FLASH FICTION - "DEADLINE"

THE RESULTS

To start the year off, it was a "double header" - Flash Fiction and Poetry competition.

We received yet again a bumper crop of entries. For the Poetry competition, please click here.

Results were announced at our meeting on Monday 16 January, and it's congratulations to:

1st Place - Liz Shaw The Last Train
Joint 2nd Place: Geoff Brown The Longest Wait; and Sumi Watters New Year's Resolutions
Joint 4th Place: Lesley Kerr Just in Time; and Louise Welland Busking For Change

Well done to everyone who entered.

ENTRY 1

THE GIRL AT THE DOOR by Raffi Katz

“I think you must be very brave” my brother said, over a crackly line. “You haven’t even spoken to this ’Ellie’ and she’s coming round to your flat, how did that happen?”

It happened because Ellie is a friend of Phil. Well, not actually his friend, but Phil has this cousin who now lives in Australia and knows this girl in Manchester…

“It’s a long story - sorry, I have to go, she’s due here in thirty minutes”.

I start to wash the dishes but there’s so much to do and so little time, so I put most of them, unwashed, on top of the kitchen units.

I’m proud of those kitchen units, genuine MFI, rescued from a skip and lovingly re-assembled by me. MFI doesn’t re-assemble very well, I had to improvise. They’re fine providing you don’t put anything heavy in them. I admire my handiwork. I look at my watch. Twenty five minutes remaining.

The bedroom is problematic. Too much ‘stuff’. I put it (all of it) on the bed, carefully arranging the duvet over the top. It looks as if there’s a large man underneath. And he’s vibrating slightly. Should I dive under there and find out what is vibrating? No. No time.

I check the sticker on the wardrobe, lovingly written by my last girlfriend: grey and beige, brown and black, green and red, colours I shouldn’t put together because, apparently, they clash. I don’t understand colours, I choose a grey shirt and grey trousers, hoping that they are not really dark green and dark red.

Fifteen minutes to go.

I need to tidy the living room. Its dominating feature, my pride and joy, is a giant head-and-shoulders model of the monster Predator. A bit scary, perhaps, but there really isn’t anywhere else to put it in such a small flat.

Ten minutes left.

Oh dear, the loo. I should have cleaned it months ago. Maybe she won’t need it. Should I tell her it’s out of order?

What else? I must have forgotten something. Music!

What have we got? My standard selection: Black Sabbath with Mozart, Simon and Garfunkel, Elvis Presley, and Duke Ellington. And the Sex Pistols. And Stockhausen. They’re all famous so I’m sure she’ll like them.

OK, a quick check in every room. I mustn’t leave anything embarrassing lying around…like last time.

Only five minutes now, I think I’m done, I need a drink.

Drinks! The fridge. A bottle of ketchup and a somewhat soggy cucumber (I must get round to doing some shopping). And half a bottle of wine. Supposing she wants whisky…or vodka? I have lemon and barley, will that do?

Jus as I am pondering this, DRRRRING!!

I rush into the hall, stop (be calm…be calm). I take a deep breath. I open the door.

“Ellie?” I say (just in case it isn’t Ellie).

“Yes.” A pause. “You are, err… you’re not at all as I had imagined.”

“You’re not at all as I had imagined! Come in.”

ENTRY 2

FLATLINE by David Elliott

Susan Bramshott coasted into Tesco’s car park and parked in a free bay, that was far enough away from the entrance, but not an inconvenience when returning with a fully laden delinquent trolley.

A train, trundled over the arches. Its grey livery matched her mood and the weather. Christmas was over. Another dank weary January day. All the festive treats had long been scoffed. The cupboards were bare. So, here she was; back on the weekly supermarket sweep.

‘Susan.’

She looked up and waved to Mr Dodd, the nice widower who lived at the end of their road. Something wasn’t quite right. He was leant obtusely against his grey Hyundai.

In stop-motion animation, he slid down the car. His hands beat at his chest Tarzan style, then fell aside as he slumped, to curl up feline on the damp dark grey tarmac.

Susan dropped her bags for life and ran. ‘Christ, he’s having a heart attack.’

She pulled him clear of the Hyundai, as other shoppers looked on in suspicion.

‘Help! Can someone go and find a defibrillator… Please.’

Now what the hell was it 4:1. No it had changed. Susan’s brain fought as hard for the answer as her neighbour fought for breath.

’30 compressions; two breaths. That was it. All to the tune of Nellie the elephant; none of that Bee Gees crap. ‘Can someone please help…’

A man in a red jacket nodded, then sprinted off towards the store.

***

CCTV room Watford Police Station.

PC Julia Edwards concentrated on the grainy footage that ghosts across her monitor.

Her partner PC Camron Fletcher reads from a 999-call transcript.

‘Tesco’s security here. Someone is trying to steal a piece of medical equipment.’

‘That’s rich,’ commented Julia, ‘you can clearly see the guy in the red jacket take the defib out of the box and then remonstrate with security as they snatch it back.

Camron continued, quoting security; ‘there’s a guy in a red jacket, he’s illegally taking our defib, he’s told me that there is someone having a heart attack in the car park, but sorry, the device is for instore and colleague use only.’

‘For goodness’s sake, what a jobsworth. What planet are these people on?’

Camron agreed, ‘especially as control had just informed the numpty that this was, a real red call. Look you can see the blue lights of the ambulance arriving.’

Julia fast-forwarded to the next section.

They both watch as Susan Bramshott walks up to the security. Her hand gesticulates and then deftly she boots him in the crown-jewels. The security hits the deck and to rub insult to injury, was accidently runover with a ‘delinquent trolley’.

‘The guy in the carpark died?’

Julia dipped her head. ‘Ambo said Susan had been heroic with her CPR.’

‘And this numpty is trying for GBH. Shall we?’

Again, the slightest dip of her head.

Camron pressed a button and the last two minutes of the tape were erased.

A flatline ran across the monitor.

ENTRY 3

TOUGH QUOTA THIS YEAR by Cherry Cooke

He enjoyed his job, he’d been doing it for so many years he couldn’t remember his start date.

He took pride that he treated everyone the same, whatever their background, calmly, with compassion and gentleness. It was hard sometimes, due to his client’s circumstances but he’d been trained well in an age-old skill, filled with tradition and longevity, “job for life for the right person” his boss said!

This year’s quota had surprised him, so much bigger than previous years and he felt exhausted but the deadline was in reach, just a few more clients before the end of the year. This week’s appointments were a very mixed bag…some would be harder deals than others. They had no choice other than to comply but the process could be made easier with a little faith on both sides. He realised that faith was so important in his line of work and it was never too late to show his clients that all would work out for the best eventually with faith, patience and support (he prided himself on his aftercare service which he’d started from scratch and perfected over the years).

He also realised that he’d be meeting his trainee in the New Year. He was excited to have the opportunity to pass his trade on and even more excited that he’d finally have all the time in the world to spend with his beloved family and so many friends and favourite clients that he’d lost touch with over the years.

So, one last push and he hoped that next year’s quota was smaller and more manageable, it’s not always about the money eh?

He checked his appointment book and as usual his clients had him travelling the length and breadth of his region and some odd meeting places but as his boss always reminded him, customer is King:

1. London Bridge

2. 5 home visits

3. Junction 6 on the M25

4. 102 hospital visits

5. Pedestrian crossing on Blossom Street

6. The White Horse pub

He re checked his schedule, he was well aware timing was everything in his job. Bad time keeping made for stressed clients and stressed clients made contract signing a real challenge. Luckily, he’d not lost a contract yet…except for one man years ago who was determined to sign with a competitor. He really hated that one blot on his copy book and always wondered what he could have done to get a better deal for the client. Oh well, enough dilly dallying, time waits for no man as they say.

He let out a big sigh, reminded himself that his job, if done well, can make a huge difference to someone’s life….and death.

He buttoned his cloak, put his hood up and picked up his scythe, it was going to be a long day.

ENTRY 4

TIME TO SAY GOODBYE by Brian Bold

When Assisted Dying became legal, Harry Mason thought about his departure. He knew it might be imminent anyway, they’d given him 6 months at his last medical. Now, he had the chance to be in control, to set his own deadline, an apt description, and leave on his terms.

He smiled thinking of organising and attending his goodbye event. No black clothes, no pious eulogies, just laughs and lots of hugs, tears optional.

At his infant school, when he was eight, little Audrey, had read the lifeline on his hand and predicted he'd live to 80. Now 90, he had more than met her forecast and he’d had a good life.

Before he could decide on his departure date, he had to decide what was left to do. His physical capability didn't allow for outside adventures. He rarely left his bed in the care home. Of course, he'd like to put his financial affairs in order, say personal goodbyes to those he really loved, and listen to the last two Jack Reacher novels. He set himself a deadline of three months, leaving on New Years Eve and Auld Lang Syne sang with nostalgia.

He wondered who would miss him. He'd lost his wife and outlived all of his school and university friends so it was only his children that were in his life now. His old golf club mates would probably spend just five minutes remembering him.

He’d checked the web for info on preparing for Assisted Dying but it was all factual stuff about medical assessment, exit methods and place of departure. He wanted the fun goodbye stuff.

He knew he couldn't really discuss this yet with anyone in the care home or his family but he did have a personal adviser by his bed.

“Alexa, what’s needed for a successful goodbye event?”

She was quick to answer. “Some entertainment, good food and some interesting topics for the attendees.”

Why weren’t funeral directors spotting this new market opportunity, a double whammy, a fun goodbye event, perhaps no expense spared, and a follow-on funeral. And these events could be self funded from savings.

Harry, a retired accountant, never stop thinking about money. In his case, going three months early released perhaps 10 weeks of care home fees worth £15k. And what about all the medical interventions in his last weeks? Maybe, another £15k.

He'd allow £5k for his final injection, which left £5k for food and £20k for a star to sing him out. He probably couldn't get the Rag’n’Bone Man, or Elton but maybe the lovely nurse who sang when she made his bed. She could dress up like Agnetha. Perfect.

He'd pick some suitable ABBA songs. Certainly Money, Money, Money and Thank You for the Music.

***

“Why are you smiling Mr Hudson?” asked Sally, his nurse, when she brought his tea.

“I was imagining you dressing up for me,” he said.

“Aren’t you satisfied with my nurse’s uniform anymore?”

Harry smiled. His goodbye would be fun.

ENTRY 5

WHY DID I HAVE TO ASK TWICE? by Chris McDermott

It was 1985 and Sue was in her early fifties. She had decided to leave her job to become a National Trust guide. Sue had not had a serious relationship for many years. Her one true love had been Steve, but Sue had turned down Steve’s marriage proposal, having been pressurised by her now-deceased father who insisted that, as an actor, Steve’s job had been far too precarious. In his eyes, Sue, as a dutiful woman, needed to settle down and have a family, and Steve could not have fulfilled the role of being a reliable ‘provider’. Instead, her father persuaded Sue to accept a marriage proposal from George, an accountant, who, tragically, was killed in a road traffic accident two months before ‘The Great Day’.

On the day of the accident Sue had wept tears for George and for the decisions she had made. Months later, Sue had tried to make contact with Steve again, but without success.

That afternoon, years later, in her role as National Trust guide, Sue stood in Belton House. Smiling, as she had been taught, Sue was approached by a man, roughly her own age, his face shielded by sunglasses and shrouded in a grey beard.

He pointed at Sue’s favourite artefact, a Chinese incense burner from the Ming period, over five hundred years ago.

‘Can you tell me the story behind this?’

‘Well, the story is fascinating. It is all about the worship of ancestors.’ Sue continued to go into some detail, as the man’s face displayed no emotion. ‘It has been with us for a very long time.’

‘It took me a very long time, you know.’

‘Yes, it took the historians a long time to discover the truth,’ replied Sue, who had learnt the art of steering around ambivalent comments, often from men.

‘No. It took me a very long time.’

The man stared into Sue’s eyes, his face remaining still, as he waited for a response.

The sound of Sue’s embarrassed laugher filled the ensuing silence.

Then the man thrust a note into Sue’s hand and turned away. The note began:

’History is not just about facts and dates. It is about real people and their emotions. We all have deadlines, and mine is coming soon. I have been diagnosed with cancer, but I am praying it is not terminal. I have come to ask you the same question again, for a second time. I cannot face hearing your response today, so I am leaving you with this note. I hope I have the courage to return next week, to hear your reply.’

Not able to read on, Sue stared at the paper and then at the empty space in front of her.

Sue understood. The word ‘deadline’ can mean literally that. Now a free woman, Sue owed it to herself and to him to make the right decision.

The tears ran down Sue’s face again, but this time they were tears of happiness and sadness, mixed together as one.

ENTRY 6

BUSKING FOR CHANGE by Louise Welland

I thought that music was the answer to my depression. I have busked for two years, every single day from 10am until 4pm. That’s over 4,000 hours of trying!

The black hole opened when I left my wife. I met her at college. She understood my need to spend time alone, but she started talking babies and I couldn’t cope. It might turn out like me.

As a baby I cried a lot, and as a toddler I touched things that I shouldn't. I also wet the bed. However much my mother smacked me, I couldn’t stop. She told me to pray for forgiveness, I prayed hard.

I didn't have friends at school. My mum said no one wanted to play with an ugly naughty boy, so I sat on my own. At break time I watched the others play. It felt safer on my own, not upsetting anyone.

I became so anxious with my wife’s baby talk, that I picked up my battered guitar, a bag with a few clothes and bible, and walked into the darkness.

I have been in Cornwall for two years. By day I sing and play guitar in the High Street, then I go ‘home’ to my tiny hostel room, with a sandwich and bible for company. The rent is only £60 but I don’t have enough for next week. People don’t seem to carry spare cash now.

I have prayed hard, and realise that for God to save me I need to save other people from me. So today I leave, I have been saving my sleeping tablets.

I was going to wait until 4pm, but that seems pointless. No one will care, they won't even notice, it’s 3:30 so that's it, I’m leaving.

Goodbye Penzance, goodbye world.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Seth, you know that busker in town? I’m inviting him for dinner. He seems lovely. I want to ask if he could come over once a week for a meal and teach Gareth to play guitar. What do you think?"

"Are you sure he wants to learn?”

"Definitely! He walks past him every day and always comments"

"Then ask him! Don't forget he leaves at 4pm"

"I’ll be there before four, I’ll make a curry."

Judith was late finishing work. She made her way to the hole in the wall and withdrew the £100 to offer the busker as an incentive. She frowned as she realised that she didn't even know his name.

She pushed the cash into her pocket and made her way to the statue under the clock which said three fifty. "Just in time." He was nowhere to be seen.

"Odd, he’s been here every day until 4pm for two years, even if it is raining."

She stared at the empty space where he always stood, as if by staring he would reappear. Then with a shrug of her shoulders, she turned away, not noticing the rubbish bin with the neck of a guitar peering forlornly out of the top.

ENTRY 7

JUST IN TIME by Lesley Kerr

Tuesday 22:57 - Transit

The bench beneath me groans in sympathy with my barely audible moans. I have learned that cries are not looked on favourably. I distract myself by looking out of the windows as the ambulance lurches back to the hospital. I hear snatches of the paramedics’ conversation of staff shortages and family drama; I would give anything for their problems.

Wednesday 03:38 - False Alarm

I have made this journey from the maternity bay back to the cramped detention centre once already. I don’t complain as I know I am lucky to still be here, two days after my due date. Thankfully the horrendous weather conditions have grounded all flights from New York airports. A brief reprise but I know it is temporary.

Wednesday 11:55 - Return to Maternity

“What is she doing here?” a voice barks with barely disguised contempt, “this one’s only five centimetres dilated! I’ve told you - they need to be either ready to drop or there’s a danger to life!”

I try to ignore the rough hands, the dismissive tone, and the refusal to look me in the eye as the obstetrician thrusts my notes back to the ashen-faced midwife before stalking away.

“Take no notice,” the porter whispers to her as he wheels me out of the cubicle, “We’re crazy busy already without having to hit these stupid repatriation targets….”. His voice trails off uncomfortably as he catches my eye.

“Repatriation”: What a genteel word for this process, it’s almost as though I have made a choice.

Wednesday 17:40 - Holding Bay

I am not taken back to the detention centre, but a nearer holding bay instead. The room is cramped, and the smell of agitated anxious bodies is stifling, and nausea threatens.

As my stomach spasms, I recall Michael’s last plea to me from his cell. “Promise me Cariña, whatever happens, you will not try to return. It’s not safe.”

Then two months later I received a call from his mother in Tijuana to say he was dead – another victim of the gangs we had tried to escape.

I try to sleep.

Wednesday 22:10 - Contractions

These feel different, more urgent; but I say nothing, unwilling to tempt fate. I start to count backwards from 100 until I am suddenly aware of a rush of warm fluid coursing down my legs, and the white-hot feeling of a vice gripping my stomach. I vomit.

“Ok!” the porter yells, “delivery room!!”

Wednesday 23:58 – Delivery

I see blinding lights, faces, and feel heat and pain and it seems to take forever until my cries merge with hers and finally it is over.

“What time is it?” I pant.

The midwife looks at me with empathy.

“It’s 23:58” she answers “time of birth, 23:52”

“Just in time” the obstetrician remarks drily.

But I don’t care, I lean back with relief and look into my daughter’s eyes, born just in time on American soil. We made it. We are safe. For now.

ENTRY 8

SPELL by Lukasz Kwiatkowski

Oliver had just woken up from his afternoon nap. We cuddled on the sofa for

a while then I offered him scrambled eggs, his favourite meal. Helium balloons

from his 2nd birthday were still floating beneath the ceiling. I put Paddington

on to keep him company while I was in the kitchen, preparing the eggs when

I heard him.

It sounded like hick ups, only different, consistent. I leaned out of the kitchen

to check on him. He was laying on his side. He does that sometimes, I thought.

I walked over to tell him to move away from the screen. What happened next

is a blur yet the feelings that overwhelmed me still very intense.

Scrapped of expression and emotion, his face looked lifeless. Sparkless eyes

stared into nothingness. Pool of saliva had dripped out of his mouth and

collected on the sofa around his cheek. Bubbles gathered in the corner of his

lips. His body twitched silently in the rhythm of the sound he’d just made.

Desperate, I picked him up and saw his lips had turned purple. His distant

eyes looked right through me. Face wiped of all colour. His body limp in my

hands. His arms hanging softly by his sides.

‘Oli!’, I cried to the heavens begging to not take my baby away. Paralysed by

grief, I feared I was holding him for the last time.

I was shaking. My heart was racing. Guilt, fear, and sudden awareness of the

injustice and cruelty of this cold universe rushed through my mind. I need to

snap out of it, I thought, and save my boy.

I thought he was choking, so I bent him over my forearm, felt his belly sink

against it, and I started slapping his upper back. His arms stretched towards

the floor. I was scared that I wasn’t doing it right. Scared of stopping and

losing him forever, but I needed to call the ambulance.

I could barely dial the number. As I heard the voice on the other side, Oliver’s

eyes closed. Maybe if I’d put his hearing aids on when he woke up, he would’ve

heard my calls. I couldn’t stand the thought he was in there somewhere,

scared and alone in silent darkness without his daddy’s voice to guide him.

‘My son is choking!’, I yelled with agony to the calm, almost cold and uncaring

voice in the speaker. Her lack of urgency and empathy shocked and offended

me. She told me to stop slapping his back, put him on his side and try to

remove saliva from his mouth, but his teeth were clamped with impossible

force. Help was on its way, she said as I looked at his face wondering if it’d

ever light up again.

I begged her to hurry as I kneeled next to my boy feeling powerless and

exposed. Eggs were burning in the kitchen.

The sound of the ambulance in the distance was getting closer until the blue

flashing lights penetrated that black winter afternoon outside the window. He

was still unconscious, but still with me. You’re gonna be alright, I said, you’re

gonna be alright.

ENTRY 9

HOLD THE FRONT PAGE by Mike Lansdown

Being Chief Crime-Correspondent on ‘The Palm Beach Post’ was a young hack’s dream-come-true, but, ten years on, things were more Little House on the Prairie than Mean Streets of Chicago. Palm Beach, Florida, is small, and the residents rich enough to ensure that what’s theirs remains theirs, protected by state-of-the-art cameras, heat-seeking devices, and five-meter fences.

‘Brad, you just gonna have to go out and find somethin’! You can’t jus’ sit on your butt and expect the story to come to you!’

The end of the day: Dave, my editor, was on my case - again. I had been called into the chief’s office many, many times, but…he slammed his hand down hard on the desk and shouted: ‘I’m laying it on the goddam line, Brad - come up with the goods! Fake News if you must! Or… you can forget replacing that ol’ Chevvy of yours!’

My gut twisted and sweat pricked my forehead. I mumbled something incoherent and left, Kayleigh’s words about ‘hangin’ in there for the kids’ ringing in my ears. I needed a drink.

So, I walked the ten minutes to Barney’s Bar, head down, hands thrust deep into pockets. Everything was peaceful – no automobiles parked illegally; no vagrants cluttering the neat sidewalks; all trash deposited, as required, in the cans provided.

‘Look like you need a drink, bud. The usual?’

I nodded

‘Wanna talk?’

I didn’t, but … ‘Barney. Can you give me a story? Any story! Deadline’s tomorrow, noon, and my job, my marriage – everything – depends on it.’

Barney rolled his bottom lip, polished another glass, then shook his head.

‘Nope. Sorry, Brad – just another quiet week. Good luck, bud.’

Four hours, and a quarter bottle of bourbon, later, I left the flashing neon of Barney’s behind me. The long walk home took me past the office. I stopped, adjusted my glasses, and squinted – all the lights were off, bar one: mine. I quickly checked the parking lot - just my Chevvy, so no-one working late – then quietly let myself in. Everything was silent apart from the thudding of my heart and the rasp of my own breathing. It’s an old block, so no lights came on as I negotiated the cold stone staircase up to the second floor. The door, unlocked, was slightly ajar. I stopped, held my breath, and listened. The sound of cursing, and drawers being opened and slammed shut drifted across the empty newsroom; monitors flickered, and through the frosted window I could see, silhouetted, whoever was searching my office. I crabbed my way across the room, took the Smith & Wesson from its hiding place, then pushed at the door.

He was large, kneeling, a hoodie pulled over his head. Confidential files strewed the floor.

‘Okay, punk, put your hands up, and turn around - real slow. Good. Now, show me your face.’

He did.

I froze.

‘You??

Donald J Trump?!

Jesus H Christ!’

I grabbed my cell-phone.

‘Dave,’ I breathed, ‘I think we got ourselves that story…’

--------

Author's Note:

Apologies for any offence given by the blasphemy towards the end – I just think the character would say it.

ENTRY 10

INTERNAL MONOLOGUE OF A DISORGANISED, MENOPAUSAL WOMAN! by Jo Morgan

6pm

Ok, so this evening I’ve got to:

Cook dinner, a Jamie Oliver pork casserole,

Take down the Christmas decorations,

Write Watford Writers competition entry, and

Varnish the bookshelf.

No rest for the wicked. It’s ok, I can do this.

Right, was that recipe on Facebook or Instagram?

6.47pm

This spice rub smells delicious. Ok what do I need to do now!

What, Marinate for two hours then slow cook for four hours! Why didn’t I read the whole recipe first.

Quick, Google, what can I turn this into?

7.52pm

Oh no. Why did I check my notifications. I’ve wasted an hour and still haven’t found a recipe for this pork!

Right pork in the fridge for tomorrow. I’ll just have toast. I can eat toast while I’m taking down the tree and thinking about my comp entry.

No bread!

Cereal?

No milk!

Weight Watchers Cuppa soup it is then. Looks like I’m starting my New Year’s diet whether I want to or not.

8.03pm

Why don’t I have a tall man in my life to reach the loft ladder down?! Sometimes being an independent female is a right pain in the ….

The house phone! It has to be mum. Better run down to get it, just in case.

8.34pm

Why do I have a corded landline? With cordless I could at least be taking the baubles off the tree, while listening to Mum. Oh heck, what did she just ask me?

9.35p

How did it take Mum 90 minutes to tell me about Uncle Jacks prostate! I’m never going to get everything done.

My cuppa soups still in the kitchen, stone cold. Decorations are still on the tree, their boxes still in the loft and I haven’t even started thinking what to write. I’ve had all Christmas to write this, why do I always leave it to the deadline!

Ok, can’t get it all done. Need to priorities.

It’s too late to eat, I’d be up all night with heartburn. That’s one think off the list, I suppose.

I’m not superstitious, what does it matter if the tree isn’t down by sundown on the twelfth night. I’ll do it when I get in tomorrow.

Perfect, just need to write my comp piece. What was the theme? Where did I put my phone?

9.47pm

Where the bloody hell is my phone and why is it going straight to voicemail when I call from the landline!

Did I leave it in the loft?

11.04pm

That was a waste of time. Phones not in the loft. But it was nice looking at my old school photos, I don’t remember ever being that thin. Right, bed.

Oh, I can’t set an alarm without my phone. Better go back in the loft to get my old alarm clock.

6.30am

What the hell! …Oh yeah, my alarm clock. Need coffee!

Wee first.

Right, now coffee.

Oh yeah, need to put the pork in the slow cooker. What’s my phone doing in the fridge!

ENTRY 11

POWERBALL by Andrea Neidle

Six months ago something happened that changed my life.

Joe and me had always done the lottery ever since we first got together. Our numbers were always the same. My birthday. His birthday. Our wedding day. That’s how romantic we were!

We were so used to not winning that we didn't even bother to watch it on the telly anymore. Then mum phoned us up very excited.

“Weren't those your numbers?” she asked me. At first I didn’t realise what she was talking about.

“The lottery!” She screamed at me down the phone. We checked the numbers and couldn’t believe it. They were our numbers! But there was just one small problem. Where was the ticket? Joe said that he always put it in the same place. But it wasn’t there. We searched high and low. Amazing what we found in some of our cupboards but not the one thing we were looking for.

I was despairing. What we could only do with all that money!

There was about six months until the deadline so Joe said to give it time. Over the next few months we turned the house upside down. We also turned on one another. I blamed him. He blamed me. We both blamed my mother. She drove me crazy, phoning every day asking if we’d found it yet.

It was making me ill. I couldn’t sleep at night for wondering where the thing was. And, also planning in my head how we’d spend the money once we had it. It was the only thing we could talk about. And then we just stopped talking. Joe thought I’d accidentally thrown it away. He sulked like only Joe can and walked around the house with a mean, moody face.

I started taking it out on him because he was the one that had hidden the ticket in the first place. I picked on him all the time. In the end he waltzed off and slept in the spare bedroom.

And then he started staying late at work. After a while, he stopped coming home at all. Friends said they’d seen him chatting up the barmaid at the Rose & Crown. I said she was welcome to him for all I care.

As for the ticket, I didn’t stop looking. You only have 180 days and the deadline was fast approaching. Where could the damn thing be?

Joe didn’t come home. He didn’t even phone to see how I was. Next thing I knew he had moved in with that blonde bimbo. I thought she’d soon tire of him but they stayed together.

The weeks passed. And so did the deadline.

And then last week, I saw Joe with that blonde bitch getting out of a Porsche. He must have found the ticket and cashed it in without telling me, the bastard.

ENTRY 12

NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS by Sumi Watters

4:58 a.m.

‘There you are,’ Gary says. ‘What are you doing up at this hour?’

Abi decreases the speed and sets her book, open-pages down, on the treadmill’s monitor. ‘What does it look like?’

‘Working out some anger issues?’

‘I’m 23,000 steps short of hitting my goal of five million steps for the year. And I’ve got one last book to read to reach 24. It’s called multi-tasking. You should try it sometime.’

‘I’m going back to bed.’

9:26 a.m.

‘I’m off to run a couple of errands!’

‘It’s New Year’s Eve, babe,’ Gary says, looking up from his newspaper. ‘Nothing’ll be open.’

‘I can still return the library books in the dropbox and leave these bags at the charity collection site behind Tesco. It’s all part of my plan to declutter and remove 365 unused items from our home this year. I’ve got the last 26 in here. Your Lee Child books were just gathering dust.’

‘Oh, alright.’

‘I’m also going to pop by Sharon’s.’

‘Johnson?’

Abi nods.

‘But, you haven’t seen her in years.’

‘I’m reconnecting with old friends.’

1:27 p.m.

‘Have you got anything that needs ironing?’ Abi asks.

Gary takes his eyes off the telly. ‘Let me guess. Empty ironing basket?’

‘Bingo! Who wants to start a new year with unfinished chores?’

‘Can I help?’

‘No, no. You just sit there and enjoy your programme. My resolutions, my burden.’

4:15 p.m.

‘Do I dare ask?’

‘You know all those delicious meals I’ve cooked for you this past year? Well, you can thank Nigella,’ Abi says. She moves a steaming pot off the cooker, then turns on the oven. ‘I vowed to try every recipe in Cook, Eat, and Repeat, but I’ve fallen a little behind.’

‘So you’re just cooking random recipes from her book, are you?’

‘Two starters, a main, and three puddings. We’ll eat like royalty tonight.’

‘You know, there’s no crime in not fulfilling every New Year’s Resolution.’

‘But I want to.’

‘I get that, but there’s no point killing yourself in the process. Just take it easy.’

8:20 p.m.

‘This looks amazing,’ Gary says, admiring the wall of framed photos.

‘I’ve been putting this off for ages. Now that I’ve done it, I’m so glad I did. Photos look so much nicer in frames, don’t you think?’

‘They sure do. Great work, babe.’

11:43 p.m.

‘It’s nice to see you finally relaxing. I take it you’ve knocked everything off of your list?’

‘Not quite. There’s still one thing. But as you said, there’s no point killing myself trying to get through everything.’

‘What have you got left to do then?’

Abi lets out a sigh. ‘Engage in amorous congress 52 times. We’ve done it 51 times. I reckon that’s close enough.’

Gary smiles and raises an eyebrow. ‘There’s still time. If you want, we could ….’

‘No, Gary,’ Abi says, checking her Fitbit. ‘It’s nearly midnight.’

‘I only need five minutes.’

ENTRY 13

THE LONGEST WAIT by Geoff Brown

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Two men are in a narrow room. They are seated on a slim bed with a chess board between them. They speak little but their silences are companionable as they plan their moves.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

After Tony, the grizzled older man is check-mated he says, “I think it’s time for my special meal.” Sure enough, within a couple of minutes the door opens and a loaded tray is set down on a pull-out table.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

The younger man smiles wistfully, noting the simple choices his companion has made. Clam chowder, steak with fries and apple pie and ice cream.

“John you’ll have to help me with this…there’s far too much here for me.”

John shakes his head, “No thanks, eat what you can Tony. I don’t have much of an appetite tonight.”

Tick tock. Tick tock.

After picking at the food Tony pushes the tray away and closes his eyes. His body shudders and tears dampen his cheeks. John takes the big man’s hand and sys, “Come on now Tony, don’t lose hope. There’s still time.”

“Pastor John you’ve been a great friend to me, even though you haven’t managed to make me believe in your merciful Saviour. I don’t think there’s much chance of converting me before the deadline.”

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Pastor John smiles ruefully, struggling to find words of comfort for this impressive old man. He knows that any religious offerings of salvation will be met with polite disdain. He feels so powerless. He is no stranger to Death Row but he has never experienced such an egregious miscarriage of justice as this. The incarceration for nineteen years of this patently innocent man is a travesty. But he knows, even when the evidence is flimsy, the odds against the acquittal of a black man in rural Alabama are very poor.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Pastor John can’t help glancing at his watch. He is startled to see that it is just two hours before the cut-off time for a stay of execution. Tony sees where the Pastor’s eyes are focused and it is his turn to pat his friend’s hand. “Don’t you worry about me John. Honestly, I’ll welcome those needles going in. After being shut away for twenty-three hours a day, I’ve been as good as dead for many years.”

Tick tock. Tick tock.

John reflects on the barbaric nature of the penal system in one of the most civilised nations on earth. He knows that half of all prisoners currently sentenced to death in the USA have been on Death Row for more than eighteen years. Such statistics shame his nation.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

At eleven p.m. both men spring to their feet as the Warden enters the cell. His smile is incongruous. Shaking hands with Tony he says, “Your execution will not take place tonight. You have been granted a retrial because of important new DNA evidence submitted to the Court of Appeal.”

ENTRY 14

AN UNEXPECTED VISIT by Chris McDermott

‘We’d better get going!’

‘Hold your camels. I’ve only just woken up.’ came the irritated reply.

‘Would you please stop complaining, Mel? We’ve got a long way to go and we haven’t got long.’

‘You’re such a control-freak. Can’t you please just give me a break? I’m not actually getting paid for this you know.’

At that moment a third man walked in, ready for the journey and with a superior smile that irked Mel to the core.

‘I can see the camel isn’t the only thing with the ‘ump’,’ said the new arrival, his grin getting bigger as he reflected on the glory of his own wit.

Not to be outdone, Mel rolled out of bed and rearranged his beard, before putting together sufficient clothes and food for a journey that could take anything up to twelve days.

Mel’s problem was that his camel was the laziest of the three and, and, as his two compatriots moved at great speed across the desert, Mel’s camel, Melanie, appeared to be focussed on searching the ground for a shrub to sate her hunger.

The other two men led the way, exchanging wry smiles, as Mel and Melanie struggled onward. Being of the high status that he was, Mel had not had to work so hard before. He had had other, less privileged people, to do the transporting for him.

‘It’d better be worth it, that’s all I can say,’ muttered Miserable Mel to himself as Melanie trudged onwards.

Things were made even worse because the other two men insisted that they sleep during the day so that they could better navigate their way during the night.

‘It’s the way it’s meant to be,’ the two of them explained.

‘Sleeping in the desert in the middle of the day is ridiculous,’ was Mel’s under-the-breath comment, but his lips remained sealed.

That didn’t stop him from saying something, which, if the others had been less patient, could have cost Mel his place in history.

‘Look, why are you two so keen on getting to this place, wherever it is, in such a hurry? Can’t we slow down?’

‘There’s a deadline, Mel, that’s why,’ came the retort. ‘History will never forgive us if we don’t get there on time.’

Twelve days and nights passed, before the other two announced that their destination, a small stable, was in sight. Not to be outdone, Mel leapt down from Melanie and raced towards the stable door. Yes, the others might laugh at him behind his back, but Mel was determined he was going to win this one – all the glory would be his!

Crashing through the stable door, gift in hand, Mel was shocked to discover that there, gathered right in front of his eyes, were some shepherds, mere common folk by Mel’s standards.

He had been beaten, and by those of lower status, to boot.

‘Where is the justice?’ Mel asked himself.

Perhaps that was a question of greater significance than Mel realised at the time.

ENTRY 15

THE LAST TRAIN by Liz Shaw

Wearily I board the train. It is old-fashioned like the ones I remember from my childhood with a corridor running down one side and individual compartments with seating for six people. I slide open the door to an empty compartment and settle next to the window. I am cocooned in brown leather, brown wood. The brass fittings gleam softly in the dim light. I smell the dust of a thousand journeys. The train pulls out of the station and I am gently rocked as it slowly gathers speed. It is dark outside and I can’t see anything beyond my ghostly reflection in the window staring back at me, dark eyed.

It has been hard this last couple of years. Illness has taken its toll and I am tired to death, but the pills, medicines and operations are all behind me now. I close my eyes and feel my body relax. For the first time in a long, long time I am at ease.

It was lovely to see them all earlier. The little ones are growing up so fast. Picture postcard memories flicker through my mind: my parents, my little bed with my teddy bear on the pillow, my baby sister in her cot, the tobacco smell of my grandad.

The little ones will soon be teenagers and I remember those awkward and exciting years when everything was vivid and new. They still have so much in front of them. I recall the college years, my first job where we met, our wedding day, our home, the babies, the rows, the holidays, the love.

Back full circle. I doze.

The door slides open and the conductor smiles at me. He has kind eyes behind half-moon glasses, a midnight blue uniform, gold braid round his lapels, a peaked pill box hat. He shimmers in the light.

“Certificate please, madam”

I am confused. “Sorry I don’t have a ticket. I didn’t see anywhere to get one”

“Don’t worry madam, it’s probably not been filled in yet. It won’t be long.”

I am reassured, but still puzzled. “Where am I going?”

“The next stop is the terminus.”

“Am I coming back?”

“No, this is the end of the line.”

I hear muffled voices from the compartment next door. I strain to hear the conversation….

“Do you think she can hear us?”

“There’s no research to say either way, but I like to think people can hear and that they get comfort from the voices of their loved ones. Don’t be afraid to hold her hand.”

It feels like someone is stroking my hand but there is no one there.

The train follows the curve of the railway line and in the distance I see we are heading towards a clean, clear light, and I understand. Peace descends upon me and I fade into the endless night.

ENTRY 16

BOXING CLEVER by Geoff Brown

Jeeves wakes Bertie Wooster.

“What’s the time?”

“It’s ten, sir”

“What’s the bally rush Jeeves? Is the building on fire?”

“No sir, it’s time for the hair of the dog I perceive you may need after your night out.”

“Thank you Jeeves, I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a pickle.”

“I’m sorry to hear that sir. May one enquire what transpired last evening?”

“Tuppy Glossop insisted I accompany him to the opera to see, what was it…The Marriage of Carmen?”

“May I respectfully suggest sir, the Marriage of Figaro by Mozart.”

“Jeeves, please don’t interrupt my flow with trivial corrections.”

“My apologies sir, please continue.”

“Well Jeeves the caterwauling banshees on stage put me in such a state I’m afraid I sucked down too many martinis in the interval. Intoxicated does not do justice to my parlous state Jeeves. I was tight as an owl.”

“Indeed sir, I surmised as much when you tried to kiss me goodnight.”

“I’m afraid I seem to have been in a kissing mood Jeeves. I vaguely remember going to an après-theatre party and on the terrace around midnight found myself alone with Madeline Basset. She was blathering on in a poetic vein. She looked at the stars and said they were God’s sprinkled sugar. Well Jeeves, in order to forestall any further drivel I’m afraid I gave her a smacker on the lips.”

“Was that wise sir as you are no longer engaged to Miss Basset?”

”That’s just it Jeeves. As usual you’ve hit the bally nail on the head. She’s now engaged to that gorilla Roderick Spode, you know, the amateur dictator, leader of the Black Shorts. How was I to know that they were betrothed? Things are foggy after that. I remember old Tuppy lifting me out of a flowerbed and giving me the dreadful news that Spode had demanded satisfaction and would see me in the boxing ring at his dashed club. The contest is this evening at seven. If I don’t turn up he will promulgate to all and sundry that Bertram Wilberforce Wooster is a cowardy custard.”

“Well sir that is a disturbing prospect as Sir Roderick is a very large man.”

“I know Jeeves, he has muscles on his muscles and will biff me into oblivion.”

“May I suggest sir that you leave it to me to devise a stratagem to extricate you from this perilous predicament?”

By six-thirty Bertie was convinced that his imperious valet had failed him. But just as he was about to leave, Jeeves handed him a card from Roderick Spode which read:

“Wooster, I withdraw my challenge and apologise for my intemperate language.”

“Are you behind this Jeeves?”

“I’m afraid so sir. I told Sir Roderick’s valet you have a serious heart condition and any physical confrontation might cause you to shuck of this mortal coil. I simply suggested that a manslaughter charge would not enhance Sir Roderick’s reputation.”

“By Jove Jeeves, you do take the giddy biscuit. What a spiffing wheeze.”

ENTRY 17

TOO LATE FOR I'M SORRY by Sumi Watters

The dulcet strum of a busker’s guitar momentarily punctuates the cafe’s familiar hubbub. I glance towards the door.

‘Are you expecting someone?’

I shoot Barney a look loaded with questions. ‘No. Why?’

‘You’re distracted. You keep looking at the door,’ my big brother says.

‘I thought you might’ve …. invited him.’

Barney takes a sip from his mug, then sets it down so it teeters on the saucer’s interior ring. ‘Christ, Em. What do you take me for? I wouldn’t ambush either of you like that.’

‘I know you wouldn’t,’ I offer in my most apologetic tone. I reach across the table and straighten his mug. ‘How is he, anyway?’

‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

‘Barney ….’

Our server appears, saving me from launching into a regurgitated explanation. She sets Barney’s lunch down in front of him. Branston pickle and cheddar on sourdough. Ugh.

‘Anything else?’ she asks, gazing at the empty space in front of me.

‘I’m good, thanks,’ I say.

Barney shakes his head and tucks into his sandwich the second she turns her back. I look away in time to see the door swing open. A father and his young daughter scamper in, bringing a charge of playful affection into the cafe.

Barney’s still chewing when he says, ‘It’s been nearly seven months, Em. How long are you planning to keep up the silent treatment?’

‘You’re not blaming me for this whole mess, are you?’

‘Who walked out during Christmas dinner?’

‘You were there. Dad was being horrid. What he said about my being selfish, uncaring, and destructive. They were really hurtful.’

‘I seem to recall you being grossly unpleasant to Lucy, which, for the record, she didn’t deserve. Besides, he said those things in the heat of the moment. He didn’t mean any of it.’

I sink deeper into my chair. ‘I just don’t understand why he waited until Christmas to tell us. Mum hadn’t been gone two years. Lucy. Her best friend.’

‘She makes him happy, Em. Don’t you think dad deserves to be happy, especially after everything he went through with mum?’

I shrug.

‘You’re both too bloody stubborn to be the first to apologise,’ he hisses. ‘One phone call.’

‘I think the deadline for a simple ‘I’m sorry’ call passed ages ago.’

Barney groans. ‘You’ve said some stupid things, Em, but that takes the cake. Deadline. Between a father and daughter? All I’m saying …. If you and dad were characters in a novel, would you want their story to end … like this?’

‘Real life doesn’t always churn out Hollywood endings, Barney.’

‘That’s a shame because you are my two favourite characters in my story, and I want a happy ending for you. Mum would, too.’

Damn him for pulling the Mum Card.

‘Fine,’ I say and unlock my phone screen. ‘I’ll do it for mum.’

Barney flashes a smug smile.

Dad picks up after three rings. ‘Emma?’

‘Hi, dad.’

‘It’s great to hear your voice, love.’

ENTRY 18

THE END by Ann Crago

The newspaper office was still, silent. No noisy staff chattering around the water cooler, no shouts from the management office; no bursts of laughter from unfunny Harry in accounts.

The air conditioners whispered their goodbyes as I turned off my life, switch by switch. The lights, seem startled by this and flickered their annoyance row by row until only the kitchen light stayed on, safe from this interruption, saved by a separate circuit.

I walked to the kitchen, noticing as if for the first time what a haven this little room was. A space for comforting the sad, calming the angry and hiding from the over enthusiastic. A dying rubber plant competing with drab cupboards and sticky linoleum certainly wouldn’t be troubling any office design awards.

Curious, I peered into the fridge and saw a forgotten piece of cake, already drying in the darkness on its lonely little paper plate. It seemed to epitomise my situation. I picked it up and said out loud to the desperately sad, dark office:

‘Were you forgotten too, left to dry on a dark lonely shelf? Them’s the breaks in the newspaper business.’

As I pressed the pedal of the bin and prepared to send the cake to its final resting place, I noticed the contents already bulging upwards. Tangled paper streamers fighting with each other and discarded food. Paper plates squashed into pathetic shapes. A mess, a metaphor for my life contained in a sad metal bin. I dumped the cake to join that party and, turning around, switched off the kitchen light.

Starting a newspaper in a small town had been my dream. The one thing in my life I could be proud of. Forgetting the divorces, the diva moments and the drink driving charges, I poured my savings and my soul into a community newspaper. I recruited talented people and we reflected small town life and values in our pages. Not for us the celebrity gossip of the glossies, but advertisers said different.

The end, when it came was swift and brutal. A bank calling in its loan immediately. We all tried to make the best of things, with pathetic paper streamers and cake for the last sad day. My only responsibility now was to switch off the lights and hand the keys to the bank. Suddenly the front door bell announced a visitor. I shouted ‘Come in’. I had nothing left to lose or steal. The young postman, chewing gum and listening to his headphones, silently handed me an envelope, demanding a signature by shoving a plastic pen in my hand. I signed his screen, muttering at the lack of manners in young people and he left, not caring.

Opening the envelope, I discovered a large cheque from a long-forgotten Bond. I laughed hysterically, realising I had missed the only deadline in my life that mattered. It was 24 hours too late for the business and for me.