, and we've grown since then. Individual members have produced novels, short stories, screenplays and poems, all thanks to the help and support we lend each other.

As individual writers, dragging a pen or tapping keys is a solitary pursuit. Getting this project compiled cover-to-cover took a collective effort, something we're proud of.

We hope you enjoy these stories, and if you're inspired to say, 'Oh, I can do that!' we'd love you to come join us. We meet twice a month in Larne Library. For more information join us on Facebook:

facebook.com/larnewritersgroup

FIRST TIMER

THOMAS JOBLING

1 : Anticipation

Darren's in the bathroom – has been there for over an hour. It's gone six-thirty. A poorly fitting door is framed by an outpouring of illuminated steam. Below, iPods and iPads are at full volume. But nothing can quell the cacophony of decibel charged, nail-scratching, toneless lyrics,

Shine bright like a diamond

Shine bright like a diamond

Shining bright like a diamond... weee'll, be beautiful― Shine...

Upstairs, floorboards are thumped, while his flat-mates below, cry out in unison; Oh, for pity's sake, give us a break Darren. Finally, and to the relief of all, he is showered. He is wrinkled, and, he is clean; Pears clean. But he wonders, Perhaps a bit too clean? A bit smelly – Girly smelly? Probing the mirrored cabinet, which hangs over a cracked sink, Darren studies its precious contents. A veritable treasure chest of male potions; not least, the man-sized 'Lynx Excite' body spray. Yeah, that'll do the job. Spray it on, he says, while thinking to himself – All over, and a double dose for the hairy bits. Maybe another shot; just to be sure.

Then, his spot-squeezing ritual, signals the start of the endgame – the styling of wet hair, fixed with a party sized dollop of gel – its completion. Finally, his proclamation to a misty reflection agrees, Darren, you are... one good lookin' guy. As he strikes up the song again, his worries however, resurface: Hope she turns up? Ah she will. But will she?

A sharp crack from the bathroom's bolt ricochets to the top, and to the bottom of his rickety mid-terrace lodgings. Like a starter's pistol it allows for an uncrossing of legs, and the start of a toilet stampede.

Darren – towel adrift – bounds from bathroom to bedroom. He closes his door with a well practised foot action. Only one thought lingers – that of seeing her tonight. The dressing operation has commenced: pants, socks, shirt...

* * *

2 : Action Stations!

Tentatively Darren approaches the hotel's revolving door. He stands in the foyer, rigid in anticipation; he searches the seasonal gathering for a friendly face.

Shoulders straight, he checks his loosely knotted tie. Then, with a swagger, he enters the domain of this... his first office party.

Playing with his keys hooked around a middle finger, he is on one hand masking his nerves, while on the other sending out a signal.

Darren had earlier that morning, ditched his 'L' plates. Now, complete with his customised hatch-back, he is fully equipped. Equipped to pull the babes... one in particular!

Using every inch of his six foot something frame, he casts a further searching eye; this time, across the revellers. But Darren has only one face to find: Oh God, she's here. Whitney! She's over there! She's waving. At me? She's waving to me, she is...! OMG, what do I do now? he asks aloud.

Sorry? What—? Standing shoulder-to-shoulder within the milling crowd, a tall girl with white framed specs, sends him a quizzical glance. His eyes dart. Quickly he stares ahead again, he is flushed. Darren's vulnerability and indecision is again exposed. Shoulders now drooped, he nevertheless thinks fast, he thinks about Whitney: I mean it's not like we have a firm date or anything. Well, maybe we do. He thinks deeper, he regains the positive. I mean, she did ask me. She asked me straight, if I was coming tonight; I'm here, she's here. So, that's a date, isn't it?

Confidence restored, he starts to move in on his prey. He's thinking on his feet now. Thank God for the Lynx, no wet-look tonight. But, have I gone a bit over-the-top. Oh heck, my armpits...they feel like bird's nests. His eyes are darting left, then right; are those guys looking at me? They're smirking. Oh no, what if she was waving at someone else?

He waves, he swoops towards her, he spurts. Oh, hi there Whitney, you, err... you look nice. His flow stalls. His eyes dance nervously. He inhales, and spurts more. Did... didn't know you drank that? He remains oblivious to the other girls. He continues undaunted. Would you like another? His voice rises in pitch, more or less at the speed at which he is throwing together his sentences. He hovers, shuffling from foot to foot. He awaits her delighted, grateful response.

No. No thanks, Darr-in, I'm fine. her curt reply. She dismisses him, with a 'don't bother me' dagger-ish stare. She returns to her girlie circle. Darren now finds himself out on a limb, on the perimeter. He is demoralized, his earlier confidence dashed. Worse, he senses that everyone is laughing at him. Finally, naivety gives way, to reality: It wasn't me she waved to after all. It must have been that girl, the one who had been standing beside me; OMG! She's standing beside me again.

But, before he can pluck up the courage to speak, she too has been drawn away, into the infamous circle. Simultaneously, he finally spells it out to himself: not a date after all. Bummer! Same old story – Darren dumped. As his lonely walk gathers momentum, his thoughts re-engage: She, she was nice too, even with the specs... nice hair.

* * *

3 : Happy Christmas...

The party is in full swing, and the midnight hour is well passed. Darren's position within the second row of the bar, has been adopted as one of defence. An area of neutrality; a place where his embarrassing fall from grace hides among the male throng. Blokes, he reckons, who are carrying similar crosses.

But, his dourness is instantly lifted, as he reacts to an embrace, from behind. Darr-in darlin'; you're all alone over here, so you are. Like, what's up, babe? But before he can muster a cool answer... Come on, babe, dance with me. I love this wee song, so I do.

Being led, dragged by the hand, sweat breaks. He is consumed with a foreboding. OK, he knows all the right moves, but – within the sanctuary of his bedroom.

From a nervous, somewhat timid start, Darren is quickly moving to the rhythm of GaGa and Rihanna, his confidence restored.

Then the mood changes, as the DJ has faded up 'The Mavericks'. Like a tidal wave, the tiny dance floor is swamped, with 'daddy-dancers' and jivers.

A tug on his ill-fitting jacket pulls him off balance. Whitney, who has also found herself musically adrift, winds his head down to her level; he cannot believe what he is hearing. Looking up, into the strobing ceiling of illumination, he momentarily closes his eyes before uttering. Thank you, Lord... but, almost in an instant, he asks for confirmation. S-Sorry Whitney, what did you ...

Oh, Darr-in darling,' you're so slow, like. Come on, we're goin' out for some air, so we are. He